Jody Cantrell Dyer's Blog: What's your story? Maybe I can help you write it., page 12

Theory 53: This only child loves attention. And appreciates her readers.

I wore a bra for the first time today. Whoa, let me rephrase that. I wore a bra for the first time in 1984 at the ripe old age of 9. I wore a bra for the first time today since my surgery, October 1. Today is October 24. I’m not going to lie. I’m actually going to be cliché and say the same two sentences that EVERY woman I have EVER met who has had breast reduction has uttered with total certainty:
1. “It is the best decision I have ever made.”2. “I should have done it ten years ago.”
In last week’s post, I stressfully summarized my state of mind/blog ability for the day by writing, “See Theory 52.” I literally (no pun intended) had time to type two words and one number. As I explained in Theory 52, I have BIG things happening now and in the near future. Let me recap and update you readers who are probably already sick of hearing me write about me (thanks, by the way, because your attention and comments and emails truly help me):
ISSUE 1:                Breast reduction surgery.STATUS:               Completed! Whooooooooooooop! That/they is/are out of the way. Yay! I honestly believe that getting Atlantic and Pacific reduced and out of my way has changed the speed at which I operate. Burdens were lifted. I can mop faster, reach higher, high five without bumping boobs with the other high-fiver, lie on my back and read. Heck, I can even cross my arms! My buddy Digits is working up the nerve. She took one look at me and emailed my surgeon. Go girl! Get rid of those girls!
My surgeon

ISSUE 2:               MASTER’S DEGREESTATUS:               Lucky me! I have earned the privilege of sitting in one spot for four straight hours tomorrow (Saturday) to take a comprehensive exam. I must articulate my teaching philosophy. That’ll be fun. Oh, and did you all know that tomorrow is game day, Tennessee vs. Alabama? Buck Fama. Sorry. Had to. #VolForLife#GBO
Pimp that ride
#VolsForLife
ISSUE 3:                STUDENT ANTHOLOGY PROJECTSTATUS:                Yee. Freakin. Haw. Delicious, Red Hot Backspace, and I edited, formatted, proofed, and labored through the impossible: inserting footers to finish the manuscript. I uploaded the big         fancy final project to my publisher/distributor yesterday and ordered a hard copy proof. Even the cover looks good!  Next, I get students to collect orders from family and friends. We are planning a book launch with the Scone-Ad’s Teen Living and Family & Consumer Science classes. I can’t wait to launch this book with my students. I am unbelievably proud of my students. I can’t wait!!!


ISSUE 4:                FAMILY PHOTO SHOOT WITH BIRTH FAMILYSTATUS:                 I feel some major adoptive mother guilt here. While I barely have time to come up for air (though I am breathing more easily thanks to ISSUE 1), I still desire to do anything and everything Tinkerbelle (Gnome’s birthmother) desires. She is more than reasonable and very sweet and respectful. Even my subconscious is stressed about this issue. Two nights ago, I dreamed that she was pregnant again. We were at a party together and all my cousins were there to meet Tinkerbelle. (No one in my family has met Tinkerbelle). Anyway, she and I had on long, layered, neon dresses. The dresses were designed to burn one layer at a time, from the bottom up. HUH? Once our dresses were mini-skirts, we got tattoos together. Say what?!? Ideas? Suggested prescriptions for me?
MOST FAVORITE PICTURE EVER IN MY WORLD

ISSUE 5:                POTENTIAL CAREER CHANGE STATUS:                SAFE, BUT INSECURE, BUT SECURE, BUT UNSURE
I'll just say this. Look, insurance is the name of the game. The moment Tall Child and I left the safe harbor of my banking career and all its benefits, Sharky tripped and broke his two front teeth in half. Then, I had a female “issue”---nothing shameful, just aggravating. Then, we adopted Gnome. All under the fake-pathetic-rip-off whatever coverage of a BCBS (BS) self-employment policy. Needless to say, we paid premiums AND all medical expenses. As Tall Child put it, “The only way that insurance policy was going to pay off was if one of us got cancer.” Well, I guess that’s why they call it catastrophic coverage. It’s catastrophic alright. Let me think of all the C words that apply:
CatastrophicCostlyConCredit goes to crapCorrupt industryCan’t go to the doctor when you are sick unless you won the TN State LotteryContinuous anxiety and expenseCertainty that your “self-employed” rear will leave that comfy house-wife sofa to land on a teacher stool
Okay, I’m off the insurance soap box. Anyway, my job and health insurance status are safe, but I’ve gone and applied to a fantastic former employer. I am waiting to hear if they have an offer, and for how much. And then I’ll do the math. The mental math. 
Here are the variables in this equation:IncomeTime offStress levelOpportunities to be creativeOpportunities to make even more moneyOpportunities to help my family and help othersFurther education/training
Here are the constants:SharkyGnomeTall ChildDeliciousTIME I NEED to party in Townsend, which brings us to ISSUE 6


ISSUE 6:                RIVERDANCEI told you that Delicious (a retired school teacher who knows exactly how much it costs in gas to get from Sevierville to Knoxville and back) and I, a fledgling school teacher/possibly banker/unsure really, are trying to buy a second home in Townsend, TN. Look. We dream big!!! We do not factor money into our dreams. Why would we? Sometimes we have it. Sometimes we don’t. We are still here. When we dream, we work. And, despite what we lack in the beginning, we usually see our dreams come to fruition.
When Pooh passed away, Delicious made about $25,000 a year and I was a freshman in                 college. I took my pitiful self to IHOP and worked. Hard. I helped her pay bills. I high school, I busted (burst) my behind to secure scholarships. I worked. Hard. I graduated early with no debt.
When I met Tall Child, I knew I wanted to marry him. I was a perfect girlfriend. No ultimatums. No pressure. I never did one stick of his laundry. We didn’t live together. Heck, I bought my own house when I was 25. I worked. Hard. Many years later, he fell               prey to my predatory ways. Happily ever after…sort of…you know the drill. Poor guy.
After Sharky, we wanted another baby. For the next eight years, Tall Child and I struggled through the misery of infertility and its treatments, then the   mental/financial/emotion test from Heaven and helk: the adoption process. I worked. Hard. When we applied for adoption, I had $100. Two years later, we brought home our Gnome. I worked hard and was blessed beyond measure to meet Tinkerbelle.
I dreamed of becoming a published author. I dreamed of writing something that would minister to the adoption community. Tall Child said I was crazy and didn’t have time. I woke up at 5 a.m. for a solid year. I worked. Hard. I published The Eye of Adoptionin March 2013. Since then, I’ve published a small collection of essays, a short story, and I’ve written countless articles and blog posts.
So Delicious and I want a second home, a dumpy little cabin that’s more like a box-shaped tent, close to the Little River. Why? Because that was Delicious and Pooh’s dream. Just looking for a place has given her new life! We act in faith, ya’ll. So should you. I bought diapers and baby blankets in the eight years I waited for Gnome. Delicious and I scavenge through Goodwill and thrift shops for river house furniture. We aren’t greedy. We aren’t even materialistic. Once, I did a spreadsheet and showed Tall Child my figures. I spend around $1500 on myself per year. (That amount even included two Dollywood Gold Passes and two Knoxville zoo passes)! I’m frugal from day to day. I’m conservative.
In The Eye of Adoption, I quote an acquaintance who said, “If what you are doing is right with God, the money will show up.”
Delicious and I are dreamers. And, we share the spoils of our dreams with those we love. We don’t buy stuff. We buy experiences and memories!
Do I come across as self-involved lately? If so I apologize. And, at least I admit it. Hey, I’m a stereotypical only child. I like attention, I may communicate in an odd fashion from time to time, I need my mama, and I see the world through a focused view (from me outward). Not sure about all that grammar right there. I’ll get mama to proof. Anyway, thanks for listening/tolerating. Once I get all these big things wrapped up and finalized and over with, I’ll get back to being funny. I promise! I warned you, readers, waaaaaay back in Theory 1: People write diaries hoping someone else will read them.
Readers, what are your dreams? Do people laugh at them, only to respect you later for having the intestinal fortitude to bring those dreams into reality?
Hey, thanks for hanging with me and being this lonely only’s online friends. I value your insight and love you more than you’ll ever know. I wish I could hug you. Though I’m not sure the hug would be as enjoyable as it would have been a month ago.
If you need me, I'll be here (eventually):
Don't let people laugh at your dreams. If they do, don't invite them to the second home you can't afford.
  
See you next post. Until then, DREAM BIG and think outside the barn, no matter how big it is!

Busy Busy Busy

See Theory 52. Ha!
TGIF! (Except that I have class all day tomorrow). Ugh.
Happy weekend, readers!
Bug

Theory 52. Working mothers are “the man.”

Way back in Theory 4: Don’t judge a woman by her accent or breast size , I expounded on the myth that big breasted women are wild and loose. I further explained the burdensome load of being well-endowed in Theory 38: Orthopedic bras aren't sexy. Part DDDD, then H, then J. At the end of that post, I told you that I had scheduled breast reduction surgery. I planned to do it at Christmas time, for two reasons. 1. I’d have plenty of teacher time off to recover, and 2. Last Christmas break was marred by theft, exhausting work, annoying obligations, and, to be honest, grotesque, gag-me-with-a-dead-Smurf shopping that I dread and despise. I figured doing the surgery at Christmas would be par for the yucky pressure-filled seasonal course.
As all working mothers know, plans are pointless. Right? JUST when you think you have everything figured out, all helk breaks lose. And, doesn’t it seem like EVERYTHING happens at once? I am coping with so many “big” things right now, that I had to make a list and tape it to my computer so I wouldn’t neglect a life event. The bullet (not to be confused with bucket) list:
Breast reduction surgery (four hours “under” and 2-3 week recuperation time)Finish master’s degree in curriculum and instruction (December comprehensive exams and graduation date)HUGE student anthology project with 470 author-freshmen (Red Hot Backspace and I will edit, format, upload, proof, order, proof, revise, proof, order, ship, etc. by December 9)Gnome’s birth mother wants to do a family photo shoot with ALL of us in October so she can take an album on her trip to visit Gnome’s birth father the first week of November.My principal informed me that I may not have a teaching position at my (the best ever) junior high school next school year. I teach vocational courses and the district is changing the vocational offerings at the high school, which trickles down changes at the freshman level. I have no tenure. Last in, first out. So glad I took accounting so I’d understanding my situation. My dear principal, with whom I have a great relationship, promises to try to find me another position in my district, but she has little to no control over that. And, no one leaves M.C. Schools. I drive 40 minutes one way to work in that prestigious district because the students are ideal, my colleagues are outstanding, and the pay scale is one of the highest in the state. Why, even with a master’s degree (see bullet # 2), I’d take a $7,000 pay cut to work in the county where I live. I’m not sure my attitude would adjust. Plus, Sharky is in a new, pricey school and we still pay daycare. So, that settles that. My options are: get lucky and find some spot (any spot will do) in my perfect district or leave teaching. WHICH MEANS I am job hunting. At the perfect age of 40. The whole family must adjust. Not only may I end up changing jobs, I may end up changing industries, which affects Gnome and Sharky the most (think summer, Christmas, spring break, fall break --- what do I do with them?). And, quite honestly, leaving the education profession will break my heart because I love the creative, dynamic, fulfilling experience that teaching provides.If I change jobs, my new employer may ask that I tone down my blog. I'll keep readers posted if the tone of Theories: Size 12 must change. We'll see. Oh, and, if I change industries, I'll have less time to write. So many goodbyes, potentially, coming my way. But, good things, too!Did I tell ya’ll that Delicious and I are trying to buy an old house near the Little River in Townsend, TN. Sure, why the helk not? Subtract paycheck. Add mortgage. Makes sense to us. HA!Or, as Gnome would ponder aloud, “Seriouslessness?”
But, I BOUNCE BACK! I've been through much tougher times. Haven’t we all? Working mothers, these are the reasons I write so often about our toil and triumph! We are so strong! My sweet colleague, Tech Savvy, tried to make me feel better. She suggested, “Bug, why don’t you just hang in there with the district and do some interim work like cover maternity leave for other teachers until [so-and-so] retires at the high school?"
I appreciated her advice, and she is trying really hard to help me by asking around the area about potential openings as well as sincerely praying for me. But, unfortunately, I don’t have the luxury of taking interim, short-term, mixed assignments because, as I told her, and as I told my principal, “I am basically the man.” Not “the man” as in a stud, but “the man” as in “the woman” whose job must not only provide a good income, but must also provide health insurance, dental insurance, vision insurance, and retirement benefits.

Please note that I honor and respect my husband. Tall Child is the man, too. He works very hard, loves his job, employers, and clients. He is a good daddy and spends lots of time with Gnome and Sharky. Helk, he even went to the grocery store last week. But, the insurance burden is on me. Even though I sport a uterus, I provide for my family. Just like the traditional, proverbial, bread-winning man.

I figure I'll get some housewife panties in a wad over this post. Yes, it is tiring taking care of children all day. I know. I was a housewife for a bit. But, and I only speak from my personal experience, there is NO comparing the difficulty in being a working mother and being a stay-at-home mother.

Once, in an unwise moment when I was a full-time bank executive working from 8 to 5:30 Monday through Friday (Fridays til 6), with customer call nights every other Thursday til 8 and working every fourth Saturday, 49 weeks a year, Tall Child smarted off, "Wow, this house is a wreck. [Friend's stay-at-home wife] keeps her house clean and smelling good all the time." That was the time I threw my underwear drawer across the bedroom. It shattered. Of course, I had to buy wood glue and fix it.

Sorry, but this is my truth. As my hard-working, single-parenting, dynamo sister-in-law Dogwood Debutante recently said, "Wow, my house would be clean, too, if I had an extra 50 hours a week at home instead of work!"

We've/I've hustled at different levels. A was the hardest. E was the easiest.

Level A: Bank executive
Level B: Teacher and author running small publishing company
Level C: Teacher
Level D: Part-time worker (substitute teacher)
Level E: Housewife

I am not afraid to say that being a housewife (Level E for Excellent) was profoundly easier than being a working mother. Tall Child worked very hard to give me those years with Sharky and I will be forever grateful. Unfortunately, the recession changed things for us. BUT, but, but, I LIKE working, and don't think I'd go back to housewifery again, even if I had the choice. Who knows? And, I may be headed back to Level A, but I'm okay (actually a little excited) to do so. The important thing is that I adapt. That's what working mamas do, right? 
So, friends, forgive my woe-is-me diatribe, but I write from my core, and my core is sore. Oh, yes. Sore from stress, but also, ding!-ding!-ding!, sore from surgery!  Because of the possible mid-year job change, my surgeon agreed to move my surgery up to my fall break (last week). YEE-HAW!

On the morning of October 1, I checked into the hospital a whopping, strap-straining, back-aching size 34J. Late that night, I checked out of the hospital at least 2.7 lbs lighter in the bra and potentially (once the swelling subsides and I can take the bondage-bandages off) 8, yes, E-I-G-H-T  cup sizes smaller. YAAAAAAAAAY!
If I weren't looking for a respectable job, I’d post pictures. This is the best I can do. And, it’s not too far off the real deals.
before
after

So, one bullet down (or should I say two bullets down?) and a few to go.

Friends, thanks for listening. I feel like I got a lot off my chest (sorry, couldn't resist). I appreciate you. 
Working mamas, this post is dedicated to you. Keep taking care of business!
CLICK HERE FOR MY SONG DEDICATION TO WORKING MOTHERS.
Oh, and I DO have a funny post in progress. Stay tuned and think outside the barn!
Love,Bug

Let's talk! Find me and friend me!
Also, visit Amazon.com or my website to read about my book, The Eye of Adoption, my short story, Field Day, and my collection of essays for parents and teachers, Parents, Stop and Think.
Author website:  www.jodydyer.com
Facebook: Theories: Size 12 (See each post, comment, share, and talk directly with others readers and me!) I'd LOVE to hear your theories!

Theory 51: Old age reveals the true you.

Most children love to have their parents read to them, right? Sharky is supposed to do charitable work, on behalf of his school, each month. The first idea that popped into my mind (because it's sweet, communicative, and inexpensive) was for him to read to an elderly person at a local nursing home. Why? Because many elderly folks (particularly shut-ins) love to have someone read to them.
The old saying, "Once a man, twice a child" is the root of my theory. Great thinkers from Shakespeare to Sophocles to Plato spun their own unique phrases based on this truth. I agree.  Not only do we return to childish ways, we also reveal our true selves.
I watched my precious father-in-law, a gentleman who served as banking commissioner for the state of Tennessee, a philanthropist who led fundraising efforts for an Appalachian community, a husband and father who loved his family with great passion, a “good man” in every sense of the word, become a child in his last years.
It was hard to watch.
It was also sweet to see. Why? Because, even though he was frustrated, tired, and sometimes impatient, he became even more tolerant, more gentle, and kinder with age. That's not always the case, folks.
That's why I am writing Theory 51: Old age reveals the true you.
You always hear that elderly people suffering from dementia can get combative. I am sure there are medical and psychological reasons for this. I am NOT criticizing the sick. Helk, when I’m preoccupied, confused, or under mental duress, my children and students notice. Nothing is more stressful that managing a roaming toddler (or 212 teenagers) when you are worried about your marriage, your job, a diagnosis, a sick relative, etc. Delicious had a rough week around the anniversary of Pooh's death and admitted, "I am not fit to be out in public right now. I'll just say something mean to somebody." 
Well, Delicious is 67 years old. She is not mean, though she does have a quick wit and could nail some folks if she wanted to. Luckily, she also has maturity and composure. For now. Hmmm….
When I was a baby Bug, maybe 4 years old, Delicious, Pooh, and I were at Metcalf Bottoms Picnic Area in the Great Smoky Mountains. Pooh was rock-hopping and fly-fishing his way through the Little River as Delicious and I enjoyed onion dip, Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls, Coca-Cola's, and playing at the river’s edge. A man walked through our site and chatted with Delicious. He noticed something, and said to me, "Come here. I want to show you something." I went to his side, where he pointed to a spot on a tree. He said, "Lean really close and look at this snail. He is climbing this tree." The old man and I, heads together, focused on the tiny creature, leaned within five inches of the hard-working snail. The man asked, "What do you think about that?" 
I replied, "He smells like onions!"
Think about all the humiliating phrases your toddlers have garbled out. Here are just a few I've heard from my own boys:
"Somebody in this car is F. A. T."“Mama, where’d that man’s teeth go?”And, for my twisted sisters, “#DTMFB!”
A few weeks ago, Delicious and I were cabin (more like dilapidated treehouse on the ground) window-shopping in Townsend, TN (The Peaceful Side of the Smokies).We dropped in to see our buddy-realtor. We walked into the office, and Delicious said, "Yay! I found the only person in Townsend bigger than I am!"
Geez. I tried to cover, but it was out there. Funny thing is, he just laughed and laughed. They are the same age. 
Roscoe's wife, a West Coast beauty with perfect skin and poise, often reminds her hot-headed husband, “Use your filters.”
Filters. That's what we lose!
We spend years 0-70 building and perfecting our filters at home, at work, in sports arenas, at parties with alcohol, and at church when people try to put us on committees. In our later years, our friends and family watch those decades of "personal improvement" disintegrate with one diagnosis or a couple of strong prescriptions. Ugh. 
I tell my smart-aleck students all the time, "You can think whatever you want. You just can’t saywhatever you think."
I've read that a child's true personality develops by age 7. Suppose we all follow individual bell curves—child….up to man…back down to child again—does that mean we turn the impetuous 5-7 and reveal who we are and what we really think?
Evidence?
·         A man I knew, a successful farmer and businessman, was always well-behaved. However, when he got old, his doctor’s office asked him to use the back door because he talk-shouted offensive remarks at patients sitting around the waiting room.
·         One Christmas, my whole extended family was seated around Delicious’s dining room table enjoying chicken salad sandwiches, chili, and chocolate chip cookies when an aunt said, “You know, of all the grandchildren, BT has The. Best. In-laws. Hands down!” My whole extended family, including their spouses, were there.
·         A great aunt said to Delicious, back in an 80’s chubby spell, “Well, Delicious, you have gotten fat. And Bug is well on her way.”

·         In front of a crowd of men, women and children, an absent-minded in-law said, “Wow, Bug, I never realized how LARGE your breasts are!” (I was wearing a swimsuit.)
~ ~ ~ 
My grandmother, known here as “Buddy,” used to say, “Age is no excuse for rudeness.” Amen, Grandmama Buddy! Then again, if I can use senility as an excuse, I could really be free. FREE. Freeeeeeeeeeeee to say what I don’t have the guts to say these young days at 40  years old. Though I do, scarily, hear myself sentence-slipping now and then. I worry. If the real me is a tongue-lashing, lamp-throwing, waiting room harasser, will I even know? Heck, will I even care?
I’d like some fun feedback on this post, ya’ll. Here are some questions to ponder and answer:
1. When we age, we lose teeth, hair, flexibility, cartilage, elasticity, and filters. What else do we lose?
2. What has your child or an elderly relative said that humiliated you? How did you recover?
3. Do you think an old Tall Child will finally tell me to shut the helk up?
Sharky - Mouthy by Genetic Code I CAN NOT WAIT to hear what the Twisted Sisters have to say in 20 years.
Help? Is anyone out there who can save me?

Ha!!! TGIF!!!
Comment here or on Facebook at Theories: Size 12!

See you next post! Until then, think outside the barn.

Let's talk! Find me and friend me!

Also, visit Amazon.com or my website to read about my book, The Eye of Adoption, my short story, Field Day, and my collection of essays for parents and teachers, Parents, Stop and Think.

Author website:  www.jodydyer.com

Facebook: Theories: Size 12 (See each post, comment, share, and talk directly with others readers and me!) I'd LOVE to hear your theories!

Theory 50b: All teachers develop ADHD.

In last week’s post, I explained that all teachers develop ADHD. Then I told you all about a project my students are working on. Then I shared an autobiographical poem. In the poem, I tagged my family members as “interrupters and storytellers.” Those same folks are educators, ya’ll. I wondered and wandered all over the place in that 1,031 word diatribe. Among other topics, I mentioned the following:
IronsBreast reductionFamily membersTeachingPoetryPioneersGo Band!Money hustlingAnthologiesCommon CoreKentuckyMad LibOh, and a squirrel!
What’s my point? My point is that I am a victim of Stockholm Syndrome. What is Stockholm Syndrome?
Stockholm Syndrome (per Yahoo Dictionary)Noun.            A psychological syndrome in which a person being held captive beings to identify with and grow sympathetic to his or her captor, simultaneously becoming unsympathetic towards the police or other authorizes.
FYI: I hate authority. Even way on back to the Sevierville City Park swimming pool. I’ve alwayshad an “issue” with lifeguards.
The scene:Lifeguards: Always whistling, “Tweeeeeeeeeeeeet” and yelling, “Stop running!”
As if I could actually run .
Bug: I usually held my nose, penciled into the deep end, and stayed under, swimming to the shallows to get out of the large-and-in-charge teen’s surveillance. I avoided eye contact and stayed under the water (and the radar) until the awkward moment faded. Ugh. Thank God for nachos and Reese Cups to calm my frazzled, misunderstood, self-conscious nerves.
So what’s my point about Stockholm Syndrome? My point is that I have contracted ADHD from my students. Every teacher does.
My teaching buddy J-Bird says he makes to-do lists and only gets half-way through. Foks, he gets half-way through the to-do list, not the to-do's!
ADHD defined (per Mayo Clinic)Diagnosis: ADHD includes a combination of problems, such as difficulty sustaining attention, hyperactivity and impulsive behavior. Children with ADHD also may struggle with low self-esteem, troubled relationships and poor performance in school.
Every affliction has a cause, right? What could be the cause/causes of ADHD?
CAUSES·         Our lives are dictated by bells. Literally. Riiiiiiiiiing, “Everybody sit down” Riiiiiiiiiing, “You are tardy.” (I can’t wait to retire so I don’t have to use the word ‘tardy’ anymore.)Riiiiiiiiiing, “Look at the board and start the (no kidding) ‘bell-ringer’ activity.” Riiiiiiiiiing, “Don’t forget your homework. Don’t forget to log off. Good luck at the game tonight. Yes, you can turn it in later. I don’t know what we did yesterday. Ask another student. Stop running.”Riiiiiiiiing, “Yay! I can go tee-tee now!”
·         We don’t JUST teach. We constantly switch gears to meet the needs of our students (I have 35 at a time, 4 to 5 classes per day, in a lab with 35 computers). Here are the roles teachers take:- patrolmen- secretaries- coaches- party-planners- cheerleaders- motivational speakers- role models- parents- theorists- logistical experts- administrators- counselors- referees- nurses- policemen
·         Teachers do every single thing we do in a hurry.We eat fast. I do not pack lunches that need re-heating. That would waste my whole lunch time!We pack our lunches in a blaze of fury on Sunday nights. I honestly make all my breakfasts, all Gnome’s breakfasts, and all my lunches at once with three rows (5 squares each) of tin foil.Teachers wear the same black pants three days a week.We wear our Sunday clothes on Mondays (“God first, laundry second,” according to my teacher buddy Sugar Bear.)We don’t lock the bathroom stall doors when we tee-tee (if we tee-tee) because, hey, there’s just no time. It’s easier to say, “I’m in here.”
·         We CENSOR to exhaustion:Not students, but ourselves! Delicious says “Teachers constantly self-censor what we say, the tone in which we say it, the volume, everything.” All to avoid trouble, hurting students’ feelings, miscommunication, and the dreaded parent phone call. Oops!
Teachers, how many of you have worried all night about something you’ve said in class? Can I get an AMEN?
·        RESPONSES. REALLY.Finally, if you haven’t noticed or don’t believe me, I have data to back up my claim. RESEARCH documents that teachers make thousands of responses. I talked about this with Delicious on my way to school and said, “Don’t teachers make about three thousand verbal and non-verbal responses each school day?”
She said, “Oh, no, Bug. It’s THIRTY thousand.”
When I got to school, I asked Red Hot Backspace “How many verbal and non-verbal responses do teachers make during the day?”
She answered, with blunt certainty, “A zillion.”
~ ~ ~
Okay, so I typed everything up to this point in the morning, before class. But, to illustrate this theory and prove that I am right, I am going to do something odd and obnoxious that will make the ADHD causes obvious.
I am going to finish writing this post during second period. Second period is 74 minutes (bell to bell), but I'm only going to use thirty minutes of that time. My students are finishing up a creative project and should need NO instruction from me. They have everything they need on the white board, the interactive board, AND in a Word file on their personal directories. They have the World Wide Web and each other for help.
THAT BEING SAID, every time they, a teacher, a bell, or other thing interrupts me, I’m going to post a picture of a squirrel. I thought about putting a caption detailing the interruption, but there’s no way I can do that AND teach AND moonlight with this blog. Shhhhh. Top secret. Well, consider this research and development. Maybe I can come up with an ADHD version of Airborne (that teacher is a millionaire)!
Understand and say a little prayer for harried, hurried, ADHD teachers everywhere.


I think I’ll diagram a sentence or two, ya’ll! (But in a different way). Let’s just take each of the Mayo Clinic ADHD symptoms one by one and examine them.



ADHD SYMPTOMS
Difficulty sustaining attention: My teaching buddy, let’s call him "Magic Mike" because he half-stripped for Delicious on her 60th birthday, said he can do exactly twenty-three things at the same time. I’d like to see you try, Magic Mike, I’d like to see you try. We do many things at once because that is our comfort zone. The zone of chaos. The zone of multi-tasking, talking, directing, responding, writing, correcting, etc.


Hyperactivity: Teachers are the most talkative people in the world. Almost all of us have second jobs. Read Theory 24: Teachers are money hustlers, ya'll.Have you ever tried to talk to a teacher in her classroom full of students? She pops up and down like a prairie dog at the Knoxville Zoo. Teachers even SAY, “I’m sorry, I’m not listening.”
Impulsive behavior: Delicious bought a 70-acre farm one weekend. Delicious and I are trying to find a cabin on the Little River to buy. We’ve already made and lost on two offers. (Top secret. Tall Child has NO idea!)



Low self-esteem: Women eat for comfort, right? You should see the damage we do at in-services lunches. You should see the damaged peopleat in-services. Wide loads, comin’ through!
Troubled relationships: If we get into fights at home in the morning, we can’t settle them to we return that night! We are too busy, too frazzled, and can’t text at school.
  Poor performance in school: I just want to graduate and finish my Master’s Degree before I have to start the dreaded Christmas season. I am too old for this! Oh, and no worries. I love Jesus. I just hate December.
~ ~ ~
So my students have $1500 MacBook Pro’s, iPhones, iPads, and name-brand clothes, while I go to grad school with an Etch-a-Sketch, have the oldest smartphone on planet Earth, tote maxi-pads (a cruel joke on this infertile woman), and wear shrunken Faded Glory shirts and flood-ready britches.


I think it’s time I get an IEP. For ME!

IEP (defined by "About Parenting")Short for Individualized Education Program, an IEP is the legal document that defines a child's special education program. An IEP includes the disability under which the child qualifies for Special Education Services, the services the team has determined the school will provide, his yearly goals and objectives and any accommodations that must be made to assist his learning.

Hmmm. Let me break this down.
Bug's IEP
Disability: ADHD
Goals (in order of importance and difficulty):
          Lose 10 pounds by Christmas
          Maintain full-time employment
          Publish Student Anthology Project for my freshmen
                                              (Copyright CB Publishing)
          Not get into a single fist fight (manage my rage)
          Learn to use the software I'm supposed to use
          Finish my Theories: Size 12 humor book by summer 2015
          Finish my M. Ed. in December
          Stay safe on Alcoa Highway
         Accomodations:
          Money from Tall Child to buy all meat and produce (no carbs) at Kroger
          Exercise routine (gross)
          Patience (from the people around me)
          Bota Box in large supply
          Small group settings. Classes of fewer than 15 would be nice. Ha!


Services the school should provide:         A laptop (I teach technology, and I am sick of carrying this Etch-A-Sketch around.)         A company car to keep me safer on Alcoa Hwy. Maybe a school bus?         Catered lunch. To my room. Already heated and ready to eat. And low carb.         A private bathroom.         A private weekly session with the school psychologist. Hey, here's here anyway, right?         An endless supply of Crocs, deoderant, mechanical pencils, jump drives, sticky notes, and, ............................ Adderall and Vyvanse!



I took this one to the streets, well, my classroom actually. Here’s what the students of Lab 211 have to say to my question, “Do teachers have ADHD?”
Response (in loud chorus): “YES!!!”
Bug: “Why do you say that?”
Freshmen Responses:
They all are always running around the halls trying to find things.They talk fast.They are easily agitated.They get off topic.They lose their smart board pens all the time and freak out.They're always pacing around the room.



 10 squirrels in 30 minutes. Common Core that, and you will deduce why all teachers develop ADHD!
See you next post! Until then, think outside the barn.

Let's talk! Find me and friend me!

Also, visit Amazon.com or my website to read about my book, The Eye of Adoption, my short story, Field Day, and my collection of essays for parents and teachers, Parents, Stop and Think.

Author website:  www.jodydyer.com

Facebook: Theories: Size 12 (See each post, comment, share, and talk directly with others readers and me!) I'd LOVE to hear your theories!

Theory 50a: All teachers develop ADHD. And here's a poem.

I stumbled upon a new theory today: "All teachers develop ADHD."
Only a few years into the profession, I should still be focused and sane, but I'm starting to wonder...and wander.
Delicious says I have "too many irons in the fire." She's right. My days are packed with teaching, writing, getting another degree, managing my publishing company, raising Sharky and Gnome, and being "everything" to Tall Child. Oh, and I'm on a pre-breast reduction anti-snowman-appearing low carb diet, so I'm always cooking meat. I don't know how the pioneers built log homes and herded cattle without the modern crock pot. Maybe they kept those big cast iron pots over fires for hours and assigned one of the dozen double-named children to keep adding wood underneath some stew. I hate that they didn't enjoy Campbell's Cream of Mushroom. 
Okay, see what I mean? I ramble! Don't all teachers do that? Is it bad that I sometimes stop teaching and tell a funny story for no other reason other than that I am bored out of my mind. Is it bad that I lean out my classroom window at practicing marching band members and yell, "Play Rocky Tooooooop!"?
Go band! 
Maybe I ramble because writers ramble. Most writers I talk to say that, when it's time to wrench out a piece of work, they just sit down and start typing. Fast. With no editing-as-you-go or self-critiquing. They just type away. That's what I do. No outline. My outline is the return/enter key. Writers must "let go" and be all ADHD, wild, and loose. Oh, and they must be SPECIFIC.  To illustrate my new theory, "All teachers develop ADHD," I am not going to write about how "All teachers develop ADHD." I am going to procrastinate, deviate, and possible frustrate. Confession: humor is HARD and time-consuming to write. Forgive me if you don’t laugh today. However, if you do need a chuckle, be sure to "like" Theories: Size 12 on Facebook. My freshman class is providing all sorts of gems by way of strange t-shirts and stranger comments, which I post to the Theories: Size 12 page.​​
I do have something for you, though.
My students are constructing an anthology. In my "Teachers are money hustlers, ya'll" fashion, I have schemed up a money making plan. I'm testing it on my students. Look, I teach in a lab; I'm supposed to test things on my students, but know this: I will NEVER profit from their work. That would be unethical. But, I can learn from them. Seriously, though, it is an academically rich, cross-curricular, comprehensive, Common Core (gag) project that will be awesome/wondrous when it's finished. My students are writing an anthology. They will be published authors! By doing so, they will master every standard in my course and several in English I and Marketing I. Yippee! I've even drafted the collaboration from some ADHD colleagues, Scone-Ad, Red Hot Backspace, Graphic Arts, and Tech Savvy. 
We have over 400 freshmen. Short stories would produce a mountain of paperwork and be impossible to grade, so students are writing poetry for the anthology.
Look! A squirrel!
What were we talking about? Oh, yeah. Anyhoo, I asked students to read and study George Ella Lyon's original "Where I'm From" poem. Lyon is a southern poet and teacher in Kentucky. A fellow author-teacher-hustler!
Note: Teachers, you can hit the internet to find fantastic templates for her poem. Remember the old Mad Lib books? The templates work that way, but word choices are specific and autobiographical, not random.
Like any good educator, I modeled for my students and drafted my own "Where I'm From" poem, which is the meat of today's blog post. I hope you enjoy it. Oh, and readers, if you know of any small creative writing projects my students may enjoy, message me, comment or email me at jdyer415@yahoo.com. Thanks! Happy Friday!






Where I’m FromJody Dyer
I am from hand-tied trout-luring flies and Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls, from masculine creativity and feminine, abundant love.
I am from the farmhouse at the end of the holler of The Crippled Beagle Farm.  Slanted floors, a crooked chimney, and frosted paneling bedroom walls in East Tennessee winters.
It felt fragile in build and strong in character. It tasted like homemade beef jerky, chicken and dumplings, fried okra, and cornbread.It smelled like hops and barley, fermenting in a one-hundred year old hallway.It sounded like The University of Georgia’s Larry Munson and grownups talking and popping popcorn. After I went to bed.
I'm from Nellie's puppies. Velvet paws and downy Beagle fur, a rolling pile of wet-nosed innocence.
I am from the cedar forest and Kellum Creek.From Irises and Tawny Day Lilies.Pale grape lavender and bright orange, intricately designed, dancing against barn wood, into water, and up steep banks.
I’m from opening presents youngest to oldest, rooting for the SEC, gambling at Thanksgiving. From interrupters and storytellers. From athletes and educators. From strong opinions and attitudes.
From Donna and Scott and Wimmie and Grandmama Freddy. I’m from the romantic and respectful, the resolute and resourceful.

From raw intelligence.
I’m from picnicking at Metcalf Bottoms and tubing the Little River.
From, “Always anticipate the incompetence of others,” and “You could never do anything in this world to make us not love you, Bug.”
I’m from the preschool, playground, and baptismal of First Baptist Church on the parkway in Pigeon Forge. Soulful and sweet.
I’m from Sequoyah Presbyterian Church. Pews filled with academics and grace.
I’m from Columbus, Georgia and Sevier County, Tennessee. Celtic, Scotch-Irish, English.
A daughter of Appalachia.
I’m from a Division I athlete who won the Bronze star in World War II and his bride, who rode buses to Atlanta every weekend to dance with soldiers. From a Naval Carpenter long at sea and his bride, a hospital pastry cook who sent him pictures of herself in long, lacy nightgowns because she missed him and wanted him to miss her.
I am my nieces’ Crazy Aunt Jody. 
I am writer Jody Cantrell Dyer. 
I am teacher, Mrs. "Um?"I am wife Baby. 
I am Mama!
Really, I’m just Bug.



1979


Delicious shelling peas at Grandmama Freddy's deck in Columbus, GA


Pooh and a Rainbow Trout



See you next post. Until then, think outside the barn.

~ ~ ~
Let's talk! Find me and friend me!

Also, visit Amazon.com or my website to read about my book, The Eye of Adoption, my short story, Field Day, and my collection of essays for parents and teachers, Parents, Stop and Think.

Author website:  www.jodydyer.com

Facebook: Theories: Size 12 (See each post, comment, share, and talk directly with others readers and me!) I'd LOVE to hear your theories!

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Theory 15: Tailgate etiquette is not an oxymoron.

Friends, this post from last year is a reader-favorite and perfect for this weekend as many of us gear up to tailgate and cheer on our teams. Enjoy! Go Big Orange!

Theory 15: Tailgate etiquette is not an oxymoron.
Over many years, I observed every type of behavior—from southern chivalry to northern aggression. I’d like to give a shout out to my buddy “Mint Julep” for prodding me to write about tailgates! Mint Julep and her husband actually treated Tall Child and me to a private plane ride to Tuscaloosa to watch Tennessee take on The Crimson Tide. What a great day! Tailgaters travel a spectrum from calm, civilized, linen-draped tables and guests of The Grove (Ole Miss) to sweltering, sweat-soaked, foot-stomping 2-bits, 4-bits cheering fans in The Swamp (Florida). Tall Child and I built our own little Tennessee Tradition; we hosted season after season of great tailgate parties. For many years, we even held an annual kick-off party at home to fire folks up for the tailgating (and SEC football) season. We started in Lot 9 with the in-laws, and then we moved to G-10 (a multi-level parking garage beside Thompson-Boling arena) and gathered up family and a few more friends. I loved snagging the top corner spot over the garage entrance. We could cheer in UT fans or harass the opposing team. Once, Delicious and Big Booty J helped organized a huge TN vs. Georgia tailgate party. Delicious draped a giant Georgia flag over the railing. It was upside down. We never told her. Alongside the upside-down flag, we dangled a stuffed bulldog on a long rope and tormented Georgia fans as they rolled through. I saw this idea when I was in Athens, GA with the UT band. A couple of trumpet players sat on the sidewalk as we waited to enter the stadium and every time a Georgia car cruised by in the molasses slow traffic, the boys threw the stuffed bulldog under its wheels. We cracked up as Georgia fans of all ages fumed as they crushed their own mascot. Finally, we found the supreme tailgating spot in Knoxville: a flat paved rooftop above a one story building – no cars, just thousands of square feet with huge crowds and a view of the stadium and the river. Those parties were the best. We even hired live bands for the big games. Yes, tailgating gets rowdy, but there are rules. Tailgate etiquette is not an oxymoron.
So, today, I present you with a list of tailgating rules. Tailgaters, be gentle toward one another. You have many games and years ahead of you.
Rules for the host/hostess (per the always succinct and ever gracious Tall Child):
Never run out of beer or food.
Beat your guests to the tailgate spot. Tall Child explains “The head guy has to be the first one there.”
Invite a lot of people.
Rules for tailgaters in general:
If the host offers to haul your stuff, drop it off per his instructions and be punctual.  If you drop off a cooler, make sure it’s packed and it rolls.
Designate a driver. Run-ins with the Po-Po take away from the spirit of the party. If you do get arrested, do it before we take pimento cheese out of the cooler.
"C ome here, boy!"
If you have a big car and a parking pass (lucky), don’t roll up solo! Offer rides.
Bring a chair. If you don’t, don’t take the last one. If you don’t bring a chair and sit on a cooler, if anyone makes eye contact with you, get up.
If you invite a female northern friend to a southern tailgate, give her the dress code. Girls in the south wear party outfits to football games. Staples include big earrings, feminine blouses and skirts or dresses, high heels or cowboy boots. G.R.I.T.S., if you travel outside the SEC, do a little research before you pack. Tall Child and I tailgated with Indiana friends at Notre Dame. I showed up in a skirt and they wore sweatshirts. I froze. FYI – That was one of my favorite tailgates ever! The ND fans were laid back, friendly, and most didn’t even go in the stadium.
Speaking of clothing, Tennessee fans, pick a shade of orange and stick with it.
When it comes to neighboring tailgates, remember the old poem, “Good fences make good neighbors.” Respect the invisible boundaries. But, if you lose your Southern Comfort cool and attack a nearby tailgater by force, take a lesson from my cousin Roscoe’s division one performance. Sharky was throwing football with a friend. He missed his catch and the football landed in a neighboring tailgate. Some jerk threw Sharky’s ball way out into the parking lot. Roscoe strolled over, picked the guy up, wiped his tailgate table clean (with the guy’s body), dropped him, and walked away calmly. Well played, Roscoe. You are still Sharky’s hero!

The good ole' days.
Keep a sound friend to food ratio. A-Boo says, “Don’t’ bring half a tray of pinwheels and nine friends.”
Don’t expect the host to think of everything and accommodate your friends or coworkers, whom he’s possibly never met. If you invite extra people, entertain them. Don’t leave all the conversing up to your hosts. Be a mini-host! All are welcome. Help them feel that way.           
If you are a slow roller (show up two hours before game time “really tired from the night before”) don’t call the host and ask if he needs more ice. Uncle Trout says, “When is the last time you ever heard anyone say We have got too much ice?” Just bring it.
Don’t ask anyone to watch your stuff while you go into the stadium. Stay with it or prepare to sacrifice it.
No moral authority allowed! Party at your own risk!  Keep in mind that the presence of children and bosses change the dynamics of any party. If you bring either, take care of them. Don’t let children sit right in front of the big screen TV that other grownups bought and hauled. Don’t tell adults not to smoke, curse, yell, or drink. The tailgate is their domain.  If you bring your children, bring your children food and drinks. Trust me. Diet Coke, cranberry juice and orange juice have a different purpose under the tent and they certainly don’t belong in sippy cups. Ooh, and keep your young’uns out of the Jell-O. This ain’t Morrison’s Cafeteria and most hosts don’t pack stomach pumps. If you roll up with a baby stroller, make sure there’s a 20 pound bag of ice in its bottom basket.
Please use hand sanitizer before you hit the sandwich platter.
Don’t ask anyone, “Do you have room in your cooler for this?” Most will say yes, because we are nice and want you to have a good time. However, it’s better if you just bring your own cooler. Even Sharky packed his own tiny cooler of Gatorade, Doritos, and fruit snacks. Good little southern boy.
Our buddy “Renaissance Man” often cooked gourmet breakfasts of pancakes, bacon, and sausage on his griddle for the early-bird setup. Then, he’d cook huge extravagant lunches of low country boil or chili for the whole crowd. If you have such a kind chef in your crew, offer to bring ingredients or give him cash. If you eat by the pound, pay by the pound!
Smokers – step outside the tent area to smoke. Non-smokers, don’t fuss at the smokers. It’s an outdoor party.
Speaking of atmosphere, hosts (hostesses) actually go to a lot of trouble to organize the food tables. We spread tables with ironed cloths, use “real” plates, decorate with flowers, hang battery-operated chandeliers, and designate areas for drink mixing, salty snacks, and sweet treats. Please don’t slap grimy purses, fuzzy coats, empty bottles, and trash on our pretty Southern Living September issue inspired tablescapes.
Cousin Fuzz, a dedicated Vol fan and thoroughbred tailgater, reminded me to address a particular party phenomenon: the folks who stagger up to tailgates where they know no one. She calls them “stray cats.” Fuzz says, “Stray Cats, you are welcome. It’s cool for you to drop in, but know your role. Stay on the perimeter. Make friends and mingle. Just like the yard-apes, you should never sit front row at the big screen. And, whatever you do, don’t touch another man’s vodka.”
Singletons and married folks, tailgates get tricky sometimes. All kinds of things can go wrong in the heat of SEC rivalry. Don’t offer to keep your friend’s husband company while she goes into the game. Instead, go with her. He’ll be okay after a little nap.
If you wear heels, bring flip flops, too, because heels, vodka, onion dip, and standing in Auburn heat for six to 12 hours makes pretty little feet hurt. Plus, at some point in the evening, you’ll hear “Dixieland Delight” and feel the urge to clog. You don’t want to shuffle-step-ball-change barefoot on dirty concrete littered with charcoal dust and pointy bottle tops. That’s just not lady like. Also, take it from me; it’s not cool to clog if you have to hold on to a chair, a person, or the tailgate tent post to stay upright for your butter churn. Some of us need to do our clogging earlier in the day.
When it’s time to go into the stadium, some tailgates pack up. HELP. Don’t just set your drink down, check your tickets, and walk off. If yours is a late-night post-game tailgate, remember that your host may have been in that parking lot since as early as 5am. HELP. Bag chairs, haul stuff to his car.
Sunday morning (as soon as you recover), come and get your nasty cooler.
The most important rule of all is simple for most but oh, so, difficult for some. Please please please please please please please BRING YOUR OWN BEER!
A couple of years ago, some rich donor gave money to the UT School of Engineering to construct a giant educational building. They dynamited our dynamite tailgate spot. I cried. Tall Child used that and a terrible season to hang up our tailgating cleats for now.  I am forever thankful to every person who ever came to my tailgate – no matter how you behaved and whether I knew you or not. Thank you for creating some of the best weekends of my life (especially the ones I barely remember).

Tall Child in his element.
Tall Child and I have passed the Tennessee Tailgating Torch to the younger crowd and hope they deliver their friends and families a great season. We wish you safety and success as you cheer on the Volunteers. Do not feel compelled to carry on our traditions. Create your own. Which reminds me of  Theory 16: People erroneously think they can do other people’s jobs.
See you next post. Until then, think outside the barn.
Go Big Orange!

Let's talk! Find me and friend me!

Also, visit Amazon.com or my website to read about my book, The Eye of Adoption, my short story, Field Day, and my collection of essays for parents and teachers, Parents, Stop and Think.

Author website:  www.jodydyer.com

Facebook: Theories: Size 12 (See each post, comment, share, and talk directly with others readers and me!) I'd LOVE to hear your theories!

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Read reviews and/or purchase The Eye of Adoption here: Amazon.com

Freedom and School Supplies

Friends,I started my workday with a 7:55 technology team meeting and am in the midst of a five-block Friday with NO planning period. Teachers, you understand how exhausting and non-stop that type of day is.  Oh, and I go back to college, again, tomorrow, for semester two of my M. Ed. program. Thus, I made an executive Crippled Beagle Publishing decision (I am the one and only executive, after all), to post a chapter from my small book, Parents, Stop and Think. It's perfect for this time of year! I hope you enjoy it. Happy back to school and happy Friday everyone.
Love,Bug            
Excerpt from Parents, Stop and Think

 

I.  Offering Freedom
            As a teacher and writer, I study my crafts.  As a mother, I strive to raise my boys, Houston (12) and Scotty (4), to become compassionate, confident, and self-sufficient.  Research, training, and trial and error help, but teaching, writing, and parenting are art forms.  To be successful, I must reflect and adjust.  I must stop and think.            Alone at a retail store in the August of Houston’s last year of elementary education, I passed a display of local school supply lists.  I scanned halfway through the bulleted sheet of 5th grade requirements and stopped.  I thought.  Houstonshould make these selections.            Parents in a stressful rush, on a budget, and looking at the world through adult goggles often miss things—things minor to us and major to our children.  My father’s mother, “Wimmie,” a widow and hospital pastry cook, squirreled away money for years to buy my father, Scott, a “sporty” car for his sixteenth birthday.  My mother later asked her, “Why’d you make that sacrifice when you were struggling?  Scott understood you couldn’t afford a car.” Wimmie explained, “I knew that was the only age Scott would actually care about a fancy car.  It was important to him then.”             My colleague Sherri’s son, Joey, broke his glasses the day before middle school started.  Joey, who is normally easy-going, became distraught.  Sherri understood.  They skipped school and went straight to the optometrist, who rushed the order and treated Joey’s “huge” problem and genuine anxiety with respect. 
~ ~ ~
            I teach high school freshmen and am routinely intrigued by their reasoning.  They crave autonomy (thus the obsession with learner’s permits).  They love choices.  They embrace self-paced lessons that may be challenging but lack a teacher’s constant directives.  Though the fourteen and fifteen-year-olds vary by academic ability, physical and emotional maturity, backgrounds, resources, and personality traits, they share certain age-old truths and human characteristics.  Teenagers don’t function well when they are hungry, tired, poorly dressed, lacking supplies, or, honestly, worried about their hair.  Their problems are big—in their eyes, and should be treated as “big” by adults.  If your son asks for a certain type of deodorant, and you can afford it, buy it.  If your daughter braids, cries, and re-braids her hair, be patient.  Compliment her.  If your son asks to be dropped off to walk the last block to school with his buddies, indulge him.  Teenagers want to be taken seriously and treated with respect—by peers andadults.            Parents, sacrifice to give your children what they need.  Give them safe autonomy and confidence through independence.  What decisions can your children make now?  What do they need to feel enthusiastic to greet the world each day?  Privacy?  A new lunchbox?  The opportunity to select and organize their own school supplies?  Extra time for hair and make-up?  Prayer?  Time with friends?  Your attention?  At some point this year, your children will likely beg, “But I really need to buy/to see/to do this!” Don’t dismiss their pleas as materialistic or small-minded.  Remember back to your childhood days.  Reflect on concerns that were “major” to you.  Stop and think. 
What do you think, parents and teachers? What do your children and students need most this time of year? Find me, friend me, and comment here or on social media. 


Author website:  www.jodydyer.com
Facebook:  Theories: Size 12  Facebook: Jody Cantrell Dyer
Twitter: @jodycdyer

See you next post. Until then, think outside the barn!



Visit Amazon.com or my website to read about my book, The Eye of Adoption, my short story, Field Day, and my collection of essays for parents and teachers, Parents, Stop and Think.


GOODREADS GIVEAWAY!!! I am giving away two signed copies of Parents, Stop and Think. Click here or visit www.Goodreads.com for more details.

Theory 49: All bumper stickers offend someone, but that’s the point, right?

Now that I’m back on the road, commuting 45 minutes each direction, I see lots of bumper stickers. I can’t text and drive. A Knox County sheriff’s deputy and I had a nice conversation about that when I almost side-swiped him on Asheville Hwy. Teachers, always work the fact that you are teachers into conversations with the popo. We, they, and nurses: popo simpatico. So texting is out, I haven’t had time to check out an audio book from my school’s library, and I’m all alone in the car with no one to talk to (though I do practice —out loud—putting folks in their places to work out my demons), so I study bumper stickers.
My teaching buddy Scone-Ad actually suggested this topic for a Theory. She owed me anyway, since I blame her and her food and nutrition class students for plumping me up with end-of-year surprise cupcakes and sausage balls. Scone-Ad has perfected the shape, size, texture, and flavor of sausage balls. She also has a unique technique for warming buns in her four person pop-up camper.
So Scone-Ad, Red Hot Backspace, Man of Measure and I had a little in-service lunch time to kill so we brainstormed some of our favorite bumper stickers to hate. They thought of some solid winners/losers. Then I reached out to my buds on social media for more fodder. They delivered. To protect relatives from relatives and from making things a bit awkward in pews, school pickup lines, and country club locker rooms, I’m listing the stickers my crowd hates without identifying everyonewho contributed. Too bad for some of you. If you have a nickname, I copied and pasted (I LOVE to copy and paste) from Facebook.
You can assume that I am guilty of slapping many of these labels on Big Red over time. You may also assume that I am grossed out by many of these stickers. Just reflect. Be Socratic. Consider the opposing viewpoint for a time. In other words, Go on and get mad, but you know you agree.
Now, this is a living, breathing, post, so check back later for updates. Why? Because I fell asleep reading Faith Bass Darling’s Last Garage Sale while our precious Gnome watched videos of himself on my cell phone under the covers. It could have been the covers, or Gnome, or Buzz, or maybe that copperhead who visited my silverware drawer, or the mice who visited first (thus the copperhead). Regardless, some one or some thing swallowed my cell phone. Which stinks. You see, I took my research to the field; I used a voice recording app on my phone as I drove to and from school this week. Dang it to helk! I had to leave home without my phone, and I’m typing the blog EARLY morning in my classroom. I am not on duty, spending no school money, etc. so it’s all good. Please don’t get those county popo after me again.
Long story short, when I find my phone (sweet Tall Child is great at finding things I lose), I’ll listen to my twangy recordings and update the blog. Shoot. I had some good stuff on there, but let’s see how I do from my eerily Delicious-like memory.~ ~ ~A popular term right now in education is “response to informational text.” Bumper stickers are informational text, right? Below, I’ve listed the stickers my buddies and I dislike. Underneath each sticker, I’ve constructed a response to those who display them and written a few potential new stickers to perhaps replace the offensive ones. Enjoy!
From, hmmm, let’s call him “Febreeze” because he smells GREAT all the time and his shirts are super fresh and women love to watch the wind blow in his beautiful hair. Plus, once, when Sharky smelled the clean, soft bath towels right out of our dryer, he said, “Oooh, this smells just like daddy’s friend [Febreeze].”

Febreeze doesn't like the 26.2/13.1 stickers. He says, "You are in better shape than I am. I do not need the reminder while I am driving around town. I saw one that said 0.0 and that made me smile."

True, true, Febreeze. I was offered a pedometer at school and turned it down. It's pretty obvious I don't do 13.1, 26.2, 1.1, or really even 0.1, except after a hard party tailgate. Remember, one of my high school nicknames was "Slo-Jo." Maybe someday I'll "run" again, because I do value exercise and sportsmanship, as I illustrated in Theory 5: Play a sport, even if you suck at it. I would like to give a yee-haw out to all you ladies who walk at Lakeshore Park in KnoxVegas. How about we print some stickers that say 2.1 in the 919?




Let's analyze this one. First, congratulations for having a child who makes good grades. Quick question: Were you one of the families whose grades suffered under Pontius Pilate, oops, I mean Common Core? If so, I am sorry, you'll have to remove your sticker. If not, consider that you may indeed be teaching your child to boast. Let me get religious on you. One of my favorite Bible verses reads, "And whosoever shall exalt himself shall be abased; and he that shall humble himself shall be exalted." Matthew 23:12, KJV
In other words, don't over exalt yourself (because we all know you are really just sneakily bragging that you are smart and passed your smart genes down to your young'un), or your child will be humbled and so will you. One day, you are cruising down Kingston Pike sporting your honor roll bumper sticker. A year later, you are cruising down Kingston Pike to register Junior for Sylvan Learning Center. 
New sticker: My child repeated first grade. I blamed it on his hearing problems, but really, I didn’t read to him 20 minutes a night like I was supposed to. It’s all my fault.
I can't wait to be exalted. Sorry, Sharky!


Parent, what’s your goal with this one? Is this where that whole obsessive bully trend originated? Also, what if your child actually tries to beat up an honor student and gets the helk beat out of him? Then what have you got? A weak dummy? Paste cautiously.

Contrary to my contrary statement, some students should be recognized for athletic prowess and kinesthetic excellence! I wrote a whole post about it in Theory 42: Modern education has ruined field day.

Both of these stickers created a tiny stir after my social media prompt. My buddy “Elaine” is quite articulate, and summed it up even better than I. She wrote, "Personally I love the 'my kid beat up your honor student.' I sported it and an 'I break for boiled peanuts' for several years. I detest the braggy parent bumper stickers 'my kid is an honor student/cheerleader/nuclear physicist/one-legged belly dancer.' My kids are great, too, but they don't need me, as their parent, to advertise that fact on the butt of my car. Hopefully, they can get their validation in some better venue than a dirty piece of adhesive vinyl. And I agree with the disdain for the cross fit/marathon/I have 2% body fat stickers, too. Those dudes need to eat a piece of cake and take a nap."

Amen, sister wife! Poor guys. No dairy. No carbs. They never enjoy the magical, savory experience of onion dip on ruffled chip.

By the way, "Elaine's" children are honors students. They also have black belts. Bazinga!



Whatever. All I can say is that Obama’s tax increase decreased Tall Child’s paycheck significantly, which decreased my quality of life by increasing my debt. Geez. I did qualify for a student loan for my master’s degree, though. Yippee! Maybe next he’ll give me 40 acres and a mule. Never mind. I already have that. Maybe next he’ll give me another student loan so I can go on another vacation. Huh? What? Who said that?Obama/Biden won, so why do folks still campaign for them? Because they have to?

New sticker: Somebody better who will still grant me student loans, please, 2016




Socialized medicine creates long waits. One yeast infection. That’s all you need to turn Republican. 
One. Yeast. Infection.



Besides reminding me of the snake in my silverware drawer, this smells of militia. It is historical, but it’s still eerie. Cross Country (my loving, liberal, witty geography teacher who diagnosed me with slow-twitch muscle fibers) says those stickers “insult our founding fathers.” Let’s not insult our founding fathers, friends.



Good idea. I bet your child is on the honor roll.

New sticker: I break for anything that outweighs me and whose physical properties can put me in the grave.

Too bad bicycle guys don’t have room for bumper stickers.



FB comment from my beloved, colorful, awesome/wondrous neighbor and surrogate grandmama to Sharky and Gnome, "Auntie Mame": "I saw a car with the 'practice random acts of kindnes' on the bumper, all the while the driver is honking at people riding their bumpers and shooting them a bird! She was confused!!!"
Is it bad that sometimes I love shooting birds? Is that because I grew up in Pigeon Forge, I fished with dough and night-crawlers, and my crushes wore mullets?


This one burns my biscuit. I Googled it. Some Yahoo answerer defined the symbols this way:

C is the symbol for Islam 
O is the symbol for peace 
E is the symbol for males/females 
X is the symbol for Judaism 
I is dotted with a Wicca pentacle
S is the symbol for the yin-yang or Confucianism 
T is the symbol for Christianity

Wicca? Really? REALLY?

Why’d they leave out good old Buddha? I kind of like him now that our thighs match.

One afternoon as I rode shotgun in Bop's Cadillac, she said, "I like that sticker. It's nice." She likes the idea of folks getting along, but seriously doubt she's a fan of the Wicca pentacle!
I can’t wait to tell her.




The evolutionists try so hard. Always working their way into public schools to expel God and take over our science curriculum. We discussed this in Theory 23: God and prayer are most definitely in schools. It’s a shame you are going to helk. I’m gonna pray for ya’ll.

New sticker: I am trying to look like a science stud by displaying this Darwin fish, but if I ever get really sick or in jail, I’m sure I’ll switch my sticker to this one:



Trout often explains his religious philosophy to non-believers like this: “You might as well believe, because if you don’t, you’ll go straight to hell.”



Well, good for you. My guess is that you are a new mother or paranoid driver-father. New mother, there are babies on board in most cars at some point, so really we should all just drive carefully. Also, remember that some folks behind you may be driving home from an infertility clinic, adoption agency, or court room. Those folks would give anything in the world to have a baby on board.

New sticker: There is a demanding/misbehaving/aggravating person on board, so I may be serving dinner, slapping a switch all over the backseat, looking for a dropped toy, etc. You’ve been warned. Keep your distance.




I have taught boys and girls who’ve NEVER been on vacation. I wonder if they know what HHI, 30A, PCB, etc. mean. If so, how must those stickers affect them? Plus, from a distance at a certain speed, HHI looks kinda like HIV. Careful.

New sticker: You can go anywhere if you finish school, get a good job, and maintain your health. And maybe have some good luck. Good luck!

New sticker just for me: 34H






Look, I know, I am guilty. Please don’t honk at me when the light turns red because I am on the phone. I have to make personal phone calls on my way to and from work because I can’t make personal calls at work and my husband and children will not give me one freaking moment to talk to a friend, a doctor, an insurance agent, etc. once I get home.

But, wait. One of my cousins, who is an avid reader and intellectual, wouldn’t like my suggestion above. She said, “I don't like ones that I can't read at a passing glance. It is a bumper sticker, not a book!”

New sticker: On phone. Forgive? Can’t we all just COEXIST? Here’s my insurance card.




Just flipping through some history books here at school. Looks like that peace stuff is pretty much impossible.

New sticker: Let’s not shoot each other most of the time.

I found the perfect bumper sticker for Scone-Ad and Man of Measure!



~

Mean people do suck. They’d better watch out. See Theory 3: Be nice to everyone you meet, because you will meet again, especially if you weren't nice in the first place.



Do you? Is that why you are pulling out of the Twin Peak’s parking lot at 10:00 p.m. Let me guess, you brought wifey a doggie bag to show your affection. Oh, and you're weaving.



That shouldn't be difficult.

New stickers: Keep New York expensive. Keep Orlando hot. Keep Newport sketchy.



Well, 
 ~ ~ ~

I despise scatological humor. It requires no thought. It seems that most of the time that little boy is actually tee-teeing on an Alabama logo.
Ironic? Nah.



Yorkie/Lab/Beagle/Horse/any critter really Lover?

Gross.

Tall Child needs a sticker that says “Hater of one particular Yorkie.”




Well, I suppose this one could scare children. Sharky, Tall Child and I are addicted to “The Walking Dead” and “The Talking Dead” (I taught TTD Chris Hardwick’s nephew! Hardwick and I Tweeted each other!) I love zombies, but I doubt they're real. Then again, you should see forty 8th graders get off a school bus at 7:45 am. I heard the word Ebola on the radio. Grab the batteries, Pampered Chef pizza cutter, and Vienna sausages!



New bride? Preppy? Gag me with a dead Smurf.




I got more negative comments about this bumper sticker than any other. Hands down.Again, “And whosoever shall exalt himself shall be abased; and he that shall humble himself shall be exalted.” Matthew 23:12, KJV

Basically, these stickers (to me, anyway) are saying that couples are happily married. The husband is taller than the wife. He doesn’t cheat, he doesn’t go to Twin Peaks, he doesn’t throw you under the bus when in-laws make demands, he has a job, etc. He is so awesome that you represent his image with cute adhesive paper. Oh, and your children. Your children. They, too, decorate the window in descending height. Look, I teach junior high, so I know for a fact that your 13 year old son is shorter than your 11 year old daughter. At least your boys and girls are physically fit and artistic. They seem to all be holding flutes and balls. What a healthy, happy, normal family. Are you so calm and organized and kind on long road trips to Hot Orlando or Expensive New York? And, oh, your sweet little pets are part of the family, too. So cute! I bet your mother calls your Border Collie her “grand dog.” The cats and dogs sit side by side as the happy family takes Sunday drives. Everything is groovy. You COEXIST so well!

Seriously, I think these stickers are cornball express but sweet. I consider them a family’s attempt to represent what they are trying hard to be: normal, well-adjusted, loving, and close.

Life is a dynamic adventure with lots of variables. How much do these stickers cost?

What happens if there is a divorce?




An affair?



I think my family needs a sticker family bumper sticker!


~ ~ ~

The last bumper sticker Big Red wore was a blue oval boasting the name of Sharky’s elementary school. That was back in 2011 when I taught at a “rough” middle school. 
One day, while I desperately tried to teach pre-algebra to a bunch of non-interested 8th graders, my sticker disappeared. Along with my tail lights.
~ ~ ~Of all the commentary I provoked and received regarding this topic, my favorite response came from my sweet, sweet, fellow compassionate humorist, Flower Child. She wrote:




I BRAKE FOR YOU, FLOWER CHILD. I BRAKE FOR YOU!


~ ~ ~
What do you think, readers? What are your bumper stickers loves and peeves? Find me, friend me, and comment here or on social media. 


Facebook:  Theories: Size 12  Facebook: Jody Cantrell Dyer
Twitter: @jodycdyer

See you next post. Until then, think outside the barn!

Stuck in church for school.

Readers, I may not blog today. I am stuck atban inservice training for school. Should get some good material, though.