Jody Cantrell Dyer's Blog: What's your story? Maybe I can help you write it., page 17

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

FAT?
Here’s my beef. I get hungry. I want to enjoy life. I am the head cook in my galley, which means I plan, buy, load, unload, cook, and clean up anything to do with food for my family. I’m southern, which means I like my plate piled up with rich, fried, flavorful, food. So, I’m surrounded by color and taste and texture, but I need to gnaw on rice cakes and tofu? Forget it. A few weeks ago, I watched Eat, Pray, Love. Julia Robert’s character says to her friend, about enjoying a pizza in Naples,                         “I am so tired of saying no. I’m tired of waking up in the morning and recalling every single thing I ate the day before, counting every calorie I consumed so I know just how much self loathing to take into the shower. I’m going for it. I have no interest in being obese, I’m just through with the guilt. So this is what I’m going to do: I’m going to finish this pizza, and then we are going to go watch the soccer game, and tomorrow we are going to go on a little date and buy ourselves some bigger jeans.”
Good stuff, but the director missed the mark. He had size 4 actresses struggle and squeeze into size 6 jeans. NOT realistic. I was so disappointed. I wanted to see the actual label “Size 12, Average.” I wanted to see renowned actresses slide comfortably into some Size 12 britches, dang it, and go get some gelato!
I can honestly say that I don’t care when Tall Child is in one of his chunky spells. I want him to be healthy, but I certainly don’t compare him to Robert Redford. That would be ridiculous. Plus, when he’s heavier he’s slower so I can catch him faster. And, it makes me think he’s content, like when skinny people start dating, fall for each other, and chunk up because they are going on dates to restaurants and having fun together.
Men, it is so cruel to compare women to other women. Can you imagine what that’s like? I have certain natural attributes, but, when they are natural, they typically come with extra curves. My bra is so tight to keep Atlantic and Pacific upright that it squeezes little puffs of fat up and out right at my armpits. Hey, sometimes, in a hurricane, the levies break. My friend S.A.S.S. (Sexy Artist Seamstress S—), worked and worked and worked on constructing, I mean, creating a dress for me for a fancy party. Those little fat babies just kept pooching out from my wire and nylon levies. Frustrated, S.A.S.S. asked, “Girl, what am I going to do about those?” I said, “Maybe I can duct tape them somehow, or we could just embrace them. You could sign them! Write ‘S.A.S.S. was here. And over here, too!’”
So I leave for the beach soon. My goal was to drop 7 lbs. — not so I’d look good in my skirted swimsuit. No. I’ve thrown in that beach towel. I wanted to lose 7 lbs. so I could gain them back, one pound per day. When I’m on vacation, all bets are off. I indulge in sleep, poor housekeeping, limited hair care, money-wasting, and my favorite beach pairings: Bloody Mary’s and sausage biscuits, Cape Cods and Doritos, and adult grape juice with fried seafood. Er’ day, ya’ll. Er’ day. Well, I choked. Job stress, writing deadlines, plumbing issues, and Sharky’s fifth grade assignments got the best of me. I didn’t lose the 7 lbs., which means that when I return to school from fall break, students will either think they have a sub or I’m addicted to prednisone. I will look like an albino pickle. Swollen and softened by a week in salt water. By week’s end, I’ll probably have swollen right out of my pajamas, which are Tall Child’s size 38 boxer shorts. Is this why women Facebook and Instagram beach pictures of just their pedicured toes?
Delicious once said, “I look better ‘nekkid’ than I do in a bathing suit.”
My brilliant beautiful cousin Bags once told me, “I have finally figured out the perfect career for myself! I am going to be a professional ‘before’ model!”
Speaking of naked and modeling, I’m pretty sure I have the perfect body for a toga. If you’d like to know what I look like naked, go to The Bistro at the Bijou on Gay Street in downtown Knoxville. Over the bar hangs a painting of half-toga-clad middle aged woman. Add a little more up top and she could double (double, get it?) for me. Instead of nude beaches, there should be toga beaches. You could hog out and take a nap in the same outfit. Just bring a koozie and a pillow. Well, my vacation motto is “When in Hilton Head, act like the Romans.”

LAZY?
I don’t know a lazy woman. It is impossible to be female and lazy. Delicious claims to be physically lazy, but I think that just applies to housework. She writes letters, as in old-timey correspondence, every day of her life. And, she can whip up an original, colorful Christmas wreath in five minutes flat. Delicious and I and most women in our family are teachers. Did you know that teachers, on average, make over 3,000 verbal and non-verbal responses each day? That is why all our eye makeup is underneath our eyes by 3:00 pm. It’s also why we drag satchels and don’t notice anyone honking at us on the road.
Delicious retired a few years ago. But last fall, she came out of retirement, Michael Jordan style, to teach freshman English for one semester. Just after she agreed to do it, I asked her, “Mama, aren’t you tired? Why did you sign up for this?”
She answered, “I was old. I needed the money.”
When I was a banker for First American which merged with AmSouth, which is now Regions Bank, a top female executive told me, “The more successful a man is, the more likely he is to have a wife and children. The more successful a woman is, the less likely she is to have a husband and children.”
I recall a particularly stressful morning when Sharky was about 18 months old and I was a branch manager for AmSouth Bank. I woke him up to get him dressed for daycare. His eyes were puffy and I immediately knew: conjunctivitis. I had a sales meeting at 9:00 a.m. and sales calls scheduled throughout the day. I took Sharky to daycare, drove downtown where my parking spot was two blocks from my office. I parked and pounded pavement all the way to my branch. I called the pediatrician, who called in a prescription in to Walgreens. I waited for Walgreens to notify me that the medicine was ready. I left my office, hoofed it to the garage, drove to Walgreens, drove to the daycare, put the eye drops in Sharky’s pitiful little blue eyes, drove back to the garage, walked back to my office, and plopped into my chair, exhausted but on time to lead my 9:00 a.m. sales meeting. I couldn’t take the day off and Tall Child was out of town on business. Ya’ll, I did it Ginger Rogers style: in heels (and pantyhose and a skirt). Booyah. Working mothers live this way all the time, which is why I wrote last week’s theory: All mothers need sister wives.
A couple of nights ago, I watched an interview with the USA Ambassador to the United Nations. HER name is Samantha Power. She is 43 and has two children, ages 1 and 3. She lives in the ambassador’s residence at the Waldorf and works fourteen hour days. When the reporter asked her how she balanced being a working mother, Powers said something like, “Everyone doesn’t get 100% of me at the same time.” Some of you are thinking, “She is a neglectful mother.” Some of you are thinking, “Wow! What a career.” I am thinking, “Of course she had her children later. She had to build her career then start a family.” But, you know she has a housekeeper, a cook, and a driver. If you take my teaching job and add all those duties, I work a fourteen hour day, too. So, more power to Mrs. Power! I think I’ll start calling Tall Child a “working father.”
My working mother view - great school, great students!

SELFISH?
So, Tall Child had to hog-tie the Gnome yesterday morning to get him ready for school. Gnome, at 38 inches and 31 pounds, can put up a surprisingly strong fight. He yelled at his daddy, “Put me back in my bed!” The ever-indulgent and super-sensitive Tall Child yelled to me, “Can you help me out a little?” I played possum. I’m on fall break from school and faked like I was still asleep. I sympathize with Tall Child. No one wants to sweat through a physical power struggle before 7:00 am, but Gnome can’t reason yet. Man-handling is required, but all due to parental mistakes. Gnome is a night owl who likes to roam and prowl. He is grouchy in the mornings, especially after we let him stay up too late to watch The Voice. I can’t help but spoil him a little. It took me six years of fertility failure then two years of the domestic adoption process to bring him home. I savor every kiss and every moment with him, sometimes a little too late at night. Plus, during commercial breaks, you should hear him belt out a Hollywood inspired Twinkle Twinkle!
So, once Tall Child safely deposited Sharky and Gnome to their respective schools, he called me and said, “You know, you could let Gnome sleep in late tomorrow or just stay home with you.” Friends, sister-wives, mothers, WORKING mothers, let me ask you this:
How often do you have a day off, at home, by yourself?
Let me assure you this:
You are not selfish if you enjoy a day off, at home, by yourself.
Bags and I had this very conversation a few years ago. I accused Tall Child of leaving three times each morning. “I forgot my check card.” “I left my phone.” “Have you seen my ...?” I told her that my coast wasn’t clear until he passed the stop sign at the bottom of the neighborhood. We discussed the rare luxury of being home alone. I asked, “Am I selfish?” She said, “Are you kidding? No! When “Guitar Hero” leaves for work, I do snow angels in the bed!”
There are magic buttons in my house. One is in my favorite spot on the sofa. The MOMENT my rear end meets cushion, an alarm goes off. The other button is at the bottom step in our basement laundry room. The alarm varies between the following sounds,            “Mama!”            “Mama?”            “Hey, Bug, can you help me…”            “I’m hungry.”            “Look what Gnome did!”            “Uh-oh.”            “Bug, where are you?”            “Bug, are you busy?” The answer is YES!
And, aside from the nickname Bug, I am also referred to as “Wherestha” – as in “Where’s tha hammer, tha screwdriver, tha light bill, tha check book….”
So Tall Child laid down the mama guilt gauntlet and I caved. As I type this, Gnome is staring me down from across the room. In a minute, he’ll bring me a wiffle ball to pitch to him. Did you know that working mother writers can type with one hand and pitch with another? I’d better see results in tee-ball.
Sneaky Gnome swings out of his homemade (baby powder) sand trap.


If you had told me thirteen years ago that I’d be writing and pitching (at the same time) to this beautiful child whom I’d adopt, with Tall Child and Sharky, I would have been shocked. Marriage and life are not what I predicted in my early twenties, which reminds me of Theory 21: The bride should craft the wedding vows.
See you next post! Until then, think outside the barn.

Theory 19: All mothers need “sister wives.”

Let’s take it way on back folks. Way on back to the early 70’s in dusty, hot, cotton-dotted Seale, Alabama to the home of my uncle Trout, where whispers of Theory 19 first surfaced. The female grownups, Delicious, Big Booty J, and my aunt Terrific, sat and talked to the tune of cicadas. They chirped their own worries and woes of work, children, and domestic responsibilities into the Southern breeze for hours. All of a sudden, Terrific (career woman and mother to three) pronounced, “I need a wife.” Even though I was elementary-age, my little pink female brain’s synapses fired. I asked no questions and required no clarification. I innately understood.
Last week, my dear neighbor friend, “Fancy” called in a tizzy. She is a true character with somewhat unexplainable talents and unique attributes. She is also an esteemed professional, wife, and mother of three animated and busy boys. Fancy called me last week and the conversation went something like this:
Bug (me): “Hey Fancy, what’s up?”
Fancy: “I hate to even ask you this. You can say no, but I am desperate. Oh, and I’ll pay you if you say yes. I will give you cash! And, I will return the favor whenever you need help with Sharky. And I won’t make you pay me. That’s how desperate I am.”
Bug: “What do you need?”

Fancy: “[Expletive], I need a sister wife, really. I need another woman to live with me and help me every day, [expletive].”
Bug: “What’s your pickle?”
Fancy: “Boy #1 has a soccer tournament in Nashville and I need to take him. Boy #3 is staying with my mother, but Boy #2 can’t miss his basketball game and my mother can’t handle two wild boys.”
Bug: “Where’s Husband #1?”
Fancy: “He’s going on a golf trip.”
Bug: “I’ll keep Boy #2, no problem. You don’t have to pay me, because I’ll surely need help from you soon.”
Fancy: “I really just need a sister wife. Thanks for being my sister wife!”
Bug: “Ha! I need one, too! But, that’s a little kinky and cult-like.”
Fancy: “Just think how convenient it would be. I need two sister wives, actually—one wife per child.”
Bug: “Man to man defense. True. Right now you are running a zone.  But really, three sister wives could handle twenty children better than one man can “babysit” his own 2!”
Fancy: “Yeah! Why do the men say “babysit”?”
Bug: “They just don’t have our natural talents for anticipating the needs of children.”
Fancy: “No kidding. You want to be my sister wife permanently?”
Bug: “I don’t want to see your husband naked, but I think we could work something out. Heck, I’ll give you an hour alone with Tall Child if you’ll get on the roof and clean out my gutters. Hmmmm…I think you are on to something, but I’m not sure I could live with a bunch of women. I think I’d rather have brother husbands. I could assign them domestic regions of responsibility and choose them according to skill! I’d marry one plumber, one electrician, one handyman, one pediatrician, one academic, one party boy, one financial expert, and one family man.”
Fancy: “What about [being intimate] with all those men? Dang!”
Bug: “Oh, all relationships, except maybe one, would be platonic on my compound.” 
 
Readers, do I really need all those men, or could just one woman (again, a platonic one) do the job?
Good news! Fancy’s husband chose, selflessly, to stay home! Fancy didn’t ask him to. She had the problem solved via her sister wife. But, her man, let’s call him “The Gentleman”, is a great father and got a good dose of woman-guilt. He sacrificed a fun golf trip to help his wife and children. It’s a male miracle of unselfishness, ya’ll! Or, maybe he’s changing into a woman. See Theory 13: As people get old, they morph into the opposite gender.
Not long before my sister wife convo with Fancy, I spent one night in Nashville. One night. Room and board was free (stayed with Bop) but the trip ended up costing me two hundred dollars and two weekends of manual labor. Confused? So was I when I walked into my house after a long drive to find the Gnome’s black Sharpie ink work sketched down the hallway, through the den, and across doors, windows, one sofa, and molding.
Caution: Leave no child behind. With a marker and a man. During SEC football season.
The ink was everywhere. Ugh. First, I lowered the boom on Tall Child. Then, I calculated the cost (I like to complain with quantitative data) and lectured Tall Child, Gnome, and Sharky. Then, I started crying—because I was tired. I was tired. I was worn. Slap. Out.
   "Life imitates Art far more than Art imitates Life"—Oscar Wilde (and Gnome)
 
Tall Child is a good husband and an exceptional father, too. The important thing is that Sharky and Gnome were safe and having fun with their sweet daddy who worships them. He works hard, coaches Sharky, and is a devoted brother, son, and friend. He is not neglectful. He is just busy. So am I. I make mistakes all the time. But, I am 100% sure that if the roles were reversed, the Gnome would not have caused so much damage. Why? Because I am woman! Hear me roar! Tall Child heard me roar. Was I a witch? A little bit.
Here’s the conundrum many women face: We need a task to be done. Not because we are lazy or incompetent, but because we are doing something else that needs to be done. Someone needs to call the insurance company. Someone needs to wait for the plumber. Someone needs to help with homework. Women don’t want to do it all, but we need to see these things happening. We need security. We need action! If we “over ask” our husbands with “honey-do lists” we feel like nags. If we don’t “over ask” the task doesn’t get done or we have to do it, in 5-minute increments because we are everyone at once, all the time.
Tall Child did indeed help me clean up the mess Gnome made. Once I found the color in my old notes, drove to Lowe’s on Saturday morning (children in tow), bought the paint, brushes, and painter’s tape, fed everyone lunch, lined up all the supplies and handed Tall Child a brush and an old plastic coffee can for his paint, he pitched in. One common synonym for “wife” is “helpmate.” I helped Tall Child help me paint. Then, one day, he went to his friend’s house to watch football and I finished the job, willingly. I was a wife and a helper and happy to spare him the work. But, where’s my heavy duty help? Sometimes I want to be nurtured, to point and delegate, to get in the “luge” position and watch Bravo. Well, one uterus seems to equal no dice. I need another uterus to help me. Or maybe uteri? Can I get an “amen” from the sisterhood?
I’ve tried to beat myself home before so I could welcome me to a clean house and supper on the stove, but even Big Red can’t drive that fast.
In my first post, Welcome to Theories:Size 12, I warned readers I may vent. But, sister-wives share, so, in that vein, I asked members of my coven, I mean, circle of friends, this question: 

“Wives and/ mamas, I want to know what you think before I write "Theory 19: All mothers need sister wives." This is your chance to let off some steam (anonymously, of course, so you can say to your husband, "Hey, look what that crazy [Bug] and her friends wrote. Can you believe them?") So, if you had a sister-wife, what would you have her do?
***To avoid slapping the label of “male-basher” on my buddies, all comments are quoted directly but sources are not revealed.  

Here are their responses with mine mixed in; I’m not saying which are which from this witch:
How about a brother husband who could listen to loud, terrible music and talk about American League baseball so I don’t have to?
If I had a sister wife she would follow [husband and child] around picking up all the piles of junk they leave in their wake, make the beds, and remind/nag the men for me of all the stuff they need to do. There’s more I’d like her to do but I’m exhausted from all the above chores so my brain has shut down.
Mine would nag the kids to do their stuff, point out to hubby when he's wrong, mistaken, or being a jerk, check the kids' bags before they leave so they have what they need each day, watch football with him, and get up early and wake the kids up. Awesome.
I would send her to the grocery store.
I would gladly forfeit my shotgun seat so she could be the one who jumps in and out of the car to see “how long the wait is” at restaurants, get the mail, to wait in line at Breuster’s, and take the children into gas stations to tee-tee.
My sister wife would change every diaper – from babies to geriatric in-laws. She would also be in charge of the suppository depository activities.
Yeah... I always wanted one to look after the children, one to cook, one to decorate, one to clean the house and one to do my hair and nails. Of course I could have used one good gay guy for all of it.

If I had a sister wife, she would get my ignorant ex-husband out of my life, take care of his girls, get pregnant, and deal with his crazy first wife for ever and ever amen

She would clean and do laundry, but I am the ONLY one having a relationship with my hubby.

I would take sister wives but I am not sharing "that" part of my marriage.

She would do all male haircuts and maintenance to include ear hair, nose hair, and back hair.

If I had a sister wife she would: clean, do laundry, pull weeds, do the dishes, deal with all the headaches like making appointments & calling DirecTV, AT&T or anyone else that puts you on hold for a long period of time or has an automated system. She would also work a full time job and help pay the bills. I would do all the fun stuff.  And she better keep her hands off the kid!

My friend, who just ALSO moved here w her husband, onto the acreage right next to mine...has called me "sister wife" the whole time. She takes kids to school, I pick them up. So we have literally had this conversation!
If my sister wife would run the activity shuttle, unload the dishwasher, do laundry, pick up the house, and make all appointments, I would be perfectly happy to help with homework, have sex (yes, I said it) at least 5 times per week, put my babies to bed every night, make dinner, and cheer at games, ride in the golf cart, etc. I love the quality time activities, but detest the fact that all of the superfluous stuff leaves little time, energy, and patience for it.
I would want the sister-wife to take all the cooking and cleaning and she needs to have a job.   I'll take care of the kids and keeping the husband happy.
The thing with a sister wife is.......I don't think you would have to make them do anything.  We are woman, so we naturally do.  Best of both worlds----you can hang out with your home girls, and not have sex.
She would have to have full control over all sexual intimacy. And, nighttime responsibilities for all babies.
I’d want the sister wife to be the favorite wife.

Male readers, don’t dump me. I love you! We women love you! We just want to spend fun time with you and not be tied to vacuums, dishwashers, online textbooks, and mindless chores. Think Jerry McGuire: Help us help you! Help us help you, so we can show you the quan!
Ladies, have you ever felt like you were swept off your feet and then handed the broom? What are you supposed to do? Hand the broom back? No! He’s not going to sweep, at least, not when you want him to. Bless his heart. I say you either toss the broom or get on it and ride, sister, ride! I believe you can fly.  I believe you can touch the sky! I believe you can ride/fly all the way downtown and meet your sister wives around a cauldron of salsa with little mini-cauldrons of “Extra-Lovin Lemonade” for an old-fashioned girls’ night out, which we desperately need and deserve, which reminds me of Theory 20: Never call a woman fat, lazy, or selfish. Them’s fightin’ words.
   Ready for take-off!
 
See you next post or at El Charro! Until then, think outside the barn.

 

Theory 18: Blind dates are the best dates EVER!

One beautiful spring day in 1997, I was performing off Broadway—off Broadway Avenue in Knoxville, Tennessee—as a substitute teller at the Halls Branch of AmSouth Bank. I stood in a dusty, paper-littered stable of tellers wearing my skirt suit and pantyhose. I counted, keyed, and stamped my way through an ordinary day as a young banker until the stars aligned and one conversation with a co-worker change the course of humanity forever. My buddy “Luisa Banera Caliente” looked over her teller stall wall and said, “I know the perfect guy for you. Want me to fix you up?”  
I said, “Sure, why not?”
Romance: I needed it. Halls Had It!
I knew Tall Child was cute because Luisa Banera Caliente sent me a softball team picture through inter-office mail. I’d never dated an athlete, so when I saw his lean form outfitted in red and gray stripes, I was intrigued. Tall Child and I met for dinner at La Paz. He brought married friends for backup in case I was a “dud.” Well, I wasn’t! Especially after two margaritas. The rest is history. Every year on our anniversary I think about that chance assignment with Luisa!
Sharky and the Gnome should write her thank-you notes for their very existence!
Set a course for adventure,
your mind on a new romance. 
Blind dates come in different packages. Let’s define the types.
1. BlindFolded: You've never met, never seen each other. It's a total word-of-mouth situation. There is no conversation before hand
2. BlindOnLine: Caveat - You think you saw a picture and had a “conversation” but that bodybuilding, thoracic surgeon with no children, no living parents, and houses on two continents might really be your dry cleaner's teenage son or, teachers, one of your students. Watch out! Type cautiously. Under promise and over deliver!
Blessing– People meet great people online and find true love and happiness (thus the plethora of sites).
3. BlindFoldedHostageSituation: You are invited as a third wheel to a party so you can meet another third wheel of the opposite sex who is “perfect for you.” Stay off the spinach puffs. You could meet your future husband at your neighbor’s 5-year-old’s birthday party at Laser Quest. Wear stripes and deodorant and roll-on to romance, third wheel!

My buddy Sweater Vest Romeo says, “Blind dates are the best because they can’t see what you are doing to them.”
I loved blind dates because my friends and relatives screened the boys (I hoped) first. Basically, the boys were pre-qualified. Also, I could be completely myself and have nothing to lose. There was no year-long crush to build up my nerves. There was no miserable love-sick stomach ache to battle. There was nothing at stake. If he didn’t like me, I could just say, “What an idiot” or “I didn’t like him” or “He doesn’t even know me” or “He probably didn’t call me because he probably fell into a sinkhole.” There are lots of limestone sinkholes in Tennessee.
  So, when can I pick you up? 
Those of us who do meet on blind dates, fall madly in love and live, eh, happily ever after become champions of matchmaking. After my and Tall Child’s success story, I felt compelled to pay it forward. After a handful of awkward failed attempts, I struck gold with a match between my dear friend Mint Julep and one of Jeff’s oldest buddies. A whirlwind courtship ensued and now they live fairytale style with two beautiful daughters in a stately home atop a beautiful lawn overlooking the Tennessee River. What if one of their daughters grows up to be the scientist who discovers the cure to something impossible to cure? All because my romantic engineering!
My cousin Roscoe was on the TV show “Blind Date.” He’s a natural entertainer (should be a game show host) and his very presence soaks up the room. So, he played up his role on MTV with comic passion and flair. Roscoe from Tennessee and the strange girl from California enjoyed massages, wine tasting, and limo rides near Los Angeles. He admitted to me that he kind of liked the girl, but sensed the feeling wasn’t mutual. So, when the show’s host asked Roscoe, “Now that your blind date with [California Girl] is over, what do you have to say?”
Roscoe answered—like most young men would (as they are in constant fear of rejection, especially on national TV)—to the negative. But, in true Roscoe rare form, he knew this had to be “good TV” so he replied, “I think she should make like Michael Jackson and beat it.”
I love to poll my freshmen students. Yesterday, I instructed them, “I’m going to say a phrase. I want you to say the first words that come to mind when you hear the phrase. Ready? Blind date .”

Female students’ responses:Creepsters
Goobers
Not safe
Don’t find a date on Craig’s List.
Maybe if he went to band camp he’d be safe.
Be late and check him out from a distance. Then you can still make a run for it.
Hey! That’s how my parents met.
 

Male students’ responses:Mysterious lover.
Only if I hear about her from a friend I trust.
Bad idea
What if she is Amish?
I went on a blind texting date. (Huh?)
Act like you are not yourself.
Yeah! You can change your accent with every sentence.
Yeah, be all city-folk then all country and say, “Dad gum!”
Be careful. You don’t want to get “catfished.”

 Friends, there’s nothing to lose and everything to gain with a great blind date! The course of humanity may be changed in an instant when a friend or coworker casually says, “I know the perfect guy/girl for you.” Slap on some lipstick/cologne and dream big, as in big romance, as in big love. Speaking of big love, that reminds me of a theory my neighbor friend “Fancy” and I share—Theory 19: All mothers need “sister wives.” See you next post! Until then, think outside the barn.   

Theory 17: Funerals are better than weddings, for guests, especially in the South.

Disclaimer: Like you, I hate to say goodbye to people I love. Death may be natural but it is also tragic, unsettling, and sometimes so awful that the pain for those left behind is other-worldly in its scope. I know grief. We all know grief. This post is not meant to poke fun of death, dying, or grieving, so literal readers, please back off the keyboards until you read the whole article and forgive me as I figuratively walk down the aisle through the valley of the shadow of death.
Woody Allen is often quoted as saying, “I’m not afraid to die, I just don’t want to be there when it happens.” Amen, Woody. I was not afraid to get married. I just didn’t want to be there when it happened. I’m not a delicate flower of the south. I am feminine and I try to be ladylike, but I’m not into table-setting, flower-aranging, dish-shopping, or party-planning. Tall Child was raised in church, a country club, and private schools. He is a modern Southern Gentleman. After he proposed, I pleaded, “Let’s get married at the beach by ourselves on our honeymoon and come back and throw a big backyard barbeque blowout with a band.” (I like simplification and alliteration.) Tall Child retorted, “No way, Bug! This is your first wedding.”
First?
What'chu talkin' 'bout, Willis?
I’ve suffered from anxiety issues since my father’s premature death (he was 44, I was 19) and I hate to be forced into formal situations. I don’t mind being the center of attention and I enjoy speaking in public, where I set the tone for my talking. But, weddings put so much pressure on the bride to be perfect and formal and skinny. I am none of those. Tall Child proposed on a Friday. I called the church on Monday and asked the preacher for his first open Saturday morning (cheaper, simpler, quicker) wedding slot. Check! I called my employer’s caterer and asked him to fax me his wedding menu. I circled what I wanted and faxed it back. Check! The next weekend, Delicious and I went to the mall to register for china. I chose inexpensive dishes from the backlit floor-to-ceiling shelves in the home department. I walked up to the registry clerk and said, “I need to complete a bridal registry.” She asked, “Do you have an appointment?” I said, “No ma’am. I don’t need one.” I gave her the names of the every day and formal patterns and asked her to “put me down” for 12 place settings of each and add white towels (any brand) so I could Clorox them clean. Check! My mother-in-law, the ultimate Southern hostess, asked me “Did you at least register for a coffee maker?” I said, “No ma’am, I don’t drink coffee.” I was madly in love with Tall Child. I was absolutely ready to be a wife, but I had no talent (or interest) in being a bride. The night before our wedding, I slept ZERO hours. After eight hours of nervous twitching, I took a shower, slapped on my grocery store make-up, and headed to the big city of Knoxville to get married. I made Delicious whip me through Burger King for some Cini Mini’s. At the church, I put on my lovely and wonderfully borrowed wedding dress, popped ½ a Klonopin from Delicious’s jeweled wedding handbag, and got myself hitched. Checkmate! Better yet: Check! Mate!
Here’s my take on how funerals are better than weddings, for the guests, particularly in the South, by category, particularly for my particular self. Categories are disturbingly parallel, aren’t they?
Planning: Weddings: Weddings plans can take a long time, depending on the wedding couple’s families, social status, connections, and wealth. All that time is a petri dish for rapid growth of stress cooties, cash cooties, and gossip cooties (all of which multiply exponentially). Oh, and a major “reconsider” and breakup. Think movies: The Notebook, Sweet Home Alabama, Runaway Bride …. Married ladies, don’t tell me it didn’t cross your mind.
Funerals: Well, there’s no time to break up with anyone. Funeral plans are last minute, quick, routine, and handled by the wedding planner, I mean, funeral director. The funeral directors I know pray with families. Wedding planners probably should.
Dress Code Weddings: Etiquette dictates that we follow the dress code. Wedding dress code varies and can be quite confusing. What is “dressy casual”? Capris with chandelier earrings? Guest outfits for weddings are so dang confusing. And, for the bridal party, a major source of stress. Dying shoes – can you believe that still goes on? And, for some of us, bras are NOT optional. Brides fret and fantasize about wedding dresses. There’s so much drama around dress selection that a hit TV show was born – “Say Yes to the Dress.”
Look, we’ve all known a bridezilla but who has ever encountered a widowzilla?
Funerals: I’ve been to fancy memorial services and country graveside funerals. I can honestly say I never gave any thought to what folks wore, nor did I really notice. I’ve seen black suits and hats and I’ve seen overalls. Most importantly, I’ve seen a physical demonstration of respect.
FoodWeddings: God forbid the chicken tenders with honey mustard get cold. There’s nothing worse than a dry cake. Brides and their mothers strategize over foods, placement, display, temperature, cost, quantity, presentation, and more regarding food. And, there’s the whole “don’t eat until the bride and groom do” conundrum. I am always amazed at how humans line up for food no matter what time of day it is. I don’t normally eat at 3:00 pm, but if I’m at a wedding or a funeral, I get so hungry!
Funerals: No offense to my catering friends, but the best buffet in the world can be found at a country church in the sticks. When my precious great aunt, known as Big Chick, passed away, we loaded up and headed to a Baptist Church in Georgia. The church is so old there are Confederate graves in the adjacent cemetery. Those church ladies put on a feast that I can still taste. Chicken casseroles, cornbread, fried corn, tomato salad, green beans soaked and simmered for hours in salt, butter, and bacon grease, strawberry cake and banana pudding, and on and on and on. What a comfort they and their food were to all of us. A groom’s cake in the shape of a deer rifle could never compare to that spread.


Uncle "Trout" sneaks a sliver.
DietsWeddings: Are you kidding? “Save the Date” cards keep Weight Watchers in business.
Funerals: Who cares? See “Food” above.
Party AtmosphereWeddings: I’ve enjoyed some hysterical late night shuttles back to hotels. Thanks, “Dot” and “Boone” and friends! But, boy, did I wake up with a headache from all that, um, cake! I’ve also seen bloody jaws, flying furniture, teetering groomsmen and some moving karaoke duets. Tall Child, that Tim McGraw-Faith Hill duet was one of our greatest accomplishments as a couple.
Funerals: Presence is more important than presents. Honor takes the place of debauchery. No hangover, well, usually, follows. I’ve not seen a physical fight around a funeral. In the South, when the grieving family and friends follow the hearse to the graveyard in a long, slow, sad caravan of caution lights and little white flags, other vehicles  pull over and stop. Completely. What respect. Also, the well-earned military salute, trumpeted “Taps,” and handing of a folded American flag to a widow always put country, faith, and family in perspective.
Post Party/Mortem Critique (What we hear/say) What? No, not me, uhhhhther people say this stuff. I just hear it.Weddings: Oh, the ride home is the best part. As in, “What did ya’ll think about the food,” “Can you believe how his brother behaved,” “Were those bridesmaids dresses not the tackiest things you’ve ever seen,” and “That food was awful, ya’ll. Drive through the Krystal. There ain’t nothin’ worse than bein’ hung over in the morning with a baby to take care of.”
Funerals: We say and hear, “He was such a good man,” “What a beautiful service,” “She was one of those people that everybody liked,” and “We need to take them a casserole this week.” 
Faith: I’m keeping this one simple. And, gulp.Weddings: Often glorify the couple. Funerals: Honor the dead and their survivors, glorify God, and reaffirm faith.


Details are important to a perfect wedding.
I figure this post may stir up some controversy. That’s okay. Just remember, if I’ve perturbed you, ask an abstract thinker for help. My intention is to make you consider ordinary things in an unexpected way – like other people, which brings me to Theory 18: Blind dates are the best dates EVER!
See you next post! Until then, think outside the barn.

Theory 16: People erroneously think they can do other people’s jobs.

He never failed. I bumped down interstates for four seasons of SEC football with The University of Tennessee Pride of the Southland Band. Every time we passed a pasture of grazing cows (which are numerous in the SEC), this goofy brass player would say, “Why, those cows are outstanding in their field.”  Animals don’t trip. Animals know their roles. People, we hope, are working in professions they enjoy. All jobs require training. There is a certain process that ensures more efficient ditch-digging, just as collegiate and graduate coursework, clinicals, and residencies prepare surgeons. But, for some odd reason, many people think they can do other people’s jobs.
Perhaps this is an American phenomenon. We pride ourselves on independence and individual success. We are critical of procedural accuracy (especially we teachers). Americans love accomplishment and value improvement.
Many folks, all having beenstudents, think they understand the education industry. They think they can teach. I won’t elaborate too much, but teachers are scrutinized these days and commit to hundreds of hours of college, graduate, professional development, and in-service coursework. We spend a semester to a year as un-paid apprentices before we even start our careers. Please trust our expertise. We spend HOURS planning 30-minute lessons to maximize our students’ success. Tall Child, annoyed at my extensive time on our computer one day (he needed it for fantasy football), remarked, “Why do you spend so much time on lesson plans? You just do the chapter, do the questions at the end, and get on with it.” Not so, my dear.
My Uncle Trout, who played basketball and baseball for Auburn Universityand later coached high school basketball and baseball once noted, “You know, when I look up into the stands at a ballgame and see parents who are doctors and lawyers, I don’t think I can do their jobs. But, for some reason, they all think they can coach.”
During my childhood, Delicious and I frequented Food Cityin Pigeon Forge, TN. I loved to watch the grocery cashiers peck out numbers and decimals on the ten-key cash register with one hand while sliding my Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls and Delicious’s Lay’s Vinegar and Salt potato chips down the conveyor belt. For years, I wanted to swap places with the checker and try to match her speed and skill. Finally, self-checkout lanes came about and, at my own Food Cityin Knoxville, I got to test my secret longing. My first time with self-scan was exhilarating. I was able to grocery shop sans conversation. I scanned, beeped, bagged, scanned, beeped, bagged, scanned, beeped, UH-OH. I heard a robot woman from the computer say “Please see attendant.” DANG! I screwed up some produce; I didn’t know what kind of lettuce it was and couldn’t find the PLU code. I choked under the pressure. Guess who had to help me. The cashier! I don’t bother anymore. The cashiers deserve respect and customers. Plus, I always feel a little paranoid, like I look like I’m shoplifting.
Delicious says she could edit The New York Times. Like all grammarians and English teachers, she notices every flaw in another’s speech. Luckily, she only corrects me in private. Oops. I mean to say “She corrects me only in private.” Sorry, mama. TV broadcasters, be warned. Delicious will call your boss. She phoned ESPN headquarters in New York City when a football commentator repeatedly mispronounced Auburn’s “Jordan-Hare Stadium.” Folks, it’s pronounced “jur-den,” not “jawr-dan.” She has called Lamar Advertising (a billboard company), The Mountain Press newspaper in Sevierville, NewsTalk 98.7, and Wal-Mart (for the love of God and all humanity, please change those signs to “20 items or fewer”).
Tall Child once thought he was a lumberjack. He said he wanted to cut a tree down (I’m guessing it was at least 100 feet tall) in our back yard. I said, “Don’t you dare try to do that. Please hire a professional tree service!” He promised he wouldn’t. A couple of weeks later, Sharky and I returned from a visit to The Crippled Beagle Farm to see a Knoxville Utilities Board truck, a Knox County fire truck, and neighbors surrounding our backyard. It seemed Tall Child had ignored his lack of experience and my threat. As he and our neighbor cut a notch into the huge Tulip Poplar on the wrong side, it leaned precariously toward the road and the beautiful white house full of people across the road! They panicked (thankfully) and called 911 and KUB. The KUB trained tree experts saved the road, the power lines, the house across the street, and Tall Child’s rear end. Did I mention this all happened the Saturday morning of the UT at Florida Gators football game and that, had the tree fallen, 55 houses would have lost power?
Lowe’s, Home Depot, and the internet are an awesome combo. No offense, but those stores have helped women feel less helpless and more confident that we can take care of business. No more nagging and waiting, ladies. Just Google it, buy it, and follow the instructions. You’ll show him! I’ve accomplished light electrical work, minor plumbing, and lots of painting. I can “cut in” like a stud. But, I’ve learned the hard way when to call in professionals. I’ve avoided fires but entertained several floods. My biggest project was painting the basement ceiling. Tall Child’s head hit the ugly, commercial drop tiles in our 700 sq. foot basement den. So, I ripped out all the tiles, fluorescent lights, and metalwork to “raise the roof.” Bad move. I figured I’d just sweep out the dust and enjoy rustic, wood-clad headspace. Wrong. I forgot about plumbing and wires and exposed a big mess. My solution? Paint it all. I Googled, calculated, and took off to Lowe’s to rent a paint sprayer. The only woman in the check-out line, I felt a bit judged. A flannelled man caked in nicotine and gasoline asked me, “Honey, you sure you can handle that thing?” I nervously admitted, using one of Trout’s famous lines, “I may be runnin' a mule in the Kentucky Derby.” Determined, I hauled the 80 lb. sprayer and 5 gallons of white paint home. Just getting the machine in the house and down the stairs was an aerobic, cuss-fest. I’m not sure if I ran the machine or it ran me, but we gyrated all over that square den until I’d used every drop of paint. I had miscalculated. I ran out of paint. I hustled back to Lowe’s for more, looking like this: 
 Oh, and department stores, please ditch the “For Sale by Owner” signs. No one should sell his or her own house. It’s painful for all involved, especially the professionals forced to negotiate with amateurs. There is soooooooooo much more involved.

If someone is "outstanding in his field," let him operate free of your critique! You do your job; he’ll do his. I’ve learned my lessons. I let other people work for me. I figure we all need each other. I see it this way: a nice lady may scan my groceries on Saturday, a nice man may fix my plumbing on Monday, and I may teach their children someday. For the record, though, I’m really good at diagnosing certain medical conditions and I KNOW I could steer a plane out of the sky, if I had to, with the help of a sexy post-military air traffic controller who would meet me on the tarmac after the crisis ended, in a running leap, on camera with a grammatically proficient news reporter detailing my heroics.

Hey, we are all capable and we are all critics. Here in the South we are all wedding planners, which brings me to Theory 17: Funerals are better than weddings, for guests, especially in the South.
See you next post! Until then, think outside the barn.
 

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!

Theory 14: People try to force things to be what they just can’t be.

Here we go. Gulp. People with money are especially guilty of trying to create the all-powerful, in-your-face-to-nature oxymoron: outdoor living rooms, indoor grills, luxury camping, rain-free weddings. I hear the trite phrases on HGTV, “light and airy,” and “bring the outside in” and think if you want light and air, you can find it in your yard, which is already outside. No need to bring it in. Go HVAC! It is so odd to see a squirrel nibble an acorn in front of a plasma TV. What’s up with eating outside? I’ve never been able to balance a plate on my lap, and certainly can’t do so while swatting flies. Tall Child refuses to dine alfresco – even at restaurants.
Delicious won’t camp.
She must have air conditioning. She is no princess. As a matter of fact, she and my father kept The Crippled Beagle Farm house (where she still lives) cool with a window unit air conditioner and warm with a kerosene heater and space heaters. Because such heaters were dangerous, I’d crank mine up full steam as soon as I got home from school. At bedtime, I’d layer on a sweatshirt, sweatpants, flannel nightgown, and tube socks (Tall Child, if you are reading this, please calm down) to survive freezing nights in the holler. When I woke, I could often scrape ice from the grooves in my wood-paneled walls. Delicious is tough and does not complain, but she does enjoy creature comforts. She, Pooh (my daddy) and I tried to camp once – way up on a hill on our farm. Well, we didn’t sleep too well on our Walmart sleeping bags under Pooh’s tarp cover. Partly due to bugs, partly due to nature’s stone-riddled mattress (Good Ole Rocky Top), mostly due to our beagles’ excitement over having rack buddies on their turf. They licked and slobbered and snuggled us right off the hill. Delicious declared, “Pioneer women and men roughed it and went through heck to learn all these lessons and create a better way to live. I will never camp again. It would just be disrespectful to the pioneers.”
Motorcycles can’t be cars: Four wheels are twice as comfortable as two wheels.
Ladies, think of all the stuff we absolutely need with us at all times. Where do you stash your handbag if you are a motorcycle mama? I have seen motorcycles far away from home. Remember, I grew up in Pigeon Forge so I scanned license plates my whole childhood. And, if you are wondering, Ohioand Alabama tour-ons are the worst drivers in the Smoky Mountains. Not judging, just observing. As a child, I marveled at how motorcycle people drove 8+ hours through unpredictable weather, by choice. They packed on extra compartments and often dragged cute little motor-cycle sized campers behind them. Delicious and I could never do it. We could never ride motorcycles because when we go on road trips the best part is talking all the way and sharing boiled peanuts. Neither would be possible or safe on motorcycles. One of us would have to ride Andy/Barney style in a sidecar. Not happening. How would we pass the peanuts? Plus, I don’t want my rear end four inches from I-40.
Delicious and I pack heavy duty make-up bags. We could share a duffel bag for our uniforms. For day: miracle-ish swimsuits and gracious cover-ups. For night: colorful blouses and Capripants. Evening wear: pajamas. But jewelry and make-up are a different deal. Jewelry: We take it all (most isn’t real) but we’ve been collecting earrings since the early eighties. At home, I store jewelry in ice trays in a deep drawer. As Delicious says, you just never know what kind of earring mood you’re going to be in. So, we pack it up and haul it all with us! Make-up bags and hair products: We don’t have big hair, but we have big products. Like many teachers, we are paranoid about lice, so we employ an arsenal of mousse, gel, and spray (Delicious likes Aussie). Trust me folks, cooties are real. I’ve seen them. We “spray down” each morning to create a dome (figuratively and literally) to protect ourselves and are not about to tempt fate on the road.
We need a car. Plus, Sharky and the Gnome are typically in tow.  Also, I can promise you this, as much as he loves me, Tall Child does not want me straddling him from the back, “log fluming it” with my mouth right at his ear from here to Hilton Head. And there is NO way he’d let me drive. He can barely shotgun it in Big Red without passing a non-existent kidney stone. We’d never make it on two wheels.
Outside can not be inside. No matter how much money you spend.
Imagine the scene: A majestic doorway opens, a crowd of adoring friends and relatives stand and turn in awe of an angel in white. The angel’s newly tiny waist is announced with trumpeters. She is pulled through perfectly positioned white chairs covered in pastel fabric, in rose-dotted rows, under an enormous white canopy the size of a ballroom. The air is fresh. A breeze lifts her perfectly curled (and planned) tendril. She feels like a million dollars. She’s got a man full of promises and she is skinny and the weather is perfect. She has fooled Mother Nature! She is unstoppable!
But, do you know what happens outside? Thunder! Lightening! Rain! Bugs. It’s your parade, but it’s going to rain on your parade. You might want to take the parade inside.
And, guess what, usually, there’s a really nice ballroom right behind the tent.
Hey, we all admire a perfectly delivered outdoor wedding. Which backdrop is better: empty choir seats or a field of wildflowers? It’s just almost impossible to pull off, though. But, when you are in love, you don’t reason well. The worst are the outdoor weddings in the heat of Southern summers. Brides sweat through ceremonies, praying mascara doesn’t run. Often uh-hem, “dehydrated and really tired” grooms and groomsmen pray not to buckle at the knees and pass out in front in the sweltering humidity. Chignons become sticky buns of Aquanet and bobby pins. Female guests look like dwarf stilt-walkers as they stiletto-poke their way over grass floors to and from the food line.
Tents don’t take wind as well as, say, buildings. Once, Tall Child chased a UT tailgate tent down Panama City Beach. Good thing he’s an athlete. He spared the spearing of innocent sunbathers. What happens if your chignon goes sticky bun in the wind. Then the mosquitos get trapped in the Aquanet.
When it was time to marry Tall Child, I was a nervous wreck. Not because I fear speaking in public. I enjoy that, actually. And not because I am shy about professing my Christian faith. And not because I don’t like attention. I love attention. I’m an only child who wears bright red lipstick. No problemo. I was freaking out because I had to be fancy and formal. Delicious gave me half a nerve pill and I coasted through a ten minute ceremony and enjoyed delicious food and all my favorite people at the reception in Tall Child’s parents’ backyard. It was all good. I was even a skinny Size 10! My outdoor wedding reception was perfect. Until it rained. Regardless, we had a sweet wedding day.
I think for our 20th anniversary, Tall Child and I should piggy back ride a motorcycle to the Chimneys Campground, renew our vows under a canopy of poplars, and second honeymoon in a cozy tent or rented camper. 
 

Seriously, though, to me, there’s absolutely no better time than a super casual outdoor party filled by people with common interests, chowing down on good grub and drinks, which brings me to Theory 15: “Tailgate etiquette” is not an oxymoron.
See you next post! Until then, think outside the barn.

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

Delicious loves to “people watch” and often has me cruise her around town in Big Red, whip through Chic-Fil-A for a sweet tea with extra ice and lemon or dream cone and then park in front of Office Depot and Catherines (a clothing store for plus-size women). We enjoy our treats and observe shoppers. We note trends in fashion and trends in form. We often notice how as men and women age, they morph into the opposite gender. Private parts don’t change, but public parts get confusing.
Delicious had a student who said something profound once. He said, “As people age, they become caricatures of themselves.” Sharp noses point harder. Big breasts drag us south. Ears expand. Knees knot.  Our parts over-pronounce themselves and morph from female to male and male to female. Let’s just work our way down the human body, shall we?
Hair: I have male cousins—albeit they are handsome, stage-performing cousins—who get perms and highlights. Do they read Cosmo for tips on bounce and shine like I used to do? Some men pamper every last strand with Rogaine, “product,” and precise comb-over primping. God knows all the hairs on our heads. He’s in good company among many. On the contrary, grandmothers go for short, easy haircuts, and perm their hair up and out of the way. I’m 39 and already ask my Great Clips hairdresser to “Cut my hair so I don’t have to fix it.” Delicious counsels, “When women get real short hairdo’s they need to wear bright lipstick and big earrings so they don’t look like men.” When I was about fourteen, I ruined my grandmama “Fred’s” hair. I used a knitting needle to pull her curly-permed strands through a hole-punched swim cap before I lathered on store-bought peroxide. We tried toner, but to no avail. She just chopped it all off and wore a baseball hat. Her “do” was so short, my uncle asked her if she heated tweezers on the stove to use as a curling iron. Fred, donning her baseball hat and soft Dollywood t-shirt, cruised Pigeon Forge one day when a Yankee tour-on yelled over to her, “Hey, buddy, can you tell me how to get to the Apple Barn?” Fred lowered her voice to a deep gruff, “Just go through the next light and take a right.” The ten grandchildren called her “Buddy” for years!
Faces: I know; broken capillaries cause their rosy cheeks, but it looks like old men wear blush. Women get pasty and have to go for heavy-duty make-up. Delicious told me once, “No matter how much time I spend slappin’ on my war paint, I still look old when I finish.”
Mouths: Men’s full lower lips plop into permanent pouts. Women’s lips tighten to razor thin equal signs when they concentrate and wrinkled bulls-eye rooster butts when they fume. Especially the old ladies who hit the gas station every morning for black coffee, a sausage biscuit, and a pack of Winstons.
Voices: The male voice pitches higher, like a “just over laryngitis” attempt to sound normal. I think some arterial blockage causes it.
Breasts: Bras are mini-prisons. When women age, they become more comfortable with the way they look. Their priorities shift upward as their parts slide downward. Women want to be comfortable, dang it. They toss their bras to the floor and relax. May I suggest that their newly endowed husbands pick the bras up and try them out? I get self-conscious around man-boobs. Men, you could wear a “squeezer” (the label my buddy "Suspenders" gave to skin-tight camisoles that lift up and smooth out all the bumps).
Waist: The glass blower of nature and aging morphs female hourglasses into cylinders. Delicious swears she can wear her pants backward and no one can tell. We girls lose our rear ends. The round parts shift up and away from the spinal cord to settle like waist-high storage compartments. Like little hip seats for grandbabies! Men have this problem, too. I don’t know where their rears go, they just disappear one day. Call 911! Somebody stole Tall Child’s behind! I guess that’s why old men don elastic waistband pants. No more zipper flies and sexy Levi’s. Or, is the elastic meant to accommodate the cafeteria fetish? Meat and three at the early bird 4:30 pm special in buffet pants: it’s a no fly zone! Home in time to conquer Sudoku and enjoy a hot cup of decaf as they watch The Wheel.
Feet: Women kick the heels and finally, finally, finally wear comfortable shoes. The damage is already done with varicose and spider veins, but who cares? They can run(ish) with the wind! Men wear sandals. Sometimes with socks.
Clothing in general: Young women freeze. Old women roast. Young men roast. Old men freeze. I visited Delicious’s old Corinth Baptist Church (Georgia). The sweet, southern house of God ministered to one-hundred-some-odd congregants each Sunday morning. In many of the rows, dark blue and plaid throw blankets, meant for the men, lay across worn arms of aged pews.
In general, women expand and men reduce. That’s why I married a much taller Tall Child, so I’d have room to grow. From up there, I’ll hopefully look small, even if I am wide.
Body hair: Male stubble becomes spotty. Their skin smoothes to reveal soft purple-dappled forearms, calves, and ankles. Maybe it’s menopause, maybe it’s hormone replacement, maybe it’s just tough life experiences manifesting physically, but women get spiky. The next time you see an elderly woman, get close enough to inspect her chin. She won’t have a 5 o-clock shadow, but she’ll have what my Granny Wimmie called “whiskers.” This lovely new growth begins at middle age. I am on the constant lookout for rogue hairs on my body, which is why I’m armed with tweezers and a Bic razor everywhere I go. Especially in my beach bag. I forgot to shave under my arms once and, four hours into a 4th of July party at a country club, stretched in front of the mirror and thought, “Who are those little boys? Oh, no! They are my underarms!” Big Red and I get lots of ‘friendly’ honks at red lights. Look, I’m a busy working mama, I tweeze when I can. Ladies, just face the music. You are morphing. Lather up and shave like a real man/woman!  Now, the changes aren’t just physical.
Old men get feminine in several ways. They go to the mall, ostensibly to accompany their wives, but I see them jiggle and snooze in massage chairs with giant drink cups. Women simplify. They carry the same handbag year round and wear pretty much the same outfits all the time, like uniforms (shopping outfit, babysitting outfit, church outfit, party outfit). Men gossip at barbershops and convenience stores. They become hypochondriacs and worry about family relationships and obsess over the weather. Women take over bills. Men grocery shop. That takes some training. My dear retired father-in-law heard Bop say, “I’m out of baking soda.” He jetted off to Kroger and came back with a cereal-sized box of baking soda, bragging on his bargain-hunting conquest. Women stop cooking. Men get sappy and corny and much less aggressive. Women take risks. No joke. YESTERDAY, Sharky, the Gnome and I were parked and an elderly lady pulled out of the spot beside us and cut to turn way too closely to us. Instead of backing up, she slowed to 3 miles per hour and stared me down, as if to say, “I know you think I’m going to hit you, but watch me work magic little girl.” It. Took. Her. For. Ev. Er. Sharky had time to hop out and witness and swears she came within an inch of Big Red’s brush guard. Women drive, and men ask to stop to go the bathroom. Women play golf and men go to Bible study. Men answer the phone.
Once, in a gentle, yet wordy domestic dispute, a rightfully mad Tall Child joked, “If you were a man, I’d hit you right now!” Well, Tall Child, it’s just a matter of time. Just remember, when you start doing the grocery shopping, don’t forget my shaving cream.

Smooth
All this talk of hot vs. cold, dressing up vs. dressing down, and gender roles reminds me of Theory 14: People try to force things to be what they just can’t be.
See you next post! Until then, think outside the barn.

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

Readers, I warned you in my first post that I will vent from time to time. Delicious cautioned me not to write this theory because (and she is probably right) I will certainly offend some folks by griping about bicycle guys.  I like to complain in detail, so let me be specific so as to identify who “bicycle guys” are and who they are not. They are the guys who ride bicycles at rush hour, on the road, in school zones, in the way, and make us all nervous and late.  They are not the men and women who ride in parks and on back roads, on weekends or at night, for exercise or pleasure.  They are not the college students who choose frugal speed and efficient parking with bikes vs. cars. 
Hustling to get Sharky to school and myself on to work, I met up with a stranger on two wheels every stinkin’ morning for several years. The original Bicycle Guy routinely showed up on the narrow, two-lane (no shouldered) Lyons View Pike.  Sharky I became so frustrated, I considered penning an editorial piece for the local paper.  Look, I’m a fan of exercise. Not necessarily a participant, but still, a fan. (See Theory 5: Play a sport, even if you suck at it.) I admire people who rise early to work out. But, I wanted this Bicycle Guy to get out of my way! I hated starting my day with a string of menacing moments and thoughts like, “Geez, I want to pass him but what if he turns? Geez, I wonder how much sweat is in those shorts. ”
I never want Sharky or the Gnome to be disrespectful toward grown-ups, but this guy wore us out. When it was safe, I swerved quite dramatically around Bicycle Guy (so he’d notice) and nodded to Sharky, who then yelled out his backseat window, “Grab a napkin, ‘cause you just got served!”
So, cyclists, if you are reading this, please understand and take this message to heart because I really am afraid I’m going to hit you with my car. Not on purpose, of course! I won’t lose mental control and just run you over. I actually have several friends who bike for sport. I love to see their scenic Facebook and Instagram photos from atop Smoky Mountain overpasses and curves of The Dragon. Call me ignorant, and do forgive me. I am just trying, like many drivers, to understand and—what’s that weird bumper sticker I see all the time? COEXIST? (in ethnic hieroglyphics) safely. Bicycle Guy, please consider the following observations, conjectures, and questions:
Like most mothers, I can never drive with two hands. When the Gnome screams for a French fry, I must deliver. When Sharky smarts off, I pinch him. When Gnome drops his sippy cup, his book, his toy, his blanket, I lean back and reach blindly (eyes on the road) and sweep the crumb-y gooey floorboard until I retrieve all the above. Heck, I serve dinner in my car, affectionately named Big Red.
You are putting a lot of trust in strangers and their vehicles. My year 2000 SUV is running on love and duct tape these days. Once I even held the driver’s side door on the car, in the rain, for several miles to a service station.  That door was like a 9-year-old’s loose tooth, hanging by one strong wire. My arm was sore for days. Last year, Big Red and I survived three winter months sans wiper blades.
Drivers and their vehicles have issues beyond your control. We have bad brakes, bad alternators, loose belts, slick tires… We could be arguing, reading, eating, drinking, asleep…
Your outfits are distracting. My old 4th grade teacher used to sing a song that went, “Keep your mind on your driving and your eyes on the wheel, because the girls are in the backseat with Fred.” I can’t keep my eyes on my driving when your muscles flex round and round in neon in my line of sight. Why do you wear neon in the daytime? Do you wear sunglasses at night? What’s really bad is when your neon top doesn’t match your neon bottom. I’m from Pigeon Forge, but still, come on! Also, what’s up with the padded man Spanx? Are you trying to avoid chafing? Makes sense, but why not cover your man Spanx. Is this an aerodynamic goal? How much time can you really shave off with that get-up? If you bike to work, does that mean you walk into your office sporting man Spanx? You’ve already made countless people late for their jobs, and then you expose your colleagues to a middle-aged body bulging out of sweaty Speedo shorts first thing in the morning. If I saw that, I’d drop my donut!
Do you stink all day? You must be physicians, because banks don’t have showers and there is no way a teacher is going to take his clothes off at school. We hope. Is this how we get staff infections from minor surgeries?
Your bike weighs around 25 pounds. Big Red weights 4,164.  You do the math.
Why does your hat have a tail?
Why don’t you ride on greenways and mountain trails? This is East Tennessee! Think of the views, the hills that could build those thighs and glutes, the wildflowers… Be a man! At nine years old, I stood up and pumped my maroon and silver bicycle all over The Crippled Beagle Farm, balancing her through rutted pit and tar roads dotted with box turtles and American Bullfrogs. I dodged sunbathing beagles and cow patties. I grazed barbed wire fences to avoid Delicious’s ever-threatening tetanus shot.  My skillful steering and command of the two-wheeled vehicle took me to shady spots where I would lie on a beach towel to enjoy my Swiss Cake Roll, Coke, and Sweet Valley High book. I just don’t understand why you have to absorb a whole lane on Lyon’s View or Kingston Pike or Cumberland Avenue.    Which view do you prefer? 


Speaking of Lyon’s View, you know there’s a country club on that road, right? I suggest you coast through its parking lot when you have extra time. You will see an inordinate number of white-trimmed blue squares framing stick men in wheel chairs. These handicap spots take up half the parking lot. Hmmmm. An elderly man gets up at 6 a.m. to walk his 20 heart-healthy minutes on the country club treadmill. He then enjoys some cottage cheese and peaches with decaf coffee. He gets in his giant Cadillac and pulls his cataract glasses from atop the visor. And, BAM! You meet. Bicycle Guy, you are putting a lot of faith in geriatric peripheral vision. Is that why you wear neon? Does in glow in the cataract dark?
When you exit Lyon’s View and head down Kingston Pike toward campus, do you realize you are in West High School territory? Does the term “Drivers’ Education” mean anything to you? You are basically playing Frogger on wheels with high school freshmen. I teach freshmen. When a student tells me, “Mrs. Bug, I’m getting my learner’s permit today,” I gulp and pray. For all of us. Trust me, you are safer on the greenway.
How Sharky rollsDo you avoid the greenway to avoid other exercisers? Are there greenway hogs? Walkers, joggers, women behind baby strollers? Dog walkers managing unpredictable runaways? Can’t we all just get along? There must be some rules, some exercising etiquette.  Ladies, make room for the cyclists, please.
I told my dear old friend, Mutah, who is an active mountain biker and often makes 70 mile trips through the mountains about this post and he told me that he and his friends have been “spit at, cussed out, passed way too closely and even hit by cars!” He has a license plate that reminds people to share the road. He explained, “One bike rider was hit by a full 16 oz. Dr. Pepper bottle.” He warned,  “I hope and pray your blog does not make you sound like one of these redneck idiots, but tells people to share the road… the law states that they have to be three feet away from the cyclist.”
I’m just going to have to say to all you bike riders, “Look twice for Big Red and thank God for her brush guard.”
Cyclists, I do admire your courage. I admire your tenacity. I admire your commitment to physical fitness. Actually, often, I admire your physiques, from a safe three-foot distance, of course. Now and then, though, as I check out your toned thighs and big calves, I get an up close shock when I realize you are actually female, which reminds me of Theory 13: As people get old, they morph into the opposite gender.
See you next post. Until then, think outside the barn!

Theory 11: The only thing worse than teacher fashion is substitute teacher fashion.

A few years ago, I faced reality: the recession. Forced to leave daily domestic bliss behind, I opted to avoid returning to my old career—retail banking—and opted to test the waters of public education. I “signed up to be a sub” in my hometown (not the district where I now teach).
In last week’s post, Teachers are the most entertaining people on the planet, I explained the ways in which teachers engage their audiences. One crucial element in school performance is wardrobe, thus today’s theory regarding fashion. Teachers try. They really do. But keep in mind that ours are not the most lucrative paying careers. And, subs, per day, gross around half what first year teachers do, which ain’t much.
I sat through a long day of substitute teacher training in the top of a “high rise” downtown. The old building appeared to have run out of bricks. When I stepped off the elevator into a 7-foot-tall-hallway, I felt like Gulliver.  The Lilliputian trainer explained that subs grossed $67 a day and that, after taxes, I’d net about $50. Plus (yay me), paychecks fell on the 25th of the month following the month of the day you subbed. For example: Work August 1-3 and gross $201. Net $150 on September 25.  Really? I felt my soul leave my body and hover over the Target-shirted, Belk-capri’d, Yellow-Box sandaled crowd. The tiny man then explained how we needed to dress professionally. He warned that we might have to rush out the door to a job so he advised we lay out our clothes the night before. Then he forced us to watch a gruesome video on blood born pathogens. I assume—and hope I don’t offend anyone by saying this—that many subs come to the job because they need money. I certainly did. I spent $72 on a drug test, background check, and fingerprints. I heard “professional” and I saw “blood born pathogens” and I thought about my substitute teacher wardrobe “keep it covered and keep it cheap.”  I called Delicious (who taught for 34 years) to gripe. She laughed and advised, “Just go to Wal-Mart and get two pair of black britches. Make sure you wear comfortable shoes. Bug, think about what your old teachers and subs used to wear!”
The past: Let us recall some of our favorite teacher duds from days gone by.
Coaching shorts: Coaching shorts made me nervous. There was plenty of polyester around back then. Why couldn’t manufacturers give those men two or three more inches? I lived in fear of my beloved teachers striking The Thinker pose and scarring me for life. 

 Jumpers: If you work with someone who stills pulls on a denim jumper, call TLC’s show, “What Not To Wear.” Please.  Why would anyone lay that much denim across her body? It’s heavy, hot, and flattens all the wrong parts.  And, no matter how hard you try, you’ll never find the right shoes to go with a jumper.  


Sweaters that Tell a Story: Common Core standards mandate that teachers use informational text in the classroom. Graphic novels stitched onto wool do not count. The present: When you wear an outfit to school, it is tarnished. Think Seinfeld’s “book in the bathroom” episode. Teachers and subs are surrounded by dust, ink, paint, chalk, toner, throw-up, etc. And snacks on the fly are messy.
When I subbed, I decided to live the experience full force and not spend a dime. I wore cheap flood-length black britches and v-neck long-sleeved t-shirts from a large retailer. The shirts became pajamas.  The pajamas became dust rags. That’s a solid deal for a $7 “blouse.” It’s the next best thing to disposable clothing. I did not wear a vest. You’re welcome. I haven’t evolved much now that I’m a regular teacher, but I have learned some tricks from my peers.
I taught high school with a woman who “supported” every club in school by buying its t-shirts. Who can admonish a teacher who is rooting for the track team and fundraising for the drama club while fighting cancer, Alzheimer’s, and bullies every week? What a giver. She accessorized with a bedazzled lanyard and I.D. badge.
My buddy wears his church clothes to school every Monday. He just lays the whole outfit in a chair. God first. Laundry second.
 A co-worker confessed that she buys no-iron clothes because sometimes she sleeps in them. Teachers are tired folks.
White sandals. Just don’t. Forget about the calendar. White sandals are always wrong.       Cardigans with a modest sleeveless top are a must. Students in? Sweater on. Students out? Sweater off. Layers combat hot flashes, cold meeting rooms, and exposure to the elements via fire drills. Most importantly, an extra layer keeps you from over-revealing middle-aged body parts.
No joke. I’d like to apologize in advance to my colleagues for my dull wardrobe and promise my students that I do wash my clothes (actually, Tall Child does). I do not wear the same pants every day – I just wear the same pants every day.
Here’s my back to school wardrobe list: 2 pair black slacks2 pair gray slacks1 pair dark jeans – NOT tight, unless I “over tailgate” on fall weekends5 solid sleeveless tops5 solid cardigansSchool t-shirt. Go team!Ah, the mixing and matching. Get excited!I try to live it up through my earrings but by January I usually wear one of       two pair: gold loops or silver hoops. My $10 watch is gold and silver so I wear it every day. Bonus!Brown flats (man-made, Earth friendly material) Hey, I’m a giver, too.Black flatsCrocs. Yes. Sorry. They’re animal print. That counts for something, right?
I’m in the first week of the school year and had some down time during orientation today. So, knowing I had to write this post tonight, I quizzed my freshmen students, “What advice would you give teachers on how to dress?” Here is some of what I heard:
Don’t shop at an old person store.Don’t wear too much foundation and no mascara.Yes, please wear lipstick!Look professional. Wear skirts.But skirts don’t go with nurse shoes.Socks and sandals make me sick.Don’t mix patterns.Too many clashing colors look bad.I had one teacher who dressed like Princess Diana, with long dresses and short hair.Don’t wear old lady perfume.Don’t dress like students.
I interrupted, “What about the male teachers?” I heard:
I hate when the men teachers are all baggy. Tuck your shirt in and look proper!Wear khakis.And Polo’s.Don’t wear tennis shoes. Wear dress shoes.We don’t want to see chest hair. I mean, we can’t see it, but we can see the little dots under the shirt.
I remarked, “Wow. Ya’ll really have high expectations!”
One student consoled, “Well, you should take a lazy day sometimes. You can wear tennis shoes on Fridays.”
Hey, we educators (subs and full-time) are doing the best we can!  Most of us are parents, hustling to drop off our own children and hurry to work in time to care for other people’s children. Looks are not a priority when you are tasked with educating the next generation. Teachers hate tardiness and we are, by nature, unselfish. This brings me to Theory 12: Bicycle guys are selfish and make other people late for work.
See you next post! Until then, think outside the barn.