 |
| 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.
W
|
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:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.
B
|
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!
THANKS for reading,
Bug
Bug
