Jody Cantrell Dyer's Blog: What's your story? Maybe I can help you write it., page 10

Crippled Beagle Publishing Announcement: Author Jessica Akhrass brings the opioid crisis home in her timely memoir.

Author Jessica Akhrass brings the opioid crisis home in her timely memoir.
Friends, I served Jessica as her editor and publisher. I look forward to learning about all the lives she will touch, if not save, through this meaningful work. 
Press release:


Knoxville, TN, March 2020. In her debut book Sincerely, Addison’s Sister, author Jessica Sharp Akhrass reveals the agony, grief, and gut-wrenching details of loving an addict. As she illuminates her personal experience, she encourages anyone affected by addiction to have hope and fight for reform. Emboldened by her love for her baby brother, Jessica passionately led a remarkable and exhaustive campaign to change Tennessee prescription laws and save lives. Readers will empathize with her struggles and rejoice in her successes. This well-written memoir is a must-read for addicts, families and friends of addicts, teenagers, parents, teachers, clergy, counselors, law enforcement officers, and medical professionals.





Noteworthy reviews:


“Sincerely, Addison’s Sister, a Memoir is an awesome book . . . It was convicting to me as a legislator about how important it is that I be compassionate, patient, and resourceful for the people who call me with the problems they are facing. . . . I won’t forget—for Addison.” —Tennessee Senator Becky Massey


“The descriptions of Jessica’s experience regarding her loss and pain are raw, honest, and compelling. She is a truthful and passionate storyteller.” —Judge Chuck Cerny, Sessions Court, Knox County, Tennessee


“Jessica's book demonstrates how anger can be transmuted as fuel for justice. This book is inspiring, and it takes readers on an emotional journey of sadness, anger, and redemption. Jessica’s story should be shared with everyone.” —Dr. James Arthur Williams, author of From Thug to Scholar


“The love Jessica has for Addison and the way she shares . . . will spread hope to others. [Jessica’s] willingness to break down stigma and shame will be comforting to all who read Sincerely, Addison’s Sister. [Jessica is] a hero . . . .” —Karen Pershing, MPH, CPS II, Executive Director of Metro Drug Coalition


“She lived with an addict, she loved an addict, and she lost an addict, but Jessica Akhrass found sense in senseless loss. She found a purpose. Five long years of visceral, introspective reflection have brought before you Sincerely, Addison’s Sister. Walk through it and live, in vivid detail, the journey a courageous young woman takes. With God at her side, she stands in the gap. This prayerful sister in Christ makes the difference.” —R. R. Stephens MSC, RTC, Clinical Therapist, St. Augustine, Florida


Jessica welcomes opportunities to speak to groups. Contact her at jessica_akhrass@yahoo.com.
Facebook: A.D.D.I.S.O.N.


ISBN softcover 978-1970037319, 978-1970037357
ISBN hardcover 978-1970037326


Available on Amazon.com, Barnesandnoble.com, Kindle, and through normal retail outlets. Also available through Baker & Taylor and Ingram wholesalers. Group discounts are available. To request group orders, interviews, quotes, excerpts, and reading guides, contact the publisher. 
Purchase here: Amazon.com

SNOW DAY (here, anyway) TREAT for TRAPPED READERS

Just the beginning of a long weekend with three males and not enough Barefoot Pinot Grigio.
Before I panic and skid to the store for emergency wine and Cheez-Its to get me through what looks like a snow-in, I want to give my local buddies something to read. Well, actually, this is a tease because I want you to BUY my books. Big girl hungry. Ha! That said, my Theories read as essays, so you can enjoy these two delights OR you can be so mesmerized by my controversial wit that you order paperbacks or download Kindle versions of both books. Your call.

Hmmmm, now, the hard decision for me was to select which Theories to share. I needed inspiration. What better way to be inspired than consider recent events and look out one's window. Then again, why not stir everyone up with a mix of mildly offensive remarks? Maybe I should start with the first Theory of each book. Meh. Let's roll with controversy since you locals are stuck. I mean, I doubt anyone in the 9-1-9 has snow tires.


The first excerpt is from my first book of humor essays Theories Size 12: Laugh! You know you want to.  I post this in honor of last night's basketball game during which the Bearden High Bulldogs (Tall Child's alma mater where he was, according to sources, a stud on the hardwoods) BEAT the West High Rebels (Sharky's team). Poor Sharky. He tried. You know what? "Mama Tried." If you don't know that song, find it on YouTube. It deserves to be heard.



Theory 10:  In youth sports, parents are the real performers. 


W hen Sharky, age five, debuted in tee ball, I hoped the athleticism that runs in my family would skip a generation and shine. At Sharky’s first game, a batter knocked a bullet off the tee into the infield, and Sharky snatched the ball from the air. Out! What a stud! I was elated, until the coach gave a different boy the game ball. I complained to Delicious, who counseled, “Bug, if you’re going to watch your child play sports, you’re going to have to get control of yourself.”

Uncle Trout told Tall Child, “If you want Sharky to get a fair shake in sports, you have to coach him.”
I vowed to watch my mouth. Tall Child signed up to coach multiple sports in the local youth league.
Sharky has played in at least two hundred baseball games and what seems like a thousand basketball games since then. I try to stay composed, but even the most well-mannered mama and papa bears fall a few links backward in evolution when our cubs are under pressure or “mistreated.” We’ve got scoreboards for the kiddos, but parents’ behavior is hard to track. I thank my crowd for contributing to this Theory and for helping me come up with a label for each type of extreme sports parent. Descriptions are fairly general to avoid identification. I mean, we are talking about teachers, preachers, social workers, doctors, bankers, repairmen, and accountants. Reader, which of these high performing parents are you?


Make-the-Mosters
My friend Baton Swiper reminded me about a couple of over-zealous moms who created NBA level excitement in their sons’ three-on-three basketball league. You see, Baton Swiper and I bought a huge role of butcher paper. Each week, we ripped off a giant rectangle and graciously wrote all the players’ names (from our team AND the opposing team) on the paper. After a pre-game bathroom break, the little boys lined up. On cue, Baton Swiper’s husband, Trombone Stud, hit play on her ghetto blaster. The boys ripped through the paper onto the basketball court, took opposing sides, and shot pregame layups to “Rocky Top” and an old ESPN “Jock Jams” cassette.
Some parents probably thought we were nuts, but some of their boys will never run through paper again. In one of our last games, I said to the other team’s coach, who looked unhappy—probably because we’d beaten him three times already, “Hey, we’re going to line up to run through the paper in about two minutes.”
He pouted, “My team will NOT be running through your paper!”
Hint:  If you do the paper thing, be sure to poke holes. Remember, I was not a cheerleader past kindergarten. When Sharky did a practice run at home, his then forty-four-pound body hit that banner with full force, and with equal force bounced backward into the wall.
Speaking of music, my aunt Terrific carried a boom box to her daughter A-Boo’s preppy yet fierce Yummyville School softball games. For eight straight years. Terrific played antagonistic song selections, including Queen's “Another One Bites the Dust.” Years later, A-Boo played collegiate golf at Vanderbilt. During her sophomore year she was paired against a University of Alabama player at a golf tournament in Athens, Georgia. Through several holes of small talk, A-Boo and the Bama golfer realized they both played high school softball. A-Boo said, “Yeah, I played for Yummyville School.”
The Bama golfer explained, “Oh, lord, that's the team with that OBNOXIOUS Boom Box Lady!”


Outliers
They sit alone way down the first base line or they stand in the gym corner. Maybe they’re nervous, maybe they’re focused on the game, and maybe they’re doing some intense one-on-one parent-child coaching. Or, maybe they just don’t want to hear the women in the bleachers swap recipes. Sorry, guys.


Budgeteers
Gate passes, three-dollar nachos, gas, weekends in Holiday Inn Express hotels, and Gatorades add up fast. Why not tuck your body between a cooler, a bat bag, and a stadium throw in the back of your SUV? Don’t breathe. And, once you are in, don’t leave.


On-The-Road-Off-Duty Parents
These are parents, typically fathers, who forsake normal supervisory responsibilities on road trips. Post-match, they crowd the hotel lobby to imbibe beer and rehash game highlights while their children mistreat elevators, vandalize hotel exercise facilities, and ding-dong-ditch unfortunate second floor neighbors. It amazes me how Sharky could play three intense basketball games in one day, swim for an hour, then walk on a treadmill in the Comfort Suites workout room. Why is it that unsupervised young athletes gravitate toward exercise rooms?
Off duty parents hemorrhage money. The players score solid bling like Phiten necklaces, tourney T-shirts, sunglasses, and expensive beef jerky. Hung-over daddies don’t argue in front of concession stands. They peel out the dollars and say, “Get me a Gatorade while you’re up there.”
I once asked my buddy, Mason-Dixon, a Northern-born woman with a Southern disposition, who was obviously worn out from keeping up with four children at an out of town tourney in suffocating humidity, “Where are your little ones?”
She sighed, “They are either on the playground or in a stranger’s van half-way to Michigan.”


Rule Freaks


Rule Freaks are those parents who are, as Terrific likes to say, “often wrong, but never in doubt.” Rule Freaks like to second-guess the umpires, forgetting that different age groups and leagues have different rules. Rule freaks also question players’ ages, as in “That boy cannot be eleven-years-old and be that tall.” When his mama is six-feet-four-inches tall and looks like an Auburn linebacker, yes, he can be that tall.


Lobbyists

Lobbyist parents kiss up to the coach, sweet-talk the coach’s wife, and criticize other players, hoping to get their children more playing time. As a coach’s wife, I like these parents because they bring the snacks. Bringing snacks is a pain.


Paranoid Schizophrenics

Some parents are convinced their children are about to get cut. There’s so much at stake:  college scholarships, draft day excitement, the NBA/NFL lifestyle, and paying off the re-re-re-refinanced mortgage! They are the parents who sign their children up for agility training. If the child sits out a quarter or an inning, these parents become intensely quiet and nervous, or whisper to one another in skeptical alliance. But, when their children hit RBIs or swish buzzer-beaters, they high-five and test their bras and belts with vigorous middle-aged jumping jacks, as if to say, “YES! There is a chance we’ll be debt-free someday!”


Worriers
Worriers are typically mothers who squeal and gasp every time their angels foul hard, collide, or go full-speed coast-to-coast toward a backboard and the wall behind it. Worriers run onto the court and enter the dugout. Not cool, according to Sharky, so as a Worrier, I instead yell loudly from the stands, “Sharkeeeeeeeeeee, are you okay?” Then I yell to the referees, “We don’t want to go to Children’s Hospital!” Worriers hand deliver sports drinks to their children during games. Also not cool, according to Sharky, so I send Gnome, who usually just drops the drink and runs because he’s terrified of refs. Then, I send an older child to tell Sharky there’s a drink on the bench for him. Geez. It’s so much mental work keeping Sharky safe and hydrated.


Space Hogs
Some of us have back problems, okay? We get good comfy spots on the top bleachers where we can lean, or we find shady spots behind sandy backstops. Both are relaxing, and we score great views. Why should we leave just because our team isn’t playing again for two hours? If you want to see the mother of the super athlete with innate competitive drive, just scan the backstop, or the top bleacher. Just tryto get her to move.


Out-of-Touchers
Listen folks, when your child plays a sport, he or she is committed to a team. Period. Ask any old-school coach. Don’t miss practice or games for birthdays, parties, or trips.
Gnome played tee ball, and Tall Child was the coach. As the coach’s wife, it was my inherent duty to get trophies. Well, we had seven players every game I attended, so, I bought seven At the final game, we had eight players. Say what?!? I had to rush home to desperately search in a frenzy for an old Sharky trophy that looked like the ones I had bought for Gnome’s team. Miraculously, I found one! I sped back to the game, just as the children were lining up to say, “Good game. Good game.” Whew. Naturally, my child (who never missed a practice or an inning) had to sacrifice. I ordered another trophy for Gnome the next week and replaced Sharky’s old trophy to its rightful dust-collecting position. What a pain. Who was that eighth player?
My dear friend, Ole Miss Glamour Girl (OMGG) once interrupted baseball practice because she had dinner reservations. Here’s how it went down between her and our coach, The Best:


OMGG yelled from the behind the fence across the field to
second base to her son: “Phenom get your stuff.”
The Best yelled back: “What?!? No!”
OMGG: “We have to leave!”
The Best: “WHY?”
OMGG: “We have dinner reservations!”
The Best: “It’s Tuesday!”
OMGG: “It’s Cinco De Mayo!”
The Best: “You’re not Mexican!”


Now, OMGG knows how to have a good time, but she doesn’t know sports stuff. When we played near our neighborhood, she organized team tailgates complete with sandwich platters, adult juice boxes, tablecloths, and flowers. She mastered the Southern Living tailgate in her time at the iconic Grove at The University of Mississippi. She actually commented, “How can that umpire tell if it’s a ball or a strike? He’s standing behindthe catcher!” OMGG didn’t stop her criticism there. Regarding her son, she asked, “Why do people keep saying Phenom plays second base? He plays between first and second base.” The first time she heard players and fans yell, “Three up, three down!” OMGG asked, “Why do they keep saying that? What does that even mean?”


Annoyers
Male coaches don’t need to touch their privates. I know things in uniform itch but deal with it. I once warned Tall Child, “If that coach adjusts himself down thereagain, I will grab baby Gnome’s Desitin out of the diaper bag and side-arm it toward the coach’s cup.”
Delicious says, “You should never hate anyone.” Well, too bad. I hate the lady who shook a plastic bottle full of coins for an entire baseball game in Orlando, Florida. I complained to the concession stand manager. Her response? “I’m in food.”


Grandparents
Speaking of hyper grannies, Delicious and Tall Child’s mother Bop aren’t fans of the bunt. Even if Sharky is zero for twelve three weekends in a row, they are one hundred percent certain he can hit a grand slam if only the coach will give the signal.


Pouters
These are parents and Daddy Ball Coaches who stomp off the field after a loss and say, “Get your bag.” One Daddy Ball Coach refused—for two seasons—to give Tall Child the “good game” hand shake. Not even a fist bump. His bad attitude and poor sportsmanship just made beating him that much better.


Division 1’s
These parents have genetic confidence and nothing to prove (no vicarious ambition) as they were successful in their own glory days. They know the rules, so they don’t argue. They are tall, so they don’t fight for the top bleacher or backstop seats. Umps recognize their frames and gaits as “having been there” and give them the cool-rod nod. The Best told a riveting story of one of his many teen victories. I asked, “How do you remember such detail?”
He said, “The older I get, the better I was.”


Snappers
No one is immune. My kind-hearted, philanthropic sister-in-law Dogwood Deb became irate after her sweet nephew Sharky lost a tense baseball battle to Sumner County. No doubt cheated by refs, we exited in defeat while the winners cheered loudly on the way to their cars. Dogwood Deb lost her cool and screamed across the parking lot, “Oh, shut up and go back home to Slumner County!”
After one baseball game, I saw a woman freak out so hard I expected to see her leave in a straight jacket. She screeched and thrashed like a wild animal. Luckily, she was inside the scorekeeper’s chain-link protective box. She was in a cage rage.
At the end of a basketball game, I watched in horror as a granny went postal on her grandson. She kept yelling, “You look at me when I’m talkin’ to you!” He couldn’t. She had A & P eyes (one faced the Atlantic, the other the Pacific—the murky one).
Some of these heckling parents harass the coaches, the referees, the other teams’ coaches, the other teams’ fans, and their own children. I save my commentary for Tall Child for the car ride home. IF, IF, IF I ride home with him. You should see how he mistreats my super-athletic, often misunderstood Sharky when my baby misses free-throws. I never got that kind of treatment in the band! Trout over-heckled the refs at one of cousin Roscoe’s college basketball games, and the refs said, “You are out of here! Leave this gym!” Trout pointed at himself, and mouthed, “Me?” He’d driven a long way to watch Roscoe and was not about to leave. So, he faked them out and sneaked up to the balcony seats. He ducked in and out of the crowd to avoid being caught. It was like watching human Whack-A-Mole.
In the stands, I always keep an ear out for new, awesome one-liners. Often, passionate parents display an entertaining flash of bravado and wit. In the safe cloud of fan noise, we scream out mean things we’d never say anywhere else. Once, a frustrated Tall Child yelled up at me, “Your son sucks!”
I yelled back, “You suck!”
When we got home, Sharky and I banished Tall Child to the bedroom for the rest of the night. So, as your child winds up to pitch, steps back in the pocket to throw, or sets up his shot, answer this question:  How do you perform? Are you civilized in the shadows, or does the wild animal in you come out to play? 
p.s. I can tell you that I was a schizophrenic performing parent last night. Sorry, Sharky
Table of Contents for Theories Size 12:
Theory 1:  People write diaries hoping someone else will read them. 5

Theory 2:  Anyone can learn from anyone. 8

Theory 3:  Teachers are the most entertaining people on the planet. 14

Theory 4:  The only thing worse than teacher fashion is substitute teacher fashion. 21

Theory 5:  You should be nice to everyone you meet because you will meet again, especially if you weren’t nice in the first place. 27

Theory 6:  Don’t judge a woman by her accent or her breast size. 31

Theory 7:  Play a sport. Even if you suck at it. 35

Theory 8:  If you want the ultimate college experience, join the band. 43

Theory 9:  Everyone should work in a restaurant. 51

Theory 10:  In youth sports, parents are the real performers. 62

Theory 11:  The more a zoo advertises a critter, the less likely visitors are to actually see that critter. 70

Theory 12:  Bicycle guys are selfish & make other people late for work. 75

Theory 13:  As people get old, they morph into the opposite sex. 80

Theory 14:  Humans try to force things to be what things cannot be. 89

Theory 15:  Tailgate etiquette is not an oxymoron. 98

Theory 16:  Think you can do somebody else’s job? Wrong, chicken lips! 110

Theory 17:  Funerals beat weddings, for guests anyway. 128

Theory 18:  Blind dates are the best dates ever! 147

Theory 19:  All mothers need sister wives. 156

Theory 20:  Never call a woman fat, lazy, or selfish. Them’s fightin’ words. 165



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This second excerpt is from my recently published second book of humor essays. Ah, there is so much material. It took three cups of Kroger donut coffee to help me figure out which to post, but I decided on this one as an attempt to admit my flaws and apologize to anyone sitting near Delicious and me at the game last night. If you didn't get enough, you can listen to her drawling, repetitive yell, "Shewt it! Shewt it!" on my YouTube Channel. I prefer you not find it, though, because you'll also hear me holler, "Throw tha bawl-uh! Throw tha bawl-uh!"


Theory 30: Women become their mothers,whether they like it or not.


B ack at Gatlinburg-Pittman High School  (G-P) I told Delicious, “I want to go to The University of Georgia and major in creative writing.” She said, “What would you do for a living?”I said, “Write and teach.”She said in the kindest way possible, “I forbid you to become a teacher. You’ll never have a dime. I majored in journalism at Georgia, but when I graduated newspapers wouldn’t hire a woman, so I ended up being a teacher, and I’ve struggled financially my whole life, Bug. Don’t put yourself through that.”I applied to Georgia and Tennessee but went with Tennessee because Georgia would have cost my parents an extra $1,800 each year. I felt selfish asking for that much money. I should have borrowed it like I later did for graduate school. Then I could have gone to my dream school and spring break and sit-down restaurants.I went to UT. I majored in finance. But, twenty-some-odd years later? I write and teach. Money? It comes and goes, but happiness in your work is crucial. The simplest days should be the best days. Why live for the weekends when they represent only 28 percent of your life? Make the 72 percent majority of your time better.I am following in my mother’s footsteps because I am becoming her. She’s eccentric, but I hope to top her quirks. She should write books, but she’d rather sit in her chair with a cup of colored pencils beside her so she can daydream via her adult coloring books. Sometimes she makes Christmas wreaths. These days, she’s on a homemade Christmas ornament kick. Tall Child got a popcorn-themed Styrofoam wonder while my neon prize was dotted with embroidered llama patches. Sometimes she drinks vodka and diet cranberry juice in a chair down by the river or riding shotgun on an ATV with BBJ as they bump and bounce through their respective Crippled Beagle and Naked Lady Farms. I suppose Delicious is more story tellerthan writer. Once my arthritis sets in for good, I’ll be more teller than writer too.This Theory first came to me at my mother-in-law Bop’s house in Nashville. It was Christmas time, the MOST stressful time of year when men should do as they are told but instead walk around with knife and fork in hand. Oh, and money you don’t have hemorrhages from every gap in your purse, clothes, car, and home. Bop has a small U-shaped kitchen in her Cape Code style, perfectly-sized-for-retiree house. She loves to host gatherings and always employs her poised daughter (Tall Child’s younger sister) Dogwood Debutante in her entertaining endeavors. I guess that since I’m female and Southern, I’m supposed to help slice ham, pour water into Waterford, and set heavy silver onto polished wood. Boring. I don’t sort silverware. I took the enneagram test and my personality style description stated that I feel “mundane tasks are beneath my sensibilities.” Yes! An academic excuse! Anyway, Tall Child and I sat in the living room that December day, and he coached me, “Go to the kitchen and help Bop.” I said, “I’m not sure there’s room in there for me.” Instead, I poured a glass of wine, perched on the back of a club chair, and observed a mother-daughter kitchen dance choreographed through years of practice. Bop and Dogwood Deb worked like two ballerinas in a music box. They somehow circled, scooted, and slid around each other without dropping a single teaspoon or sloshing hot butter beans over the edge of a footed serving bowl. There was no need for my Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, bumper boat behind to enter the dance. They were not just partners. No, they were one being, and I was being out of the way. Christmas means high-stakes entertaining. Had I tried to “help,” I could have jacked up the smooth, synchronized sequence. I would have been the primary colored Happy Meal toy whose angles were all wrong, whose lack of grace would have wedged between gliding pastel twirling aprons. Why, I might have capsized the gravy boat or worse, spilled my wine!I wondered how they could be such a dynamic duo in that kitchen and then realized that Dogwood Deb is becoming Bop. I pondered, Am I becoming Delicious? Naaah. I asked Sharky as he rode shotgun on the way to school one day soon after that, “How am I like Grandmama?”He said, “Dra. Ma.” He’s referring to the way in which Delicious and I take normal situations and make them urgent, frightening, and stressful. Right now, I am in the midst of a battle with asbestos tile that I chopped up in my basement, a huge dead poplar that looms over my bedroom, and my ongoing love-hate relationships with wine, Marie’s Ultimate blue cheese dressing, and three-minute microwave mug chocolate cakes. As I write this, I’m on day seven of Dry January.  Observations: Sounder sleep, clearer thinking, boring evenings. Cousin Fuzz calls the family tendency toward drama the “Delicious and BBJ Effect.” Think Doppler. Read this as quickly as you can for the best experience.
The Doppler effect can be described as the effect produced by a moving source of waves in which there is an apparent upward shift in frequency for observers toward whom the source is approaching and an apparent downward shift in frequency for observers from whom the source is receding. It is important to note that the effect does not result because of an actual change in the frequency of the source. Using the example [of a bug kicking its legs in water], the bug is still producing disturbances at a rate of two disturbances per second; it just appears to the observer whom the bug is approaching that the disturbances are being produced at a frequency greater than two disturbances/second. The effect is only observed because the distance between observer B and the bug is decreasing and the distance between observer A and the bug is increasing.
If you think I wrote that, I am honored, but I copied and pasted. I hate citing sources. Don’t we all? What good are the World Wide Web and Microsoft Word if we still have to draft those aggravating works cited pages? I prefer to copy and paste URLs. I found that explanation in one of everybody’s favoritehangouts, you’re gonna want to write this down, www.physicsclassroom.com. In laymen’s terms, basically, when Bug asks/does/proposes anything, The Delicious and BBJ/Doppler-like Effect creates a disturbance in the holler based on paranoia and anxiety. It’s a family trait prominent on our East Tennessee compound. For example, I once said, “I think I’ll go visit cousin Bags in Florida.” To that statement, Delicious scolded, “Oh, no, you won’t. Bug, you’ll get raped all the way down there and back.” I was 35 years old.
Delicious and BBJ swing and share big news.
Sharky also said, “You and Grandmama both think you have P.D.H.’s and can diagnose diseases.” I corrected him, so Delicous-ly, “Sharky, you mean Ph. D.’s, and yes, I take pride in my expertise in the prevalence of autism, group dynamics, and the father issues that led women to vote for Bill Clinton and Barack Obama. You just wait. I am on the cusp of a great discovery in clotting disorders.” You see, the asbestos tile issue is overwhelming me. I’ve visited numerous websites in my panicked research, so now the creepy marketing stuff is creeping me out. Every other Facebook post is from a mysterious person warning me of mesothelioma. My chest hurts. I’ve joined support groups. Finally, Sharky said, “Oh, and Mama, you and Grandmama are terrible drivers.” I do drive with emotion. Delicious punctuates every sentence with her brake pedal, as does BBJ. If anyone close to use is navigating a divorce, it takes us twice as long to drive to Hobby Lobby. My sweet, athletic, sincere friend Wine Box Out lost her mother years ago. She told me, “My mother was my life.” I feel the same way. I love and adore and need Delicious to a fault. But, I’m not going to lie. There were things she did when I was growing up that really bugged this Bug and I made silent vows not to repeat. Never heard of a silent vow? Red Hot Backspace and I attended a marriage class. Yes, together. She’s divorced, and did you really think Tall Child would go to a marriage class? I tried. I asked him to go with me, and he said, “No thanks. I hate school and I’m the ideal husband.” I conceded on one of those counts and didn’t press further. I think that makes me the ideal wife! Oh well, someone had to stay with Gnome and Sharky, anyway. After my and Red Hot’s first class, Tall Child asked, “How was marriage class?” I answered, “Interesting. Do you want to know all the things you do wrong?”He said, “Nah. I’m good.” Anyway, in the class, the teacher-preacher said that we should never make silent vows because we are setting parameters that God can and may want to change. We shouldn’t limit or fight destiny, right? Are we destined to become our mothers, no matter how we fight? Maybe.
Growing up, I made the following silent vows:
VOW 1: “I will never cut off all my hair just because I’m getting older.” Delicious says that once a woman gets a certain age, she needs to cut off all her hair because “long, stringy hair makes women look old and tired.”
Then: In high school, I made Delicious late for work because I had to perfect my bangs. You know the drill: One Conair roll up, one Conair roll down, pick, spray. Humidity causes a flop. Cry. Throw a fit. Do over. Delicious bought me highlights and perms. I even got into making Gatlinburg-Pittman High School blue and gold barrettes to sell to classmates.They sold way better than the fish tank “magic rocks” that changed colors. I hustled those all over the Pigeon Forge Elementary School playground. High school girls have money and don’t tattle. I was rolling for real.
Now: If I get hot, I get a haircut. If I’m in Alabama, Florida, Nashville, wherever, and I notice my shaggy bangs or what Delicious calls my “dog ears,” I get a haircut. I pull over to the first cheapo place like Great Clips or Supercuts. No more tantrums, just $12.00 and some White Rain and I’m content. When I have extra time, I hit Ross and Co. to see my top stylist, California Dreamin’. I chose her to be my top stylist because her son played baseball with Sharky and she’s a friend. Bonus: She IS GREAT at her work. Whew! I just tell her, “Cut my hair so I don’t have to fix it. I like it wavy and loose, so I can floof it up and not look so old and tired. You know, when you get a certain age you just can’t have long stringy hair.” What? Who said that?Recently, Red Hot Backspace’s daughter Suspenders enrolled in the local Paul Mitchell school. I set an appointment. If you haven’t been to a school salon, go. I love being around students, and the cuts are a bargain, which enables you to tip big. It’s a classroom setting, as in rows of salon “desks” where students have all their tools and textbooks in full view. Suspenders fetched me from the front desk and said, “Right this way.”I tried to push her to excellence. When she asked, “What would you like to do?” I answered, “Oh, I don’t care. Be creative! Look at me hard, and then do whatever you want. You are the artist!”She said, “That’s terrifying.” “Do it,” I said.The young stylist beside her stared at me and Suspenders said, “Don’t worry; I know Bug. She’s crazy.” Then she said to me, “How about we add some layers? How much do you want to cut off the length?”I said, “Sure. Layers. Cut off whatever you want to, just make sure I still look like a girl. Leave some hair below my ears.”I felt badly when I said that because her neighboring he/she/him/her/shim/sher stylist’s head was completely shaved on both sides with a THREE-INCH RAINBOW MOHAWK from front to back. He had painted black fingernails, mascara, and was obviously nervous. I thought, I’ve offended him.We’ll call him Starlite, after Rainbow Brite’s horse. Well, I looked at Starlite and said, “What would you do to my hair?”He said, “I don’t know. I’m too busy freaking out to think.” Suspenders chimed in, “He’s really nervous”“Why?” I asked.Brite said, “I have a perm at 9:30. It’s my first one.” “Ever?”“Ever.”I thought, If he thinks he’s nervous, how does he expect this stranger to feel when she sees Rainbow Brite’s horse with a pair of razor-sharp scissors and vat of ammonium thioglycolate waiting for her?”He showed me his textbook, which had step-by-step instructions. I wonder if I could cut my own hair professionally? I mean, I used to cut my long hair all the time. I just pulled it straight up into a ponytail, twisted it one way, sawed through the rope, then twisted another, sawed through, then showered. FREE! Those books have secrets. I need those secrets. I coached him, “Okay, well, you are in The 9-1-9, so your client could be demanding. Then again, she could be like me and understand that you are learning.”“Yeah, true.” Suspenders waved her teacher over. She explained what she planned to do to me. He approved. She got out her school scissors and went to town. At the end, she asked, “Do you want me to cut your bangs?” I said, “Isn’t that customary?”She said, “I guess so.” I said, “Yes, but don’t choke. This is where you can REALLY make somebody mad.” It was fun giving Suspenders a hard time and embarrassing her. I even threatened to yell on my way out, “Well, this is by far the BEST [EXPLETIVE] HAIRCUT I’VE EVER HAD IN MY ENTIRE [EXPLETIVE] LIFE!” She made a good grade, and I loved my haircut. Starlite’s perm lady never showed. Or she did, saw his hair, and ran for the hills. We’ll never know.Red Hot Backspace admits, “I have to try really hard not to wear my hair like my mother’s.”Ditto, Red Hot. I’m heading that way. The last time Sharky had a basketball game, I way over-sprayed my hair with Aussie.  Just like Delicious. It’s a good thing Sharky and I have outgrown our childhood asthma.
VOW 2: “I will keep my house really neat so I can find tape and stamps.” Once, my daddy looked at a pile of clean laundry on the floor of our 100-year-old farmhouse and asked, “Delicious, are you EVER going to fold those clothes?” Delicious answered, “Pooh, are you EVER going to fold those clothes?”Delicious always told me that housework was the “last thing on her list” and she “had her priorities straight.” Yep. Pooh was #1. I was #2. We never had to seek out her attention or energy. My grandmama Buddy lived high on a cedar-stacked hill facing The Crippled Beagle Farm. She told us that often, when Delicious hollered, “Pooooooh/Buuuuug, where are youuuuuuuuuu?” the sweet, longingly bellowed calls floated “over the river and through the woods,” up the cow field, and onto Buddy’s porch.  My daddy and I valued the relief of solitude, but Delicious wanted to be up close because she was interested in every little thing we said or did. Daddy and I hiked all over our 72-acre farm, sometimes at the same time but typically alone. Remarkably, we never crossed paths in those woods and never escaped the doting clutches of Delicious. She may not be a good mopper, but Delicious is a dang fine tracker.
Then: My bedroom, my dorm room, my first apartments, and my first house were always tidy. I took great pride in keeping neat quarters. I knew exactly where my scissors were.
Now: It’s been coming for some time. Tall Child and I used to boycott. Feeling overwhelmed by the supposed imbalance of our chore lists, we staged these ridiculous domestic stand-offs where one of us would say, “That’s it! I am boycotting for two weeks.” The boycotter would do none of his/her chores, so the dirt, laundry, dishes, and to-do’s piled into obvious “look who suffers and contributes the most” stacks. I felt a boycott coming on last week, but this time, I channeled my inner Delicious (who is growing stronger by the day) and said nothing. I simply QUIT. Now, I plan to put my priorities in order: #1 Jesus, #2 Tall Child, #3 Sharky and Gnome, #4 friends, . . . . These days I do as much housework as I feel like doing and slide the rest of the stuff out of the way. Hardwood and my golf course squeegee help.I hide the tape and stamps, and I buy scissors at Dollar Tree. Lots of scissors.I took a page from my teaching love Sugar Bear who inspired me with his efficiency. Sugar Bear has a Ph.D. in something I don’t understand that has to do with sea oats and weather, and he is a devoted husband and father.  I complimented him on his uber-professional junior high work attire one Monday morning. He said, “I always wear a dress shirt and tie on Mondays. Every Sunday when I get home from our worship service, I lay my church clothes out on the chair in my bedroom. This method allows me to sleep another ten minutes on Mondays and save money on laundering.” 

God first. Laundry second. Amen, Sugar Bear.
 
VOW 3: “I won’t talk to strangers all the time.” Most of the time when we went shopping to malls, the expedition was focused on finding “slacks and blouses” for Delicious and BBJ. They loved women’s departments. I was miserable, so Delicious bought me a Sweet Valley High book as soon as we arrived, and I perched in those club chairs by the tri-fold mirrors to read while she and BBJ tried on one thousand shirts that all looked basically the same, except for the ones with necklaces attached. Those were special.
Then: Those days were rough, but survivable, thanks to Morrison’s Cafeteria macaroni, rolls, and Jell-O and the adventures of Jessica and Elizabeth Wakefield. What really stunk was when I had to try on blouses and slacks or, heaven forbid, swimsuits. Not only did I have to say, “Don’t look, don’t look” to Delicious, who came in every dressing room to ”protect me from perverts.” I also had to endure the critique from sales people. You see, as soon as we walked into the store, some nice clerk would say, “May I help you?” I liked to say, “No, thanks. I’m just browsing,” and suffer through swimsuit season in solitude. Delicious, on the other hand, would say, “YES! My daughter Bug is going to a fancy party with her friends! She needs a dress. Will you help us find one?” Torture for a teenager, worse for a college co-ed. Though the goal was apparel, Delicious ALWAYS found a way to say, “Bug is in the UT band.” She was so proud.
Now: Now I get it! Delicious wasn’t overly friendly; she was BUSY. She was being The Man. I am a working mother of two. I don’t have time to browse for a blouse. I’m thinking up a uniform for my workdays. I need something I can wear to exercise, meet a client, tutor a student, and comfortably sit in my writing chair for hours on end. The fabric must not show cat hair. Now, on the seldom days I do shop, I let anyone in the dressing room. And when a clerk greets me, “May I help you?” I say, “Yes, you can! I was in the UT Band and I need a Size 14 . . . .” What a fierce beauty, ready for academic battle. She worked like a man and taught and teaches me, constantly, about how to navigate humanity, thus I have finally given up and given in to her abundant advice. Instead of fighting the natural current, I now happily hop into the riptide of becoming my mother. I mean, she is always right. In honor of my beloved Delicious, I now whip through Chick-fil-A for a sweet tea with extra, extra ice and lemon and write Sharky’s basketball stats and my grocery lists on the back of bank deposit slips. What else are those tiny papers good for?

Table of Contents in Theories Size 14:

Theory 21: All bumper stickers offend someone, but that’s the point, right?  1
Theory 22: Wedding vows need translation. 23
Theory 23: There are right ways and wrong ways to date online. 31
Theory 24: There is no such thing as natural beauty. 43
Theory 25: Chunky girls need love songs too, especially in the summertime. 50
Theory 26: 40+ is the perfect age. 57
Theory 27: Orthopedic bras ain’t sexy. 69
Theory 28: Working mothers are the man. 79
Theory 29: College is hard when you’re 40. 99
Theory 30: Women become their mothers, whether they like it or not. 110
Theory 31: Old age reveals the true you. 122
Theory 32: Teachers are money hustlers with ADHD. 128
Theory 33: Dang you, Tupperware ladies, dang you (but I do love your products). 137
Theory 34: Never say, “At least you have summers off” to a teacher. 148
Theory 35: A great summer can be free. Ask any redneck—like me! 156
Theory 36: Senior superlatives must be modernized and must include teachers. 163
Theory 37: God and prayer are alive and well in public schools. 174
Theory 38: Modern education ruined field day. 181
Theory 39: Group work is just plain wrong. 191
Theory 40: Men are easier to work with than women. 198
Theory 41: In the Christmas season, men need to do as they are told. 205
Theory 42: Don’t blog about women woes. You’ll tempt fate with your secret boyfriend and the IRS. 213
Theory 43: When Mama's out of commission, the world falls apart. 218
Theory 44: Mama’s behavior determines how well other folks like her baby. 224
Theory 45: Workplace etiquette class should be a graduation requirement. 233
The snow is now over an inch, so I'd better slide out. Tall Child has requested chili. Gnome's on his third cup of homemade ice cream. Sharky is demanding carbohydrates (so jealous). And I'm super thirsty, if you know what I mean.

THIS IS NOT A GOOD DAY FOR A DIET!
Click here to buy on Amazon (Kindle/paperback).
THANKS for reading, 
Bug

Easy to Read. Impossible to Forget. Meet Big Bad Good Bob.

Enjoy! This book is perfect for men, recovering addicts, ministers, memoir-lovers, you name it. See press release below and be sure to share. Thank you!
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE                                                                         Contact: Crippled Beagle PublishingPhone: (865) 414-4017Email: dyer.cbpublishing@gmail.com
Easy to Read. Impossible to Forget. Meet Big Bad Good Bob.
Knoxville, TN, January 2020. Big Bad Bob grew up in poverty with three siblings. His beloved single mother suffered psychotic episodes, so Bob grew up quickly. He fist fought from kindergarten into adulthood while causing and suffering incredible physical and emotional pain.  In this contemporary memoir, former one-percenter Big Bob tells a riveting, masculine, and emotional true life story of drama, angst, mistakes, relationships, and redemption. Ride coast to coast as he escapes his neglected childhood in the tenements of Worcester, Massachusetts, and embarks on a decades-long journey that takes him to extreme highs and lows. Gain an intimate understanding of the innerworkings of broken families, biker gangs, drug culture, prison life, and true friendship as Big Bob evolves from hurt child to violent vigilante to criminal and, finally, to the good man God designed him to be.
Find on Amazon.com




 “Thanks very much for your excellent book! Well done - very hard to put down it was so interesting. Bob's life was worth profiling for the insights into the different worlds he navigated . . . . The book is educational, inspirational, and [I imagine] especially meaningful for those who knew him as family.”---John H.
“I finished this book with one word hanging on my lips: Wow! The gritty realism with which this story is told grabs ahold of you and doesn't let go, even after you have finished reading it. I got to the last page last night before going to bed and awoke this morning with Bob on my mind. The book feels very much like you are having a conversation with Bob, a man who has experienced a life full of events that normally would cover the lives of half a dozen (or more) people. Bob's life was never easy. He also didn't exactly make life easy for a lot of people he came across. Bob was a big, imposing and dangerous person for most of his life. Strong men feared him. Women loved him. No one will forget him, including those fortunate enough to read this book. I don't want to spoil any of Bob's story for you, but I will say this. Read this book. Pay attention to the course of Bob's life. You might be number three.”---Author Tilmer Wright Jr.
Ghostwriter Jody Dyer spent several days in New Hampshire with Big Bob to record interviews and plan the book. The interviews transformed successfully into narrative non-fiction because Big Bob not only has dramatic stories to tell, but he is also a riveting natural storyteller with a sharp recall for important moments, revelations, and details. Read this memorable account of rugged life and redemption on Kindle, in softcover, or in hardcover.
ISBN softcover 978-1970037296       ISBN hardcover 978-1970037302
Available on Amazon.com, Barnesandnoble.com, Kindle, and through normal retail outlets. Group discounts are available. To request group orders, interviews, quotes, excerpts, and reading guides, contact the publisher. Bob’s health is fragile, but he may be able to attend local events near Lebanon, New Hampshire. To book Big Bob or his ghostwriter Jody Dyer, contact the publisher.

Friends, I've been busy. Many of you have read my blog po...

Friends, I've been busy. Many of you have read my blog post "We ended our relationship." In it, I explain how I was fired (liberated) and inspired to finally start my own business. I've been a writer my whole life, but now I write to provide for my family. That includes freelance projects, ghostwriting books and articles, proofreading, editing, and more. Also, my business quickly evolved into an obvious need for a publishing imprint. So, I started Crippled Beagle Publishing to help my clients see their dreams of books go from ideas to published legacies. I coach authors at all skill levels and in a variety of genres. 
I've worked on countless projects over the last couple of years, including several books, ghostwriting gigs, magazine articles, tutoring, marketing kits for authors, press releases, Web content, and more. I edited and/or published the books you see below.  Take a look. Perhaps one of these titles will interest you. Perhaps one of these titles will inspire you to write your own story! If so, I'm here to help you. Visit my business website for Crippled Beagle Publishing's complete catalog. It grows every month!
xoxoxo
Jody

All books are available on Amazon.com in paperback and Kindle and through traditional brick and mortar retailers. Some books are also available at Barnes&Noble.com in paperback, hard cover, and epub formats. Groups of all kinds can contact me for bulk order discounts.

dyer.cbpublishing@gmail.com
865-414-4017

JODY DYER - CRIPPLED BEAGLE PUBLISHINGFriends, I've...

JODY DYER  - CRIPPLED BEAGLE PUBLISHING

Friends, I've been busy. Many of you read my blog post "We ended our relationship." In it, I explain how I was fired (liberated) and inspired to finally start my own business. I've been a writer my whole life, but now I write to provide for my family. That includes freelance projects, ghostwriting books and articles, proofreading, editing, and more. Also, my business quickly evolved into an obvious need for a publishing imprint. So, I started Crippled Beagle Publishing to help my clients see their dreams of books go from idea to published book. I coach authors at and through all stages in a variety of genres. Thus, I haven't had time to do much of my own beloved writing. 
My next book, Theories: Size 12, Volume DD will be out soon, though. I've gradually snuck it into tiny pockets of time over the last two years. The frustrating part is that the rough draft was written. Revisions (some authors love them; some despise them) take a while and I simply haven't had time to focus on my own work while building my publishing business.
While I've worked on countless projects over the last couple of years, including magazine articles, tutoring, marketing kits for authors, and more, I edited and/or published the books you see below.  Take a look. Perhaps one of these titles will interest you. Perhaps one of these titles will inspire you to write your own story! If so, I'm here to help you.
xoxoxo
Jody

All books are available or soon will be available on Amazon.com in paperback and Kindle. Some books are also available at Barnes&Noble.com in paperback, hard cover, and epub formats.

If you plan to get neutered, wait until spring. I almost got hypothermia at the animal shelter!

Maybe it's the teacher in me or perhaps my nonconformist writer's attitude (well, except for grammar---I conform to grammar rules), but I seem to notice poor communication and bad business practices when people around me don't.

Today, I came within minutes of getting hypothermia at a "shelter." Uh-huh. Read and learn. Go on, get mad, but you know you agree.

~ ~ ~
A little background...

Sometime in September, an unknown predator dropped a kitten in Delicious's backyard. I suspect a hawk or coyote, but I'm a writer, so let's go with American Bald Eagle. The kitten was malnourished and sported an open wound. Delicious, a suppressed veterinarian for many years, cleaned out the wound (gag), and "doctored up the kitten." Gnome was present during all this critter drama, and in his sugar-minded fashion, named the kitten Lollipop — Lolli for short.

In October, Delicious went to Panama City Beach, and I babysat Lolli and mama's Yorkie, Gypsy. Tall Child fell in love with Lolli. I was shocked at his immediate liking to Lolli since he hated my deceased Yorkie, Buzz, and always said he, "Couldn't wait to dig that hole."

Don't worry, readers. I held him to that. He dug the hole.

Maybe Tall Child likes Lolli's self-cleaning cat habits, the ease of a litter box that he never touches, or prefers soft meows over obnoxious yaps. Who knows? She probably likes Tall Child because he doesn't move around much and doesn't threaten her cat independence.

She tolerates Gnome, and is even polite when he picks her up by the armpits, which causes her body give up and droop til her fuzzy toes drag the hardwood.

Sharky and she were tight, until one night in November when she began to howl and fuss like a coyote. She filled our long hallway with distress, and I thought something terrible was wrong with her. Remember, she was a furry grab bag delivered by an unknown animal from an unknown location. For all we knew, she was RABID!

I watched her closely the next day. She would whine, then move her tail to the side and back up.

Ruh-roh.

 I called Delicious and told her the symptoms.

"Bug, as many animals as you had growing up, you should know she's in heat."

I explained it to Sharky. A month or so later, it happened again. He said, "Uh-oh, Mama. Lolli's heating again." Some events are too powerful; they must become verbs.

Folks, I do not like animals having intercourse. I saw two horses at my Uncle Trout's farm when I was about twelve years old, and, well, let's just say I have issues. I also don't like animals wearing people clothes. Too much of that in books and movies makes the regular real-life animals look exposed. Issues...

Anyway, I Webbed up the humane society to find the cheapest route to having a nun-cat. Knoxville's Young-Williams Animal Shelter would do the trick.

$45 = no kittens and no coyote sounds

I made the appointment for January 18, 2018. Instructions came via email:

Drop off is at 8:00 AM and pick up is at 4:15 PM. Please come to the back of the building for drop off. Cat owners: Please bring your cat in a carrier, or pillowcase. FOR THEIR OWN SAFETY, CATS MUST BE CONTAINED AT ALL TIMES!

Pillowcase? She's not a rattlesnake.

So, I got up early and left my snowed-in-from-school boys asleep to take Lolli for her surgery. I warmed up the car, laid a soft towel in her carrier (NOT pillowcase), and consoled her as we rode to the clinic.

I followed the instructions and drove to the back of the building. I parked, got her out, and followed a dozen or so other people with boxes (NOT pillowcases) up a walkway, and into...

TWO PEOPLE CAGES!

There were two chain-link fenced cages. The left cage had an outdoor heater. I felt sorry for that overpromising, under-delivering heater. Naturally, we humans circled the heater, and waited for a shelter employee to open the door.

COLD.

A lady opened the door, and said, "Take a clipboard and fill out your form. Also, ALL the people who were scheduled for the Adair Clinic [closed because of snow and icy roads] need to stay on this side [heater side], and ALL the people scheduled to come here need to go to the other side [no heater side]. Well, two people stayed by the heater. We humans are such rule followers. The rest of us morons picked up our critter boxes and moved to the other cage.

Here ya go:



COLD. COLD.
I wore leggings, an undershirt, a sweatshirt, and a fleece coat. Lolli had fur and a towel. I stood in line and watched the humans attempt to complete charts, but the pens wouldn't work. Why? The ink was frozen.
COLD. COLD. COLD.
I wanted to yell, "This treatment is inhumane, humane society!"
Poor Lolli in the plastic box with way too many air holes cried out to me.
"I'm sorry, Lolli. I know. Surely we won't wait long."
I asked the crowd, "Why aren't we waiting inside? This is ridiculous." 
That chic in the colorful get-up said, "There probably isn't enough room."
Room? Here's a blurb from the shelter's website (my emphasis in bold):
...a campaign to build the new center as a partnership with the city and county along with private citizens who shared a passion for animal welfare. The city and county provided funds for the kennel holding areas while a newly organized Board of Directors raised funds for the adoption floor and upgraded amenities throughout the building.

As a result of these efforts, Young-Williams Animal Center moved into a new $3.7M facility in May 2004.
Hmmm, $3.7 million, and I'm in an outdoor cage? I have an idea for an amenity: a waiting room.

I counted the people in line, and timed the first check-in. The first pet's process took five minutes. I multiplied 5 minutes by the 9 people in line ahead of me.

Math doesn't lie. I would wait at least 45 minutes.

From businessinsider.com:

... a temperature of 0°F and a wind speed of 15 mph creates a wind chill temperature of -19°F. Under these conditions frost bite can occur in just 30 minutes.


The temperature in that cage?









At least it was sunny, not foggy, so I could easily see how stupid we all were. 

From some other site:

...hypothermia still takes about 30 minutes to set in, and between an hour and two hours to kill you. Before this, if death does occur, it will probably result from complications due to something called cold shock.

I was shocked all right...shocked at the stupid situation.

I figured out that it would be hard to carry that cat box with frozen fingers, or at least hard to let it go.

I looked down at Lolli.




















Not okay.

I picked up her box and walked into the shelter's front desk. I interrupted (YEP) the worker, and asked, "Is there any way we can wait inside?"

He said, "No. We don't have room."

There was room.

I said, "Sure you do. Make an exception."

Then he replied with a statement that, as a former manager and current business owner, I despise, "We can't do that."

I said, "The temperature outside is ONE digit."

He said, "We'll hurry."

I said, "It won't matter. We'll all still suffer. Five minutes of this is miserable."


In businesses, we often hear, "I can't/We don't/That's not how we do it/It [the computer] won't let me/That's our policy."

Translated into reality-speak, those phrases say, "I don't care/My boss is a control freak jerk/I have no imagination/I have no power/I have no initiative/I can't think."

Well, Lolli and I CAN think.

I gave him the form (which I had completed with my own, warm pen while the others in line struggled) and said, "Cancel this cat's spay appointment. She shouldn't suffer at an animal clinic. We'll be back in March."

To the caged animals and people, I said, "I did the math. Good luck."

I apologized to Lolli on the way home. Once inside our house, I let her out of the cage and heated some cat food for her. Sharky walked in and said, "That was a quick surgery."



Well, Sharky, she'll be "heating again" soon, but at least she'll be warm. And so will her impatient human.


Ahhh, much better now. Sort of.

If plan to get neutered, wait until spring. I almost got hypothermia at the animal shelter!

Maybe it's the teacher in me or perhaps my nonconformist writer's attitude (well, except for grammar---I conform to grammar rules), but I seem to notice poor communication and bad business practices when people around me don't.

Today, I came within minutes of getting hypothermia at a "shelter." Uh-huh. Read and learn. Go on, get mad, but you know you agree.

~ ~ ~
A little background...

Sometime in September, an unknown predator dropped a kitten in Delicious's backyard. I suspect a hawk or coyote, but I'm a writer, so let's go with American Bald Eagle. The kitten was malnourished and sported an open wound. Delicious, a suppressed veterinarian for many years, cleaned out the wound (gag), and "doctored up the kitten." Gnome was present during all this critter drama, and in his sugar-minded fashion, named the kitten Lollipop — Lolli for short.

In October, Delicious went to Panama City Beach, and I babysat Lolli and mama's Yorkie, Gypsy. Tall Child fell in love with Lolli. I was shocked at his immediate liking to Lolli since he hated my deceased Yorkie, Buzz, and always said he, "Couldn't wait to dig that hole."

Don't worry, readers. I held him to that. He dug the hole.

Maybe Tall Child likes Lolli's self-cleaning cat habits, the ease of a litter box that he never touches, or prefers soft meows over obnoxious yaps. Who knows? She probably likes Tall Child because he doesn't move around much and doesn't threaten her cat independence.

She tolerates Gnome, and is even polite when he picks her up by the armpits, which causes her body give up and droop til her fuzzy toes drag the hardwood.

Sharky and she were tight, until one night in November when she began to howl and fuss like a coyote. She filled our long hallway with distress, and I thought something terrible was wrong with her. Remember, she was a furry grab bag delivered by an unknown animal from an unknown location. For all we knew, she was RABID!

I watched her closely the next day. She would whine, then move her tail to the side and back up.

Ruh-roh.

 I called Delicious and told her the symptoms.

"Bug, as many animals as you had growing up, you should know she's in heat."

I explained it to Sharky. A month or so later, it happened again. He said, "Uh-oh, Mama. Lolli's heating again." Some events are too powerful; they must become verbs.

Folks, I do not like animals having intercourse. I saw two horses at my Uncle Trout's farm when I was about twelve years old, and, well, let's just say I have issues. I also don't like animals wearing people clothes. Too much of that in books and movies makes the regular real-life animals look exposed. Issues...

Anyway, I Webbed up the humane society to find the cheapest route to having a nun-cat. Knoxville's Young-Williams Animal Shelter would do the trick.

$45 = no kittens and no coyote sounds

I made the appointment for January 18, 2018. Instructions came via email:

Drop off is at 8:00 AM and pick up is at 4:15 PM. Please come to the back of the building for drop off. Cat owners: Please bring your cat in a carrier, or pillowcase. FOR THEIR OWN SAFETY, CATS MUST BE CONTAINED AT ALL TIMES!

Pillowcase? She's not a rattlesnake.

So, I got up early and left my snowed-in-from-school boys asleep to take Lolli for her surgery. I warmed up the car, laid a soft towel in her carrier (NOT pillowcase), and consoled her as we rode to the clinic.

I followed the instructions and drove to the back of the building. I parked, got her out, and followed a dozen or so other people with boxes (NOT pillowcases) up a walkway, and into...

TWO PEOPLE CAGES!

There were two chain-link fenced cages. The left cage had an outdoor heater. I felt sorry for that overpromising, under-delivering heater. Naturally, we humans circled the heater, and waited for a shelter employee to open the door.

COLD.

A lady opened the door, and said, "Take a clipboard and fill out your form. Also, ALL the people who were scheduled for the Adair Clinic [closed because of snow and icy roads] need to stay on this side [heater side], and ALL the people scheduled to come here need to go to the other side [no heater side]. Well, two people stayed by the heater. We humans are such rule followers. The rest of us morons picked up our critter boxes and moved to the other cage.

Here ya go:



COLD. COLD.
I wore leggings, an undershirt, a sweatshirt, and a fleece coat. Lolli had fur and a towel. I stood in line and watched the humans attempt to complete charts, but the pens wouldn't work. Why? The ink was frozen.
COLD. COLD. COLD.
I wanted to yell, "This treatment is inhumane, humane society!"
Poor Lolli in the plastic box with way too many air holes cried out to me.
"I'm sorry, Lolli. I know. Surely we won't wait long."
I asked the crowd, "Why aren't we waiting inside? This is ridiculous." 
That chic in the colorful get-up said, "There probably isn't enough room."
Room? Here's a blurb from the shelter's website (my emphasis in bold):
...a campaign to build the new center as a partnership with the city and county along with private citizens who shared a passion for animal welfare. The city and county provided funds for the kennel holding areas while a newly organized Board of Directors raised funds for the adoption floor and upgraded amenities throughout the building.

As a result of these efforts, Young-Williams Animal Center moved into a new $3.7M facility in May 2004.
Hmmm, $3.7 million, and I'm in an outdoor cage? I have an idea for an amenity: a waiting room.

I counted the people in line, and timed the first check-in. The first pet's process took five minutes. I multiplied 5 minutes by the 9 people in line ahead of me.

Math doesn't lie. I would wait at least 45 minutes.

From businessinsider.com:

... a temperature of 0°F and a wind speed of 15 mph creates a wind chill temperature of -19°F. Under these conditions frost bite can occur in just 30 minutes.


The temperature in that cage?









At least it was sunny, not foggy, so I could easily see how stupid we all were. 

From some other site:

...hypothermia still takes about 30 minutes to set in, and between an hour and two hours to kill you. Before this, if death does occur, it will probably result from complications due to something called cold shock.

I was shocked all right...shocked at the stupid situation.

I figured out that it would be hard to carry that cat box with frozen fingers, or at least hard to let it go.

I looked down at Lolli.




















Not okay.

I picked up her box and walked into the shelter's front desk. I interrupted (YEP) the worker, and asked, "Is there any way we can wait inside?"

He said, "No. We don't have room."

There was room.

I said, "Sure you do. Make an exception."

Then he replied with a statement that, as a former manager and current business owner, I despise, "We can't do that."

I said, "The temperature outside is ONE digit."

He said, "We'll hurry."

I said, "It won't matter. We'll all still suffer. Five minutes of this is miserable."


In businesses, we often hear, "I can't/We don't/That's not how we do it/It [the computer] won't let me/That's our policy."

Translated into reality-speak, those phrases say, "I don't care/My boss is a control freak jerk/I have no imagination/I have no power/I have no initiative/I can't think."

Well, Lolli and I CAN think.

I gave him the form (which I had completed with my own, warm pen while the others in line struggled) and said, "Cancel this cat's spay appointment. She shouldn't suffer at an animal clinic. We'll be back in March."

To the caged animals and people, I said, "I did the math. Good luck."

I apologized to Lolli on the way home. Once inside our house, I let her out of the cage and heated some cat food for her. Sharky walked in and said, "That was a quick surgery."



Well, Sharky, she'll be "heating again" soon, but at least she'll be warm. And so will her impatient human.


Ahhh, much better now. Sort of.

We shouldn’t suffer alone, especially at the grocery store.

You know how frustrating it is when you are suffering, and everyone else is just be-bopping along?

Well, they aren't.

Reader beware: Yes, I am a humorist. No, this blog post isn’t that funny. On this blog, I “free fall” and lay down my burdens—whether they be academic, cynical, laughable, or painful. Endure/enjoy, but at least relate?

I got cocky, and endured two unnecessary weeks of anxiety. Here’s a tip for the rest of you who suffer from anxiety disorder, situational depression, seasonal affective disorder, and/or post-traumatic stress disorder: If your doctor offers same-day screening results, STAY and get them! I have dense breasts with lots of cysts and scar tissue, so I always must get an ultrasound after my mammogram. It causes me to be at the medical office ALL DAY LONG. Well, this year, I had a lunch appointment at 11:30, and did not want to miss it. Plus, I felt like I “knew the drill.” So, I got a little overconfident and told the mammogram lady that they could call me with my results. Bad idea. (Ironically, my lunch date was with my buddy Baton Swiper, who is the chief fundraising guru for our local Susan Komen office.)
Writers love irony, yes, but this writer HATES anxiety. It is my constant companion and arch nemesis. I believe the Bible 100%, but anxiety/depression are real, too. Sir Winston Churchill referred to his bi-polar disorder to as his “Black Dog.” Anxiety growls at my brain’s gate daily. I memorized these verses long ago:
Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Matthew 6:26
Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life? Matthew 6:27
They help. My Black Dog growls. They help. He growls. I recite and pray. He growls. I pray. I live. He growls. I pray. So, the nurse called me back and said, “As you know, you have dense breast tissue, so we typically do an ultrasound.”

“Okay, yes.”“Also, [he growls] the doctor saw a change from last year on the right breast. We need more pictures in addition to the ultrasound.”

I thought, Matthew 6:27. Geez, why didn’t you schedule this all on one day, Bug? Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. I’m dying. I’m dying. Matthew 6:27. Why in the helk would I put myself through that? Because, reader, I exalted myself thinking I knew my future and would be fine. Here’s another Bible verse.

And whosoever shall exalt himself shall be abased; and he that shall humble himself shall be exalted. Matthew 23:12Before my “abased/humbled” self began to rough draft my eulogy and instruction book for life for Sharky, Gnome, and Tall Child, I did call the doctor to make the first appointment possible, two weeks away.

Does anyone else out there imagine her own eulogy? I think it’s dang thoughtful. I offer my writing services to help others write them, so why wouldn’t I write my own eulogy to help MY family avoid the arduous task? I already gave them my funeral plan in my last book, Theories: Size 12, Go On, Get Mad, But You Know You Agree. Maybe I’ll do the eulogy as a blog post, but I don’t want to tempt fate. See? There I go again, trying to control my life.
Growl.
Verse.
Anyway, I humbled and crumbled my mind for two weeks, and certainly did NOT add one day to my life. I texted my “inner circle” of friends: Lifestar, Frisky on Water, and OMGG. Frisky actually had breast cancer. She brought that hell home to all of us 40+ ladies. She rallied and recovered and set a stellar example of guts and faith for all of us. She replied to my text with a picture message that said:
Not once does the Bible say, “Worry about it,” “Stress over it,” or “Figure it out.” But over and over it clearly says, “Trust God.”
Good stuff. I cried. She helped me. The growls sounded less frequently. I told God I trusted Him, but as Margaret Thatcher once said, “I’m extraordinarily patient, provided I get my way in the end.”
Those 14 days gave me ample time to reflect on anxiety and pensiveness. Where do you do your best thinking? I do mine three places:
1.      Exercising (I don’t work hard enough to lose my thoughts)
2.      2:30 a.m. – 4:00 a.m. Every DAMN morning. As my favorite doctor and one of the best daddies ever says, “Mama’s wake up in the middle of the night and try to solve every problem in the world. Do you need Ambien?” He’s awesome, and the father of two of my Owls (as in squad). Once, in his office for my first time, I looked up to see their photos on the wall. I said, “You know I am best friends with [Daughter 1] and [Daughter 2].”
He said, “Oh, I can’t discuss them. HIPAA LAWS."

Huh? Their picture is on HIS wall in his office. I think HIPAA prevents him from discussing me with them, not vice versa. Still, I was there to see about Sharky’s hearing, but super doctor turned and asked, “Okay, we’ve got him figured out. How about mama?”
Folks, my father died in 1993. In that moment in the doctor’s office, I couldn’t remember the last time a man asked me how I was doing. I immediately got emotional, and said, “I’m tired.” He talked to ME about ME for a while. I’d tell you what he prescribed, but he’s big on HIPAA, and I’m big on him, so you’ll have to guess.
3.      Hands down, I do my best thinking in the grocery store.
My office is in my home, a ’56 rancher with quirky parts from the crazy lady who lived here before Tall Child and I bought it. My office contains hundreds of books, hundreds of photos, Tall Child’s desk from grade school, tables, bookshelves, paintings, stuff, stuff, stuff. NO curtains on two huge windows. A Bird feeder I can see from the inside is suction cupped to the left of my computer. There is almost no blank space, except for the floor, where I roll my estate sale $40 leather rolling chair from corner to corner to expedite my work and keep my train of thought intact. In more concise terms, I need LOTS Of stimulation to think.So, anywhere I go that has lots of stimulation helps me think. Sometimes that’s good. Sometimes that’s bad. During those two reflective, self-loathing weeks, I went to the grocery store twice. I thought of this theory. Whatever we carry, we carry into the grocery store, so: We shouldn’t suffer alone, especially at the grocery store.

I took my self-pity and a list to Kroger. I also carried something “different in my right breast.” I’m on a low-carb diet with Tall Child, but I was starving, so I stopped at the deli. When I’m in one of my “states” my appetite learns toward easily digested carbs. I am sometimes too dang sad and nervous to chew. Amen? Is that why, at funerals, we eat casseroles and cake?
Anyway, I got a small container of forbidden pasta salad from the deli. And a fork. And a Diet Coke. I ate that as I shopped, then threw away the slimy container in a trash can over near frozen foods. I kept the top of the container so I could pay for the now digesting food. Not only was I cheating on my diet, I made a dumb move. I threw away the part of the container with the price tag on it. Ugh. So, when I finished unloading a week’s worth of groceries that would feed three gobbling guys and me, I said, “I also had this pasta salad. Here’s the lid so you can scan it.”
The young cashier said, “There ain’t a tag.” Huh? Sure. I saved it. “No. There ain’t. Where is it?”
I said, “Dang. It’s in the trash over by the frozen foods.”
She said, “What do you want to do?”
I said, “Well, I could go to the deli on the other end of the store and ask them to make a new tag. Or, I could go dig through the trash. Or Kroger could just give me a cup of pasta. What do you think I should do? Dig through the trash?”
Reader, remember, my nerves are raw because I had that “different thing from last year” in my right breast. And, if you read my last blog post you know I was FIRED from my corporate gig (finance, not writing) in May. My life and self-esteem feel fragile these days. I wasn’t rude; I was sad and needed help. I didn’t have the energy to go to the deli. I dang sure wasn’t going to dig through the garbage. She said, “They can’t make a label without something in the box. I guess you’ll have to get it out of the trash can.”
I said, “I’m not doing that.”
She said, “I don’t know what to do.”
I said, “I think Kroger’s doing okay. I think you should just GIVE me that food so I can go home. I’m really tired.”
She sighed and walked off toward the deli. I looked at the bag boy, who was an old man. He shrugged, “She’s young.”
Ha!
Meanwhile, the chick behind me is pushing her buggy right up my A$$. I did not make eye contact. No way. That would not be good for anyone. Cashier girl came back and said, “How much was your food?”I pounced on this ridiculous opportunity, and said, “One dollar and 85 cents.” Reader, I have NO idea how much that pasta salad was. It was like impromptu Price is Right! Pressure! She punched it in the register, and finished checking me out. I guess a non-kid employed his/her autonomy to my benefit.

I keep making mistakes. I keep embarrassing myself. Maybe I’m losing it, or maybe my Theory “If folks think you’re crazy, you can breeze through life” was bad karma.
I teared up on the way to my car. I tasted emotional defeat almost as strongly as the basil pesto from that salad. I don’t like basil. Why do I keep eating it?
Other people struggled through the grocery store that day. Let’s go aisle by aisle and think outside the barn. Every aisle contains triggers.
Flowers: Carnations scream death. Or, worse, wedding. Or, disappointment in men. When I finished graduate school, I bought myselfa huge bouquet. The last time Tall Child bought my flowers, I was pregnant with Sharky (now 15) and it was TC’s mother’s idea anyway, so it didn’t count. Yep, I said it.
Deli – Divorced/Widowed, thus the appeal of single servings.
Diapers – Infertility or worse. Been there. Sucked at it. Wrote a book about it.
School supplies –Struggling student? Teacher who can’t get hired?
Candy – Diabetic? Fat? On a freaking diet again?
PASTA – Diabetic? Fat? On a freaking low-carb diet again?
International – Illegally living in the USA? I bet you think our American version of “ethnic foods” are terrible. I’m sorry. I know you are homesick and doing the best you can, more than most Americans can comprehend.
Meat – Broke? Been there. See you on the pasta aisle where you can feed your family for $2.00, but you’ll wreck your blood sugar and your low-carb diet.
Soup – Old? Taking care of someone old?
Wine – Alcoholic?
Family planning – Husband committing adultery? Should you make him wear condoms? Was your teenage daughter just here?
Cigarette/express lane – Bad habits suck, huh? Especially when you pass by a smorgasbord of temptation every time you need cat food.
If I sound winy and privileged and negative, forgive me. As Delicious likes to say, “No one is immune to tragedy.” I’ve either already dealt with everything above, or likely will, except cigarettes. I can’t afford them.

I pondered this as I searched for snacks in the olive area and almost head-butted a college kid. An overweight man (likely there for the same foods), saw my flustered attempt to apologize to the kid, and said to me, “Ah, the humanity of it all!”
YES! Humanity is all up in that grocery store. But, there’s good news! Always.
We do not suffer alone. Once, years ago, when I was in one of my “states of mind” after taking yet another negative pregnancy test (I took 65 negative tests altogether), I sat in the parking lot and cried for a good half-hour before I sucked it up, put on lipstick, and left my car to enter the store. When I returned, I saw a white paper on my windshield, and, of course, thought it was an advertisement. It was no such thing.
It was this note from a stranger, and it immediately changed my spirit.

That was at least nine years ago. I keep it in my wallet. That scrap paper helped me then, and does so now.
LUCKILY, my mammogram results were good. I had another cyst, probably because of the toxic combination of items from all the aisles listed above. I informed my circle; we all praised Jesus.
The news could have been drastically different, and I respect that. Reader, if I could put that note on your windshield at the grocery store, I would. You do not suffer alone.
“Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” Isaiah 41:10
And, to whomever wrote that note, I thank you.Bug

We Ended Our Relationship

Until I drafted this post, I thought the little red square button on my corporate bank office telephone read RIS. I always wondered what words stood behind the RIS acronym.

I hit that RIS button at 4:40 p.m. on Monday, May 8th, to end my attachment to that day’s conference call. Immediately, the other line rang. And rang. And rang. Working mother guilt assaulted me from the working side and the mother side. Tired and wanting to go home to Tall Child, Sharky, and Gnome, but feeling obligated to my clients, I answered, hoping the conversation would be quick. It was.
“[Bank], this is Bug, may I help you?”
“Hey Bug, this is Sweet Christmas in human resources. Can you meet Boss Bob and H.R. Bob in the human resources department at 9:30 a.m. tomorrow?”
“I can. Why?”
“I have no idea, Bug. They didn’t tell me.”
Of course they don’t tell Sweet Christmas anything. God forbid she turn Paul Revere on them and spread helpful info to hardworking East Tennessee bankers. God forbid she comfort anyone.
My stomach turned, partly for psychosomatic reasons, and partly from the ulcer my doctor diagnosed only one week before. I searched my memory. What have I done wrong? Has one of my employees—Adele, Mama Bear, Fire Woman, or Baby Caddy—done something wrong? Is the bank relocating me? Am I about to get…? No. Surely not.
I called my manager, Boss Bob. Voice mail. I sent him a text. No reply. I called Sweet Christmas and asked for some insight. She said, “I’m sorry this is giving you anxiety.”
I said, “Well, they need to find a more gentlemanly way to schedule these types of meetings. It is rude and disrespectful to have me wonder all night why I’m headed to human resources in the morning.”
As a bank branch manager, one has limitless opportunities to fail. I had little time to ponder those opportunities, because I had to meet a colleague for supper at El Jimador. That was the perfect time to sink into a salt-rimmed tequila bath, but I had to stay sober and professional. She and I were headed to the library to teach Habitat for Humanity applicants banking and money management basics.
I wrapped up the mentoring session at 8:15 p.m., and drove 45 minutes home. I bathed Gnome, cleaned up the house, watched a TV show with Tall Child, and checked Sharky’s grades. I went to bed. I worried.
Tuesday morning, May 9, I took my boys to their schools and drove to the bank’s main office parking lot. I called Delicious, who counseled, “Whatever this is, you’ll handle it with intellect and poise. Be calm, but don’t let them talk down to you. You needed help, and they made excuses.”
You see, my little five-person branch was short a head teller for most of my time there. That forced one of the two sales people (Adele and me) to work as a teller for a stretch of time each day. It’s a bit difficult to make outbound sales calls on the phone and in person while physically installed behind bullet-resistant glass. Plus, that time in teller windows caused follow-up and paperwork backups in our stated jobs, branch manager and financial services specialist. I hated to, but pestered the helk out of Merlin the Administration Magician to get help when one of my teammates was sick or on vacation. I covered Adele for lunch. Adele covered the tellers for lunch. No one covered me. Forgive me, but doesn’t it seem counterproductive and counter intuitive to delegate up the chain of command? When I repeatedly communicated the urgent need for help to human resources and upper management, I heard, “Staffing will always be an issue.”
Nothing should “always be an issue.” Imagine other industries making such a ridiculous excuse.
Bubonic plague will always be an issue.
The Kings of England will always be an issue.
Boll weevils will always be an issue.
If opposing countries can sign peace treaties, can’t banks hire more tellers? Shouldn’t executives who make eight times what a teller makes be problem solvers? Why is the undercompensated teller doing all the compensating for the executive's lack of compassion and creativity. Isn’t good employee morale profitable?
PEOPLE are everything.
Hire some.
At 9:25 a.m., I rode the elevator to the second floor and waited for the meeting with Boss Bob and H.R. Bob. I waited at least fifteen minutes. Then they small talked me into the office and discussed some type of software for another five minutes. I thought, Respect my anxiety and my time. Get on with this.
They got on it with, alright. I heard, “As you know, your branch did not meet fourth quarter incentive sales goals…so you were put on a performance plan…and first quarter your branch missed the minimum incentive plan goal, so we are ending our relationship.”
“Ending...with me? So, I’m fired?”
“You no longer work for [the bank]. We are letting you go.”
Yes, they let me go. Girls, always let the guy break up with you. That way, he can suffer in doubt and regret for the rest of his life.
I got my A$$ fired! Funny thing is, as embarrassing as it was, I was completely at peace. Truth be told, my soul wasn’t in that job. My soul was in it as much as I could do what I do best: create, teach, befriend, advise, laugh, and write.
As H.R. Bob rambled through his script (banks employ lots of scripts these days) “keys, combos, … you can collect unemployment…look for a packet in the mail…,” I perked up, thinking, I don’t have to play "Frogger" down Alcoa Highway today. Oh, if they stop talking soon enough, I can eat lunch at home in my rocking chair and watch "Ellen."
Outwardly, I listened and contributed to that great black cloud of a conversation. Inwardly, I silver-lined the whole ridiculous situation.
H.R. Bob said, “Do you have any questions?”
I should have asked, "Why,  when my team was struggling to hit minimums, did you send Adele to another branch for two weeks and leave me alone with only two tellers?" Instead, I said, "I find it illogical that someone of my character and integrity is being fired when [unnamed crook at another branch] is still employed here. Really, he's so crooked you fired his wife."

The Bobs' chins dropped a little, but they were silent. Actually, Boss Bob spoke fewer than ten words in the entire meeting.

I then said, "I have some requests.” I proceeded to lobby for my crew: Adele, Mama Bear, Fire Woman, and Baby Caddy. Case by case, I gave specific warnings and implored them to take better care of that little team.

I never stole, cheated, lied, caused a loss, put junk on the books, mistreated anyone, or jeopardized my Christian values. I am proud of how I treated employees, coworkers, and customers. I am proud of how I ran that tiny branch. We didn’t meet incentive plan minimum goals (by 3.7%), but we were profitable each year and twelve months rolling by 9-10%. (I think. It's hard to know exactly because the bank saves money by using Size 4 Calibri font on reports.) My reputation is intact. If I had something to hide, I certainly wouldn’t write this post.
Boss Bob said he would go to my branch that afternoon to tell my staff. I said, “I’ll call them.”
H. R. Bob said, “Bank policy requires that your supervisor inform associates in this situation. Also, Boss Bob will clean out your desk, box everything up, and bring it here to The Capitol for you to pick up. That’s the policy.”
Um, no. What the helk did I care? I spent 40 hours a week for three straight years with my team. Not to tell them myself would be rude and weak. Policymeant nothing to me. I was “no longer with the bank.”
I left.
Once I cleared the parking lot, I called Tall Child. “I got fired.”
“What?!? Wow. I can’t believe that.”
“Tall Child, this is terrible. What the helk are we going to do about bills?”
"Oh, you’ll land on your feet. You know, this is great timing.”
“What?”
“Yes, now you can go to Sharky's and Gnome's end of school stuff. You were going to miss eighth grade graduation, field day, everything. Plus, we don’t have Sharky’s tuition this or next month.”
“I think I’ll eat lunch with Gnome’s kindergarten class tomorrow.”
“He will love that. Take May. Get them out of school and all that. This time, figure out what YOU want to do.”
Readers, in saying "this time," Tall Child referenced a sacrifice I made three years before. Sharky needed to go to a smaller, quieter, religious school instead of the big, loud middle school for which he is zoned. For many years, a relative promised to pay for that private middle schooling, but two weeks into Sharky’s sixth grade year, the relative balked. Tall Child couldn’t leave his good job. My teacher paycheck wasn’t enough. I picked up the ball. I returned to banking to make more money. The difference in my teacher vs. banker monthly pay was the same as the monthly tuition bill. I wrote about the big changes in Theory 54: Good-byes are simply bittersweet beginnings. I LOVED teaching school. I did NOT want to quit. I felt I had no choice. Zoloft eased the transition, but it and the sedentary banker workday added 20 pounds. Unfair.
Funny thing is, Sharky and I, ahem, “graduated” from middle school and banking, respectively, within days of each other. Yes, Tall Child, it was great timing.
Anyway, after I talked with Tall Child, I called my mama. She said, “I am so sorry. They are morons. Will you teach again? This is good, Bug. Now you can write every day.”
I said, “I am in shock, but I need to hang up and call my team.”
I broke POLICY and called Adele, “I got fired.”
“You are joking. Are you joking?”
“Nope. Sales quotas, allegedly. Whatever. I need you to clean out my desk before Boss Bob gets there. He’s coming this afternoon. My personal items are none of his business. Box it all up. Make the office look as empty as possible. I’ll come get the stuff later this week. Oh, and act surprised when he tells you the news.”
“I am on it.”
On Thursday, Delicious accompanied me to my old branch. I reassured my sweet team, hugged everyone, picked up my stuff, and rode to our little mountain house in Townsend, Tennessee. I mixed a stout Bloody Mary and walked to the swinging bridge over the Little River. The exactly same place I had stood three years before and accepted that job. Poetic?

If you like Poe, I guess.
As a former educator, I spend loads of time reflecting. After the breakup, I reflected on what I did right, what I did wrong, what I said, what I didn’t say...you get the picture. I wondered if I was as good a manager as I thought I was and tried my best to be. 
Banking has changed. Banking, these days, is retail. Bankers have changed. Bankers used to be prestigious community members. They were trusted confidants, advisors, and financial experts. As a modern-day banker, I felt like a telemarketer with all that scripting. My days were planned for me in short blocks of time. I wanted to invest time in people, not processes. I wanted to go on sales calls and see my customers. I was old-school. I made mistakes.

·         I didn’t track numbers ad nauseam. I figured that if I consistently treated people well, and gave them good advice, and gave them TIME to see how that advice worked, they would return to me and bring friends.
·         I put employees’ personal lives and professional goals ahead of the bank’s. It’s not easy managing a bunch of women in tight quarters! See Theory 36: Men are easier to work with than women.  I genuinely cared more for my teammates’ goals than I did the bank’s. Corporations don’t have souls. People do.
·         I had too much fun at work. I referred to the main office as The Capitol, and my little branch, only twenty-five minutes from the quiet entrance to the Smoky Mountains, as District 12 from The Hunger Games. Maybe one too many times I put this under my email signature:




·         My conference call skills were lacking, to say the least. Now and then, I’d inject humor at will or have Adele play Rue’s Whistle in the background for all to hear. Conference calls are a cliché exercise in humiliation. They tempt weak employees to embellish, fib, or cheat to avoid embarrassment. I asked my boss one time, “Does the number of checking accounts reported on our daily call determine your mood for the rest of the evening?” Guess how he answered.


Of all my retail sins, I am most guilty of falling short (numbers-wise) on a particular daily expectation. I didn’t “disposition” enough sales leads. It drove Boss Bob nuts. Being a writer, I tried to conjugate the word to find more meaning in the task:
The banker dispositions.
The banker is dispositioning.
The banker has dispositioned.
The banker dispositioned.
The banker was dispositioning.
The banker had dispositioned.


You see, kind readers, I couldn’t disposition leads because disposition IS A NOUN. Think of it this way:
The banker nouns.
The banker is nouning.
The banker has nouned.
The banker nouned.
The banker was nouning.
The banker had nouned.
See?
~ ~ ~
I ignored that cardboard box Mama Bear and Adele packed with all my office junk for a week. When I did finally gird up my loins to sort through it, I found a severance package! In their furious rush to clean out my office, Adele and Mama Bear threw everything in. I scored a roll of stamps! I got my own home staple remover. I also found an envelope full of cash. No, it didn’t come from the vault. It came from my friends at work. We had been on a diet since January. Every Monday, each of us women weighed and measured. When a teammate lost a pound or an inch, she put a quarter into our diet jar. Our plan was to tally the results July 1 and give the winner the money. By May 9, we’d lost about 40 pounds and 40 inches. They gave me the money. Wasn’t that sweet of them?
I suppose if my employees were comfortable enough to weigh and measure their busts, waists, hips, and thighs in front of me, I did some things right. I’m honored to have worked side by side with Adele, Mama Bear, Fire Woman, and Baby Caddy. I am proud of the work we did together.
This little episode has taught me a few things:
·         My gifts are misplaced in a corporate environment. I was a tie-dyed ink blot splashed on a grayscale Excel spreadsheet.
·         I won’t be happy in work unless my tasks match my values.
·         I need to be my own boss.
·         I CAN BE MY OWN BOSS!
My whole life, I have revered the written word. My whole life, I have written for release, relaxation, recreation, and reward. I published my first work in 1990. My writing has evolved and served many purposes over time. A few years ago, when I was teaching, I started my small business, Crippled Beagle Publishing. From there, I’ve published books, essays, a short story, anthology projects, countless articles, and more.
God winks at you all the time. Pay attention. No joke; every single time I’ve told a friend or relative, “I got fired from the bank,” the person has responded, “Good. Are you going to write full time now? Are you going to teach?”
Friends, the answer is YES. I will write for others. I will write for myself. I will write for you.
I scribbled out a rough draft of this post on May 20, only 11 days after the bank and I ended our relationship. I was at Lakeshore Park’s playground with Sharky, Gnome, and Gnome’s buddy, The AP. A gentleman who was there with his toddler spoke to The AP and said, “I know your mother.”
I recognized him, but couldn’t place him. I said, “If you know her, I know you. How do I know you?”
We did the whole social dot-to-dot routine, and when he said his wife’s name, I said, “YES! I wrote a book about adoption years ago. When you were waiting for your baby, my friend Gams told me your story. I signed a copy and we gave it to your wife. I hope it helped her.”
He spoke through a wide smile, “That’swho you are.”
Amen! That is who I am. Little winks and hints over the past decade have formed into a glaring truth. No matter where I’ve “worked" —from bumper boat girl at The Track to IHOP waitress to banker, teacher, then banker again—I have always, in my heart and free time, been a self-employed writer.
I pray I find many opportunities, for years to come, to use my skills to serve people and provide for my family.
While missing a biweekly company paycheck is somewhat unnerving, I am okay. My ulcer vanished. I have several new clients with beautiful projects in the works. 
One could describe my current disposition as at peace and optimistic.I have more time to think, parent, explore, read, drink, watch TV, change light bulbs, you name it. Also, when you run your life, you have time to settle curiosities.

I Googled “corporate telephone RIS button.” I found out the button actually reads RLS, and stands for RELEASE. Little did I know when I hit that button at 4:40 p.m., Monday, May 8th, that I would never hit it again.

This post might agitate some dispositions among corporate jargon-spewers and conference call champions, but if they, Boss Bob, H.R. Bob, or the legal department folks read it and want to sue me, they're wasting time and stockholders' money.
I’m a chunky starving artist now, so they'd be "Waiting in vain."
Writers do love irony.
#nobankjobnocry
Raise your volume and hit this link.
Love, Bug

I fought the law. Will the law win?

“Dang it! I forgot my notebook,” I thought. As a writer, one must always take notes. Stories surround us. As a humorist, I constantly scan my immediate world for ideas and laughter in ordinary places. Yesterday, I hit the jackpot, but, dang it, forgot my notebook. I was in the “old courthouse” downtown Knoxville, Tennessee.
You see, about a month ago, my neighbor, The Woodsman, cheerfully announced in our adjoining back yards that his home’s tax assessment dropped by tens of thousands of dollars. Tall Child mentioned it to me, and I remembered that a special envelope from the tax assessor’s office still lay on my desk. Tall Child rushed to open it and find monthly financial relief like The Woodsman did. Christmas in May!
NOPE.
Our assessment rose by almost $40,000.
Tall Child cursed the government. I said, “Well, this just caps off an expensive week. What’s next? GEEZ.” Never take your children to the dentist on the same day. That week, I learned that Gnome needed dental surgery. Sharky needed braces. The guest room toilet broke right before Bop (mother-in-law) was to visit. The alarm on my septic meter in my little uninsulated wooden box house on Little River in Townsend, TN, rang to alert us of a flooded tank and shorted circuit. I had a flat tire on the interstate the same day as the DDS appointments. You understand.
How in the world did the tax assessor’s office come up with that number? We’ve lived here and destroyed this property little-by-little (the rate of destruction advanced when Gnome became a toddler) for seventeen years.
·         Three hail storms
·         One real tornado, not a microburst
·         One burst pipe and septic backup (I lost a good cooler and my Dust Buster in that fight)
·         A terrorist Yorkie
·         My temper (slamming doors, flying drawers)
·         Sharky
·         Gnome
·         The RECESSION
The county valued our property twice as high as they did my neighbors. No way, Jose. I said to Tall Child, “Oh, I’m fighting this.”
Folks, I’m starting to understand/relate more to all those “sovereign citizens” hiding down in shady hollers and high up on our East Tennessee mountain balds. Who is the county government to tell me how much my home is worth? The market decides that. By the way, I’m totally against credit bureaus. And health insurance is a racket.
So, I called the tax assessor’s office and made an appointment to appeal his judgement. Thursday, June 22, 2:30 p.m. was my day in court, so-to-speak. I thought, I’m gonna “Law and Order” this whole situation. I pulled tax cards for four homes in my neighborhood and printed the county’s list of every house (on my street) with its 2017 value. I made notes. I put all that in a file folder. I was prepared, except that I had to park two blocks away and walk in the rain with no umbrella. Dumb me. Umbrellas are a waste of time, though. Always running away.
I stomped up the limestone steps and entered through giant wood doors to greet a conveyor belt and metal detector. Two ladies stood in front of me. They looked to be in their late fifties or early sixties and appeared harmless in their summer blouses and post-menopausal, short, up-and-off-the-face haircuts. One wore a long skirt. One wore capris pants. One-by-one, they plopped their pocketbooks onto the belt. A young red-haired police girl stood guard and watched the x-ray machine do its examination.
Were they neighbors there to argue two assessments? Was one a witness for the other? As in, “Oh, I promise you that her house is NOT worth a flip. Mine is so much nicer.” Or, was something ugly about to go down?
ALERT!
The police girl said to the lady in capris, “Ma’am. Please step over here. There is a knife in your bag.”
Capris said, “Oh my gosh! That’s just my apple peeler.”
The police girl said, “Well, you can’t take it into the session, but you can pick it back up here on your way out.” She put the apple peeler in a brown envelope.
The skirt lady asked, “Where do we go?”
Po-po girl said, “Around these stairs, through the double doors, and down the steps into the basement. You’ll see a big room full of boxes and a woman at a table. That’s where you go.”
Capris lady immediately looked at the policegirl and asked (no joke), “Where do we go to argue a tax assessment?”
Po-po girl said, “Around these stairs, through the double doors, and down the steps into the basement. You’ll see a big room full of boxes and a woman at a table. That’s where you go.”
Capris lady said, “So, we go down the steps? Those go up.” The steps were five feet behind us and about ten feet wide with gigantic craftsman railings. “Those steps?”
Po-po patiently repeated, “Around those stairs, through the double doors, and down the steps into the basement. You’ll see a big room full of boxes and a woman at a table. That’s where you go.”
Capris, “Downstairs.”
Skirt, “Yes, on the other side of these stairs.”
Po-po girl, “Around and down. AROUND and DOWNNNN.”
I didn’t have a metal “apple peeler” in my purse, but my industrial underwire bra, as usual, set off the metal detector. The other po-po waved the bar around me and sent me through to retrieve my purse on the okay end of the conveyor belt.
 I figured I’d lose credibility with wet hair. I looked at the police girl. She anticipated, “Around and down…”
“No,” I interrupted her with a smile, “Where’s the restroom?”
“Oh, right behind me.”
I primped a little and dried my hair the best I could with paper towels. When I walked out into the hallway, the police girl laughed and asked, “Do you know where to go?”
“Around and down. You know, you’d make an excellent middle school teacher.”
So around and down I went into the basement room, which was indeed full of cardboard boxes. What’s in those boxes? Evidence of inefficiency? Stuff that should have been digitized years ago? Appeals? Or perhaps paper timecards for all the excess employees in that old building. A view from the courthouse basement
There sat The Woman at The Table. I imagined her view all day long: mad people, boxes, and the bottom of stairs, then mad people going up those stairs. Rears. Over and over. All day long.
She gave me a green form and clipboard and said, “Write down what you think your property is worth and sign the bottom.”
I wrote down the exact same value that The Woodsman had. It was $181,000 less than what the property assessor assigned to my house. Do I really think my house is worth half the appraisal? No. I lied. That’s not perjury, right? I was in a courthouse, not a courtroom. No one had me sign a pledge or raise my right hand. Lawyers lie all the time. Thought I’d give it a try. I took pictures, too. I know that’s probably illegal. Whatever. So is screwing homeowners out of hard-earned money. I just held my phone up and faked like I was reading something on the screen and needed glasses.
A man came down the steps and said to the table lady, “I have to appeal several dozen commercial property assessments.”
She said, “Oh, that’s lots of papers. You might want a chair and a table. Go right over there.” She pointed to a tiny table forced into the piles of boxes. I could see the top of his head from where I sat on a fifteen-foot wooden bench against the wall.
She called my name. A man escorted me into the bellows of that basement where a group of older adults sat around a giant computer monitor. They welcomed me, and introduced themselves as the valuation board. I introduced myself.
I asked, “How does this work?”
The escort said, “You have ten minutes to explain why you think we need to reevaluate your property.”
“There’s no protocol?”
“No, ma’am.”
My kind of meeting. Open for my entertainment and creative approach. And a captive audience.
I began my performance. “It all started one May afternoon when my neighbor bragged that his assessment dramatically dropped. Excited, I darted into my home office to retrieve what I thought would be similar good news via your envelope. I was shocked to find that my tax assessment rose by $40,000 to land at double my neighbor’s home’s value. Not only that, but now the increase will cause my mortgage payment to rise by $40 per month, which will indirectly hurt my children, as their appetites have grown and both need dental work.”
An elderly board member said, “What is your property address?”
I told him. I then said, “I pulled the tax cards for three other homes I know inside and out. I also printed the addresses and corresponding values for my entire street.”
A younger board member popped out from behind the monitor and said, “Well, ma’am, we can’t use those because all that really matters are sales prices. Have those houses been sold lately?”
I asked, “There are 55 houses in my subdivision. Why can’t you use YOUR assessments as comps?”
His, um, academicanswer was, “Sales are all that matter.”
“Well, the homeowners I’m showing you have lived there 20 years, so those sales numbers are irrelevant anyway.” Annoyed, I said, “When I made this appointment, I was given no instruction or guidance. Why don’t I share the information I gathered and you all just do the best you can with it, since I have only ten minutes to save myself a lot of money and help my children?”
A lady board member chuckled and said, “Sounds fine.”
I quickly described each property like this:
·         Address (so they could pull up the actual image)
·         # bedrooms (all matched my #)
·         Two-car garage
·         Pool
·         Recent renovations
·         The county’s assessment value
Then I described mine:
·         Address
·         Bedrooms (same)
·         NO garage
·         NO carport
·         NO pool
·         The county’s illogical assessment value
The old man asked, “What renovations have you made?”
I said, “New windows in 2003.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
I offered them my entire folder of “evidence.”
My time was up.
They thanked me, and said I’d get a letter in late July, and that I can appeal that valuation in court if I don’t agree with it. Ooh! Yay!
Before I left, I said to them, “Can I ask y’all a question?”
The lady board member said, “Sure.” She liked me.
“Do people ever come in here and just act CRAZY?”
“Three today” said the monitor man.
“Oh, wow. What do they say?”
Old guy said, “We can’t tell you that.”
“Give me one example. Please.”
“Why?”
“I’m a writer. I need to know.”
He said, “What do you write?”
“Everything and anything.”
“Would any of it put me to sleep?”

I thought, At your age….
“All of it, probably.” I think the lady got the joke.
I then said, “You know, that lady in capris pants who came in before me brought a knife into the building. Good think you have police up there.”
“A knife?” asked one of the men.
“Well, she said it was an apple peeler, but who carries an apple peeler? Maybe she’s on a diet.”
The escort came to walk me out. As I rose from my metal chair, I winked at the old man and said, “Maybe I’ll write a romance novel and make you the star.”
The escort said, “That would be a short story.”
I laid my business card on the table, thanked them, and followed the escort to a basement exit. I spotted the capris and skirt ladies headed back up the steps to get the apple peeler. Check out the shoes on skirt lady. Hmmm. Between you and me, I don't think that apple peeler was an accident. They came ready for a fight.

The moment I got to my car, I grabbed my day planner and wrote down everything I could remember somewhere in the February pages. I will never leave home without a notebook again.
Good luck taxpayers of Knox County. If you need representation, I’m available.
Maybe I’ll get Christmas in an envelope in July. Stay tuned,
Bug