Just the beginning of a long weekend with three males and not enough Barefoot Pinot Grigio.

Before I panic and skid to the store for emergency wine and Cheez-Its to get me through what looks like a snow-in, I want to give my local buddies something to read. Well, actually, this is a tease because I want you to BUY my books. Big girl hungry. Ha! That said, my Theories read as essays, so you can enjoy these two delights OR you can be so mesmerized by my controversial wit that you order paperbacks or download Kindle versions of both books. Your call.

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

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

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

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

Uncle Trout told Tall Child, “If you want Sharky to get a fair shake in sports, you have to coach him.”

I vowed to watch my mouth. Tall Child signed up to coach multiple sports in the local youth league.

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

Make-the-Mosters

My friend Baton Swiper reminded me about a couple of over-zealous moms who created NBA level excitement in their sons’ three-on-three basketball league. You see, Baton Swiper and I bought a huge role of butcher paper. Each week, we ripped off a giant rectangle and graciously wrote all the players’ names (from our team AND the opposing team) on the paper. After a pre-game bathroom break, the little boys lined up. On cue, Baton Swiper’s husband, Trombone Stud, hit play on her ghetto blaster. The boys ripped through the paper onto the basketball court, took opposing sides, and shot pregame layups to “Rocky Top” and an old ESPN “Jock Jams” cassette.

Some parents probably thought we were nuts, but some of their boys will never run through paper again. In one of our last games, I said to the other team’s coach, who looked unhappy—probably because we’d beaten him three times already, “Hey, we’re going to line up to run through the paper in about two minutes.”

He pouted, “My team will NOT be running through your paper!”

Hint: If you do the paper thing, be sure to poke holes. Remember, I was not a cheerleader past kindergarten. When Sharky did a practice run at home, his then forty-four-pound body hit that banner with full force, and with equal force bounced backward into the wall.

Speaking of music, my aunt Terrific carried a boom box to her daughter A-Boo’s preppy yet fierce Yummyville School softball games. For eight straight years. Terrific played antagonistic song selections, including Queen's “Another One Bites the Dust.” Years later, A-Boo played collegiate golf at Vanderbilt. During her sophomore year she was paired against a University of Alabama player at a golf tournament in Athens, Georgia. Through several holes of small talk, A-Boo and the Bama golfer realized they both played high school softball. A-Boo said, “Yeah, I played for Yummyville School.”

The Bama golfer explained, “Oh, lord, that's the team with that OBNOXIOUS Boom Box Lady!”

Outliers

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

Budgeteers

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

On-The-Road-Off-Duty Parents

These are parents, typically fathers, who forsake normal supervisory responsibilities on road trips. Post-match, they crowd the hotel lobby to imbibe beer and rehash game highlights while their children mistreat elevators, vandalize hotel exercise facilities, and ding-dong-ditch unfortunate second floor neighbors. It amazes me how Sharky could play three intense basketball games in one day, swim for an hour, then walk on a treadmill in the Comfort Suites workout room. Why is it that unsupervised young athletes gravitate toward exercise rooms?

Off duty parents hemorrhage money. The players score solid bling like Phiten necklaces, tourney T-shirts, sunglasses, and expensive beef jerky. Hung-over daddies don’t argue in front of concession stands. They peel out the dollars and say, “Get me a Gatorade while you’re up there.”

I once asked my buddy, Mason-Dixon, a Northern-born woman with a Southern disposition, who was obviously worn out from keeping up with four children at an out of town tourney in suffocating humidity, “Where are your little ones?”

She sighed, “They are either on the playground or in a stranger’s van half-way to Michigan.”

Rule Freaks

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

Lobbyists

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

Paranoid Schizophrenics

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

Worriers

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

Space Hogs

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

Out-of-Touchers

Listen folks, when your child plays a sport, he or she is committed to a team. Period. Ask any old-school coach. Don’t miss practice or games for birthdays, parties, or trips.

Gnome played tee ball, and Tall Child was the coach. As the coach’s wife, it was my inherent duty to get trophies. Well, we had seven players every game I attended, so, I bought seven At the final game, we had eight players. Say what?!? I had to rush home to desperately search in a frenzy for an old Sharky trophy that looked like the ones I had bought for Gnome’s team. Miraculously, I found one! I sped back to the game, just as the children were lining up to say, “Good game. Good game.” Whew. Naturally, my child (who never missed a practice or an inning) had to sacrifice. I ordered another trophy for Gnome the next week and replaced Sharky’s old trophy to its rightful dust-collecting position. What a pain. Who was that eighth player?

My dear friend, Ole Miss Glamour Girl (OMGG) once interrupted baseball practice because she had dinner reservations. Here’s how it went down between her and our coach, The Best:

OMGG yelled from the behind the fence across the field to

second base to her son: “Phenom get your stuff.”

The Best yelled back: “What?!? No!”

OMGG: “We have to leave!”

The Best: “WHY?”

OMGG: “We have dinner reservations!”

The Best: “It’s Tuesday!”

OMGG: “It’s Cinco De Mayo!”

The Best: “You’re not Mexican!”

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

Annoyers

Male coaches don’t need to touch their privates. I know things in uniform itch but deal with it. I once warned Tall Child, “If that coach adjusts himself down there again, I will grab baby Gnome’s Desitin out of the diaper bag and side-arm it toward the coach’s cup.”

Delicious says, “You should never hate anyone.” Well, too bad. I hate the lady who shook a plastic bottle full of coins for an entire baseball game in Orlando, Florida. I complained to the concession stand manager. Her response? “I’m in food.”

Grandparents

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

Pouters

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

Division 1’s

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

He said, “The older I get, the better I was.”

Snappers

No one is immune. My kind-hearted, philanthropic sister-in-law Dogwood Deb became irate after her sweet nephew Sharky lost a tense baseball battle to Sumner County. No doubt cheated by refs, we exited in defeat while the winners cheered loudly on the way to their cars. Dogwood Deb lost her cool and screamed across the parking lot, “Oh, shut up and go back home to Slumner County!”

After one baseball game, I saw a woman freak out so hard I expected to see her leave in a straight jacket. She screeched and thrashed like a wild animal. Luckily, she was inside the scorekeeper’s chain-link protective box. She was in a cage rage.

At the end of a basketball game, I watched in horror as a granny went postal on her grandson. She kept yelling, “You look at me when I’m talkin’ to you!” He couldn’t. She had A & P eyes (one faced the Atlantic, the other the Pacific—the murky one).

Some of these heckling parents harass the coaches, the referees, the other teams’ coaches, the other teams’ fans, and their own children. I save my commentary for Tall Child for the car ride home. IF, IF, IF I ride home with him. You should see how he mistreats my super-athletic, often misunderstood Sharky when my baby misses free-throws. I never got that kind of treatment in the band! Trout over-heckled the refs at one of cousin Roscoe’s college basketball games, and the refs said, “You are out of here! Leave this gym!” Trout pointed at himself, and mouthed, “Me?” He’d driven a long way to watch Roscoe and was not about to leave. So, he faked them out and sneaked up to the balcony seats. He ducked in and out of the crowd to avoid being caught. It was like watching human Whack-A-Mole.

In the stands, I always keep an ear out for new, awesome one-liners. Often, passionate parents display an entertaining flash of bravado and wit. In the safe cloud of fan noise, we scream out mean things we’d never say anywhere else. Once, a frustrated Tall Child yelled up at me, “Your son sucks!”

I yelled back, “You suck!”

When we got home, Sharky and I banished Tall Child to the bedroom for the rest of the night. So, as your child winds up to pitch, steps back in the pocket to throw, or sets up his shot, answer this question: How do you perform? Are you civilized in the shadows, or does the wild animal in you come out to play?

p.s. I can tell you that I was a schizophrenic performing parent last night. Sorry, Sharky

Table of Contents for Theories Size 12:

Theory 1: People write diaries hoping someone else will read them. 5

Theory 2: Anyone can learn from anyone. 8

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

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

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

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

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

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

Theory 9: Everyone should work in a restaurant. 51

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

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

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

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

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

Theory 15: Tailgate etiquette is not an oxymoron. 98

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

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

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

Theory 19: All mothers need sister wives. 156

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

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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

Theory 30: Women become their mothers,

whether they like it or not.

ack at Gatlinburg-Pittman High School (G-P) I told Delicious, “I want to go to The University of Georgia and major in creative writing.”

She said, “What would you do for a living?”

I said, “Write and teach.”

She said in the kindest way possible, “I forbid you to become a teacher. You’ll never have a dime. I majored in journalism at Georgia, but when I graduated newspapers wouldn’t hire a woman, so I ended up being a teacher, and I’ve struggled financially my whole life, Bug. Don’t put yourself through that.”

I applied to Georgia and Tennessee but went with Tennessee because Georgia would have cost my parents an extra $1,800 each year. I felt selfish asking for that much money. I should have borrowed it like I later did for graduate school. Then I could have gone to my dream school and spring break and sit-down restaurants.

I went to UT. I majored in finance. But, twenty-some-odd years later? I write and teach. Money? It comes and goes, but happiness in your work is crucial. The simplest days should be the best days. Why live for the weekends when they represent only 28 percent of your life? Make the 72 percent majority of your time better.

I am following in my mother’s footsteps because I am becoming her. She’s eccentric, but I hope to top her quirks. She should write books, but she’d rather sit in her chair with a cup of colored pencils beside her so she can daydream via her adult coloring books. Sometimes she makes Christmas wreaths. These days, she’s on a homemade Christmas ornament kick. Tall Child got a popcorn-themed Styrofoam wonder while my neon prize was dotted with embroidered llama patches. Sometimes she drinks vodka and diet cranberry juice in a chair down by the river or riding shotgun on an ATV with BBJ as they bump and bounce through their respective Crippled Beagle and Naked Lady Farms. I suppose Delicious is more story teller than writer. Once my arthritis sets in for good, I’ll be more teller than writer too.

This Theory first came to me at my mother-in-law Bop’s house in Nashville. It was Christmas time, the MOST stressful time of year when men should do as they are told but instead walk around with knife and fork in hand. Oh, and money you don’t have hemorrhages from every gap in your purse, clothes, car, and home. Bop has a small U-shaped kitchen in her Cape Code style, perfectly-sized-for-retiree house. She loves to host gatherings and always employs her poised daughter (Tall Child’s younger sister) Dogwood Debutante in her entertaining endeavors. I guess that since I’m female and Southern, I’m supposed to help slice ham, pour water into Waterford, and set heavy silver onto polished wood. Boring. I don’t sort silverware. I took the enneagram test and my personality style description stated that I feel “mundane tasks are beneath my sensibilities.” Yes! An academic excuse! Anyway, Tall Child and I sat in the living room that December day, and he coached me, “Go to the kitchen and help Bop.”

I said, “I’m not sure there’s room in there for me.” Instead, I poured a glass of wine, perched on the back of a club chair, and observed a mother-daughter kitchen dance choreographed through years of practice. Bop and Dogwood Deb worked like two ballerinas in a music box. They somehow circled, scooted, and slid around each other without dropping a single teaspoon or sloshing hot butter beans over the edge of a footed serving bowl. There was no need for my Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, bumper boat behind to enter the dance. They were not just partners. No, they were one being, and I was being out of the way. Christmas means high-stakes entertaining. Had I tried to “help,” I could have jacked up the smooth, synchronized sequence. I would have been the primary colored Happy Meal toy whose angles were all wrong, whose lack of grace would have wedged between gliding pastel twirling aprons. Why, I might have capsized the gravy boat or worse, spilled my wine!

I wondered how they could be such a dynamic duo in that kitchen and then realized that Dogwood Deb is becoming Bop. I pondered, Am I becoming Delicious? Naaah. I asked Sharky as he rode shotgun on the way to school one day soon after that, “How am I like Grandmama?”

He said, “Dra. Ma.” He’s referring to the way in which Delicious and I take normal situations and make them urgent, frightening, and stressful. Right now, I am in the midst of a battle with asbestos tile that I chopped up in my basement, a huge dead poplar that looms over my bedroom, and my ongoing love-hate relationships with wine, Marie’s Ultimate blue cheese dressing, and three-minute microwave mug chocolate cakes. As I write this, I’m on day seven of Dry January. Observations: Sounder sleep, clearer thinking, boring evenings. Cousin Fuzz calls the family tendency toward drama the “Delicious and BBJ Effect.” Think Doppler. Read this as quickly as you can for the best experience.

The Doppler effect can be described as the effect produced by a moving source of waves in which there is an apparent upward shift in frequency for observers toward whom the source is approaching and an apparent downward shift in frequency for observers from whom the source is receding. It is important to note that the effect does not result because of an actual change in the frequency of the source. Using the example [of a bug kicking its legs in water], the bug is still producing disturbances at a rate of two disturbances per second; it just appears to the observer whom the bug is approaching that the disturbances are being produced at a frequency greater than two disturbances/second. The effect is only observed because the distance between observer B and the bug is decreasing and the distance between observer A and the bug is increasing.

If you think I wrote that, I am honored, but I copied and pasted. I hate citing sources. Don’t we all? What good are the World Wide Web and Microsoft Word if we still have to draft those aggravating works cited pages? I prefer to copy and paste URLs. I found that explanation in one of everybody’s favorite hangouts, you’re gonna want to write this down, www.physicsclassroom.com.

In laymen’s terms, basically, when Bug asks/does/proposes anything, The Delicious and BBJ/Doppler-like Effect creates a disturbance in the holler based on paranoia and anxiety. It’s a family trait prominent on our East Tennessee compound. For example, I once said, “I think I’ll go visit cousin Bags in Florida.”

To that statement, Delicious scolded, “Oh, no, you won’t. Bug, you’ll get raped all the way down there and back.”

I was 35 years old.

Delicious and BBJ swing and share big news.

Sharky also said, “You and Grandmama both think you have P.D.H.’s and can diagnose diseases.”

I corrected him, so Delicous-ly, “Sharky, you mean Ph. D.’s, and yes, I take pride in my expertise in the prevalence of autism, group dynamics, and the father issues that led women to vote for Bill Clinton and Barack Obama. You just wait. I am on the cusp of a great discovery in clotting disorders.” You see, the asbestos tile issue is overwhelming me. I’ve visited numerous websites in my panicked research, so now the creepy marketing stuff is creeping me out. Every other Facebook post is from a mysterious person warning me of mesothelioma. My chest hurts. I’ve joined support groups.

Finally, Sharky said, “Oh, and Mama, you and Grandmama are terrible drivers.” I do drive with emotion. Delicious punctuates every sentence with her brake pedal, as does BBJ. If anyone close to use is navigating a divorce, it takes us twice as long to drive to Hobby Lobby.

My sweet, athletic, sincere friend Wine Box Out lost her mother years ago. She told me, “My mother was my life.” I feel the same way. I love and adore and need Delicious to a fault. But, I’m not going to lie. There were things she did when I was growing up that really bugged this Bug and I made silent vows not to repeat. Never heard of a silent vow?

Red Hot Backspace and I attended a marriage class. Yes, together. She’s divorced, and did you really think Tall Child would go to a marriage class? I tried. I asked him to go with me, and he said, “No thanks. I hate school and I’m the ideal husband.”

I conceded on one of those counts and didn’t press further. I think that makes me the ideal wife! Oh well, someone had to stay with Gnome and Sharky, anyway. After my and Red Hot’s first class, Tall Child asked, “How was marriage class?”

I answered, “Interesting. Do you want to know all the things you do wrong?”

He said, “Nah. I’m good.”

Anyway, in the class, the teacher-preacher said that we should never make silent vows because we are setting parameters that God can and may want to change. We shouldn’t limit or fight destiny, right? Are we destined to become our mothers, no matter how we fight? Maybe.

Growing up, I made the following silent vows:

VOW 1: “I will never cut off all my hair just because I’m getting older.” Delicious says that once a woman gets a certain age, she needs to cut off all her hair because “long, stringy hair makes women look old and tired.”

Then: In high school, I made Delicious late for work because I had to perfect my bangs. You know the drill: One Conair roll up, one Conair roll down, pick, spray. Humidity causes a flop. Cry. Throw a fit. Do over. Delicious bought me highlights and perms. I even got into making Gatlinburg-Pittman High School blue and gold barrettes to sell to classmates. They sold way better than the fish tank “magic rocks” that changed colors. I hustled those all over the Pigeon Forge Elementary School playground. High school girls have money and don’t tattle. I was rolling for real.

Now: If I get hot, I get a haircut. If I’m in Alabama, Florida, Nashville, wherever, and I notice my shaggy bangs or what Delicious calls my “dog ears,” I get a haircut. I pull over to the first cheapo place like Great Clips or Supercuts. No more tantrums, just $12.00 and some White Rain and I’m content. When I have extra time, I hit Ross and Co. to see my top stylist, California Dreamin’. I chose her to be my top stylist because her son played baseball with Sharky and she’s a friend. Bonus: She IS GREAT at her work. Whew! I just tell her, “Cut my hair so I don’t have to fix it. I like it wavy and loose, so I can floof it up and not look so old and tired. You know, when you get a certain age you just can’t have long stringy hair.” What? Who said that?

Recently, Red Hot Backspace’s daughter Suspenders enrolled in the local Paul Mitchell school. I set an appointment. If you haven’t been to a school salon, go. I love being around students, and the cuts are a bargain, which enables you to tip big. It’s a classroom setting, as in rows of salon “desks” where students have all their tools and textbooks in full view. Suspenders fetched me from the front desk and said, “Right this way.”

I tried to push her to excellence. When she asked, “What would you like to do?” I answered, “Oh, I don’t care. Be creative! Look at me hard, and then do whatever you want. You are the artist!”

She said, “That’s terrifying.”

“Do it,” I said.

The young stylist beside her stared at me and Suspenders said, “Don’t worry; I know Bug. She’s crazy.” Then she said to me, “How about we add some layers? How much do you want to cut off the length?”

I said, “Sure. Layers. Cut off whatever you want to, just make sure I still look like a girl. Leave some hair below my ears.”

I felt badly when I said that because her neighboring he/she/him/her/shim/sher stylist’s head was completely shaved on both sides with a THREE-INCH RAINBOW MOHAWK from front to back. He had painted black fingernails, mascara, and was obviously nervous. I thought, I’ve offended him.

We’ll call him Starlite, after Rainbow Brite’s horse. Well, I looked at Starlite and said, “What would you do to my hair?”

He said, “I don’t know. I’m too busy freaking out to think.”

Suspenders chimed in, “He’s really nervous”

“Why?” I asked.

Brite said, “I have a perm at 9:30. It’s my first one.”

“Ever?”

“Ever.”

I thought, If he thinks he’s nervous, how does he expect this stranger to feel when she sees Rainbow Brite’s horse with a pair of razor-sharp scissors and vat of ammonium thioglycolate waiting for her?”

He showed me his textbook, which had step-by-step instructions. I wonder if I could cut my own hair professionally? I mean, I used to cut my long hair all the time. I just pulled it straight up into a ponytail, twisted it one way, sawed through the rope, then twisted another, sawed through, then showered. FREE! Those books have secrets. I need those secrets.

I coached him, “Okay, well, you are in The 9-1-9, so your client could be demanding. Then again, she could be like me and understand that you are learning.”

“Yeah, true.”

Suspenders waved her teacher over. She explained what she planned to do to me. He approved.

She got out her school scissors and went to town. At the end, she asked, “Do you want me to cut your bangs?”

I said, “Isn’t that customary?”

She said, “I guess so.”

I said, “Yes, but don’t choke. This is where you can REALLY make somebody mad.”

It was fun giving Suspenders a hard time and embarrassing her. I even threatened to yell on my way out, “Well, this is by far the BEST [EXPLETIVE] HAIRCUT I’VE EVER HAD IN MY ENTIRE [EXPLETIVE] LIFE!”

She made a good grade, and I loved my haircut. Starlite’s perm lady never showed. Or she did, saw his hair, and ran for the hills. We’ll never know.

Red Hot Backspace admits, “I have to try really hard not to wear my hair like my mother’s.”

Ditto, Red Hot. I’m heading that way. The last time Sharky had a basketball game, I way over-sprayed my hair with Aussie. Just like Delicious. It’s a good thing Sharky and I have outgrown our childhood asthma.

VOW 2: “I will keep my house really neat so I can find tape and stamps.” Once, my daddy looked at a pile of clean laundry on the floor of our 100-year-old farmhouse and asked, “Delicious, are you EVER going to fold those clothes?”

Delicious answered, “Pooh, are you EVER going to fold those clothes?”

Delicious always told me that housework was the “last thing on her list” and she “had her priorities straight.” Yep. Pooh was #1. I was #2. We never had to seek out her attention or energy. My grandmama Buddy lived high on a cedar-stacked hill facing The Crippled Beagle Farm. She told us that often, when Delicious hollered, “Pooooooh/Buuuuug, where are youuuuuuuuuu?” the sweet, longingly bellowed calls floated “over the river and through the woods,” up the cow field, and onto Buddy’s porch. My daddy and I valued the relief of solitude, but Delicious wanted to be up close because she was interested in every little thing we said or did. Daddy and I hiked all over our 72-acre farm, sometimes at the same time but typically alone. Remarkably, we never crossed paths in those woods and never escaped the doting clutches of Delicious. She may not be a good mopper, but Delicious is a dang fine tracker.

Then: My bedroom, my dorm room, my first apartments, and my first house were always tidy. I took great pride in keeping neat quarters. I knew exactly where my scissors were.

Now: It’s been coming for some time. Tall Child and I used to boycott. Feeling overwhelmed by the supposed imbalance of our chore lists, we staged these ridiculous domestic stand-offs where one of us would say, “That’s it! I am boycotting for two weeks.” The boycotter would do none of his/her chores, so the dirt, laundry, dishes, and to-do’s piled into obvious “look who suffers and contributes the most” stacks. I felt a boycott coming on last week, but this time, I channeled my inner Delicious (who is growing stronger by the day) and said nothing. I simply QUIT. Now, I plan to put my priorities in order: #1 Jesus, #2 Tall Child, #3 Sharky and Gnome, #4 friends, . . . . These days I do as much housework as I feel like doing and slide the rest of the stuff out of the way. Hardwood and my golf course squeegee help.

I hide the tape and stamps, and I buy scissors at Dollar Tree. Lots of scissors.

I took a page from my teaching love Sugar Bear who inspired me with his efficiency. Sugar Bear has a Ph.D. in something I don’t understand that has to do with sea oats and weather, and he is a devoted husband and father. I complimented him on his uber-professional junior high work attire one Monday morning. He said, “I always wear a dress shirt and tie on Mondays. Every Sunday when I get home from our worship service, I lay my church clothes out on the chair in my bedroom. This method allows me to sleep another ten minutes on Mondays and save money on laundering.”

God first. Laundry second. Amen, Sugar Bear.

VOW 3: “I won’t talk to strangers all the time.” Most of the time when we went shopping to malls, the expedition was focused on finding “slacks and blouses” for Delicious and BBJ. They loved women’s departments. I was miserable, so Delicious bought me a Sweet Valley High book as soon as we arrived, and I perched in those club chairs by the tri-fold mirrors to read while she and BBJ tried on one thousand shirts that all looked basically the same, except for the ones with necklaces attached. Those were special.

Then: Those days were rough, but survivable, thanks to Morrison’s Cafeteria macaroni, rolls, and Jell-O and the adventures of Jessica and Elizabeth Wakefield. What really stunk was when I had to try on blouses and slacks or, heaven forbid, swimsuits. Not only did I have to say, “Don’t look, don’t look” to Delicious, who came in every dressing room to ”protect me from perverts.” I also had to endure the critique from sales people. You see, as soon as we walked into the store, some nice clerk would say, “May I help you?” I liked to say, “No, thanks. I’m just browsing,” and suffer through swimsuit season in solitude.

Delicious, on the other hand, would say, “YES! My daughter Bug is going to a fancy party with her friends! She needs a dress. Will you help us find one?” Torture for a teenager, worse for a college co-ed. Though the goal was apparel, Delicious ALWAYS found a way to say, “Bug is in the UT band.” She was so proud.

Now: Now I get it! Delicious wasn’t overly friendly; she was BUSY. She was being The Man. I am a working mother of two. I don’t have time to browse for a blouse. I’m thinking up a uniform for my workdays. I need something I can wear to exercise, meet a client, tutor a student, and comfortably sit in my writing chair for hours on end. The fabric must not show cat hair. Now, on the seldom days I do shop, I let anyone in the dressing room. And when a clerk greets me, “May I help you?” I say, “Yes, you can! I was in the UT Band and I need a Size 14 . . . .”

What a fierce beauty, ready for academic battle. She worked like a man and taught and teaches me, constantly, about how to navigate humanity, thus I have finally given up and given in to her abundant advice. Instead of fighting the natural current, I now happily hop into the riptide of becoming my mother.

I mean, she is always right. In honor of my beloved Delicious, I now whip through Chick-fil-A for a sweet tea with extra, extra ice and lemon and write Sharky’s basketball stats and my grocery lists on the back of bank deposit slips. What else are those tiny papers good for?

Table of Contents in Theories Size 14:

Theory 21: All bumper stickers offend someone, but that’s the point, right?

Theory 22: Wedding vows need translation.

Theory 23: There are right ways and wrong ways to date online.

Theory 24: There is no such thing as natural beauty.

Theory 25: Chunky girls need love songs too, especially in the summertime.

Theory 26: 40+ is the perfect age.

Theory 27: Orthopedic bras ain’t sexy.

Theory 28: Working mothers are the man.

Theory 29: College is hard when you’re 40.

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

Theory 31: Old age reveals the true you.

Theory 32: Teachers are money hustlers with ADHD.

Theory 33: Dang you, Tupperware ladies, dang you (but I do love your products).

Theory 34: Never say, “At least you have summers off” to a teacher.

Theory 35: A great summer can be free. Ask any redneck—like me!

Theory 36: Senior superlatives must be modernized and must include teachers.

Theory 37: God and prayer are alive and well in public schools.

Theory 38: Modern education ruined field day.

Theory 39: Group work is just plain wrong.

Theory 40: Men are easier to work with than women.

Theory 41: In the Christmas season, men need to do as they are told.

Theory 42: Don’t blog about women woes. You’ll tempt fate with your secret boyfriend and the IRS.

Theory 43: When Mama's out of commission, the world falls apart.

Theory 44: Mama’s behavior determines how well other folks like her baby.

Theory 45: Workplace etiquette class should be a graduation requirement.

The snow is now over an inch, so I'd better slide out. Tall Child has requested chili. Gnome's on his third cup of homemade ice cream. Sharky is demanding carbohydrates (so jealous). And I'm super thirsty, if you know what I mean.

THIS IS NOT A GOOD DAY FOR A DIET!

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THANKS for reading,
Bug