I’ve been thinking Thursday: Mean

We all have our private peccadilloes we don’t share with people no matter how open we may seem. I am no different. For a few months now I’ve been doing DBT, Dialectical Behavioral Therapy. I won’t go in to all the reasons this came about. This is just the ground work for the story to come.

We’re doing a module on Interpersonal Effectiveness.

Yes, everything has  snazzy name. This module could have been called “how not to be a dick and how to not accept dickish behavior from others.”

When I am talking to someone 75-80% of my brain is fully focused on them and the remainder is stringently editing all the things that come to mind to say. I agreed, as part of Interpersonal Effectiveness, to stop doing that for a week. To listen 100% in the moment to what the other person was saying and then to use the standard 3 seconds social pause to plan my reply.

Twice this week I was told I was mean.


This leads me to consider other ways in which my brain works. Sure I can write 48K words in 6 days. My brain is that fast. All I have to do is put in the hours.

Then it needs to be stringently edited for a year before it’s ready for human consumption. LOL

Why should I treat talking any differently?


I’ve been thinking Thursday: Good Parenting?

Have you ever noticed right about the time you’re ready to send your child off to a military style boarding school they suddenly pull some amazing miracles out of their ass?

Seriously, in the midst of a heinous day of the kiddo acting like an extra from a zombie apocalypse movie (just replace “brains” with “irritate mum”), he suddenly pulls off a stunner of a twist.

He’s at his karate belt test. He’s sparing with a girl who’s his own level, they test based on belt type, so she should know everything he does. They’re the pair sparring closest to the mom zone. I can hear him coaching her. “You have to apply enough pressure to keep my elbow straight.” “They’re looking for you to do three taps to my arm before you punch my ribs.”

Warms my heart.

Then it goes on.

They’re doing kata. Now at their level, a black belt demonstrates the kata so they can follow along. But if they want a higher score (ie they want in to the coveted weapons class), they have to perform without a black belt leading. One boy volunteers to go alone. The sensei asks if anyone else wants to go with him or if he’ll have to be all by himself? The kiddo jumps up and says he’ll do it so the kid doesn’t have to be alone.

Oh, just wait….

When they finished kata they are supposed to stand at attention until everyone else finishes and they are dismissed. No problem this first go. But then a large group of kids get up to do kata without a black belt and mine goes again. He finishes and stands at attention. Everyone else finishes except one girl. She is clearly lost. Kiddo starts kata from the very next move she needs and she follows him to the end.

After the test is over, the kiddo tells me “I’m probably going to get marked down for not maintaining attention but it was worth it to help her.”

Well, damn.  Perhaps humanity is not lost.

No military school for him this week I guess.

I’ve been thinking Thursday: Supportive

I try to only be positive about my hubs in public. It’s one of those things I think is important to the health of your marriage. Praise in public, critique in private.

I’ve occasionally deviated from this. Once, fed up with his leaving his oatmeal bowl on the counter with oatmeal in it until it dried into a crusty nastiness of epic proportions, I wrote a post about secondary characters. Giving them a life of their own, rather than leaving them to serve the main character.  One of my examples was about a time traveling journalist who kept leaving his oatmeal bowl for his wife to clean. LOL

But today I want to talk about one of those ways, he is amazing.

I can not spell. And despite teaching writing, compositional and creative, at the coop, my use of grammar is fractured to say the least. But the hubs…oh man….the hubs…

When I was working on my bachelors and the hubs was getting his masters, we both had to take this lame ass writing exam. Two parts, 75 multiple choice and then an essay. Timed.  Essay was scored on a scale of 1-12.

The scoring was weird though. The better you did on the multiple choice the less well you had to do on the essay to pass, which got you into 100W, required by all majors on campus. Then there was a pass plus which got you out of 100W. And of course fail.

The hubs got a perfect score on the multiple choice, which was all grammar and sentence structure, but scored so low on the essay he had to take 100W.

I got the lowest passing score possible on the multiple choice, but scored so high on the essay I qualified to waive 100W.

Why do I tell this story? Because my husband painstakingly edits my novels, multiple times. Sure I could pay someone to do this for me, but they wouldn’t know when they came across an error, what I really meant. And he always does. He knows when I write a long string of gobble-gook that I meant to say something profound and will ask, then tell me where to put the commas or suggest alternate arrangements that make the significance clear.  You can’t pay for that.

And why does he do this? Certainly not because he has too much time on his hands and nothing to do.  bwahahaha

He does it cause he supports my writing and he shows it by giving me the help I need to make it happen.

Sorry ladies, no brothers. LOL.



I’ve been thinking Thursday: False Imprisonment

I am steaming mad right now. I was just falsely imprisoned.


False imprisonment occurs when a person is restricted in their personal movement within any area without justification or consent. Actual physical restraint is not necessary for false imprisonment to occur.


So I go to pick the kid up from a local park program. On my way in I see they are setting up for a cross country thing. Ok, whatevs.

I pick up the kid and start driving along the single road that gets you out of the park. The only exit.

Where I am stopped by some guy in a large group of people who informs me that the kids are running so I can’t drive.

I remind him they aren’t supposed to be running on the road.

“Oh but they need to cross it, twice. You’ll have to wait until the race is over.”

WTF? This long line of cars, now, has to wait several hours for your cross country meet to be over because runners who are no where in sight have to cross the road at some point, twice?

I just about lost my shit. I should have called the police, false imprisonment being a felony and all, but instead I got a parks employee who reminded said jerk that the cross country race contract specifically prohibited them from stopping cars on the road unless there were actual runners in sight.

Again I ask WTF?

Is humanity so single mindedly focused on their own desires they have lost the ability to act like a human?

I was pondering this on the drive home as I watched 6 or 7 cars refuse to a let a car in that had turned onto the road and was stuck in the suicide lane.

And yes, I let the guy in. He waved thank you.

No need to thank me man, just a flipping human over here.

I’ve been thinking Thursday: Popular?

Coop started this week. I was a bit worried about it’s health and welfare this past August but as usual it’s pulled itself together, opened the doors, and welcomed a new gaggle of folks.

I’m teaching two classes this year. Variations on what I like to teach each year : history and writing. It’s what I do. It’s what I know. Every year I have around 6 students per class. I get the occasional drop in and sometimes a student leaves but generally, 6 per class.  I like it that way.

I have 15 in Creative Writing and 14 in History.

Say what?

I was talking to another mom as we picked our kids up from another home school location where they take classes, and she was like “I’m so glad we registered early, you got really popular this year.”



pop·u·lar | \ ˈpä-pyə-lər  \

Definition of Popular 

1of or relating to the general public (I think I always did this, the public of home schoolers anyway, LOL.)

2suitable to the majority: (yeah, so not this ever, I teach straight shot history for kids who like the truth, even when it’s messy. That’s a small group of humans.)

3frequently encountered or widely accepted (I only teach 2 classes…)
4commonly liked or approved, a very popular girl

I think that’s the one she meant. Ugh. NO thank you.

The whole idea makes me nervous. The problem with being popular is people talk. People talk and then other people seek you out to see what the big deal is and of course you fall short of the inflated expectations and then they talk about how much you suck.

With that many kids you can’t connect with them all. You can’t get to know them. Some of them are going to be let down and I hate that.

I know what you’re thinking, those are really large classes, why didn’t I put a maximum on?

Why didn’t I? I never need one before. I could always guess which kids would take my classes down to the letter.

Not anymore. sigh. I’m popular now.

I’ve been thinking Thursday: Naughty questions

This is a not PG rated post, in case you want to stop reading now.

I was watching an old episode of CSI. I’ve been enjoying them this stress filled summer. Excellent unwind capacity. But on this particular episode a woman is dead. Everyone who met the woman when she was alive kept going on about how beautiful she was and what an amazing body she had. Then you see her laid out in the morgue in a bra and panties.

Her hip bones stick out of her abdomen a good 2 inches. So does her pubic bone. Her ribs stick out further than her breasts in a push up bra.

This got me thinking. Yes, she’s beautiful but when you’re in bed with her, don’t all those bones hurt? Or is it like an acupressure thing?

So men, if you’ve had sex, vigorous or not, with a woman with bones sticking out everywhere, what’s that like?

No, don’t describe it. laughing. This is a mostly family friendly blog.

I want to understand the physics here. Do you have to be careful? Or it not even a thing?

I’ve been thinking Thursday: bias

How often do you hear someone say, oh yeah I’m Irish too. Or German. Or Lebanese. And then when asked where they come from, they say oh I was born in America. American’s are very concerned with their ancestry. But sometimes it works to your advantage.

I’m in Sint Maarten with the kiddo going on a snuba excursion. One of the women working on the boat has a slightly off accent from the Sint Maarten norm. I mention her accent sounds different and ask if she’s from the Netherlands. She says yes. I say, “My husband is Dutch.”

I see the eye roll she wants to do even though she’s too polite to do it as she sighs and says “and where is he from?”

“Gouda.” And I pronounce it the Dutch way.

Her entire face changes. “I used to live outside Gouda.”

Suddenly she’s calling the kiddo “my love” and our dive time extends way beyond the time stated in the tour.