Share Your World — Well, Sort Of

This week Melanie, at Sparks From a Combustible Mind, has a special Valentine’s Day edition of Share Your World. She’s calling it “Share Your Heartfelt World,” and, as she said, “This week, instead of gratitude/thankful for question(s), I’m asking romantic, squishy booby hug, possibly sappy and overly sugary QUESTIONS about love.”

Truth be told, I’m not really the romantic, squishy booby hug, sappy, and overly sugary type. I’m more of a practical, pragmatic kind of a guy. Hence, I’m going to opt out of her “heartfelt” questions and stick with her “matter of fact” ones. But if you’re interested in seeing her sappy, Valentine’s Day questions, click HERE.

So with that said….

What’s your favorite way to spend a weekend?

As a retiree, my weekends last seven days. That said, our two grown kids are not retired and both work during the week. So weekends are the opportunity we have to spend some time with them, whether it’s heading to their respective neighborhoods or them coming to visit us.

Who do you admire most in the world?

Hmm. These days I don’t find too many truly admirable people. That said, I think that as a class of people, I’d have to focus on teachers. They are overworked and underpaid and are expected to shape the minds of our most precious possessions, our children. They should be much more admired — and valued — than they are.

 What do you regret not doing?

Not winning the Powerball or Mega Millions lottery.026DE52E-7C07-4F0E-8ED9-46794C3A2D68

If you see a puddle on the ground, do you walk around it or over/in it?

It depends upon what kind of footwear, if any, I have on. If I’m barefoot or wearing rain boots, I’ll definitely step in. Otherwise, I’ll step over or around it.

MLMM Sunday Writing Prompt — Betrayal

FB03A8E9-DDC5-4864-A2CD-671674D37EC6He told me he was working on his PhD. He said it was on changes in the evolution of the physical characteristics of adolescent boys in the 21st century. He said he wanted me to be a part of his study. I was flattered that he had singled me out as the one student in his ninth grade biology class he invited to participate.

He told me that all of his research equipment was at his home and offered to take me there after school one day. He asked me to tell my parents that I would be working with him on an extracurricular project for which I’d receive extra credit.

The day finally arrived and I was excited. I felt special, honored. We dove to his house and went down to his basement, where his home office was. He offered me some lemonade and oatmeal raisin cookies, my favorite cookies. He asked me if I was ready to get started and I told him I was.

He said he needed to take some measurements to use for his baseline. He suggested I strip down to my underpants, which I did. He asked me if he could take pictures of me with his digital camera and I said he could. Then he grabbed a cloth measuring tape and began taking measurements. First my chest. Then my waist. My hips. My shoulders. My arm length, leg length. He measured the circumference of my upper arm, lower arm, thigh, and calf.

Then he said he needed to measure the size of my penis and testicles. He asked me to remove my underpants. I hesitated, but he assured me that it was for scientific research, so I removed my underpants.

He took my flaccid penis in his hand and measured its length and circumference. I was uncomfortable with him doing this, but he was my teacher. And this was for his PhD.

Then he said he needed to measure my penis when it was erect, like a before and after image, and he started to stroke it. I told him to stop, but he wouldn’t listen. I tried pushing him away, but he was strong. Then he bent down and tried to take my penis in his mouth.

I saw the large microscope on his work table, reached over and grabbed it, swung it down, and started hitting him on his head with it. Over and over again. He stopped. And that’s when I called 9-1-1.

“Thank you for your statement,” the police detective said. “We’ve contacted your parents and the school. One of our officers will drive you home.”

Written for today’s Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Sunday Writing Prompt. Today’s prompt is “teachers.”

This fictional piece was inspired by the movie “The Tale,” which I recently watched on TV.

N is for Negotiate

16B3CACD-C269-4808-80E5-A3D552D01072Our lives include one negotiation after another. When we negotiate, we are attempting to obtain or bring about some end by way of discussion or other means, including non-verbal communication.

Negotiation is essentially a method by which people settle differences and a process by which compromise or agreement is reached while avoiding argument and dispute.
We negotiate daily, often without recognizing it to be a negotiation. When we’re kids, we are continually negotiating with our parents. How late can we stay up at night? What chores must we do? How much will our allowance be?

At school we negotiate relationships with our fellow students and with teachers. At our jobs we may negotiate with our bosses for raises or to get a plumb assignment or to pursue a particular project.

We negotiate when we make large purchases, such as cars or homes. And negotiation plays an important role in personal situations such as marriage, divorce, and parenting.

There are those who may even try to negotiate with God by praying and promising to act in a certain way if only God will answer their prayers.

The nature of negotiations may be political, diplomatic, social, legal, contractual, and even military.

Some people are very good negotiators. Others not so much. Our President, for example, considers himself to be a good negotiator. The best negotiator. Because he knows the best words and he’s very smart. Just ask him. He’ll be happy to tell you what a great negotiator he is.

I do wonder, though, if he’ll be able to negotiate his way into remaining President for too much longer.

Please Don’t Go

0B2487E6-F397-4A38-AD6B-2B66D6C4CDD6“Mom, I really don’t think you should go,” Abbie said to her mother.

“Why not, Sweetie?” Amanda asked her daughter.

“I don’t know. I just have a bad feeling,” Abbey replied.

“Ah, another one of your premonitions?” Amanda said, a wry smile on her face.

“Don’t mock me, Mom,” Abbie insisted. “I am worried for you, that’s all.”

“I know, Sweetie,” Amanda said. “But you always seem to have these feelings of foreboding and nothing bad ever actually happens. You’re too young to be such a worry wart.”

“But Mom….”

“Abbie, enough already,” Amanda said. “I’m going to be surrounded by other teachers who feel the same way I do about that clown of a president suggesting that we teachers pack heat in our schools. It’s a peaceful demonstration. It will be fine. I’ll be fine.”

Knowing that she would be unable to persuade her strong-willed mother against going to the rally, Abbie finally gave up. “Just promise me, Mom, that if things get even the least bit weird, you’ll leave.”

“I love you, Sweetie, even with all of your worrying and troubling premonitions,” Amanda said, hugging her daughter. “I’ll be back before dinner time.”


The bulletin came on Abbie’s iPhone news feed about two hours later. There was a shooting at the teachers’ rally at City Hall. A man with an AR-15 semiautomatic weapon, wearing a red “Make America Great Again” hat, opened fire on the the assembled group. There were mass casualties.

Written for today’s one-word prompt, “premonition.”