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Theory 48: Never ever say, “At least you have summers off” to a schoolteacher.

Four. More. Days. 
My junior high colleagues and I have four more days of freedom before we report for duty and begin a new school year. Yes, I am complaining. No, I am not ashamed of my whining. It’s no mystery that women love to complain. We are detail-oriented, critical thinkers. Plus, we are the critical do-ers, so grant us our soap boxes from which we must speak, because as soon as we step off those soap boxes we have to mop them. Among women, I believe teachers are the best of the best when it comes to griping. Maybe I could hustle up a griping best practices in-service followed by a how to keep your employees from griping in-service. I can smell the green $$$!

I cannot tell you how many times last winter, as I collapsed after a one hour school-daycare-errands-home commute, I would say, “I am absolutely worn slap out” only to hear Tall Child say, “Well, you’re about to have three months off.”
Really, Tall Child? What kind of new math did you learn back in the day? My last day of school was May 28. My first day back is July 22. Now, I never have been able to read a clock or remember which months have thirty days, but I can promise you I don’t get three months off. Six weeks. That’s it in my district. Sounds eerily like maternity leave…feels like I’m recovering from birthing 230 freshmen. Did I tell you I’m pregnant with 230 more?
Thus, in honor of all the educators out there who must squeeze summer onion-dipped, beer-battered thighs back into their helk-acious school attire, I have made a few lists. Teachers, this bud of a blog by Bug is for you. Perhaps, when a moneyed friend from the corporate world, or a well-wishing housewife, says to you, “At least you have summers off” you can whip this list out and ‘splain to him/her that teachers need summers off to survive. But, be compassionate, because you may see those silver-liners in a cafeteria someday because, no matter how hard some people try in the beginning, they still end up teaching school. Trust me.
THIS Happy Camper...
...is brought to you by THIS happy camper.
Things that WEAR teachers out so that they need (and deserve) summers off: Doing paperwork for the sake of paperworkEvaluations, which require eight page lesson plans when we can accomplish the same thing with a Post-It note.Trying to decipher and accept Common Core StandardsContinuously counting the number of pieces of paper they print out of the printer that breaks all the time (I went 2500 over last school year!)Explaining to dozens of students, dozens of times, “Yes, I got my haircut.”Hearing co-workers’ personal problems. I apologize to all my work buddies in advance, but I have so much to tell you!Bus dutyHall dutyCafeteria duty

Ballgame dutyDance dutyClub advisory dutyLong commutesNeedy co-workersProofreadingCompleting graduate school courseworkWashing the two pair of black slacks every other nightHelping our children with schoolwork after teaching school all dayFrantic phone calls from our children’s schools and daycaresSneaking out of school to take our children to the doctorDaycare diapers, wipes, fees, cooties, papers

Car trouble (all teachers need jumper cables and back-up plans)Packed lunchOne-thousand-word emailsSpotty wireless
Red Hot to the rescue
Being teacher-broke and thus guiltily saying “no” to students who are fundraising to go on mission trips to cure or feed poor children in third world countriesBreaking up fights
Uncomfortable furniture

Papergates (for my NMS buddies)Bladder infectionsFixing our bangs (or is that just me?)Dieting: teachers are always on diets
Answering the question, “Did you get my email?” Menopausal/PMS/ colleagues
Acronyms, like, um,...N.A. (Red Hot Backspace, ask me about this one. Ha!), S.A.D, CCSS, NEA, TEA
Impromptu 45 minute parent-teacher conferences at Wal-MartStaying nice all day and not losing your cool.

What teachers do during their, ahem, looooong summer “breaks”: Feed other people’s animalsWork second jobs (often alongside or serving our students) so we can pay billsGraduate school coursework.Run shuttle services to all kinds of practices.Do the marine crawl under our front doors to avoid baby-sitting other people’s childrenTeach vacation Bible schoolTeach summer schoolGo to graduate schoolGet pap smears, breast exams, dental cleanings, colonoscopies, prostate exams, and vasectomiesHours upon hours of unscheduled, mandatory and voluntary in-serviceAttend professional development conferencesServe in the National Guard

Things teachers dread about the start of school Doing paperwork for the sake of paperwork Being teacher-broke and spending our money on classroom suppliesLearning new software, again, like we do every AugustIn-service meetings that soak up valuable timeObnoxious teachers who won’t shut up during said in-service meetingsNo more Bloody Mary’s at lunchTaking showers every single dayWearing different clothes every single dayConforming to a handbook that has rules insideLearning student names (then learning student names again after Christmas break – same students)Saying the same thing one thousand times per hour per day per week per month.Saying the same thing one thousand times per hour per day per week per month.Saying the same thing one thousand times per hour per day per week per month.Students, the printer name is MCS 211.Students, the printer name is MCS 211.Students, the printer name is MCS 211.Missing our own children
Continuing graduate school coursework as we plan, teach, and gradeMoving to different classroomsFinding out we have to teach brand new contentSitting through student-orientationsA change in scenery

Which view is better? Compare and contrast...







~ ~ ~
All that griping aside, I truly believe that teaching is the most important profession in the world because it impacts every other profession. We have (scary) powerful influence in what I think is a noble profession. Think back to the people who inspired you as you grew up. My guess is that if you make a list of the ten people who inspired, encouraged, and loved you throughout your childhood, half or more of those people are teachers.
To end on a positive note (since teachers must model appropriate attitudes toward learning for their students), I jotted a good little list of wonderful aspects of the teaching profession. I mean every single word.
Good things about being a teacher:
1. MY BUDDIES AT SCHOOL

Man of Measure and Red Hot Backspace
Red Hot and Rupaul
Students keeping us youthful and informed
Speedy work daysRewarding interaction with young people


Colorful, dynamic, always changing work daysA calling, a ministryThe privilege of parenting children who need parentingSocializing with interesting, talented, funny co-workers
Faculty: a second familyWorking in a culture of life-long learningKnowing exactly what we are supposed to doOpportunities to be creativeCollaborating with bright professionalsAdvocating for your school communityPlaying a personal role in students’ success stories
Oh, yeah, I almost forgot:Fall breakThanksgiving breakChristmas breakSpring breakSummer break
And the best of the best:
SNOW DAYS!


~ ~ ~
It’s your turn, teacher-readers. What do you dread? What do you love?# Post here in a comment or go to Theories: Size 12 on Facebook. Let’s cheer each other onward! Go buy some black britches and peanut butter crackers. It’s a new school year!


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

Happy Summer, Readers!

I hope you all had a great time July 4th! I just wanted to let you know that I didn't write a new post July 3rd because I was on Norris Lake and I won't post July 11th because I'll be spending time with my precious nieces Balloon Girl and Cake. Plus, July 19th is the last day for two of my grad school classes, so all my creative energy will go into writing my teaching philosophy, journal article abstracts, interviewing a veteran teacher, and curriculum and instruction class presentations. Yay. Me.

Anyway, my last diatribe, Theory 47: Chunky girls need love songs, too, especially in the summertime, is a hit. You should see it below this post. If not, here's the link:

http://www.jodydyer.blogspot.com/2014...

HAPPY SUMMER! Live it up!

Sharky and Gnome certainly do.

Tube-tuckered.
Sharky explores the Little Greenbrier School
Sharky surveys the Little River in Metcalf Bottoms, GSM

Gnomes eat their donuts from the top down.

Rain delay. Brought his game inside. Geez.
Gnome sings his favorite song to "all the boys and girls." A classic!

See you next post (July 18). Until then, think outside the barn and eat as much onion dip as you want. It pairs well with Bota Box Pinot Grigio and Kroger brand rippled potato chips (saltier than the name brand).

Love,
Bug

Theory 47: Chunky girls need love songs, too, especially in the summertime. (So I wrote one.)

In last week’s post, Theory 46: The perfect summer is almost free. Ask any redneck—like me! I illustrated the ideal summer of inexpensive, happy, outdoor times. Summer should be carefree, but for most women, summer also brings an embarrassing, hard to avoid circumstance that causes us great anxiety and self-hatred.
We have to wear underwear in public. Swimsuits. Yuck.
Delicious once stated, quite profoundly, that she looks better naked than she does in a swimsuit. I don’t know about naked, but I do look better in my underwear than I do in a swimsuit. Why? Because my bras are designed with suspension engineering, volume control, orthopedic support, and coverage. In a swimsuit, I feel droopy and exposed.
I lose and gain the SAME three pounds every stinking week. The schedule typically works like this:
Monday - I get motivated and go “low-carb” and drop the pounds by Thursday.Thursday – I get cocky. I eat some bread.Friday/Saturday/Sunday – I get loose. Agape Agave, Flower Child, Smokin’ Scrubs, and “Elaine” text up a trip to El Charro. Monday – I beat myself up and start all over.
It’s also strange to me that whenever I sit, scrunched over in a beach chair, sweating like a chubby piccolo player at band camp in August, in my skirtankini, and watch fit young girls with 5% body fat frolic freely in the ocean, I get sooooo hungry. What the helk is that all about?
Don’t you think it’s interesting that we women know EXACTLY HOW to lose weight, but we just can’t follow through? Why is that? I ponder a few potential reasons…
Our husbands want us thin, so we rebel. We actually love ourselves and like to treat ourselves with wine, onion dip, and milkshakes.Eating too much is a secondary concern compared to the usual daily issues we face: menopause, PMS, pregnancy, infertility, serving on committees, fighting addictions (ours and other folks’), helping children with Common Core schoolwork, caring for aging parents, getting new degrees in old age, fighting the urge to run away.STRESS from ridiculous primary and secondary work stress.We have tooooooooo much to dooooooooo.We need sister wives to help with all those to-do’s so we can plan better meals and exercise, but sister wives are taboo.We watch so many zombie shows that we eat as much as we can now because we subconsciously believe one day we we’ll be stabbing our undead neighbors in their foreheads to gain access to their dusty apocalyptic pantries.
By the way, all you ,magazines and TV shows, please stop telling me I need to sleep more, drink 10,000 ounces of water each day, and exercise.
I can’t sleep because Gnome won’t go to sleep. He watches golf, in my bed, while I read textbooks (gag), until 11:00 p.m. That is THE BEST I can do right now. I get up at 6:00 a.m. in the summer (5:00 a.m. in the school year) to work, write, and think….alone. Alone! Leave me alone about my sleep situation!
I can’t drink water because water sucks. It literally has no taste. If you magazine and TV people can improve water, I'll give it a shot.
I can’t exercise because I would have to get up at 4:00 a.m. or go to bed at midnight. You tell me I need sleep. Do the math. Impossible. Plus, when you exercise you need to stay hydrated with water. And, again, water sucks.
~ ~ ~
Okay folks, I am throwing in the beach towel and embracing my three pounds. I think I’ll even name them. Hmmmm. What would be most appropriate for three pudgy friends that show up every weekend? Perhaps I should name them after their lineage. Sure!
Pound 1: Mayfield (as in onion dip and ice cream)Pound 2: Bota (as in Box)Pound 3: Jose (as in my favorite waiter at El Charro)
By the way, I don't need to lose ONLY three pounds. Mayfield, Bota, and Jose have friends. Trust me.
Who can (or should) resist the ice cream truck?
I do need to lose all these "friends" before my breast reduction surgery so I don’t leave the hospital looking like a snowman. Whatever. I guess I'll starting the Monday that school starts in late July. Until then, I am calling this summer the “Summer of Onion Dip.” I'm going to live, and eat, and pray. Did I just plagiarize or do other women feel this way, too? Sugar, butter, wine, salt: BRING IT ON!
This is livin'.

To encourage all of you less than svelte ladies who must wear underwear in public this summer, and worse, like me, must wear underwear in public while chasing toddlers, I have re-written a song to hopefully make you feel loved. I chose the Luke Bryan song, “Country Girl Shake it for Me” because Agape Agave (a massage therapist) actually got to work on him, so naturally we are good friends – indirectly – so I think he’ll forgive me. Also, he is LOADED $$$ and won’t bother to sue public schoolteacher me. Also, he is People Magazine’s 2014 “Sexiest Man” in country music.

I strongly suggest you listen to the real song a couple of times before you read/sing my lyrics. That way you’ll know the tune. And get to see Luke Bryan. Here’s the link:
"Country Girl" by Luke Bryan
“Chunky Girl Shake it for Me” – satirized by Bug, dedicated to every self-conscious woman ever.
Hey girl. Go on now.
You know you've got everybody looking.
Got a little donk in your big white truck,
Take off your swim skirt; don’t cover that up!
Stomp your size nine boots in the Georgia mud
Dip that chip; make me fall in love

Get up on the hood of my tractor, that’s hot!
Be careful, don’t trip, you’ll need a tetanus shot.
We can’t drive to the after hours clinic with a buzz, You’d lose your teaching license. We’d have to put the pimento cheese up.Let’s play it safe, stay here, and eat boiled peanuts.
Straddle that hood with your thunder thighs.I’ll turn on Dixieland Delight.Get all parts moving, I can’t wait,
To watch you do your thing!

Shake it for the young girls dreading bikini season,For the sexy country women out there canning and freezing,For the Weight Watchers, Low Carb-ers, and gluten-dodgers,We know they ain't having fun.
Shake it for the Cross-Fitters who never enjoy a cone,
For the pageant girls marching to their mothers' drones,
For the teenagers building their self-esteem.For the fat band geeks. Helk, they’re living the dream!

Chunky girl, shake it for me girl,
Shake it for me girl, shake it for me
Chunky girl, shake it for me girl,
Shake it for me girl, shake it for me.

Somebody's pudgy little pretty child,
Met a Little Debbie, got a bit double-wide.
You know how to live, you know how to fry.
Rope me in with your custard pie.

So come on over here and crank this arm
Spin me and this rock salt with your buttery charmsYou could be the woman of my dreams,Let’s make some chunky loving and homemade ice cream.

Yeah, yeah, yeah!
Shake it for the young girls dreading bikini season,For the sexy country women out there canning and freezing,For the Weight Watchers, Low Carb-ers, and gluten-dodgers,We know they ain't having fun.
Shake it for the Cross-Fitters who never enjoy a cone,
For the pageant girls marching to their mothers' drones,
For the teenagers building their self-esteem.For the fat band geeks. Helk, they’re living the dream!

Chunky girl, shake it for me girl,
Shake it for me girl, shake it for me
Chunky girl, shake it for me girl,
Shake it for me girl, shake it for me

~ ~ ~

Readers, for the love of summer, have fun. Don’t be unhealthy, but please drop the self-doubt, self-hatred, and self-sabotaging baggage. Start your diets in the fall (or never), and LIVE! Think of your BEST friends’ attitudes toward you. Have the same attitude toward yourself that your friends who love you have toward you! And remember, fat floats. Ha!
Cheers to a great summer!
 Find and friend me on social media! And answer this question: What is your #1 guilty pleasure in the summertime?
See you next post. Until then, think outside the barn!

Theory 46: The perfect summer is almost free. Ask any redneck—like me!

One afternoon this week, I pulled Big Red into the Pilot on Northshore Drive (Knoxville, you know, the scary and friendly Pilot where SUVs from the ‘919 maneuver like Chinese puzzle pieces and purchase morning coffee from sweet cashiers?) to gas up for a little road trip to Townsend, TN.As I was about to pull out, I spotted a beautiful scene. A scene that screamed “summer.” A scene that I’m pretty sure even made Big Red smile. I watched a good old country boy, wearing a wife-beater t-shirt, sunglasses on a rubber rope, and a late June caramel tan, dump 12 cans of Natural Light and 10 pound bag of ice in the cooler that sat on his open tailgate. Headed to the lake? Fishing? “Cruising on a dirt road?” I’m mad that I didn’t take a better picture! I thought about asking him to pose, but, again, I had to get out of that Pilot puzzle alive, so I just snapped one out the window. He made my day. A couple of weeks ago, I spotted a chunky little boy, maybe 10 years old, literally DANCING as he waited for an ice cream at Brewster’s. He made my day. My hydrangeas bloomed a piercing, cotton candy blue last week. They made my day.
Oh, helk, yeah!
 Ask any redneck, or teacher, or teacher’s child, or country boy, or ice-cream lover, or broke college student, and he or she will tell you: The perfect summer doesn’t cost much, if you are smart and imaginative and OUTSIDE. I tossed “redneck” into the title because I lean that direction this time of year. I’m seasonal. Fall: academic. Christmas: stressed out academic. Spring: Bohemian who is tired of academia. Summer: Redneck. Redneck, by my definition, just means someone who spends lots of time outside, for a living or by choice. Think tan lines, not restaurant behavior or upbringing. Think park ranger, construction worker, road crews, the guy at the serpentarium who tosses raw chicken to the alligators, the mile-high teenager directing tour-ons down the water slide.
Growing up, my summers in Sevier Countywere awesome. “Awesome” was a big word in the 80’s at Pigeon Forge Elementary. Big Booty J, who taught there, got so sick and tired of all her children, nieces, and nephews saying “Awesome” all the time that she banned it. We needed a word. So, my genius cousin A-Boo looked it up in the thesaurus and we adopted “Wondrous.” Just as obnoxious. Ha! Anyway, once Field Day and Awards Day were over, we had long, hot summers to play hard. Silver Dollar City, which then became Dollywood, passes were affordable. Vacation Bible School was free. My cousins and I swam for nothing at the Chalet Villageand Riverside Hotel pools because Pooh and Uncle Gravy worked there. We tubed and skipped rocks in the Little River in the Metcalf Bottoms Picnic Area. Delicious and I watched Pooh fly-fish at Elkmont and Greenbrier in The Great Smoky Mountains. My Barbies threw fabulous parties in Kellum Creek on The Crippled Beagle Farm.
You haven’t had a real summer experience as a child, unless you’ve ridden in the back of a pick-up in Seale, Alabamato get an ice cream sandwich at a store whose floor is dirtier than your bare feet and your uncle’s truck’s floorboard.
Even folks who work year-round, like Tall Child, have background knowledge, permanent imprints from childhood stress-free summers of simple pleasure, that make workdays feel lighter in June, July, and August. Just last night, Tall Child and I took an 8 p.m. cruise to Cookout for chocolate milkshakes. He would NEVER do that in November.Cousin Bags once said that her favorite thing about summer was “Cheez-Its!”
Agape Agave says her Edisto Beachtrip (all women and children) tradition is to bring a giant bag of Flavor-Ice pops. For the life of me, I can’t rip those things open with my gompers. Can you?
In this Theory, I want to explore what inexpensive experiences scream summer to you! I listed what I happily remember from childhood and enjoy now as a mother. I want to know your favorite summer stuff! Keep it simple and affordable for all my readers (some of whom are teenagers). For example, do NOT say “Trip to Greece.” Say, “Trip to see Grease at the drive-in on 321.”
Bug’s favorite (and inexpensive) stuff of summer---childhood to present:
Without a doubt. COUSINS from Alabama staying all summer in Tennessee!
Everything about Grandmama "Buddy" and Wimmie.
Watching my Uncle Trout kill a rattlesnake with a nine-iron.
Clothes lines.
Looking for good books in an air-conditioned public library.
Clogging or swimming or clogging while swimming (it’s possible) at the Grand Hotel in Pigeon Forge to South Star Band (headlined by cousins Mooch and Baby).
Pontoon boats.
Watching Roscoe play Pac Man at Sugar Beachcondos in Panama City Beach.
Making Michael Jackson “videos” and performing them for intoxicated relatives in my aunt’s basement on Douglas Lake.
Onion dip.
Campfires.
Cleats.
Sprinklers.
Slip-n-slides.
Eating boiled peanuts on the beach and using my toes to dig a little hole within tossing distance with for the hulls.
Seeing bass boats at the gas station.Fishing with “night-crawlers”, which is also the nickname I gave Dogwood Debutante when she decided to use the online dating service “Plenty of Fish.” It worked. Just sayin'.
Squirting Gnome and Sharky with the garden hose.
Sunroofs.
Sliced fresh tomatoes.
Picking blackberries with Sharky and Delicious until our fingers are black with juice and polka-dotted with thorn pricks.
Charcoal.
Frozen trout in the freezer.
Outdoor showers (hose, bucket, whatever works).
Shaving my legs with girlfriends on the back of a houseboat.
Beach towels hanging off porch railings.
Tubing.
Plastic swimming pools.
Hanging baskets.
~ ~ ~
Okay, fellow theorists, it’s your turn! But, so we can ALL enjoy your commentary, please go to either my personal Facebook page or to the Theories: Size 12 Facebook page to respond. I’ll pin a link to the blog and the question for you, “What inexpensive sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and experiences scream summer to you?” I’d especially love to hear from my northern and international readers, since my comments are certainly southern.
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(I posted the links at the bottom, too.)
Happy summer to all of you!!! And, to all the children out there in cyberspace, on behalf of your parents and teachers, I say/yell/demand:
For the love of summer, GO OUTSIDE!!!
My FAVORITE summer country song: 
Song dedications should be Dierks Bentley turnip greens. 

Images to inspire you/make you laugh/help you remember. (Summer is all about imagery, isn't it?)
Pooh and friend
Sharky cruising Norris Lake
Bug relaxing on the river

Little Bug posing by Delicious's summer blooms 
Sharky on wheels.
Tall Child on water.
Good times with friends.
Summer treat.
Sharky swinging on The Crippled Beagle Farm
Little Sharky rinsing his sandy toes.
Delicious and baby Gnome, July Fourth 2011
Happy Hydrangea!
Sharky and one of his beagles
Gnome swinging on The Crippled Beagle Farm
AWESOME/WONDROUS

Farm Cruise: Gnome and Delicious

Perfect supper: Sweet tea and friend green tomatoes.

Gnome at Metcalf Bottoms My "boys of summer"Let's talk! Find me and friend me and please post your favorite stuff of summertime!

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Theory 45: Group work is funky.

Forty may be the perfect age, but College at age 40 is kicking my rear end. As I wrote a couple of weeks ago in T heory 43: A working mother can only do so much , taking nine credit hours is tough at my age with my job and family responsibilities. But, now that I've met my teachers and I've sat through student presentations on Realism, Idealism, Confucius, Plato, and Socrates, I've had my own philosophical epiphany to which many of you will relate: Theory 45: Group work is funky.
Let me clarify a bit. Group work is funky in SCHOOL.
Group work is natural and normal at, now this is crazy, ya’ll, WORK.
My first bad experience with group work (that I can remember) occurred my senior year at The University of Tennessee. A finance professor had the genius (eerily Common-Core-ish) idea to have us collaborate with art and architecture students on a massive, semester-long project. Basically, we were forced to work together on a pretend building development. The architecture students designed and constructed the buildings. The finance majors financed the thing. Ugh. My group consisted of three: Roommate and I covered financial interests and CAD (Covert Architecture Dude) took care of the building stuff. I tag him Covert because we could never find him.  What was that professor thinking? There were no cell phones back then. Email was new. My communications professor gave us extra credit if we sent him an email, for Heaven’s sake. Computers? Excel and Word were a junior level university course! In other words, that group project was completely inconvenient, over my head academically, frustrating, and socially awkward.  The roommate dynamic is challenging enough, why add schoolwork to the list of potential fight stimulants? Maybe we chose that. I can’t remember. CAD was a problem. He was an old man. Well, to Roomate and me, anyway. CAD was 25. Even weirder, he and his wife (gross) had a newborn baby. I don’t remember what it was; I just remember thinking that being married in college would suck, and being married with a baby would double-suck. Another Theory perhaps? When one of my college buddies would whine about stressful coursework or being broke or whatever, I’d always try to cheer them up by saying, “Things could be worse, you know. You could be living in married student housing.” That always put things in perspective. 

Also, we could have had/could have this as a classroom:

Little Greenbrier School in The Great Smoky Mountains

I don't know how those teachers and students coped with the weather and conditions, but that is one spectacular setting in which to learn.
Anyway, Roommate, CAD, and I struggled through that project, but not without injury. I learned that the hardest part of group work is not the workness, it’s the groupness. That was the ONLY time in college that I visited a professor in his office hours. Pooh had passed away. Delicious and I were flat broke. I figured out a way to graduate a semester early, which would save Delicious (a public school teacher and 49 year old widow at that time) an important amount of money. I’d also already gotten a job to start in January (which again would help my sweet, grieving, financially strained mama). We couldn't seem to get the project together and Roomate and I didn't really understand our part. I was scared, so, I saw the professor. I explained to him that the project was wearing me out and that I was truly worried it would keep me from passing and graduating. He said one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard a teacher say. Ever. He said, quite fatherly, “I don’t fail seniors.” Whew!
People. Peoplemake work hard. People also have the power to make work happy.
By comparison, group work at work makes perfect sense. I just wrapped up a lengthy project called “End of Course Testing” with an awesome group of women. Red Hot Back Space (my teaching colleague with whom I co-plan, co-lunch, co-llaborate, and co-harass cute male teachers), Digits (our school attendance secretary who just happens to bring an accounting degree, a seemingly photographic memory, an awesome play list, and a giant bag of candy with her, and Ticonderoga (the fabulously gifted guidance counselor who can count fast, coax co-workers, and calm a frantic ADHD tech teacher like me with one sentence or, better yet, one funny story).  That group project was one of the most complicated, logistically difficult, and high-stakes nerve-wracking I’d ever attempted, but those ladies made it fun, FUNNY, and an overall positive experience. In the end, end-of-course testing went smoothly. I did gain three pounds, though, because Ticonderogabrought cakes and cobblers every day. That reminds me of another little group that always seems to appear together: women, stress, & carbohydrates.

Someone was anxious about the tests.

So, like I said, I’m slammed this summer with coursework and, yuck, group projects. On grad school registration night, I sat with Cool Country Ginger and our exceptionally attractive 8th grade math teacher. Let’s call him Hot Math. Someone should send his Olan Mills school picture to the Ford Modeling Agency. Anyway, the moment I sat down, Cool Country Ginger whispered, “Hot Math and I are scoping out potential people we DO want or DO NOT want to work with on group projects. We don't want to get stuck with any weirdos.”

Freshman Humor


This stuff can get funky, so I have a few coping mechanisms. I either take what/who is left, or, if I have the energy, follow my personal 5 STEP Group Work Survival System:
STEP 1. Identify the people who live the farthest away so it just doesn’t make sense to meet in person.
STEP 2. Identify the person who brought a laptop to registration or the first class so he/she will likely do the technology stuff. You see, the person who puts all the PowerPoint slides together is kind of like the person who allows the baby or bridal shower to be at her house. She is an equal group member, but will do more work because you’re using her turf. I’ve also noted that MAC users are really excited about their equipment. Kind of like breast feeders. They are super eager and want you to know how awesome Macs and breast milk are, so milk it. Ha!
STEP 3. Once the group is assembled, I try to take the lead. Yes, that means more responsibility, but it also means I’m the delegate-or, not the delegate-ee.
STEP 4. This one is the most important ya’ll. I flubbed the dub on Step 4 back in college with Roommate and CAD. I know better now. Step 4 is a step I TRY to take every day in every group project. Step 4 is “Let the other members be right, even when they are wrong.” Only children can struggle with this one. I have. I am learning. I like to go on and let other folks think they are right, even when it’s obvious to me that they are wrong, because, well, because, sometimes they are RIGHT. Ha!
STEP 5. Drop the ego. Bring the snacks.

Wait a minute. Chocolate?

At this point, I’d like to give a shout-out to my LMU Post-Bacc Realism Project Group from 2009/2010. We had the perfect mix of personalities. Me, Bug: I was the interpersonal glue; I injected humor at will to bond our unit. I was also creative. County Boy: We grew up together. We had good history, so he trusted me. He trusted me enough that he let us put him in a fake Cialis commercial to represent Realism. My dear colleague, let’s call her “Tech Savvy” because she is gifted at manipulating software and Savvy because she masterfully directed a diverse mix individuals to complete a first-class group project final product that is used as an example for master’s level students. You can see us on the big screen, ya’ll, well, the big projection screen, at the LMU Cedar Bluff Campus, Room 115. I’d be honored to work with Tech Savvy on any project. Good Sports (2 guys). These two were normal men who had great senses of humor and did what Tech Savvy and I told them. Usually on time, too! Nice.I was later blessed to work with my now dear friend “Mother Of The Year Every Year” (MOTYEY for short). She is so stinking smart and an incredibly good mama to four children. She knows all about group dynamics. And literature. And grading papers. And the Bible. And coffee. And allergies. When I get stressed, I think I’ll just put life in perspective by whispering, MOTYEY .
~ ~ ~
Readers, I want to know your group project horror or funny stories! Email me at jdyer415@yahoo.com, comment below the post, or message me on Facebook.

If you are in the Knoxville/Lenoir City area this weekend, stop by the Lenoir City Arts and Crafts Festival. I'll be meeting readers and signing and selling books with fellow members of the Authors Guild of Tennessee. We'll also participate in storytelling (near the main performance stage). My time is 1:30 Saturday. Go to my events page on www.jodydyer.com for more info.
Otherwise, I’ll see you next post – likely on June 20. Until then, think outside the barn!


Let's talk! Find me and friend me and please post any time.

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Theory 44: College at age 40 sucks compared to college at age 20.

How many of you college graduates have one of these recurring dreams?

1. You've been in school all semester, and it's now time to take the big final exam (one of maybe four grades in the class), and you can't find the testing location? I swear on the Smoky Mountains, I failed an Accounting 202 test because I took it in a gigantic theater-seated room in the Jessie Harris Building (I think). I was a finance major and that was a science building. No joke, I credit my awful experience to the intimidating table of elements that stretched wall-to-wall at the bottom front of the depressing room. I am terrible at science (no memory). Actually, I'm not even sure that it was the Jessie Harris Building. Whatever. I just know that taking the test in an unfamiliar location with two hundred other coeds under the, ugh, letter-number-combos representing matters and gasses mattered to me. I scored an F2O.

2. The other college nightmare that I often have is that I get notice of a test, say in December or May, and realize that I've never actually attended the course. It's too late to withdraw. It's too late to learn. It's even too late to crouch behind the sectional sofa in the athletic dorm and copy down answers from the "tutors" as they help Division I athletes master complex economic theories.


Well, as I explained last week in Theory 43: Working mothers can only do so much, I am living the college dream, or some would say, nightmare. Back in 1992, I went to college to become a business woman, but also to become educated. I think of education as light. Knowing things, learning things, mastering and exploring concepts, literature, procedures, ideas, opinions, research, etc. illuminates the world around us. I often ask my students, "When you find a song, read a book, or see a movie that you just love, don't you start to notice references to that song, book, or movie everywhere?" Delicious says that people who read poetry enjoy sunsets more than people who don't read poetry. I remember when Ronald Reagan announced his strategic defense initiative and said to military personnel, "May the force be with you." Even as a very young child, I knew exactly what he meant, because I was "educated" (culturally, anyway) through Star Wars. If I'd never seen Star Wars, I would have missed the meaning and magnitude and scope of that phrase.

~ ~ ~ Goob alert!!! I'm about to quote from a book I'm reading in my M. Ed. coursework.~ ~ ~

Okay, so I'm reading an actually enjoyable book. In the late 1940's Jesse Stuart wrote The Thread That Runs So True. The book is Stuart's account of his days as a mountain school teacher in rural Kentucky. He makes the following speech to barefoot, poverty-ridden students at Mountain View School:

I told [students]...that education was not a commodity to be bought and sold but something that gave one more realization and enjoyment of the many things that life held in store. That wiht more education, the mysteries and the beauties of life would unfold before them like the buds of leaf and flower in the spring. I told them they would even see more beauty in their natural surroundings than they now saw.

Amen, Jesse Stuart! All this is to say that I place extremely high value on education. Education is the one thing that, once you have it, no one can take it away. It is liberating. I love to learn. I love college-level coursework. I love teaching and teachers. But, I am struggling right now, because College at age 40 sucks compared to college at age 20. Let's compare the two, using Abraham Maslow's Hierachy of Needs theory, shall we?  I think it’s best to start from the basic needs, at the bottom, and work our way up. Here we go:

Maslow’s Defined Need Bug age 18-21 (1992-1995) Bug age 40 (2014)
Physiological Needs Air Had just outgrown childhood asthma and could climb the 2.5 million steps on UT’s campus with toned marching band legs. Can’t breathe walking uphill from the mailbox. Have to drive everywhere. Food Meal plan. Took cherry tomatoes from the salad bar to my secret dorm pet guinea pig, Sam. Stole a pineapple from the Presidential Courtyard Cafeteria and soaked it with vodka. Good times. Well, first I work all week. Then, on Sundays, I go Krogering and load up a heavy cart with apple juice, bacon, milk, loaf break, bananas, dog food. Then I bring it all home and unload it. Then I cook it. Then I slop the Hog, Gnome, and Sharky. Then I store leftovers. Then I wash the dishes. Then I put the clean dishes away. Some cycle. Water Drank it like crazy. Try to make myself drink it to lose weight. Shelter One room in Humes Hall to clean. Four girls shared a bathroom. Good times. I provide it, fix it, clean it, curse it, love it, and pray it doesn’t burn down. Oh, and kill mice who attack it. Two this week! Clothing Not so good back then. Not much better now. (Teacher fashion.) Sleep Got it. Ha!
Safety and Security Needs Health 34-24-34 My school system forces us to weigh in quarterly for a $50 per month insurance discount. My BMI? TMI! Employment Everyone should work in a restaurant. Can’t say that enough. Dream job: school teacher Property Clarinet, comforter set, lots of costume jewelry, micro fridge, mechanical pencils before they were cool Though signs of the recession abound in our Glen Cove abode, I love my home and hope I can hang on to it. The Master’s Degree should help. Family Delicious and Pooh Delicious, Tall Child, Sharky, Gnome (long, sweet story), Buzz (dog from Helk). Stability Had it. Lost it when I lost Pooh (1993). Regained it partially. I can’t afford prescriptions for that. Just do the best I can with prayer, yard work, and Bota Box.
Love and Belongingness Needs Friendship Three girls from Gatlinburg. GT, TRO, and Mare. Funny stuff can happen, even when you spend most of your time in your Humes Hall dorm room. I love people. Tall ones, fat ones, skinny ones, drunk ones, smart ones, dumb ones, and especially creative ones. Shout out to my sisters, from sports and religion and everything in between. I love you! Intimacy No way! I was a good little girl. But I did go to band camp. Just sayin’. Tall Child wouldn’t want me to share such details. He’s too modest. Connections No cell phone, no internet, no computer, no social media. Cell phone (got a smart one just last summer!), internet (most of the time), social media (a blessing to all only children), lots of online communities. I love this part of this century!
Self-Esteem Needs Confidence Had it. Have it. (Thanks to Delicious.) Achievement Good grades, except for engineering calculus. No hillbilly should ever have a German teacher. B.S., lots of jobs, Post-Bacc, published author,and am able to gain and lose the same 2 pounds every week. Good stuff. Respect of Others Very protective of my self-esteem and reputation. Want it, but don’t worry about it. Forty is the perfect age. Ahhh, liberating! Individuality I did wear lots of white t-shirts and khaki shorts so the band director didn’t notice me. Looking for a unique personal uniform. Ideas?
Self-Actualisation (British site=funky spelling) Morality Good girl, good daughter, good girlfriend, good student, good friend. Same. Add wife and mother. At least I try to be. I don’t steal pineapples anymore. Creativity Snuck in a non-required writing course at UT. Write without fear now. Spontaneity Not so much. Couldn’t afford it. I will hit El Charro at the drop of a hat. Just text me. I also like to inject humor at will in unlikely/sometimes inappropriate situations. Acceptance You were OK. I was OK. I love weirdness and even like my own weirdness. Purpose To help Delicious. To take care of my family and encourage or entertain others through meaningful work (teaching and writing). Meaning I meant business. I mean to have a good time. Inner Potential Ambitious, practical. I really think I have a fiction novel in me. Time will tell. Maybe when I finish my Ed. S. degree. Ha!
That's all I've got folks. It's 8:44 a.m. and I have to take Gnome for his 4-year checkup. We sealed Sharky's teeth yesterday. I have class tomorrow (Saturday) from 7:45 to 3:00. Will you pray that I stay awake? I'm pretty sure I have ADHD. Hmmm, maybe a good topic for Theory 45. My, how times have changed.

Bug circa 1992
Bug circa this morning
Readers who have gone back to school as adults or are going through the helk of it now, PLEASE email/Facebook/comment my way. I want to know: For you, what is the biggest difference in being a college student "then" and "later/now"? THANKS!

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

Let's talk! Find me and friend me and please post any time.
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Theory 43: A working mother can only do so much.

It's Thursday, my last full day of classes with students, and I am looking ahead toward summer. Specifically, I'm looking at three syllabi for my Master's in Curriculum and Instruction (education) coursework. I complete those nine hours through accelerated, Saturday (all dang day) and Wednesday (just four hours) classes from now to the end of July. Then, yay me, I do another round of six accelerated hours (no tailgating for this Bug) to earn the gift of a Master's Degree. I think I'll wrap my certificate in its necessarily evil FAFSA student loan documents and put a red bow on top! Then toast myself with some Andre and cranberry juice.

In January or August, I'll start the coursework for my Educational Specialist degree. That's just 33 more hours, ya'll.

In addition to going back to college at the ripe old age of 40 and pretty much wrecking every moment of free time this summer, fall, and next year plus some (I graduate from all the above in August 2016), I'm revising Theories: Size 12 to publish it as a book or set of smaller books, to meet readers' demands for such. Thank you, by the way, for your kind support and awesome contributions through all my Theories!

Oh top of all THAT, that, and THAT, I'm working on a comprehensive student-based project that could take off or fall flat. Who knows?

Oh, and did I mention my job is changing? My colleague, Red Hot Backspace, and I are re-writing our curriculum and are charged with being technology specialists advisory people. Something like that. I REALLY need a laptop.

Geez. I'm exhausted just reading back through that academic to-do list. Aren't you?

Tired Bug in the middle of the EOC test materials room.
Not complaining, just explaining.

I related my giant to-do list to Agape Agave on the phone and she said, "Bug, good lord, don't you think you are spreading yourself just a little too thin?" I like that she called me thin, but I didn't like that she was right. I "reflected" (that's what teachers seeking advanced degrees do; they "reflect") for a few days, talked to Tall Child and Sharky, and everyone agreed I had to make some changes.

I can only do so much.

I LOVE writing these Theories, but I have to focus on the work that puts biscuits in the jar. Translation for my northern friends: "earns money"

I want to stay married to Tall Child and loved by Sharky and Gnome, which means I can't stay in my little den, locked behind my desktop computer, shooting evil blue-eyed darts at anyone age four to fifty-one who rounds the corner.

I can only do so much.

Like all working mothers, I have to put my personal fun at the bottom of the priority list.

I can only do so much.

Long blah, blah, blah, story short, I'm changing my process for Theories: Size 12 for a little while. I want you to keep checking in, and, actually, help me. This is the plan: Instead of me writing a diatribe for each Theory from my perspective, I will toss out a Theory each Friday and query the field (you) for commentary, content, and collaboration.

I want to know YOUR perspective on these Theories!

Won't that be fun? You can respond to the weekly Theory with a story, an idea, an argument, an "amen" or even a picture. You can write one word, one sentence, a paragraph, or whatever floats your opinion boat. We'll just be talking. No big deal. Your offerings will give me insight and content ideas and, by talking with you, I won't go insane as I type up countless abstracts on philosophies of education and read all those terrible research-based textbooks with too many parentheses and numbers in every awful sentence. Ugh. I may wear a toga to class. I have the body for it.

Perhaps, once I'm all educated and such, I can scratch out another round of fodder in the way of lengthy, entertaining Theories: Size 12 posts that incorporate your wisdom and wit. What do you say?

In that vein, here we go. Today's Theory is ........
 Theory 43: A working mother can only do so much.
Answer any/all of these questions, if you're so inclined:

1. What does your working mother meltdown look like?
2. What can father's do to help you avoid burnout?
3. How do you cope with stress?
4. Who suffers the most when mama is worn slap out?
5. Do you think women work harder than men at home, at work? How so?
6. Share a good story of "throwing in the towel", "throwing up of hands", or "walking flat out of a situation you just couldn't handle any more."
7. What did I miss?


Okay, readers, it's your turn to fuel the online fodder. You can email me at jdyer415@yahoo.com, Facebook message me at Jody Cantrell Dyer or Theories: Size 12, or put a message in a bottle in Lake Loudon. Either way, I appreciate every sentence you draft.

Thanks again for allowing me to make some changes in order to basically survive (mentally, anyway). I can't afford Zoloft, Xanex, Klonopins until I finish the Ed. S. so I have to rely on Bota Box and your generous verbal offerings.

Meanwhile, I love you!

Bug

By the way, I tossed a couple of items onto Kindle this month: Field Day (sweet, short, short and sweet, story) and Parents, Stop and Think (a collection of reflective letters from the perspective of a mother and teacher). Enjoy!

Just click on the covers to see more info:

   Field Day  
 Parents, Stop and Think. For all you teachers out there, H.A.G.S. No, you aren't hags! I meant Have A Great Summer! I think I'll wrap myself in a sheet, drain a Bota Box and write a first class abstract on Realism.   Song dedication: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kr0tTbTbmVA   Let's talk! Find me and friend me and please post any time.

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

Facebook: Jody Cantrell Dyer
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Theory 42: Modern education has ruined field day.

I don’t know about you, but when nature flips the switch on winter, I feel energized! My feet don’t freeze on hardwood. Big Red waits, warm and ready. My shrubs and flowers exit a blank, drab dormancy and bloom into the ever-changing Technicolor society of my yard. Wild Trillium, neon moss, and porch lizards surprise me. Spring also brings nostalgic anxiety. When I get a whiff of wet grass cuttings, my stomach does a somersault and I have to talk myself down from athletic dread.

Field Day.
Remember two things. One: I come from a family of athletes. Two: I played sports, even though I sucked at them. Athletic ventures always, always, ALWAYS, put me in a nerve-wracking, self-conscious, embarrassing position (physically and socially). Now at the perfect age of forty, I don’t care much what others think, but as a child, Field Day was tough on me.
I wrote a short story about Field Day for a creative writing class at The University of Tennessee. Even though I was long free of Delicious-pressure to beef up my transcripts with athletic participation and was, by then, happily brainwashed as a Pride of the Southland Band clarinet partier, I mean, player, I never shook the scars of my Field Day days at Pigeon Forge Elementary School. I revamped the story this week and published it on Kindle. I'd love for you to buy it (99 cents) - maybe for your children if not for you. I placed a link at the end of the blog post. I attended elementary school during the Reagan administration, when physical fitness was the buzz. And the boys wore buzzes. My cousins’ names decorated the Presidential Fitness Award bulletin board outside our principal’s office. President Reagan apparently loved Pigeon Forge Elementary School. I thought we must have been the sit-up, push-up, pull-up studs of Sevier County. Or maybe he gave us lots of awards because he won our mock election with 99% of the vote. Anyway, while my cousins Roscoe, Nan, and G.T. anticipated 50-yard dashing their way to micro-local fame, I personally dreaded the entire experience. Even though I anticipated last place notariety, I admired athletic prowess and was, as an observer and commentator of human nature even then, fascinated by the concept and excellent delivery of Field Day at PFES.
Well done, coaches and teachers, well done.

Kids these days would literally pass out by boxed lunch time if they tried Field Day the old way. For those of you who grew up in, perhaps, softer social settings, let me describe a good old Southern elementary school field day.
First, the events stretched throughout an entire school day. School was out. Good times were in. As Delicious once said, “We [local] educators try not to let academics interfere with our fun.”
Events were as follows (from what I can remember):
50 yard dash
100 yard dash
400 yard relay
mile run
long jump
standing broad jump
sack race
shoe kick
shoe race
potato race
water balloon toss
three-legged race
tug-of-war
crab walk (that one broke G.T.’s arm)
bear crawl
football throw


The schedule was something like this: Teachers organized students a few days before Field Day. Students signed up for the contests they wanted to enter. On Field Day, teachers escorted students out of their classrooms, down the hallways, and through the lunchroom. In the lunchroom, we picked up uniform lunches that clogged an unusually cool serving line. White bags contained turkey and cheese sandwiches, milk, apples, potato chips, and oatmeal or shortbread cookies. Students carried the lunch bags and blankets and beach towels they’d brought from home. We spread out, organized by homeroom class, on the grass surrounding the football field. Ours was a giant, Appalachian quilt dotted with Strawberry Shortcake, Barbie, Superhero, and Scooby-Doo, framing the arena: the Pigeon Forge Tiger Football Field.
On the 50 yard line, the principal, PE coach, and judges sat at a heavy wood table, likely borrowed from the library. Boxes of ribbons waited, heavy with promise: blue for first place, red for second, white for third. The ribbons came with numeric value and bragging rights; when a student placed, a judge pinned the appropriate ribbon to the front of the child's shirt. Roscoe could fly. By 3:00 p.m. he was a one-boy parade. 
Everyone in the school participated—students, faculty, staff, administration—everyone. Except parents. Field Day was a time of fun and bonding between teachers and students. Parents would be in the way.
Field Day was extremely competitive. There was an overall class winner, as in Mrs. Big Booty J’s 4th grade homeroom. The class winner got to keep a huge trophy for the entire next school year. There was a female winner and a male winner from each grade. And, to make sure everyone knew who was the absolutely fastest, most athletic, toughest competitor in K-8, the judges determined (by ribbon count) two supreme winners:
Mr. and Mrs. Tiger.
Teachers coached and motivated us to WIN. Winning was the goal. Oh, no, you didn’t say that, Bug! Oh, yes, I did. Winning was awesome. Losing sucked. Even though I was a total goob, I absolutely wanted my class to win. I daydreamed of watching girls I didn’t like cry tears of defeat into their Care Bear blankets. We were innocent, but we were fierce. And, we were physical. No one was fat. Well, some teachers were, but that was it. And that’s normal. Even somewhat chunky students—girls like me with round bellies and prematurely full training bras—could play outside for hours in those days.  
Soaked in sweat and tap water from burst balloons, our bony shins wore a fur of damp grass clippings. It was heaven for athletes. Though awkward and nerve-wracking for band nerds with bad coordination and slow-twitch muscle fibers, it was still a social, bonding, exciting, book-free, fantastic way to round out a school year with friends. We traded friendship pins and stickers and talked Cabbage Patch Dolls.
Alas, Field Day has morphed, along with society, to a weaker, politically correct, overall disappointing experience.
The 1980’s Bug would have loved modern field day as a participant, but hated it on a philosophical level.  Confused by my love/hate relationship with Field Day? Think of it this way. I admire success, even when I can’t reach it personally. I admire beautiful women, even though I am not beautiful and may actually turn into a man, hair by hair. I just think it’s cool as helk when anyone does anything to perfection. (You know you tube-sock slide down your hallway after watching ice skaters soar in the Winter Olympics.)
Maybe fast-twitch muscle fibers skip a generation. Though I trip in my own living room, can’t bowl, bat, catch, dribble, or even swim in a straight line (chlorine burns and goggles pinch), I produced a remarkable athlete in Sharky. Finally, I am a sports winner! Admit it; we parents live and breathe through our children’s successes and take on specific, strong personalities when our boys and girls show their stuff (or when we know they have the stuff but won’t show it). Frustrating, right? Why do coaches make future Major League-rs bunt? It’s just wrong, right parents? If you’re wondering which parent you are, check Theory 8: In youth sports, parents are the true performers.
So, a few years ago, my field day, ahem, I mean Sharky’s field day in the sun finally came! Or so I thought.
You see, Sharky attends a top notch school. He learns in the shadows of a school chock-full of smart students under the guidance of superb, tireless, loving teachers. Let’s call it “Utopia Elementary” (UE). The sweet, quaint, old building is perched a trolley ride’s distance from The University of Tennessee and smack in the middle of a wealthy neighborhood (not our neighborhood, thus Big Red), so children of professional academia, surgeons, government officials, and downtown ambition abound at UE. At first grade parent orientation, the principal informed us that 92% of UE students’ parents hold bachelor’s degrees and 45% hold master’s degrees or higher. Wow. I looked at Tall Child and said, “We are running in a fast heat.”
Well, Sharky struggled to learn to read. His Kindergarten teacher, let’s call her “Veteran”, tossed him into “The Reading Club” with a few other boys. Nearing retirement, Veteran rewarded the Reading Club’s after school work with contra-ban cookies (oh, no, don’t tell Michelle Obama!) and their favorite pastime, reenacting The Battle of the Alamo on the playground. Sharky/Davy Crockett led The Reading Club against Santa Anna every afternoon. Veteran used play to motivate the reading club. And, guess what? They are all literate. Sharky loved recess, gym class, basketball, baseball, flag football, and basement ping-pong. He had mad skills, too, so, after a year-long struggle and true worry about my baby’s advancement to first grade, I felt a surge of advanced pride in show-off opportunity when I opened his Monday folder to find a flyer reading,
Dear Parents,
Utopian Elementary will host Field Day for all grades on May 14. Please send your child to school in athletic clothing and tennis shoes….
Oh, yeah, baby. It was finally time for my baby to do his thang!
The letter requested parent volunteers, which surprised me. I thought, “Great! I get to see Sharky’s stud moment of success this school year!”

He had competition. There were several great athletes at UE.  But one would never know. Modern education stomped good old “show your stuff” Field Day into the turf.
I found out the hard way.
I won’t bore you with the ugly, disappointing details. I’ll just tell you this. I have no doubt in my mind that Sharky could throw a football or baseball longer than almost every boy in his grade. But when I arrived at Field Day, I saw him bouncing on a giant exercise ball with his FEMALE classmate, who was his “Field Day Partner,” and singing with her, “The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round.”  Really?
I wanted to hear a track pistol or whistle or “Eye of the Tiger.”

What. Was. Happening?

I later found out he was doing yoga in P.E. class. Really? 
Sharky’s competition for the whole Field Day was one girl. A GIRL! That’s it. To top it off, they were unevenly matched. She had at least twenty pounds on him.
They rotated through stations and got, ugh, participation prizes. Prizes? How about ribbons? So much plastic, but no glory. I was the only person on the playground who was sweating.
I love Sharky’s school, but there are many types of human intelligence, and not everyone plays chess or clarinet or wants to go to robotics camp. At the end of the year, when the principal sent out a parent survey, I commented on field day and remarked that kinesthetic learners were disenfranchised (a politically correct term I thought may get some real attention, especially in a school were yoga was in the PE curriculum). I hear they've made improvements, but I wouldn’t know. I've boycotted field day ever since I saw Houston bouncing and singing "Wheels on the bus." It's too hard. Plus, I have to help at my own school.
Now, my school does field day RIGHT! Of course, our football team has won the national championship so we know what's important. No joke. Academically, we are also one of the top schools in the state. Tennessee, but still. That dog'll hunt, ya'll! This week, 9thgraders had a blast in the hot May sunshine. They sprinted, tossed, bear-crawled, jumped, and tugged with sweat-soaked delight. We even had a gross eating contest and they cheered each other on, praying someone puked. It was awesome!
I learned more about my students in one afternoon of Field Day than I could in a month of coursework. Take a look. Good times. Good All-American times.


   

In honor of Field Day across America and eager and not-so-eager participants, I hope you'll download and enjoy my short story, Field Day. Here is the link.

Field Day, by Jody Dyer
If you don’t have a Kindle, you can download the free Kindle reader application and read books on your phone, computer, or tablet. Go technology!
Download a FREE Kindle Reading App (easy)
Enjoy!
See you next post. Until then, think outside the barn.

~ ~ ~ 
Let's talk! Find me and friend me and please post any time.

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Theory 41: God Winks Us Through

Thank goodness it is Friday, friends. I'm not gonna lie; this week has been rough—not tragic, just rough. I'm wrapping up state mandated end of course testing today, which culminates a school-year- long project so logistically complicated that I wouldn't dare bore you with its details. Plus, it's 5:49 a.m. and I've been up since 4:00 a.m. checking on Sharky. He's, um, under the weather, so to speak. Well, let's just say there have been storms in the south for three straight days. Three days. Hey, that's the same number of days as EOC testing. You know how when it rains, it pours, don't you working mothers? Unfortunately, I'm out of sick days so Delicious had to take her colorful show on the road to Knoxville to baby my baby Shark. Bonus: She/they completed his history project poster. Need info on Indiana? Dial up Sharky and Delicious. They are practically Hoosiers now! The project would look even better if she'd printed the pictures in color. She called me at school to find out how to print. I teach technology, but I have to say that she was a tough pupil. Talking Delicious through a printing job was like talking a "senior" civilian through landing a Navy fighter jet on an aircraft carrier. Delicious is not a fan of technology. She likes to say, "Those computers are too much work and cause too many problems." Bop isn't much better. At Christmas, she said, "Well, technology has just gotten way out of hand these days." The Indiana print job may have been the most challenging moment of my teaching career. Where were those hunky soldiers with light sticks when I needed them?  Delicious snapped, "Bug, I don't know what is going on with your printer. Papers just keep shootin' out and they don't have anything of the stuff I typed about Indiana on them." After some loud instructions, accusatory remarks, self-touting, and whining from both ends of the phone, we gave up. As Maverick might say, we "crashed and burned." My solution? I instructed Delicious to turn off the printer and close the door. To the entire room. When I got home, I turned on the printer. Yep. Sheets of standard paper slowly trembled out of my aged Teacher Supply Depot printer. Some were blank, some had code on them. Code. Some had funky symbols. Delicious types in Wicken, apparently.  Even though she couldn't figure out the printer, Delicious was a Godsend. She took wonderful, personal care of Sharky and even helped him buy me a hanging basket of Fuschia for Mother's Day. She is straight from Heaven. In the midst of turmoil and anxiety, it's important for us to stop and be thankful. Like last week, I am posting an article I wrote a while back that I think you'll enjoy. I originally penned this for a British website, but the editor thought it too spiritual ("not secular enough") for his audience. My bad. I then asked a group of adoption bloggers where I should send it. One suggested I offer it to Jen Hatmaker. No response. She must be too busy for a hillbilly like me. That's okay, because that blogger and I became wonderful friends! Her name is Debbie Michael. She's an adoptive mother, author, and artist in Maryland. Just yesterday, another adoption writer and new friend, Gayle Swift, remarked about how neat it is to see God's work through connecting people. God's timing does fascinate me. I try really hard to seek, "see," and understand. Sometimes He is indirect. Sometimes He is obvious. Most importantly, He is always here. 

I love to watch for coincidences through nature, people, timing, and numbers. No, I'm not a number worshiper like that genius loon Pythagoras, but most adoptive parents will tell you to take note of dates in the Wait. And signs are everywhere! Last June, I was having a particularly sad personal time. Some people really close to me were really cruel to me. Sharky, Gnome, my niece Balloon Girl, and I were tromping through The Crippled Beagle Farm toward the Naked Lady Farm. I was in an emotional trench, totally self-absorbed with hurt, frustration, confusion (and a bruised only child ego) and said a quick prayer asking God for relief. A few minutes later, we needed to cross Kellum Creek. I stepped to the muddy edge of the creek bank, looked down, and saw this:


"Like a bridge over troubled water"
I stopped the children and showed them the cross. Tiny batches of tiny minnows darted underneath the precious, much needed symbol. Sharky wanted to pick it up to "show Grandmama." We felt so privileged to see something so special.

I've seen lots of special things. So have you. I post this article today because this Saturday is Birthmother's Day. Sunday is Mother's Day. Tall Child and Sharky turn 51 and 4 on Tuesday. And so much more. 

I wrote this article in March of last year. Enjoy!


~ ~ ~

God Winks Us Through
Suffering gives us enlightened perspective.  Struggles clarify our priorities and vision. Adoptive parents have a burdensome, yet privileged view of family. As we wait for our children, we grow—in patience, compassion, and faith. We see things. Some call them coincidences. Some call them signs. My friend Paige calls them “God Winks.”
Consider these definitions for “wink” from www.dictionary.com:Wink (verb)2. to close and open one eye quickly as a hint or signal or with some sly meaning 4. to shine with little flashes of light; twinkle
I gave birth to my son Houston in 2002. Adding a second child to my family was the greatest challenge of my life. My family endured emotional, financial, physical, and marital stress with fertility treatments, then with the adoption journey for eight years. Finally, in 2010, we welcomed our son Scotty.  Along the journey, I took note, and I took notes. Inspired by the entire experience, I felt compelled to help others. I wrote a contemporary memoir titled The Eye of Adoption: the true story of my turbulent wait for a baby, to encourage waiting and adoptive families. In the book, I document the pain, the expense, the lessons, the humor, and, most importantly, the “Winks” I saw in our journey to Scotty.
I hope the following list of Winks (the first three are listed as quotes from my book) help you open your eyes to the miracles in your journey to a child:
·        For Mother’s Day, Houston made me a card. Without having been prompted by his teacher, he drew and colored three stick figures in descending height: blue for Jeff, pink for me, and gray for Houston. He added a little round face with yellow hair floating above the three of us.
Even Houston sensed the ethereal nature of the wait for our baby.
We were approved for adoption one week later.
·        On July 4th, I was feeling sorry for myself, and I asked, “God, am I EVER going to get this baby? I am so tired.” I heard, “She is on her way.”
Kerri, Scotty’s birthmother, became pregnant in August.
·        She called the baby London, explaining that she felt weird calling him “the baby” since he was in her body and she cared about him, so, as a devoted Anglophile, she named him after her favorite city. When I told her that Jeff’s brother lives in London, England, she was [thrilled].
What are the odds that my child’s birthmother would name her son after a city thousands of miles from Knoxville, TN, and that my brother-in-law, who grew up in Nashville, Tennessee, would live there?
·        We now navigate an open adoption with Kerri. In the beginning, the meetings were extremely difficult and emotional for me. When Scotty was only a few weeks old, Kerri asked if we could visit her grandparents. They live in a different part of town and were strangers to me. I chose to “err on the side of kindness” and agreed. I was a nervous wreck when I carried an infant Scotty into a cigarette smoke-filled living room to meet his birth grandparents. The grandmother suffered a debilitating stroke years ago and sat disabled and confused, in a recliner. Kerri was ecstatic to show off Scotty and began snapping photos like crazy. I silently prayed, “God, please give me a sign that this is okay.” At that moment, the grandfather said, “Wait a minute, Kerri. I need to brush Granny’s hair.” He left the room, returned with a brush, and gently and lovingly prepared Gail for a photo. I was touched. I was relieved. This stranger, now a relative, was a good man. I thanked God for the Wink.
·        When Jeff and I were waiting for a baby, an adoptive mother told us, “Pay attention to dates.” She was right. Our wedding anniversary is the same day as Scotty’s biological father’s birthday. My father and Kerri’s father share the same birthday, June 16, which is Father’s Day in the USA this year. And, amazingly, Scotty was born May 13, Jeff’s birthday!
·        God is still winking me through this adoption journey. I recently met Kerri for lunch to give her the first signed copy of The Eye of Adoption. She opened the book, turned to the dedication page, and read aloud, “For Kerri, my soul sister.” Then, she looked me in the eyes, pointed upward, and gasped, “Jody, listen!” The restaurant radio was playing the Train song, “Hey, Soul Sister.” We both cried and laughed and marveled at the Wink.
Adoptive parents lumber, confused and hurt, through shadowy tunnels built of expense, appointments, questions, frustration, paperwork, and unknown duration. But, there is light at the end of the adoption tunnel! Adoption is grief in reverse. Adoptive parents who have survived the trek, your parental vision is brighter and clearer because of your experience. Waiting parents, take note and take notes.  Look for flashes of hope through coincidence, odd timing, and unique revelations. Open your eyes to the sensational adventure of adoption. God is reversing your grief, one small miracle at a time. See. Believe. God will Wink you through!

~ ~ ~While the topic of the article is obviously adoption, God Winks us through all situations. We simply need to see and believe. Actually, we need to believe, then we'll see. I apologize if I haven't made you laugh today, but I do hope I've made you think. And, I hope you know how much I appreciate my readers! 
Note from editor/publisher/creator/writer (ME, Bug): I am about to start editing Theories: Size 12 to create a collection of humorist essays in the form of one or two small books. I also start my master's degree in curriculum and instruction May 17. I'm putting together an anthology project for students, and re-writing my curriculum for the next school year, which actually starts in mid-July. Thus, you may see briefer posts and a few changes. Unless I find a sister-wife. Still looking. Heck, I don't even know what Theory I'll post next week. It's now 6:58 and I don't have on a stitch of make-up and need to be in Big Red crusing toward school in 15 minutes. So, check back next week for Theory 42. 
Until then, think (and look) outside the barn!
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Theory 40: Contributors are happier than consumers.

Last post, I went into great detail about my upcoming adventure in aesthetic surgery (I'm not saying "plastic" because I am not about to add anything). I promise you that my priority is back, neck, and shoulder pain relief, but I must admit something; I absolutely do look forward to looking better and lighter in my public school teacher duds. Plus, I won't have to shop-hunt for exorbitantly priced bras that sometimes are so elusive, I think they are extinct. I'm pretty sure I'd have better luck finding a tree octopus. Actually, I hate shopping for most things, unless they have some creative value. I LOVE shopping for food for recipes, books to read (via the library), and bulbs, shrubs, and flowers for my yard. The payoffs of these endeavors are tasty, entertaining, colorful, and rewarding. I just don't dig some elements of domestic bliss.

When Tall Child and I bought our Glen Cove abode, it was a promising wreck. The walls were soaked in cigarette tar, the floors were stained from neglectful dog-parenting, and none of the windows had locks. The kitchen was carpeted over two layers of linoleum and one layer of asbestos tile (like we had at Pigeon Forge Elementary School).  Our home is in a "nice" neighborhood---an affluent zip code filled with UT professors, downtown professionals, and generations of families who earned B.S.'s, B.A.'s and M.D.'s while wearing party shirts sporting "Sigma something, Delta this, or Kappa that." Tall Child was a frat boy. I was in the band. Go band! I made a lot of money back then, so we spent a lot of money back then. As a new bride and homemaker, I nearly worked us to death trying to get our house up to zip code. Knoxville friends, you can only imagine the decorative pressure in "the 919." Heck, OMGG has a hand towel in her powder room that's embroidered with "919." How could I possibly keep up? I spent a lot of money and tried myself to exhaustion. Then I got older and wiser. Now, I accept my true self. I don't hide my excitement when Wal-Mart puts those blue plastic pools out front by the hanging baskets dripping with purple petunias, and I practically clap when the new tissue-weight t-shirts (my spring/summer uniform) stack up at Target. Four shirts. Two pair capris. Black Tevas. Spring. Summer. Check! 
 
It's the end of the school year for me, which means a natural time of reflection. In addition to being money hustlers , teachers are also professional reflectors. We constantly think, critique, improve, and revise to better our crafts and our students' experience.
 
I originally wrote this piece for a local magazine, but thought it would work well within my "compassionate humorist" scope here on Theories: Size 12 at this reflective time of year. Plus, I'm super busy coordinating end of course testing, starting my master's degree, and editing my second book, so—bonus—I have material ready to go that I think you'll enjoy.
 
I've simply copied and pasted the article below.

~ ~ ~

Are you a contributor or a consumer? Stop and Think.

I am sure this has happened to you. For some reason, on certain days (perhaps when company is coming), you look around your house and see everything that is broken, aging, or filthy. You think, “What is wrong with the dishwasher now,”  “How embarrassing; I saw my couch on TV Land,” or “I need a pressure washer. In the kitchen!” My seventy-year-old house harasses me from room to room with projects begging for toolbox cures. Last weekend, all the above (plus work stress and concern for my sick toddler) hit me at once. I felt sorry for myself and had a good old-fashioned, mid-life working wife and mother meltdown. I threw what we Southern girls call a “hissy fit.” In the midst of my dramatic pity party, I remembered a story my friend Carl told me years ago that always makes me stop and think.
Carl earned a job promotion which moved his family from Atlanta to Knoxville and from their home church, where his teenagers contentedly built their faith among childhood friends, to a new church (my church) where they knew no one. Several months after their move, Carl said that his teenagers routinely returned from youth group events frustrated. They complained that they “didn’t fit in” and “people ignored” them. Fed up with their whining, Carl said to his teenagers, “Let me ask you this: When you participate in the group, are you being consumers or are you being contributors?” He explained that they were approaching their peers with the wrong attitude. He urged his son and daughter to stop thinking of what they took from the group and find ways to add to the group. The teenagers vowed to take initiative. At the next meeting, they volunteered personal time and talent. Within weeks, their attitudes completely changed. They found creative roles in the group and flourished in friendship and fun in their new church home.
After reflecting on Carl’s story, I cancelled my pity party. I left the mundane projects for another day, made a cup of coffee, and happily tapped the keyboard at my old, slow, hand-me-down desktop computer to check on the waiting adoptive mothers I mentor through email and social media. The waiting mothers typed back heart-felt messages of worry, endurance, and faith. I felt energized and appreciative for my family and my imperfect home. I chose to contribute and other people benefited.
From the Merriam-Webster.com online dictionary:
Consume: to do away with completely Contribute: to give (something, such as money, goods, or time) to help a person, group, cause, or organization

You have unique gifts to offer your families, your co-workers, your church, and your friends. Yes, every day obligations and “grown up” to-do lists are there and must be addressed at some point. But, the next time you feel frustrated, feel like you need something better, or feel left out of the group, stop and think. Then answer Carl’s question, “Are you a consumer or a contributor?”  ~ ~ ~ Let's talk! Find me and friend me and please post any time.

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