Jody Cantrell Dyer's Blog: What's your story? Maybe I can help you write it., page 18

Theory 10: Teachers are the most entertaining people on the planet.

 Reader, think back through all your years in school. From kindergarten to high school to college, which teachers stand out in your memory? Which were your “favorites”? Picturing someone? Now, was that teacher an expert in Bloom’s Taxonomy, Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, or cross-curricular planning with informational text? My guess is those teachers stand out for one primary reason: entertainment value!  Many folks are led to teaching careers because they want to entertain.  We need a stage. For all us amateur comedians, the classroom is the perfect theater. The audience is required by law to attend performances. The cast of characters (faculty and staff) are fodder for tragedy, romance, and comedic relief. There’s not a whole lot of money at stake, so we can take risks with our humor. If a joke bombs, hey, just turn to Page 44 and answer questions 1-15. Plus, students love stories!  And, I think—at least I hope—at least they tell me they love to hear my stories again and again.  Hmmm. There are many sources of entertainment via school faculty. Teachers know how to work together.Some teachers get loud and stay loud all day. Not a teaching strategy folks – just a quirk. Let’s call them Yellers. Many Yellers are also Bellers (ring bells, value noise). Let’s take it back to the tour-on infested hollers of East Tennessee for a bit. There, my dear family friend HR worked with a Yeller/Beller. She told me, “[That teacher] would not stop ringing that dang bell. So, one day as I left school, I stole the bell. The next morning, I heard her let out a yell like no other, ‘Wheeeeerrreeeee’s MY BELL?!?’ She blamed every [child] in her room for stealing the bell. On the last day of school, I snuck the bell behind a stack of books. When [Yeller/Beller] was cleaning up [to go home for summer] she laughed and said, “I didn’t know I put the bell there!”  Teachers are pranksters. We have to be. We say the same things over and over and must inject humor. My cousin Mooch is one of the funniest people I know. Mooch started the “Fake Rat Project” with a Halloween toy rat who bore flashing red eyes. Mooch hid the rat and declared a rule that whoever found the rat had to relocate it. Mooch and the Rat caused horror and hysterics, not to mention a few mid-day teacher costume changes.Teachers are daring volunteers.A goat trespassed the playground. HR came to the rescue with a jump rope. She haltered the goat and led it through the adjacent neighborhood yelling, “I’ve got a goat! Whose goat is this?” to the delight of students and faculty. Let’s all sing in rounds, “Mary had a little goat. In Pigeon Forge. In Pigeon Forge.”Why do students always want to make us dance? Especially those of us who are Size 12 and up. I had to jiggle through a flash mob just last year. Maybe when we embarrass ourselves on their behalf, we earn students’ trust. Still, it seems like we have to dance an awful lot.Teachers make their own fun.My old biology teacher, Bufe (pronounced Beeyouf, one syllable) tortured ambitious honors students by offering an A+ on the entire fetal pig dissection project if we pulled the pig’s brain and spinal cord out, completely intact. You should have seen my neurotic, genius, now chemical engineer friend TRO in a cold sweat, mini-hacking that baby pig with tweezers and tiny scalpel. Bufe also held weekly raffles to raise money for the soccer team. Since gambling was illegal in Tennessee then, he “sold” us Solo cups with numbers on the bottom. $1 per cup. He shuffled the cups like a magician. Winners won t-shirts and game tickets.Teachers love romance!Delicious worked with a purvey principal who literally locked her in his office and chased her around a desk, begging for “just one little kiss.” He did stop to squirt breath spray in his mouth. It was the early 80’s. I think the amorous administrator was inspired by Dabney Coleman’s chase after Dolly Parton in “9 to 5.” The King of Kodak (introduced in Theory?) was also the King of romance! Every Friday, he held a dating game.  He cut a small heart out of a piece of notebook paper. He laid the paper on the overhead projector and shut off the lights. He chose a female student to come up front and stand in the overhead-projected heart spotlight. The girl chose a number that correlated to another student in the King’s roll book. The boy met the girl in the light. Then, the King spun his globe to determine where they would go on their fictional date. Once, Mare got set up with my cousin Roscoe. They were destined for love in Nicaragua! I think she was excited but she never admitted it.Teachers make the best public mistakes!We are tired. We are punchy. We are over-stimulated throughout the day. So, we mess up. Sometimes by accident. Sometimes on purpose. Delicious is not a housekeeper. Laundry piled up at our house and every morning was harried. Well, one good old day at GP, Delicious was strolling the rows, speaking in iambic pentameter, forcing Hamlet on teenagers, while a gaggle of girls giggled. For half an hour. Finally, she confronted them and asked, “Okay, ya’ll are being rude while I teach. What is the deal?” One said, “We’re sorry Mrs. Delicious, but you’ve got panty hose coming out of your pants.” I’m not sure how she did this, but Delicious put on her polyester Kmart (I’m sure) black pants and a pair of nude hose were stuck inside, leg for leg. Basically, she looked like the house in the “Wizard of Oz” with the Wicked Witch of the East’s socks uncurled and exposed. She’d dragged those empty tan feet around all morning. To the delight of night school students, Delicious, worn out from a long day in the garden, drug her tired self to class late and slung her tote bag hard on top of her work table in front of the room. When that cotton bag struck the Formica, Delicious’s Preparation H shot across the room, “like a torpedo.” My old principal, Mr. Z, who was tough and tall, bragged to students that he could do a mid-air karate kick. Well, he did. But, at the height of his exhibition, he split his pants.I taught at a really “rough” and rowdy school my first year. My classroom daily motto (which I muttered all day long to myself was “don’t cuss, don’t cry, don’t quit.” I made it all the way to May! Yay! But, I still showed my tail. Worn slap out by ruuuuuuuude 8th graders, many of whom I still love and stay in contact with, I lost my cool. I was holding a stack of math workbooks and thought, “I am so freakin’ mad I’m going to throw these across the room!” Knowing this was a bad idea, I had the presence of mind to get a teacher passing the hall to stop and witness my tantrum. She agreed. I hurled 30 books across the room and watched them smack then slide down the wall, stunning students. I put on a You-Tube worthy twenty-minute tirade. It was quite a show. The students loved it! I learned a lesson. Teachers are creative problem solvers.My sweet and typically soft-spoken algebra teacher, frustrated with our lack of understanding, shocked us one day. He jumped from his chair and leapt across his desk and out the door. He re-entered and sat down. Then, he dove under his desk and crawled out the door. He re-entered and sat down. Finally, he stood and sauntered out the door. When he returned, a student asked, “Mr. R, are you alright?” He said with his pointer finger in the air and his voice in a lilt, “I’m just demonstrating that there’s more than one way to solve a problem!” It was quite a show and he did not throw out his back. Teachers do that a lot, too. Whew.Teachers are resourceful.Yes, we have summers off, but our time is limited. Delicious was notorious for sending students on off-campus errands (this was way before teacher evaluations and Common Core Standards). Think of the movie “Dazed and Confused.” Delicious gave senior boys her car keys and had them take Greenie (teacher cars are a whole other story) to the car wash on Highway 321. She also sent them to Proffitt’s Deli to bring back her lunch. Of course, they were compensated with freedom and hot dogs. She continued the tradition until a boy brought back a bunch of Budweiser cans and announced to the room, “Look what we found in your car!”If you are a student, teachers are wonderful listeners. If you are an in-service trainer, teachers are terrible listeners. Teachers love to talk. Duh. And, since their days are dynamic and harried, they don’t sit still very well. We all end up with ADHD, that is, if we stay awake.  Who wants to explain stuff all day and then listen to someone else explain stuff? It’s tough! It’s like listening to yourself explain stuff. Geez. I get so tired of my own voice!Speaking of changing times and bad listeners, Delicious has not adjusted to the age of technology. In the late 90’s her school got a set of teacher computers and Delicious got her first email account. The trainer explained, “Decide on a password and do not tell anyone what it is.” Well, Delicious sat through the long meeting, straining to guard her new key to warp-speed, limitless communication. But, she finally broke, telling her best friend, “I can’t take this anymore! I don’t like keeping secrets. I am telling you my password.” The much younger, tech savvy Mrs. W sighed, “Okay, what is it?” Delicious whispered seriously through her clenched jaw, “Computer.”A buddy said today in training that teachers are notorious for modeling the behaviors they hate in students. For example, teachers who want their classrooms super quiet are the chattiest in meetings. The ones who value punctuality are late to training. In other words, he quipped about behavior problems, “If you spot it, you’ve got it!”Usually, in-service trainers (who are typically master teachers) schmooze the audience with prizes, school supplies, breaks, and food. Teachers love food. Just like students. What is that all about? We’ll eat anything. Any time. Any day. I’ve had pizza and cake before 9 a.m. on several occasions. I had three desserts today at an in-service. School started Tuesday for me and starts at the end of July for my students. A teacher friend said to me today, as she also gobbled down quite a sweet spread, “I just can’t start my diet ‘til I have students.” In-service snacksReaders, I write about these teachers for one simple reason: I laughed with them. I learned from them. I love them! And, turns out, now I’m one of them!

So, it’s time to go back to school, which means I need some new teacher duds—a subject that honestly merits its own post, Theory 11: The only thing worse than teacher fashion is substitute teacher fashion.See you next post! Until then, think outside the barn!

Theory 9: The more a zoo advertises a critter, the less likely visitors are to see it.

It’s summer and I’m a public school teacher, so I entertain Sharky and the Gnome on a dime. Luckily, we live close to the Great Smoky Mountains and The University of Tennessee—budget friendly attractions. But, when my beautiful, sweet niece E came to visit for a week from our state’s capital, I had to step up my game. I took them trudging through my Appalachian home place—The Crippled Beagle Farm, we caught lightening bugs in our front yard, and we bowled at The University of Tennessee’s student center. But E had souvenir money from her dog sitting business to burn, so I had to find a gift shop before she returned to Nashville! Where is a great place to see stuff and spend money? The zoo! I’ll begin by promising you readers that I LOVE the Knoxville Zoo. I’ve gone to several animal themed parks, petting exhibits, fairs, and zoos in my life but The Knoxville Zoo reigns supreme! It’s clean, convenient, well-managed, and the animals enjoy considerable habitat space. “Habitat” is what you call cages and pens with synthetic rocks and fake tropical waterfalls to convince the animals that they are in Thailand, not Tennessee.The worst thing I ever saw at the Knoxville Zoo was a 50 pound Aldabran Tortoise stuck on his side. He just paddled away, with no friction to save his balance. His scaly claws fought for naught. But, within moments, a zoo employee rescued him by carefully setting him upright. The second worst thing I ever saw at the zoo was when Sharky, then age 4, escaped his rented stroller (which, by the way, are the best strollers ever because they are light, simple, and low enough for a child to step into and out of by himself, thus saving my aching back). Why can’t regular folks buy those? They are almost as handy as the church’s highchairs.  Anyway, unfortunately, Sharky could also unbuckle himself.  I said something like, “Let’s go see the lions!” and he furiously unsnapped his safety belt and zoomed like a bullet down the path. But, he tripped, went airborne, and soared into a mound of black dusty mulch. He was a Southern Ground Hornbill! The best thing I’ve ever seen at the Knoxville Zoo is old Tonka, who is still there, and has been since my 1980’s childhood (thus the name Tonka, as in Tonka Tough trucks). He’s an African elephant and I can count on seeing him. The second best thing about the Knoxville Zoo is Dippin' Dots, the world’s coldest ice cream. It really doesn’t matter what month it is when you go to the zoo, you will be hot. Basically, you tromp around a 50+ acre hilly farm and, when you tell me I’m in Africa or I see that Brazilian Rainbow Boa glassed in a humid box,  the power of suggestion just gives me hot flashes and I need cooling off with some Cookies-n-Cream. Just like when I gaze at the Toco Toucan I crave Fruit Loops and a Margarita.All that being said, I have a theory about zoos in general. The more the zoo advertises a critter, the less likely visitors are to see it. The zoo is a unique experience.I once heard a Fox News anchor say something like, “Why do people keep making Pandas have more Pandas?” I can tell you why, Brian. Supply for demand. Zoos advertise exotic visitors (animals they rent or borrow from other zoos) to ramp up visitation, but most folks just hear the ad or see the billboard in passing and think the animals have made a home in the local habitat. Not so. How many of you have been lured into the zoo, to the tune of $19.95 for adults and $17.95 for children over the age of 2 to see a critter from another part of the world, only to spend, sweat, and see this:

Of course!

So off E, Sharky, the Gnome, and I went to the zoo. E is not a fan of hot uphill hiking, but when I told her about the White Alligator and gift shop, she grabbed her iPod Touch (camera) and spending money! We saw black bears recline, penguins waddle, and Tonka scoop water with his trunk. We looked through a huge habitat for the Western lowland gorillas, but found only one. Another large gorilla rested inside a concrete structure. Sharky didn’t like that environment and said, “He is miserable.” 
I said, “He is fine. Maybe he just likes being in the shade.”

Sharky argued, “Really? Check out the look on his face.”

I’m no Jane Goodall, but Sharky had a point.
Sometimes I think animals are smarter than humans. They don't trip. They don’t argue with nature. They lie in the shade and refresh themselves with water. We eat hot nachos and hoof it up hills. We gawk. They yawn. Who is watching whom here? I’ve never heard a lion roar, but I’m sure those lions have heard plenty of mamas yell. As my little wards gazed upon the grasslands zebras, E (very much a girl) squished up her face and asked, “Aunt Bug, can we go to another part of the zoo. It stinks over here. Ewww, what is that smell?”

Tired, I explained, “Zebra sht.”

We migrated over to the baboon cage. Again, “Aunt Bug, it stinks over here, too! What is that smell?” “E, that’s Baboon sht.”  FYI - Teachers aren’t the most patient summer babysitters. Two hours, two fruit slushies, and two plastic animal toys in, Sharky said, “Let’s go to the other side.” E almost cried, “There’s another side?” “Yes! We have to go see the White Alligator! I heard about it on the news!”  I was hot and tired, too, but I wanted to get the best bang for my buck, especially since that money should have gone toward the light bill, and was determined that my brood would see every caged critter. E and I rallied when we saw the Dippin’ Dots stand and took a much needed break. Ahhh. Cool, refreshing, summertime ice cream. I could never eat meat at the zoo.  Who could eat chicken nuggets while watching a bird show? Delicious hasn’t eat a hamburger since the time she pattied out ground beef and looked out her kitchen window to see a cow, fifteen feet away, make its own patty. Restored by our freezing cold sweet treat, we set out to see the White Alligator on the far side of the 56 acre zoo. Halfway there, E, who was pushing Sharky in the awesome stroller, stopped and gasped, “Oh my gosh Aunt Bug, what time is it?” I said, “3:30. Why?” She said, “Oh no! I am missing a show I really wanted to watch.” I asked, “What show?” She said, “It’s a show about wild animals on Nickelodeon.” What'chu talkin ' ' bout, Willis ?I said, “E! There’s a rhino forty feet from you and a Red Panda right beside you!” I later laughed with Delicous about the exchange and she said E was onto something—air conditioning and good editing: she could snack in comfort and be guaranteed a quality animal performance. TV shows feature active animals, not yawners.Some critters did perform for us. The Gnome hooted as he watched North American River Otters through a glass wall dive, flip, and splash.  And you can always count on lemurs. No matter where I go, if animals are on display, lemurs abound. Aren’t they like rodents? Teachers are always hustling for extra money. Maybe I should start a lemur breeding business. 
Zoo babies and friendAnother short hike to see the highly advertised and regarded gator. But guess what? He wasn’t there! I asked an attendant who explained, “We just sent him to another zoo up north.” Uh-huh. Sure you did. On the way home, I asked the Gnome, who appeared to have a blast throughout the day, “What was your faaaaaavorite animal at the zoo today?” With certainty and excitement, he announced, “The whale!”Really? I paid $17.95 for him to imaginarily see the most impossible animal to contain in a zoo? Next time, we’re going to PetSmart to “see” a whale. It’s much cheaper and I can pick up dog food while I’m there.As I sat in my den typing up this post a few days ago, I yelled to Tall Child, "What do you think about the zoo?” He answered, “I don’t.”  What’s his problem? He is missing out on a great workout, first-hand experience with exotic creatures, goat-brushing, lemurs, imaginary 300,000 pound whales, and Dippin’ Dots! FYI: The  Atlanta Zoo has twin Panda cubs right now.  Aaaaaallegedly.
Uh Huh
Speaking of exotic creatures and blow holes, school starts for many teachers next week. Which brings me to Theory 10: Teachers are the most entertaining people on the planet.See you next post! Until then, think outside the barn.

Theory 8: In youth sports, parents are the true performers.

I come from a long line of multi-sport athletes. So, despite my personal lack of talent (See Theory 5: Play a sport, even if you suck at it), when Sharky, age 5, debuted in tee ball, I expected genetic skill to skip through and shine. At the first game, a batter knocked a bullet off the tee and Sharky snagged it. Out! What a stud! I was elated! But, the coach gave a different boy the game ball. I was miffed. I complained to Delicious, who counseled, “Bug, if you’re going to watch your child play sports, you’re going to have to get control of yourself.” Sharky has played in at least 200 baseball games and 100 basketball games since then.  I try to stay composed, but even the most well-mannered mama and papa bears take a step back in evolution when our cubs are under pressure or “mistreated.” We’ve got scoreboards for the kiddos, but parents’ behavior is hard to track.  I thank my crowd for helping me label what we see at games. I’m keeping descriptions pretty general so as not to identify anyone. I mean, we are talking about teachers, preachers, social workers, doctors, bankers, repairmen, and accountants, after all. So, which of these performing parents are you?
The Gnome consoles Tall Child after umpires kicked him off the field

Make-the-Mosters: From my friend “Baton Swiper” who is married to former UT musician “Stud Trombone” - Well, once there were these beautiful over-zealous mom’s who created a run-through sign, boom box music, and opening excitement for their sons [kindergarten] basketball team. Baton Swiper and I graciously wrote both teams’ players’ names on paper and held the banner’s edges. After a pre-game bathroom break, the little boys lined up. Trombone Stud hit play. The teams ripped onto the court to warm-up.  Some parents probably thought we were nuts, but some of their boys will never rip through paper again. In one of our last games, I said to the other team’s coach (who looked unhappy—probably because we’d beaten him three times already), “Hey, we’re going to line up to run through the paper in about two minutes.” He pouted, “My team will NOT be running through your paper!” Hint: If you do the paper thing, be sure to poke holes. When Sharky did a practice run at home, his then 44 lb. body hit that banner with full force, and with equal force shot backward into the wall. From my aunt, “Terrific”: I was always the "Boom Box" lady for A-Boo’s preppy yet fierce “The Yummyville School” softball teams...age 9-17. I probably went a little overboard with song selections...including a rousing round of Queen's "Another One Bites the Dust" at the conclusion of victories, which were numerous.  Other teams and coaches despised "The Yummyville School" team. Later, A-Boo played collegiate golf for Vanderbilt. During her sophomore year she was paired against a University of Alabama player at a golf tournament in Athens, GA. As small talk progressed, we discovered that the Bama golfer had played high school softball for our elite competitors in Oconee. When she realized we were from "The Yummyville School" she exclaimed, "Oh, that's the team with the OBNOXIOUS Boom Box Lady!" A-Boo hung her head, pointed at me (her mother) and said "Yep, and that would be her." Outfielders: They sit alone way down the first base line or they stand in the gym corner. Maybe they’re nervous, maybe they’re focused on the game, maybe they’re doing some intense one-on-one parent-child coaching. Or, maybe they just don’t want to hear the women in the bleachers swap recipes and talk about “The Walking Dead.” Sorry, guys.Budgeteers: Gate passes, $3 nachos, gas, hotels, and Gatorades add up fast. Why not tuck your body between a cooler, a bat bag, and a stadium throw in the back of your SUV? Don’t breathe. And, once you are in, don’t leave.On-The-Road-Off-Duty Parents: Parents (typically male) who forsake normal supervisory responsibilities on road trips. Post-match, they crowd the hotel lobby to imbibe adult juice boxes and rehash game highlights as their children (also typically male) ride elevators, vandalize the hotel work-out facilities, and ding-dong-ditch unfortunate hotel room neighbors.  I once asked a mother, who was obviously worn out from keeping up with five children at an out of town tourney in suffocating humidity, “Where are your little ones?” She sighed, “They are either on the playground or in a van half-way to Michigan.”These parents’ children score lots of bling: Phiten necklaces, tourney t-shirts, sunglasses, etc.Rule Freaks: Those who, as Terrific likes to say, are “often wrong but never in doubt.” Rule Freaks like to second-guess the umpires, forgetting that different age groups and leagues have different rules. Rule freaks also question players’ ages, as in “That boy can not be 11 years old and be that tall.” When your mama is 6’4 and looks like an Auburn linebacker, yes, you can be that tall. One-Time One-Liners: Guilty. Sometimes I do this one just for my own amusement. These parents have a combo flash of bravado and wit. In the safe cloud of fan noise, we scream out mean things we’d never say anywhere else, like “Are you freakin’ kidding me?”, “Are you stupid?”, or my favorite, “You suck!”  One of my own relatives yelled at a female referee, “Get back to your ironing board!” Funny, but kind of mean, right? Still. Funny.Lobbyists: These parents kiss up to the coach, sweet-talk the coach’s wife, and criticize other players, hoping to get their children more playing time. As a coach’s wife, I like these parents because they help organize team parties and order trophies!Paranoid Schizophrenics: Some parents are convinced their child is about to get cut. There’s so much at stake: college scholarships, the draft on TV where all the turd nay-sayers will eat crow, the NBA/NFL lifestyle, the quan! As the child sits out a quarter or inning, these parents look intensely quiet and nervous. Sometimes they whisper to one another. But, when the child hits an RBI or a buzzer-beater, they high-five and test their bras and belts with vigorous middle-aged jumping jacks!Worriers: Parents (typically women) who squeal and gasp every time their angels foul hard, collide, or go full-speed coast to coast toward a backboard and the wall behind it, with only four-pads of skimpy protection. They cover all sharp corners, close bleachers, and concrete stairs at Rocky Hill Elementary. Whew.Space Hogs – Some of us have back problems, okay? We get a good comfy spot on the top bleacher where we can lean. Ahhhh. Or, a shady spot behind the backstop. Relaxing. Great view of every play. Why should we leave just because our team isn’t playing again for two hours. Competition at its toughest. If you want to see the mother of the super-stud athlete with un-teachable competitive drive, just scan the backstop or the top bleacher. Out of Touchers: Once, a mother asked Tall Child to change the tournament schedule because her son wanted to go to a birthday party. My friend, Ole Miss Glamour Girl (OMGG) once interrupted baseball practice because she had dinner reservations. Here’s how it went down:OMGG yelled across the field to her son, “Phenom” get your stuff. We have to leave!” Coach: “What?!? No!” OMGG yelled, “We have dinner reservations!” Coach: “It’s Tuesday!” OMGG: “It’s Cinco De Mayo!” Coach: “You’re not Mexican!” Now, OMGG is one of my best buds. She knows how to have a good time. We threw a tailgate complete with sandwich platters, adult juice boxes, tablecloths, and flowers. Think: The Grove at Ole Miss. She also once said, “How can that umpire tell if it’s a ball or a strike? He’s standing behind the base!” Annoyers:  Wrong, not Christian, but I HATE the lady who shook a plastic bottle full of coins for an entire ballgame in Orlando, Florida. I complained to the concession stand woman. Her response? “I’m in food.” Really? You know it’s bad when you are strategizing with an eight grader about how to take down a granny. Watch out coin lady! Who’s got my back? Grandparents: Speaking of grannies, Delicious and Boppy are not fans of the bunt. Even if Sharky was 0 for 12 three weekends in a row, they are 100% certain he can hit a grand slam, if only the coach will give the signal. Pouters : Parents and Daddy Ball Coaches who stomp off the field and say, “Get your bag.” One Daddy Ball Coach refused (for two seasons) to give Tall Child the “good game” hand shake. Not even a fist bump. He/his son was robbed, I am sure.Hecklers: Parents who harass the coaches, the referees, the other teams’ coaches, the other teams’ fans, and their own children. I save my commentary for Tall Child for the car ride home. IF, IF, IF I ride home with him. You should see how he mistreats my super-athletic, often misunderstood baby Sharky sometimes! I mean, I never got that kind of treatment in the band!Trout over-heckled the refs at Roscoe’s college basketball game, and the refs said, “You are out of here! Leave this gym!” Trout pointed at himself, and mouthed, “Me?” He’d driven a long way to watch Roscoe and was not about to leave. So, he faked them out and sneaked up to the balcony seats.Division Ones: These parents have genetic confidence and nothing to prove (no vicarious ambition) as they were successful in their own glory days. They know the rules, so they don’t argue. They are tall, so they don’t fight for the top bleacher or backstop seats. Umps recognize their frames and gaits as “having been there” and give them the cool-rod nod. Snappers: No one is immune. My kind-hearted, loving, philanthropic sister-in-law, the “Dogwood Debutante,” became irate after her nephew Sharky lost to Sumner County. No doubt cheated by refs, we exited in defeat and the winning team celebrated. Dogwood Deb lost her cool and screamed, “Go back home to Slumner County!”After one baseball game, I saw a woman freak out so hard I expected to see her leave in a straight jacket. She screeched and thrashed like a wild animal. Luckily, she was inside the scorekeeper’s chain-link protective box. She was in a “cage rage.” At the end of a basketball game, I watched in horror as a granny went postal on her grandson. She kept saying, “You look at me when I’m talkin’ to you!” He couldn’t. She had A & P eyes (one faced the Atlantic, the other the Pacific—the murky one). Think: Infected.  So, as your child winds up to pitch, steps back in the pocket to throw, or sets up his shot, answer this question: How do you perform? Are you civilized in the shadows, or does the animal you come out to play? Which brings me to Theory 9: The more a zoo advertises a critter, the less likely visitors are to see it.See you next post. Until then, think outside the barn!

Check out these wild spectators ready to pounce on Sharky!

Theory 7: Everyone should work in a restaurant, Part 2

In last week’s post, I explained that I’ll require Sharky and the Gnome to do restaurant work at some point in their formative years to gain real-life working knowledge of language, sexism, nepotism, favoritism, overcoming mistakes, and coping with stress. There may come a time when Sharky and the Gnome want to rip off the apron and walk out. I know. I “stuck it to the man” a few times.  Yes, kitchen managers and co-workers can make you crazy, but the customers, oh, the customers can make you mad enough to spit. Or quit. By the way, they are not always right. Typically, they are flat out wrong. Restaurant nation, feel free to finish this sentence, “Servers hate when customers _______.” I know I hate:·         When parents croon, “Tell the lady what you want.” It’s so obnoxious, especially when you hear it twenty times in one shift. Plus, don’t we already know what the crumb picker wants? Chicken tenders, plain hamburger, extra plate.
·         Customers who look at the menu and say, “Decisions, decisions.” Stop trying to convince everyone you can quote a president or theorist. Just decide.
·         When people order decaf. What is the point? Do you swim in your socks? I bet the same folks fish in waders and eat Egg-Beaters.
·         People who order extra lemons, squeeze them pulpless into a water glass, and stir in ten packets of sweeter. That ain’t lemonade. You are a tight wad.
·         Vinegar and oil. We all know you are trying to act sophisticated in front of your friends. Admit it, you really want Thousand Island. Plus, that’s the same oil we use in the deep fryer and the same vinegar we use to clean the coffee maker. Bon appétit!
·         Soup. Cottage cheese. Hot tea. Really? Really?
·         Customers who run the waiters to death. Don’t get all “lord of the manor” on us.
·         Breakfast customers who don’t tip 15% or more, just because it’s breakfast time. Breakfast servers wait on twice as many customers, carry twice as many dishes, and make half the money. Show respect.
·         Customers who discuss the tip with the server. So degrading. You never hear a server say, “You did a good job ordering and eating your nachos.”
·         Non tippers – you suck. You just never know what that server is dealing with personally or in the kitchen. Err on the side of kindness. If you can afford to eat out, you can afford to tip. Delicious worked with a girl at Heidelberg who became irate after a big table of tour-ons (half tourist, half moron) stiffed her. She chased them out of the restaurant, through Ober Gatlinburg, all the way to the Tram station. Just before the doors slid shut, she flung foul language and their pocket-change into the Tram and said, “Here, you need this more than I do!”
How to quitTall Child (a salesman) and I (a public school teacher and writer) have great work ethic. Our jobs are important, crucial to our well-being, and MUCH appreciated. But, there’s only so much one can take, especially in the retail restaurant business. So, if Sharky and Gnome have to toss the apron, they can learn from their familial predecessors how to do it with flair. ·         My uncle, Mule, was kitchen manager at a pancake house for a few years. When he quit, he just showed up unannounced on his day off and said, “Hey, I just came by to pick up my paycheck and tell you that yesterday is my last day.”·         Zero’s purvey moves got old (see last week’s post) so I decided to ditch the job.  My college sweetheart, a huge Richard Nixon fan, coached me on how to confront Zero. After my shift, I went to tiny Zero’s tiny office and said, “I am quitting. You are dishonest. You can’t talk to women the way you do. This is America. You don’t have Jody Cantrell to kick around anymore.”·         Big Booty J, then 18, began her first shift at Howard Johnsons. As she puts it, “a table full of Yankees ordered ice cream sodas.” BBJ, being from the Deep South, had no clue what an ice cream soda was. Instead of attempting the impossible task of making the dessert, she deserted. She sprinted out the back door into the Smoky Mountain mist, in uniform.How to get firedAnother summer, BBJ, madly in love with townie stud Gravy, waitressed at The Wagon Wheel, a.k.a. “The Spoke.” (The dimmest lit eating establishing in Gatlinburg.) BBJ called in sick on Friday and showed up for her Saturday shift with a motor-cycle windburn, ski-boat sunburn, and Budweiser headburn as a result of her “sick day.” A fellow waitress met her at the door and said, “Thar ain’t no use you comin’ in here. You done got fired.” When business is slow, servers get mischievous. A bored Delicious and another waitress grabbed a plus-sized co-worker, slid open the beer cooler, and pushed her down into the frozen box. Her plump rear was wedged between metal sliding doors and ice cold beer. She was giggling so hard she couldn’t climb out. Delicious and her buddy took on the challenge of seeing how much crushed ice they could throw up the girl’s pencil skirt, from across the kitchen. All three got caught. All three got fired. My uncle (brother to Delicious) worked at Hobies, where waiters could eat free but from a limited menu. He couldn’t resist the off-limits fried Rainbow Trout. Sneaky and good-looking, he sweet-talked a waitress into forging an order every night at the end of his pearl-diving shift. Each evening, he wrapped the plated contra-ban delicacy in aluminum foil, grabbed silverware, and slid home to enjoy his meals. By summers end he had 12 place settings of Hobies dinnerware, the nickname “Trout,” and no job.Romance!Yes, the band bus is hot and heavy, but there’s something special about summer kitchen chaos. Delicious (a UGA graduate then English teacher) fled Georgia in late May in the summers of ’67-‘71. She hustled tables in numerous eateries in the arts and crafts community of Gatlinburg. She admits she was far from professional and her main goals were to make enough tips to buy a twin-pack of Ruffles potato chips and a twelve-pack of Budweiser every night. She’d wrap up her side work around 11 p.m. and crowd into a car with crushes and friends and head to Newfound Gap parking lot to drink, eat, flirt, and watch the spectacular Smoky Mountain hot pink, purple, and gold sun rise. The course of humanity was altered when the meat grinder at Steak & Lobster broke down. On July 3, 1972 of the kitchen at Howard’s Restaurant, Delicious (5-10, lean, with a jet black “real” shag haircut and a summer creek tan) sashayed with her drink tray into the kitchen and saw a blonde, curly headed boy with wire-rimmed glasses and a cigarette hanging from his mouth, its ashes a half-inch long and falling into the hamburger meat he was grinding. He worked at Steak & Lobster and had to do a quick meat-grinding run to Delicious’s workplace. She said, “What’s your name? I’ve never seen you before.” Taken by surprise, he sheepishly squeaked out his full name. His nickname growing up was Pot, because he stayed outside and filthy as a little boy. His nickname in Gatlinburg summers was Smoke. Ironic? Go figure. The cooks, Butch and Jim, told Smoke, “She is warm for your form and hot for your bod.” They also told Smoke that Delicious had a wild streak, which was not true. See Theory 4:  Don’t judge a woman by her accent or her breast size. In great anticipation, the next time Delicious swung open the kitchen doors to pick up her sizzle platter of steaks, a fired up Smoke asked Delicious, “Would you like to go for a Jeep ride tomorrow morning?” She said, “Sure.” August 19, Delicious drove home to Columbus, Georgia to teach junior English. September 16, the madly in love Smoke and Delicious got married. Two years later they welcomed their first child. ME! Tall Child missed his chance, thus I am tasked with enlightening him as we dine.  But, Boppy (his mama) taught him well, thank goodness. One extra-lemon episode during our courtship and I would have 86’d him on the fly. My brother-in-law “J-Bird” and my sister-in-law “The Debutante” recently engaged in a heated argument debating the merits of public school vs. private school.  After about twenty minutes, J-Bird asked me, the TEACHER, “Don’t you think children need to be around people from all walks of life to learn how to interact with them and work with them? Don’t you think they learn more about life in a rougher public school instead of being in a private school bubble?” I summarized, “There are fantastic public schools and terrible private schools. If you want your child to master academic content, give her the safest, most intellectually challenging school—public or private. If you want her to learn the facts of life, give her one summer in a restaurant.” There’s no better crash course on EVERYTHING hard, hilarious, and human. Sharky got a taste of the retail restaurant business last spring when his baseball team held a pancake breakfast at a local Chili’s.  He had to brush his hair, brush his teeth, WASH HIS HANDS, and show up at 7 a.m. to serve brave diners (mostly smitten grandparents) pancakes, bacon, and hot hot hot coffee.  His #1 customer, my cousin Fuzz, a former Golden Corral waitress herself, told him, “I’m going to make you work for it, Sharky.” Sharky and his buddy made three trips (as a pair) to begin Fuzz’s breakfast experience. 1. Coffee 2. Sugar 3. Cream. Two hours in, I looked to see a slouching Sharky in a booth (a no-no) with his own stack of pancakes and a mug of Dr. Pepper. I should have yelled, “Animal, get back in the kitchen!” You learn a lot about yourself and others in the restaurant setting. Your patience, virtue, character, and composure are tested in public. For many years after I retired from the restaurant business, I missed the unique opportunity to demonstrate grace under fire.  But, thanks to Sharky’s athleticism, I have new venues in which to strive for self- control while squelching sarcasm and rear-ended behavior: basketball gyms and baseball parks.  Which reminds me of Theory 8: In youth sports, parents are the true performers.
See you next post. Until then, think outside the barn!
Sharky and friend couldn't take the heat.

Theory 7: Everyone should work in a restaurant, Part 1

Tall Child told me the last post, Theory 6: If you want the ultimate college experience join the band , was too long. After reflecting, I agreed. There was just so much material there I couldn’t help myself. The same goes with Theory 7: Everyone should work in a restaurant. So, I’m taking heed of Tall Child’s critique and splitting this post. Read Part 1 now and look forward to Part 2 next week! Please comment. I’m new to blogging, learning as I go, and love to hear from my readers!
Let’s get down to business. Retail business. Retail restaurant business. I grew up in a tourist town, so I know many people who enjoy(ed) successful careers in the hospitality business. I place high value on the innate lessons in serving the general public. So, unless they plan for a career in hospitality, Sharky and the Gnome will work at least one summer in a restaurant. Why? Restaurant work offers an intense tutorial. I want them to experience the dining room: a place of social norms and cool, quiet protocol. To experience the kitchen. To see uniforms in chaotic yet choreographed movement. To inhale the pungency of old grease, chopped onions, and bleach. To hear pots and pans fight scalding water under the protection of Hobart. To hear the dead-on, efficient, sometimes perverse language of the restaurant nation. To slam a cork-lined tray so hard into metal that it tests the hinges on that swinging kitchen door because they are stressed to the breaking point. To rally and recover, in public. I want them to serve others.
Restaurants are labs of bacteria, behavior, conflict, passion, composure, language, class warfare, and comedy. Sharky and the Gnome come from a long line of restaurant workers. After I share with you what those in my “crowd” experienced and learned, you’ll either dine at home or tip 20%.  No matter what the service was like.
So, what should my boys expect to learn when they work in a restaurant?
A new language. Here’s a short list of terms with definitions.
86’d – taken off the menu Rush – a pile of customers coming in at onceWalking Out – just what it sounds like, which dishwashers and line cooks love to threaten to do Two, four, six, etc. “top” – number of places at a tableGot Sat – a warning issued by another waitress, as in “you just got sat” a four-topOn the fly – indicates the cook better hurry with that dishOn the square – means four of whatever food itemSide work – the nasty stuff servers do after closing (vacuum, refill salt & pepper shakers, wash syrup bottles, mop, clean out the salad bar)Crumb Pickers – childrenEP – children who order extra platesCharger – the fancy plate under the regular plateExpeditor – the 15-year-old or the panicky manager who takes food off the line and arranges it on trays for the serversNuke – microwave (comes in handy when you forget to bake potatoes)Cow – the giant milk dispenserPearl Diver – the dishwasher (the person, not the Hobart machine)
Lewd language and vile references are part of the experience.
My Applewood Farmhouse Restaurant manager, Zero*, was a short, foreign guy with bad manners. He stood (quite happily) eye-level to my space heaters and liked to taunt me by dangling the carrot of a lucrative waitress position. My first day, he exhaled in his chauvinistic style, “What size uniform do you need, a laaarrrggeee in the top?”
At IHOP, when I asked for hot syrup, the line cooks responded, “Oh, you like it hot?”
When I yelled above crowd noise to change an order, the same guys would harass, “We knew you were a screamer!”
When the scoop hit metal, a waitress would ask for more ice. In East TN, “ice” is pronounced in way that sounds like “eis” or “aes” so the cooks would yell back, “Oh, I’ll give you some whenever you’re ready!” Think beast of burden.
My cousin Moon worked at the Heidelberg Restaurant on top of Ski Mountain Road, at a tourist trap called Ober Gatlinburg. The place had a polka band, German cuisine, and a tram shuttle to downtown Gatlinburg.  Moon is good-looking. He yelled an order of Bratwurst across the line and a stout, greasy-haired, pre-elderly, seasoned fraulein cook yelled back, “Take off ‘em clothes and jump up on ‘is table. I’ll show ye some Bratwurst!”
Nepotism
Delicious told me she worked with this guy whose daddy owned the restaurant. The boy constantly griped at the staff. Once, he yapped at a kitchen worker who had plated a juicy dessert for himself, “You can’t eat that pie! My dad would be very upset.” The worker stuck his thumb in the pie and said, “Oh, well, it’s damaged now.”  By summer’s end, the kitchen help was sick of the boy's bull. They soaked cathead biscuits in water and hurled them at him. The owner's son was covered in humiliation and greasy wet dough.
Favoritism
I was a hostess at Applewood Farmhouse Restaurant, but I hated it. Why? Because the uppity hostesses (all college-aged) found out I was virgin. They harassed me endlessly. Restaurants aren’t the most virginal environments. Anyway, my daddy’s old, old friend G.G. was the head cook. As he flipped, filleted, and fried, he observed the way they treated me and got as mad as a hornet at those snotty hooches. If we wanted lunch, we had to ask G.G. to cook it for us. Cooks cuss. Blatantly. They are hot, worn out, stressed out, and often frustrated. Two of said hooches and I landed on the line for lunch at the same time. G.G. babied me, “Jody, let me fix you something good. How about a rib eye, baked potato, and salad?” The hooches pouted, “What!?! You said we could only have grilled cheese. Why does she get a steak?” G.G. answered with authority, “Because she is my girl and ya’ll are btches.”
To avoid the hateful hostesses, I often volunteered to fill in in the kitchen—as a fritter fryer, salad girl, or dessert girl. Plus, I loved sweating through eight fast hours in the raucous, comical kitchen. This crazy little guy called Animal was our main pearl diver. Animal was short and scrawny, low on teeth and high on energy. He wore a pink t-shirt and denim overalls. Every day. Animal braided his long, reddish blonde hair down his back like Willie Nelson. Hair is the enemy in the restaurant business. Mine was long then, so I wore it in a French braid. Animal was my friend. He begged me all the time, “Jody, let’s go out back after ‘er shift’s up and let ‘er braids out. I swar’ mah hair’s longer ‘an yourn.” Animal was not fit for the customers’ spaces, but every now and then he got curious. He’d slide through the kitchen door and prance among polished tables and chairs. Immediately, a waitress would spot him and command, “Animal! Get back in the kitchen!”
Mistakes happen. The show must go on.
“Glass in ice” is a big no-no. You never dip ice with a glass because if the glass breaks, there’s glass in the ice. Someone (you) will have to clean out the entire ice bin. Plus, you are forced to yell “We need more ice!” to the line cooks. My aunt Big Booty J learned this the hard way. She toted a round tray loaded with filled water glasses through the dining room at Green Valley Restaurant in Pigeon Forge.  Her right, thick-soled waitress shoe landed on a pat of butter and she landed in a split. Her tray of water glasses went airborne, crashing into the salad bar of chopped iceberg, olives, cheese, and pickled beets.
Machines are designated for certain tasks. G.T. learned this the hard way at IHOP.  On a diet, she milked the cow into a metal cup and tossed in a scoop of Slim-Fast. All I remember is hearing her say, “Oh, no! Sorry sorry sorry!” and watching the entire waitress station (and its inhabitants) get sprayed with pellets of chocolate Slim-Fast. Those milkshake blenders are meant for hard-packed ice cream, not milk and diet powders.
Look behind you. Delicious once witnessed a Cosbanian co-waitress catch her toe coming out of the walk-in cooler. She tripped forward, dumping five gallons of Roquefort dressing down the front of the maitre d’s white leisure suit.
The show must go on. My cousin Mooch (an elementary school teacher and sister to Moon), waitressed a summer with Delicious at Applewood. Perhaps Mooch over-snacked on fritters or gobbled down too much of G.G.’s greasy treats; Mooch had an “accident” underneath her floor-length pink gingham mountain woman waitress costume. She stashed her panties, scalded her hands, and went back to work. Hours later, she and Delicious stood in the Sunroom, which boasts a six-foot birdcage of finches and floor to ceiling windows. Mooch quipped, “Hey Delicious, look at this!” She spread her legs and overdramatized her efforts to Windex the glass. Delicious saw the entire outline of Mooch’s hooch.
The rush came. The show went on.

Check back next week to read Theory 7: Everyone should work in a restaurant, Part 2, which will include the following lessons: how to get fired, how to quit, why servers want to quit, and a little something about restaurant romance.
Until next post, think outside the barn!

Sharky meets the line

Theory 6: If you want the ultimate college experience, join the band.

If you want the ultimate college experience, you must begin with scales.  In fourth grade.  Scales tests toughen you up.  What could be worse than straddling a clarinet and forcing air through the long plastic tube (because your parents can’t afford a wooden one) and squawking a version of “Do-Re-Mi” in front of your peers?  My guess is that, on a given day, band directors take more Tylenol than all the other teachers combined, and that is saying a lot.  There were highlights in those awkward middle school years. 
A trumpet player hated band so much he sat in the back row and chewed up an entire Trapper Keeper notebook in protest. 
During a Veteran’s Day concert outside under the flag pole, a golden Labrador retriever laid down slap between my band director and the first row of woodwinds.  He just lay there, licking things, our entire concert.  In awe of his bravado, I messed up my staccato!  I never hear “The Stars and Stripes Forever” without thinking of that stray. 
Basketball is important in all of East Tennessee, thanks to the Lady Vols, so my school held pep rallies for our Tiger and Lady Tiger basketball teams.  The band played.  Imagine a stack of slouching, gooberish pre-teens sporting perms and Coca-Cola shirts, metal-mouths clenching assorted rented instruments.  Imagine the sounds we produced.  Our slim and predictable playlist was the following:
“The Star Spangled Banner”  “Cheer Cheer” (Notre Dame) “Eye of the Tiger” “Rocky Top” And our closer: “Tequila”
Delicious showed up ready to rock at our first rally, but left deflated; she said each song sounded like a funeral dirge.  Young musicians are like English speakers in foreign countries: when we’re unsure, we get loud and slow.  My Aunt Big Booty J taught at PFES then.  No joke: We closed every rally with “Tequila” and half-way through the song BBJ strode to the center of the gym floor and commenced the Pee-wee Herman dance.  Within minutes, the stands emptied and the entire student body broke it down to fire up the Tigers and Lady Tigers.  In 1987 and 1988 (7th and 8th grade) the Lady Tigers were 34 and 0.  Just sayin’.
I learned the basics: don’t play your instrument on the way to and from the band room, clean your spit valve, and wax your corks.  Speaking of wax, after the custodians polished our asbestos tile floors, some band boys liked to ruin the janitors’ work. They set their hard instrument cases down on the shiny surface, paced several steps backward, and sprinted to dive onto the cases.  Dippity-do’d rat tails zipped by as boys rode their black boxes lightening speed down the length of those buffed floors to execute Big Wheel spin outs within inches of a concrete block wall.  Friends, if you try this at home and you don’t play brass, borrow a buddy’s instrument box.  The ride is just not the same on a flute case. 
Like any college musician, I had to pay my dues, but the experience improved in high school.  I had my first big crush at Gatlinburg-Pittman High School band camp.  Get your minds out of the gutter, American Pie fans.  Please, I am a teacher’s daughter!  I was nervous about high school in general and about marching and playing at the same time.  True.  But, as I met up with other band members in the G-P parking lot to board the yellow school bus to band camp at East Tennessee State University, I spotted a key-ute sophomore.  The heat waves floating from the August asphalt were nothing compared to the waves of anxiety that riddled my aggressively developing body.  We flirted our way through band camp and even played pool together in the ETSU student center.  Was that a date?  All I remember is sucking at pool (of course) and hearing “Sweet Child o’ Mine” on the radio.  Also that week, I tripped.  Often.  Finally, I looked down at my feet to see a Tretorn on the left and a Reebok on the right.  On the way home, the sexy saxophonist and I sat together on the bus!  We held hands!  Yay!  I guess the magic wore off between Johnson City and Gatlinburg because our romance never matured beyond band camp.  Maybe he saw my shoes.  Band crushes are the best because he is trapped with you—on a bus, in a band room, in a parade waiting line, or at a game for hours.   
Away games made me anxious.  First, I was terrified I’d leave a piece of my instrument or uniform in Gatlinburg.  Second, I had to ride with Otto the bus driver.  I can’t nickname him here.  “Otto” is just too perfect.  At South Doyle High School, lead-footed, far-sighted Otto steered the band bus to scrape the entire side of our team’s football bus.  The busses smooched!  Did you know that busses can get up on two wheels?  Once, the bus was climbing the Smokies toward Clingman’s Dome, the highest point on the Appalachian Trail, to cross into Cherokee, North Carolina for a parade. The bus leaned hard to the right. I looked out the window to find my face parallel to ground, only the ground was hundreds of feet below, at the bottom of a ravine, or as we say in the mountains, a gulley.  Maybe all those geometrical stunts happened because Otto drove with his eyes in the rear view mirror.  All the way.  For a reason.  There are always rumors about make-out sessions in the back of the bus.  Innocent and terrified after being so cruelly dumped/ignored/forgotten by the sexy sax player and avoiding the gulley, I sat up front.  I kept my eyes on the horizon, and on Otto. 
Bus drivers are one thing, but band directors are a different breed.  They live on the edge—of temper tantrums, the slightest bit of perversion, and borderline inappropriate commentary.  Actually, I think I missed my calling.  On a band trip to Panama City Beach, my band director’s wife, who is now a dear friend of mine, took my best friends TRO, Mare, G.T., and me to Spinnaker Beach Resort.  She ordered a Hurricane (trust me, she needed and deserved it).  She planted a seed.  Years later, in college, we harvested that seed when Mare clogged at nearby Club La Vela on MTV’s Fame or Shame Spring Break show.  To “Rocky Top,” naturally!  Instead of hitting a post-graduation chalet party on Ski Mountain Drive in G-burg, my band buddies and I hit the director’s house!  I need to thank my band director, Mr.  H, and his wife, L, right now for my absolute best high school memories and for being such colorful characters in the story of my youth.  I love ya’ll!   
My junior and senior years, I was the drum major (probably just because I could be trusted with the key to the band room.) Regardless, that meant I could pick out a spicy uniform and shake it front of the crowd.  No more duck walking to fast tempo Broadway theme songs for me!  The first year, I chose a tuxedo jacket rimmed in gold with the shortest shorts I could wear.  I did have to tolerate three pairs of support hose to stay warm and keep everything in the polyester.  The second year, I wore a flouncy mini-skirt and gold sequined jacket.  Awesome.  I am thankful that Mr. H let me order the eye-catching costumes, especially since I’d wear 20 lbs of wool for the next four years.  Both years, I sported white leather band boots with tassels.  There’s just something about those boots.  Tall Child, the jock, cracked up the first time he saw my boots. He just doesn’t get how cool most band people are.
Speaking of cool, years of scales, terrifying bus rides, and freezing my tail off in Gatlinburg prepared me well.  I played Clarinet for The University of Tennessee Pride of the Southland Marching Band.  I left behind the stadium where Delicous took up tickets and the soccer team worked the concession stand.  I entered Neyland Stadium, with 107,000 seats and Petros.  Subtract ten parent chaperones and add two state troopers.  Swap one cheese wagon for seven chartered busses, baby!  Our away games traded up, too—from Oneida and Oliver Springs, Tennessee to The University of Georgia , The University of Florida, and the Presidential Inaugural Parade in D.C.  The bus rides could be tough, especially if I’d downed a little too much Southern Comfort the night before.  FYI – long night? Don’t sit over the wheel! Using the bus bathroom was a delicate task.  Literally.  College co-eds can sleep anywhere.  I usually sat up front to be first off at restaurants, so when I had to go to the bathroom, I crossed the narrow thirty-foot plus corridor by stepping on armrests and holding on to luggage racks, else I’d land my size 9 in a snoozer’s abdomen.   Often I’d pass another restroom visitor on her return trip, which meant we had to swap feet on armrests so as not to hurt fellow Pride members. Band folks must be agile and considerate.
I was a better musician than athlete, but still just mediocre.  I got so sick of my section leader, whom I adored, trying to tutor me, that I told her I was tone deaf.  From then on, the clarinets treated me gingerly and I could focus on my real goal: having a good time.  I was a supreme away game partier.  Cute boys at bars in Athens, Memphis, and Gainesville would inevitably ask, “Are ya’ll here for the game?” I’d answer, “Yes, we are with the band.” The boys would ask, “What do you play?” I’d answer, “Oh, I’m a majorette.”  Guys buy more drinks for twirlers than honkers.  Plus, thanks to the sky-high stadium seats, I could get away with it.  As far as they knew, I could be that hot feature twirler with fire batons!  I met my first real college boyfriend—a trombone player— at band camp.  The magic of band love is unique.  In full uniform, I used to tease him, “I am naked beneath my clothes.” He called me his “Orange Blossom Special.” Speaking of nudity, band folks must be immodest. No locker rooms for band. Use your band bus imagination!
Speaking of romance, I used to pen-pal with my elderly Uncle Glenn, who lived in a retirement home in Oregon.  My sophomore year, he sent me a note with a newspaper clipping.  The note read, “Jody, I read this article about a really nice boy at your school.  I figured, since he is on the football team and you are in the band, you may get to know each other.  He would be a good husband to catch!” I hated to tell Uncle Glenn that, though he did scamper by me in the checker-board end zone once as I waited to perform the half-time show, Peyton Manning never looked my way.  Dang it.  Maybe ampersands, wool flood britches, corded vests, and spats aren’t his thing.  Speaking of uniforms, they are HOT.  I used to pack Ziploc bags with ice and put them in my hat. My piccolo friend and I took turns chewing Double-Mint gum and blowing our minty fresh breath on the back of each other’s necks to cool off.  Try it.  It works!  Only an Appalachian Trail through hiker can relate to hours of sweating in sweltering SEC heat then sucking down an ice cold Coca-Cola like marching band members after a half-time performance.   You can dance in hot wool.  Might as well.  Plus, the spats and plume just add to the dance flava.   If you want to scare the H out of a fellow band member, walk up to him/her right before step-off, fake a panicky look, and ask, “Where’s your plume?”
Men of band are tough and aggressive, which is not what most people think. I loved/feared my band director, Dr. J. He was bold and honest. Once, at practice, he yelled through his microphone from his perch in a cherry-picker to a chunky woodwind, “Girl, move back! You are in front of the line. Well, hell, you’re behind it, too!” After a miserably wet defeat in Gainesville, we were on the band bus changing out of our stinky wool uniforms, when a wasted male Gator fan, shouting profanities, tried to board the bus. Good thing Spits (a tuba player from Salina) was up front.  The Gator made it up two steps before Spits punched him in the face so hard that he did the Nestea Plunge out the door onto the sidewalk. Hard.
I’m taking a risk here, but I have to tell a little story about a dog named Smokey. My buddies and I were getting ready for a night out somewhere in Florida and heard this awful caterwauling.  I dropped my hot rollers and picked up my Solo cup to investigate down the hall.  A blue black figure bounded by me with an orange and white figure right behind him.  Smokey was on the prowl!  On the fourth floor of our hotel!  (The cheerleaders and Smokey trainers travel with the band.)  We walked to Smokey’s trainers’ room and saw his main caretaker “asleep” face down on the bed.   Good thing animal mascots can’t talk.  Oh, the stories that that hound and UGA could share.
Back to the state troopers.  On another trip, the band stayed at a huge, one-story motor court.  In every room, sliding glass doors framed a view of a grass lawn that contained a wide pond.  We were out of the main town and not within walking distance of any place fun, so we created our own party.  We room-hopped to socialize.  A friend and I were hanging out in some brass players’ room.  One of the state troopers, an older, rounder man, wobbled by the sliding glass door, on watch, making sure we were behaving I guess, when  a trumpet player stated, “Look at that fat redneck strutting around like he’s got control.   He has no idea he just escorted marijuana across three state lines!” I did not partake of the substance, but I did enjoy the humor in that situation.
In case my students read this, please know: drugs are evil.  I don’t do them.  You shouldn’t either.  My point here is that the band is wild and not what most people think!  If you have self-control, personality, some talent, and can stand extreme heat and cold, join the band for the ultimate college experience of entertaining and being entertained!  There’s nothing like executing a flip-turn then passing your cousin on the ten-yard line.  I loved shutting down the stadium with the melancholy, meaningful slow Tennessee Waltz, then scavenging concession racks for leftover hot dogs on my way out of the stadium. Band romance is the best romance.
To this day, I get excited when I stand in charter bus exhaust fumes.  My olfactory senses take me back to a carefree time when I had a per diem on road trips, few worries, and could convince others I was a majorette.  Every now and then, I put on my band boots and march for Tall Child. Good times. Goooooood times.
So, if you want a great education, go to a great university.  If you want the ultimate college experience at that university, join the band.  But first, you should learn how to work with all types of people, and you should learn the facts of life, which brings me to Theory 7: Everyone should work in a restaurant.
See you next post. Until then, think outside the barn!

Theory 5: Play a sport, even if you suck at it.

I tape important info inside my kitchen cabinets. Say you are searching for Cheez-Its. When you open the cabinet door, you’ll spot wine labels, an impromptu love note from Tall Child, phone numbers to my favorite restaurants, and, thanks to Delicious’s old 35mm camera, a perfectly captured specimen of supreme athleticism: me, at age nine, hurdling a broom stick balanced between two lawn chairs in my Grandmama’s back yard. The hurdling photo is crucial: it proves that I can be athletic, or least that I was once, well, one day, well, in that moment anyway.I told Tall Child, who was a great high school and junior college basketball player, about this week’s theory, and asked him, “Did you ever play a sport and fail?”He said, “No. Why, are you going to write about me in your post?”I replied, “Well, the post is about NOT being good.”He said, “Not being good in sports is something I know nothing about.”True. Tall Child is a natural athlete. He has a fierce tennis serve, he’s an adequate golfer (with practice), he can throw, hit, catch, all that stuff that I can’t do. I have only seen him trip one time. He was playing softball and, as he walked through the grass to take his centerfield spot, he stumbled. He turned angrily and stared down a specific spot on the ground, as if to say, “Who do you think you are, tripping me, dirt clod?”I am the oldest of ten first cousins, most of whom are above-average, if not collegiate-level athletes. Our grandfather played baseball, golf, and basketball for The University of Georgia. His two sons (my uncles) played basketball for Auburn and The University of Tennessee-Chattanooga. Cousin Roscoe played basketball at Virginia Tech. Cousin A-Boo conquered Vanderbilt University with her golf scholarship.  So, sports and competitiveness are part of our family culture. We all played. It was expected. My Grandmama once remarked, “If you drive through Sevier County with your window rolled down, someone will throw a trophy in your car!”Yes, we all played. And I sucked.When my cousins and I were little, the “grown-ups” would set up competitions—for our growth and their entertainment. My aunt Big Booty J (a Phys Ed teacher) typically announced the rules and instructions.  Games included: one-on-one basketball, horse, hurdles, hula-hooping, the long jump, the standing broad jump, and foot races. Well, I stunk it up in everything. I also kicked myself in the rear-end as I ran, on purpose, as a self-esteem-defense tactic. Instead of talking about how I was 20 yards behind my cousins, the grown-ups talked about how I ran. In bad weather, we had dance contests. I’m not a good dancer, but, I watched Soul Train back then. I picked up the hip-swiveling Dirty Dog move, and at least gained applause at a couple of dance contests. The usual winner, G.T., actually had a special outfit for the dance contests: leopard print leotards.Unfortunately, the forced athleticism didn’t end in our dandelion riddled yards. Delicious signed me up to take gymnastics. My question was this: what is the point of doing a handstand? If you fall, you hit your head. Won’t that hurt? Also, what is the point of a cartwheel? To cover more ground? Maybe. Once, at Dollywood, my cousin P said, “Let’s hold hands and skip all the way to the Flooded Mine Ride so we’ll get there faster.” Maybe he was onto something.Delicious signed me up for basketball in fourth grade. I had to change clothes in front of other girls, and I was already sprouting the space heaters. I hated sweating and got really annoyed when another girl bumped into me on the basketball court. Once, the coach had me throw the ball inbounds. This was a big moment for me: a moment of responsibility and leadership. I threw the ball to my Pigeon Forge Tiger teammate, and an opposing player batted it back to me. Three times in a row. That year (my only season), I scored one free throw and one regular shot. All time career high: 3 points (game and season).  Does that mean my average was three-tenths of a point per game, if we had ten games? Yay fractions!Delicious signed me up for the swim team in middle school. I continued swimming a couple of years in high school. I sucked at swimming. The Boobs were an issue, so, like many “blessed” girls, I wore two swimsuits at the same time. I hated that my make-up washed off in the pool and I had to reapply after every event. But, swim team is fun when you have a tent, buddies, a cooler full of Cokes and Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls, and know how to play spades. My love of tailgating was born. Delicious put me on the Gatlinburg-Pittman track team. I “ran” the 880 and the mile. We practiced by running the craft loop through Glades and Buckhorn Roads in Gatlinburg. My best friends and I paced through the rhododendron lined asphalt path banked by Smoky Mountain potters and painters.  I sucked at track. My coach, also my geography teacher, a.k.a., the King of Kodak, TN, did some quick research and diagnosed me with a medical condition called “slow-twitch muscle fibers.” There had to be a reason I was so sluggish. He nick-named me “Slo-Jo,” playing off the then famous Olympian Flo-Jo.In individual races, I never, NEVER, beat anyone. In track or in swimming. That’s right: I came in last place in every individual race I ever swam or ran. But, I loved the settings. I loved riding the bus to meets. I loved laughing with my friends and flirting with other girls’ boyfriends. Most of all, I loved what swimming and running did for my appearance. 34-24-34. Good times. Which reminds me, Delicious and Sharky decided to measure themselves recently. Sharky’s measurements: 22-22-22. Delicious’s measurements: 52-52-52. Let’s just say that mine are in proportion to what they were in high school, yet proportionately larger.Years later, between my banking and teaching careers, I felt compelled to do the expected. Play tennis. Slo-Jo has as much business on the tennis court as she does in the pool or on the track. The tennis skirt is an interesting get-up. What does it say to you? The skirt said to me, “You’d better slim up haus' because I’ve got two layers and big pockets for balls, right at your widest point.” Nothing motivates you to exercise and eat well like a toned, tanned, group of ladies with Levolor blind eyelids checking you out as you and your parts bounce around a tennis court. I told Tall Child, “I think I could be a tennis player if I had a good racquet.”He responded, “Bug, your level of athleticism is not worthy of that level of investment.” I conceded and wrapped up my tennis season and career with a Wal-Mart racquet and somewhat slimmer physique. By sucking at sports, I actually grew as a person. First, I am not self-conscious. Look at me all you like. As long as I’m wearing lipstick and a strong bra, I am confident! Second, I can watch basketball, tennis, swimming, and track competitions and be entertained. I am educated in the wide world of sports. Third, I don’t mind working with people who are better than I am in some capacity. I admire success and talent and don’t mind pulling up the rear. Every team has a Flo-Jo and a Slo-Jo. Finally, I am not afraid to step outside the barn and try something abstract or seemingly out of reach. I had the guts to quit a high-paying banking job. I tried to overcome several obstacles to have a baby. Tall Child and I committed to and succeeded in adopting the Roaming Gnome.  In my late-thirties, I made an abrupt career change. This year, I wrote and published a novel. I asked Tall Child, who now coaches youth basketball and baseball, “As a coach, what’s your attitude toward your worst player, someone like me?”He said, “I try to give him more attention than the other ones to make him feel like an important part of the team.”I asked, “What is your advice to that player who is on a team and not one bit of good?” He said, “Play hard and enjoy the game. Sports keep you from playing video games. They make you interact with other kids. You learn how to work with others. That’s about it.”In middle school, high school, and college, I did in fact learn how to interact with others and be part of a team—yes, as a terrible athlete, but more so as someone who could say, “I’m with the band.” Which brings me to Theory 6: If you want the ultimate college experience, join the band.See you next post. Until then, think outside the barn!
Like the wind

Steps You Can Take to Help Someone You Love Battle Cancer

Theories: Size 12 readers, I am postponing my next blog article, Theory 5: Play a sport, even if you suck at it, to touch on a more serious topic this week. Today, I feature a guest post from my dear friend and co-worker, Sherri McCall.
Each school-day morning, I drive Alcoa Highway from Knoxville to Maryville. To my left I view God’s power and creation in the majestic Smoky Mountain skyline. To my right, I sense high-speed innovation and adventure in McGhee Tyson Airport. In the midst of all that beauty and progress, it seems that pain and tragedy should be impossible. But, both are there. Sherri and I teach ninth grade technology together in scenic Blount County. We are buffered by The Great Smoky Mountains, top-notch co-workers, an All-American student body, and a supportive community. Sherri jokes that we are soul mates. Once, when I came up with an awesome lesson plan that lightened her work load for a few days, she threatened, “I could kiss you right in the mouth!” We are close (not that close) and I love her dearly.  We are kindred sprits: women, mothers, teachers, caregivers, sufferers, friends, thinkers, and laughers—to say the least. But Sherri is something more. She is a cancer survivor.
Friday, June 7, Maryville College will host the Relay for Life of Blount County. The Facebook page to promote the event challenges followers, “The journey to end cancer starts with a single step. Will you walk with us this weekend?” In honor of the Relay for Life of Blount County, cancer patients everywhere, and those who love them, I asked Sherri to write a blog post to help others. But, I gave her odd instructions. Instead of writing to inspire cancer patients, I asked Sherri to write to the friends and family of cancer patients. How many of you have asked someone suffering, “What can I do to help?” How many concrete answers did you receive? My guess is not many. Most folks are not as direct as Sherri and I are. Regardless, cancer patients need help and are often so consumed with worry they simply can’t answer such a vague question.  When someone you love is battling cancer, you are part of her journey. So, in honor of the Relay for Life, here are a few of Sherri’s simple, honest, specific steps you can take to help someone you love. 
From Sherri:Despite the fact that every patient reacts differently to a diagnosis and to treatment options, and each has a unique support system, a common thread exists among people who survive cancer.  Cancer survivors are just that: survivors.  They are diligent, resilient, and possess an inner strength like no other. For me, surviving cancer meant that I had to be strong, graceful under adversity, and I had to do much of “it” on my own.  Others wish to help you, but don’t know how.  Some of the steps I list below detail things that others did for me. Some of the steps I list below are things I needed but had to figure out on my own during cancer treatment.  You may take some or all of the following measures, depending on your loved one’s situation:
Step 1: Don’t ask the patient how you can help. She doesn’t know how to answer that question. 
Step 2: Go to the doctor with the patient. Waiting rooms are depressing and full of apprehensive people. Be present. Whether it is radiation or chemotherapy, offer to go and talk to her while she waits. Even go in with her if she will let you. Anything to get her mind off of her immediate worries will help.  Bring her a People magazine to read or a Sudoku puzzle or word find to fill the time in the waiting room. Include sharpened pencils.  Gossip with her about funny things that happened at work.
Step 3: If you go to appointments or chemo treatments, bring a variety of sweet and salty snacks that you know the patient likes. Anything from Snickers bars, Cheez-its, Diet Coke, bottled water. The patient may not have felt like eating breakfast.  Cheez-its may sound good at 9, but a Snickers bar may do just the trick at 10. Cancer treatments vary, as does the patient’s appetite and nausea. It doesn’t really matter what she eats at this point, just make sure she eats something that she wants, that tastes good to her.
Step 4: Keep a journal. Write things down: things the doctor says, questions the patient has, appointment times, and anything else pertinent to the patient or her treatment/care.  Make notes about positive things too.  Trust me; the patient will not remember anything that was said by the time she walks out of that doctor’s office.  “Deer in the headlights” is what you feel like. You need someone to be your advocate/cheerleader/decision-maker/guide.
Step 5: Pick up her kids from school and take them to Sonic for a Cherry Limeade, to basketball practice and back, or to your house for a few hours. Help them finish homework before you take them home. Depending on where the patient is with treatment, she may be too tired to read with her 3rd grader before bed.  I wouldn’t have cared if a friend or even my ex-husband came to my apartment after school with the kids. If someone had taken charge of dinner, homework, baths, etc. I would have been so appreciative. I wanted to know that they were home and taken care of, but sometimes I didn’t feel well enough to do it myself.
Step 6: Take dinner to the house. Find out what her kids like to eat and fix that.  Make southern “comfort” food: macaroni and cheese, chicken casserole, Jell-O salad (although I HATE Jell-O!  J), or chicken and dumplings, just to name a few. A mother will feel better knowing her kids had dinner, and she just might eat some herself. Make extra to freeze and pull out on days when they don’t feel like cooking. Wash the dishes, and don’t leave items she has to return (casserole pans, Tupperware).
Step 7: Clean her house, do the laundry, load the dishwasher, change the bed sheets.  Anyone who has children likely has a “mess” of some kind in her house at any given time.  Or hire a regular house keeper to come do the big things like vacuuming, cleaning the bathrooms, cleaning the oven, and the windows, while the patient is going through treatment. Several friends could go in together to hire someone once a month for six months.
Step 8: Mail a hand-written note to her. Say what you feel, such as “I am praying for you,” “I admire your strength,” or “Hang in there.” Be specific. Be genuine. Include a gift card to a restaurant (especially one that delivers) for nights when she doesn’t feel like cooking.
Step 9: Do something special for her children.  Take them to a movie on Saturday afternoon.  Go to their orchestra concert and take pictures or video if she is too sick to attend.  Pay on her child’s lunch account at his/her school or pack his/her lunch for a week and send it with your child to them at school.
Step 10: Get a key to her house.  Surprise her by putting dinner in the oven, raking leaves or pulling weeds in the flower beds when she is not at home. Again, several friends could pool money to hire a lawn service to visit periodically.
Step 11: Get involved in a charity that benefits cancer research.  My friends trained and ran in “Race for the Cure” in downtown Knoxville while I was undergoing treatment.  They picked me up, took me with them, and took me out to breakfast afterward.  Those pictures are some of my sweetest memories of that time!  That is a great way to honor someone who is fighting for her life.

Friends and family members of cancer patients, these are just a few steps you can take as you stride alongside someone you love as she fights for her health. Cancer patients, let people help you! Friends and family members will ask, “What can I do to help you?"  Answer them in detail. If nothing else, print this list and hand it to them. They love you. Though not to the same degree, they are suffering and they are treading this journey with you. They may need directions.
Sherri, thank you again for being such a strong role model for others, especially those battling cancer. And, thank you for this post. It is sure to help many!
Readers, please comment below if you would like to share other ideas as to how friends and family may help cancer patients.
For more information on the Relay for Life of Blount County, visit https://www.facebook.com/pages/Relay-For-Life-of-Blount-County/128629075809.
Be sure to check back here next Friday for Theory 5: Play a sport, even if you suck at it.
Until then, think outside the barn!

Theory 4: Don’t judge a woman by her accent or her breast size.

Throughout my life, I’ve endured harassment, remarks, and teasing about two prominent personal characteristics: my accent and my breast size. I am not complaining, just explaining, or should I say, “I ain’t whinin’, ima just splainin’!”
 I think Winston Churchill said there is no more beautiful sound than the voice of an educated Southern woman. The women of my mother’s family come from the Deep South—Georgia and Alabama. Their Southern drawls drape their phrases like Spanish Moss softens the branches of a live oak. If a Deep Southern woman’s accent is coconut rum, mine is sour mash. I am an East Tennessean. We have our own sound. My words clang and clash like the breaking down of a moonshine still. I do not sound beautiful.
 In addition to my twang, my breasts have always been a point or points of intrigue to many and have driven me crazy most of my life. Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate being well-endowed. A lot of confidence comes with breast size. Maybe watching Miss Piggy swat other Muppets down with her boobs (or was it her snout?) helped me. I felt empowered by her feminine yet confident example.  I had something most girls wanted and couldn’t have, until silicone came along. At least I could still brag, “Mine are real.” But I’m not sure that’s a good thing, especially at my age and size. At least the fake ones are perky. If mine were a yoga position, they’d certainly be called Downward Dogs.
 I suppose everyone has characteristics or features that must be overcome, embraced, or worked around, just like I have this thick accent and these large breasts.
 A friend suggested I post a video book trailer for my novel, The Eye of Adoption, to YouTube. Another writer told me it’s the second largest search engine behind Google. I know a guy who can film me, and I know the marketing is worthwhile, but I am extremely self-conscious about how my voice sounds in a microphone. Think Ellie Mae; just subtract the bailing twine belt and add pollen-induced hoarseness, or, as we say in the hollers, a frog in my throat. Ugh. I fear that my uneducated-sounding self would turn off potential readers. Maybe I can find Julia from “Designing Women” to do a voice over for me. My best friend at work also sports a country accent and a nice set of knockers. We talked a few days ago about how we worry that colleagues from other parts of the country may underestimate our academic and professional ability. I apologize that they must wade through our swamp of colloquialisms, but they do eventually cotton to us!
As far as the “girls” go, I do my best to conceal them as I teach high school freshmen. I steer clear of v-necks and always wear tight camisoles, which my work buddy’s daughter calls “squeezers,” over my high-dollar, minimize bras. Just after Tall Child and I married, I told him that, although I came with little money, he should consider my boobs as a dowry, since many of his friends had to purchase their wives’ attributes.
In college, my accent drew harassment from romantic competition. I was on a date with a really cute frat boy when his “sorority sister” questioned me in a valley-girl condescending tone, “Oh my goodness, your accent is so thick. I’ve never heard anything like it! Where are you from?”
I replied (typed phonetically here), “Well, I’m French. I grew up in Pea jhion four czhay, which is just east of Ville` day Seveeyay.” (Pigeon Forge, just east of Sevierville.) Frat boy laughed. Sorority sister did not.
Also, in college, because of the boobs, boys mistook me for a wild girl. In the early 90’s, when I was at The University of Tennessee, fashion trends called for tight tops. I had to be in style, so my girls were on display. I got lots of attention from boys, but their expectations were as large as what they wanted to see. And, I was a good girl. So, they often called me a tease, based only on what I looked like! At least they had goals.
One summer in high school, I attended Tennessee Governor’s School for the Humanities in Martin, TN, in the northwest corner of the state. Basically, it’s language arts nerd camp. Shakespeare in a classroom in July. Not cool. The high-brow crowd had a hay-day with my dialect. Back where I came from (Gatlinburg), we all sounded about the same, but when I got to Governor’s School, I was called out mercilessly. That was tough on my fifteen-year-old soul who was already showing up at nerd camp with size 34DD boobies and praying I didn’t have to swim there. My roommate finding my mother’s letter to me, which detailed how Delicious had dipped the dogs for fleas, did not help. I tried to soften my twang, employ the other campers’ catch-phrases, and convince them I had a brain, but ended up sounding ridiculous, especially when I returned to the hollers. I should have left the fake voice in Martin, like Madonna should leave her British accent in London. 
In high school, the no one called me a tease because Delicious was there to make sure all the boys knew I was a good girl. But, she couldn’t protect me when I ran track. Trying to keep my royal blue Umbro shorts from sliding up my rear to expose my lily-white thighs was bad enough, but that was before sports bras, too. I was all over the place as I pounded around the track, “running” the 880. My most memorable moment came as my team, the Gatlinburg-Pittman Highlanders, raced against the Seymour Eagles. I had a bad crush on a Seymour boy and he was on their track team. I remember plodding slowly down the long side of the track opposite where he sat with his teammates, and hearing a chant of some sort. As I rounded the turn, the chant became louder and clearer. Along with my Reeboks hitting pavement and my labored breaths, I heard, “Boom chugga lugga lugga. Boom chugga lugga lugga. Boom chugga lugga lugga.” Then it dawned on me. They were chanting with the rhythm of my bouncing breasts! I closed my elbows in toward my chest to try to control things, but it was hopeless. I gave up and let it all hang out, even my thighs. I crossed the finish line in last and walked straight up the bleachers to confront the crowd of skinny teenage goober boys. I said, “I’m glad y’all enjoyed the race. If you liked that, you should see me dance!” Oh, they liked it alright. I went to the prom with that boy a couple of years later. Boobyah ya’ll!                                                                  Show some respect!

Which brings us to Theory 5: Play a sport, even if you suck at it.

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

Theory 3: You should be nice to everyone you meet, because you will meet again, especially if you were not nice in the first place.

I have to start with my mother again. To protect her privacy, let’s call her by the nickname my cousin “Roscoe” gave her when he played college basketball. The players decided to give all their mamas nicknames. Well, Roscoe’s mama has a “donk” so they deemed her “Big Booty J” or “B.B.J.” for short. My mama sports colorful blouses that stretch across her well-endowed bosom and chandelier earrings that swish below her short black curly hair. And, at all times, she carries a drink and snacks, typically a tall fruity drink and popcorn or peanuts. Thus, the boys named her “Delicious D.” I’ll call her “Delicious” here on Theories: Size 12.
While Delicious is eccentric,  she’s also a great teacher in my life and the lives of others—in theory and example. My whole life, Delicious has beaten maxims into my brain, especially during our four years of driving to and from high school together. She taught at my school, or should I say, I attended hers? I had no social life, so we were pretty much together  24 hours a day. I mean, I couldn’t skip school because she would notice I was not in the passenger seat. Maybe. So, I sat, listened, and learned. One of her favorite lessons is “Be nice to everyone one you meet, because you will meet again.”
This Theory has played out over and over in my life, but I’m going to illustrate with two examples, in hopes that you avoid similar mistakes. In the first, Delicious is the instigator. In the second, I am the victim, until I am the victor!
Example 1: Delicious was shopping at The Kmart (in The South, stores names are amped up with the article The, as in The Wal-Mart, The Exxon, The Co-Op). Perhaps she was balancing a Styrofoam cup of Coca-Cola or pouring a plastic sleeve of peanuts through her Wine with Everything lips. Perhaps she just wasn’t paying attention, but Delicious made a driving error in the parking lot of The Kmart. A female driver behind her angrily honked, and Delicious flipped her The bird. As the woman—likely aghast at the obscene gesture—cruised by, Delicious peered into the driver’s window. There she spotted her now frowning co-worker and friend of 20 years, Mrs. R! What did Delicious do? She laid low, finished her peanuts, and washed them down with some ice cold refreshing Coca-Cola. Once Mrs. R was out of sight, Delicious peeled out in a flash of embarrassment.  She never apologized. She never admitted her sin. She simply hoped Mrs. R never noticed her in the first place. You see, in The South, you can just keep things soft, smooth, and simple by not confronting such situations. You can both pretend The Thing never happened. Delicious learned her lesson, and has not flipped The Bird in The Kmart parking lot since.
Example 2: Picture me, Mountain Mama, 20 pounds lighter (yay) 20 years ago, all decked out in a navy blue business suit, panty hose (yep), and taupe high heels. Painful, neutral, nervous shoes: taupe. The suit jacket did its best to conceal the professional woman’s enemy: giant boobs. I prayed the minimizer bra kept its promise. Taupe means business.  Boobs mean bimbo. I was one month away from graduating from The University of Tennessee and was as broke as a haint. A haint is a low class ghost who basically hangs around and harasses. Haints haint. Full of self-confidence with a touch of naiveté, I typed up a resume` and cover letter and set out to bust the world wide open, professionally speaking, beginning with downtown Knoxville. My first stop was Home Federal Bank. There, I planned to drop off my documents, give my practiced not-too-feminine, not-too-masculine handshake, and politely introduce myself to the director of human resources, who would no-doubt be impressed by my finance degree, outgoing personality, confident handshake, and taupe shoes. The receptionist said, “Thank you for your resume, but Mr. M doesn’t usually talk to anyone unless he calls you for an interview.” I replied, “Well, I am about to graduate and just need one moment of his time to introduce myself.” (I was coached at the UT Career Center to personally hand off my resume, make eye contact, use the handshake, etc. to increase my chances of a call back.) No deal at Home Federal. But, Mr. M did, just at that moment, open his office door and walk right into the room! I pounced, “Good morning, Mr. M. May I speak with you for just a moment?” Mr. M grumbled, did not make eye contact, and walked off.  For a human resources director, he did not act very human at all! Needless to say, I ended up working for another bank. About five years into my career, I was promoted to be branch manager of The Main Office! Whoop whoop! The first day on the job, I met my staff, which included………… MRS. M! What?!? Payback is a B. Well, it can be if you are a jerk. I was nice to MRS. M, though I admit I cut her zero slack. I felt sorry for her, being married to the non-human human resources officer, but, boy did I get a chuckle out of being her boss.
All this is to say, listen to Delicious and Bug. Be nice to everyone. Which reminds me of Theory 4: Don’t judge a woman by her accent or her breast size.
See you next post. Until then, think outside The Barn!