Embracing Your Personality

My son is very interested in the Myers- Briggs Type Indicator. This is a personality test that shows how you perceive the world and how you will most likely make decisions, all based on a series of questions. There are many ways to take this test. I like http://www.humanmetrics.com/cgi-win/jtypes2.asp. There is also a good one at http://www.25quiz.com/. Basically you are typed as four different letters – either an E (extrovert) or an I (introvert), an N(intuitive) or an S (sensing), an F(feeling) or a T (thinking), and a J (judging) or a P (percepting). The web sites above can give you all of the details of what each category means, as does Wikipedia. I love personality tests. I guess I’m always trying to find myself, and then when I do, I think it’s funny.

I am an INFP most of the time. Occasionally I test as an INFJ, but I think I do this because society really wants us to be J’s. I have adjusted to society’s demands and developed my J side in response to these demands. You see P’s fly by the seat of their pants. J’s are the ones who are always on time, who plan things, who are organized and structured. J’s are the good employees and the good students. P’s are the ones who like surprises and don’t really know what is going to happen tomorrow. P’s will plan as a means of security. That is what I do. I plan to make myself feel safe and to have things to look forward to. I’m usually on time like a J, but I stress a lot to make myself be on time. I don’t think a true J would stress over it; I think it would come naturally to them.

So, when I realized that I really was a P deep down inside, I decided to embrace this facet of my personality. It’s okay to be a bit “flighty,” as I was called as a girl (“free-spirited” is what I like to be called now). You should be proud of your personality type – rejoice in it. Find the good things of your type and feel pride that you are like that. Everybody was made in a different way, and the world needs all of those different types. No one type is any better than any other type. P’s need J’s, and J’s need P’s. That is how I came to tell my son that I have decided to embrace my P-ness.

Say it out loud. I said it several times before I realized why my teenage sons were snickering every time I said it and telling me not to say it again.

But I say, go ahead. Embrace your P-ness, and whatever else you want to embrace – as long as it makes you happy and lets you know that you are wonderful just the way you are. 

The Rules of Driving in Texas

I want those who move to Texas to know a few of the rules of driving down here.

#1 Use of the Horn – I got honked at today. My feelings got hurt. I plotted revenge for a full four hours. My husband asked, “What were you doing?” That is not the right attitude. The question is, “What is wrong with that person?” I decided to cut this person (yes, you, in the gold car, whatever kind of car it was) some slack. In Texas, we do not honk at someone when it is their choice whether to go or not. It is just not done. For instance, if someone is waiting for traffic to clear before going, you DO NOT honk at them. Your horn should be used sparingly in this southern state. We are a very polite people. You may honk (and by honk, I mean gently tap on the horn, not lay on it) if a light turns green and the person has not gone after a slow count of 2-Mississippi. Or, you may honk if someone begins to change lanes in front of you, a little too closely – again, a light tap. The only time you may either lay on the horn or tap repeatedly is if you see someone you know. This is a friendly way of saying “Hello!” The horn is not a means of communicating anger. Repeat – the horn is not a means of communicating anger. You may use the middle finger, under the dash, for this. And you may call other drivers any sort of creative string of cuss words that you want, as long as you smile while doing it. Remember that we are allowed to carry concealed weapons in Texas – and we like our high-powered weapons.

#2 Two Lane Highways – On the highways where you have one lane going in either direction, if someone gets up on your tail because they want to pass you, it is proper etiquette to pull over onto the shoulder (slowing down slightly) to let them pass. And then, and here is the most important part that no one is remembering these days, the driver that was allowed to pass should either give a little wave to say thank you, or if he has tinted windows, he should flash his emergency flashes for a couple of seconds to express appreciation.

#3 The Fast Lane – Ok, so we like to speed in Texas. If the speed limit is 65, it is assumed that you will go at least 70. Rumor is that you can get away with eight over, but I wouldn’t want to test that. That being said, if you are not going at least 10 over the limit, you ONLY get in the fast lane if you need to pass. In case you are unaware, the fast lane is the far left lane on a highway. If a big ol’ pickup truck gets right up behind you while you are in the fast lane, that means you are going too slow in that lane. Pull to the middle. And by golly, if you are going to pass, speed up to do it.

#4 Tailgating – Just don’t do it. It’s stupid, rude, and dangerous. If someone is not going fast enough for you, just pass them. Good grief.

That should be enough to get you by while you are down here. If you have any questions, please ask. And if any of my Texan friends can think of anything I forgot, please add away. Now, drive safe, y’all.

Sweet Sweat

I am a sweater -- not a soft, furry, warm thing to wrap around you. I'm talking about a dripping down my face, wet underarms sweater. I've always been a sweater. In high school, I didn't have an air conditioner in my car (in West Texas), and I had vinyl seats. I used to drive to school leaning forward off of the seat back so that my shirt would not show my sweaty back. After all, women aren't supposed to sweat -- we're supposed to "glisten."

I have been doing Bikram Yoga lately which I love because it embraces my sweatiness. We do yoga in a room that is maintained at 105 degrees, and sweating is highly encouraged. This, though, is one of the few times that sweatiness is a good thing.

In my last blog entry, I mentioned that I have started taking care of an older gentleman in his home. I went to his home to meet him and his wife as part of the interview process. I was a little nervous, their house was a little warm, and it was 101 degrees outside -- elements of a perfect storm for a sweater.

As we talked, I first felt my underarms getting hot. Of course, I had worn a cotton shirt that showed sweat. We stood up to go and look at something, and I felt a trickle of sweat go down the backs of my knees. Then I felt a spring of water sprout on my back. So, as I stood up, I realized that not only did I have big sweaty rings under my arms, but now I also had a lovely stripe of sweat going down my back, and I probably had little creases on my khakis behind my knees where the sweat had started.

They hired me. Amazingly, after all that sweating, they hired me. I can imagine the conversation after I left:

"She seems like a nice girl," the wife said.

"Mmm hmm," the husband answered.

Then there would have been silence until one of them said, "A bit of a sweater."

Then they would have both nodded and shaken their heads, in pity. But eventually the worry would have been overcome as they would have said, "But she'll be okay. We can't hold that against her."

I'm sweating a little right now just thinking about it.

Hey, I wonder if anyone is willing to pay money for sweat...

Selling My Body

My one desire in life is to stay home and raise my children. Okay, so that's a bit dramatic -- maybe not my one desire. I want to go to Antarctica, I want to go up in a hot air balloon, I want to get a book published. But I really, really love being a stay-at-home mom.

In order to stay home with my kids, I have to figure out a way to pay for my sons' college (yes, plural). I have two in college now. I am terrified of working full-time as a nurse, and I have not become the rich and famous writer that I dream of being, so I have to get a bit creative. Nothing illegal, just creative.

A friend of mine suggested that I write about some of these things. I think she thinks I'm a little crazy.

One of the things I do is get on focus groups. You know those people with the clipboards in the mall who want to know your opinion that you avoid eye contact with? Well, I walk up to them. I've made a few bucks here and there by giving my opinion on things like mounting tape and razors. It's kind of fun, and I've gotten really good at telling people exactly what I think. The pay varies, but if I actually get chosen to be on a focus group, I can make around $100 for a few hours of talking.

A month ago I entered a brain study. I did a bunch of memory tasks while the examiner did an MRI of my brain. $30 an hour. Not bad. I even got $10 to spit in a tube. I told the pastoral assistant at my church that I was selling my body. She shook her head. She knows me well.

I heard there was another study going on that they pay participants $10 a test tube for blood. I'm trying to get into that one. I wonder how many tubes they need... I think I heard the name of the study group was DraculaInc. Does that sound suspicious??

Now I'm going to help take care of an older gentleman one day a week. Yeah, it's actually nursing. But I don't think it's going to be scary. There are no open wounds and nobody is in labor.

I wonder how much I would get for donating plasma? Isn't that one of those things they pay you for? What about a kidney?

You know, things would be alot easier if I would just win the lottery...

A Funny Story

So, I’m supposed to be writing a synopsis for my romance novel. Writing synopses is not one of my favorite things. So what am I doing? I’m going to tell a slightly bawdy story. It’s not too bad, but if you’re squeamish, you might want to stop here.

I was waiting for my daughter to get out of her gymnastics class the other day. I don’t usually socialize – I’m the mom with the laptop fired up, typing away, occasionally glancing over my bifocals to make sure my daughter is still alive. I intersperse my romance writing “He ran his fingertips down her soft skin…” with mental commands to my daughter, “Point your toes!”

That is probably what got me in trouble.

The mom on the couch across from me was talking to her two-year-old son. He had just cleaned the floor with his hands.

“Come here, Timmy, and get some hand sanitizer,” she said. (I changed the names to protect the innocent.)

Timmy looked up at his mom, then looked at his hands, then shook his head. No hand sanitizer necessary, he had decided.

“Timmy, you’ll like it,” his mom said. “It’s new. It’s G-Spot scented.”

Okay. So right here was when my eyes shot up from my laptop and I accidentally swallowed my Altoid. I really, really wanted to see the woman who had bought G-Spot scented hand sanitizer. And a badly curious little side of me kind of wanted to know not only what a G-Spot smells like, but also how the manufacturer figured that one out.

Apparently the mom sharing the couch with the mom of the toddler was curious as well. For the record, both of the moms sitting across from me looked perfectly normal, very mommish in their decently lengthed shorts and t-shirts. The curious mom looked to her couch-mate and said, “Hm. I’ve never heard of that one.”

To her credit, her eyebrows were only slightly raised and her mouth was not letting in flies (unlike my own at the time).

“Oh, you haven’t? It smells really good. Here have some,” the boy’s mom said.

I was about to reach my hand out and ask for some when the curious mom asked, “What was that scent again?”

“It’s juice box scented.”

Ohhhhh. G-Spot, juice box. Whatever.

So, now back to my synopsis.

Motherhood

Motherhood changes everything.

For instance, time is now measured in "Sponge Bobs". When my daughter asks me, "How long 'til we get there?" for the 517th time, I answer with, "Four 'Sponge Bobs'." In other words, we'll get there in two hours. The unit of measurement has changed with each child ("Barneys", "Blue's Clues", "Power Rangers", etc.), but the concept remains the same.

And my name. I used to be Jennie. But now, and forevermore, I will be Mom. My kids all call me Mom. My husband calls me Mom. And I call him Daddy. Always. I heard my 87-year-old Uncle call my Aunt "Momma" a few years ago, so it's not just me. When I'm a grandmother, I want to be called "Mombo." It's kind of a mix between Rambo and Mom. I like to flatter myself and pretend like it fits. Do you think my husband will still call me "Mom," or will he make the switch to "Mombo?"


And I'm not allowed to cuss anymore. In my mind, when that truck cut out in front of me the other day, I called the driver all sorts of creatively strung together physically impossible forms of excrement. But my mouth said, "Boot licker. Fat cow. Turkey breath." I even had to quit saying "Fat Cow" for awhile because my daughter picked up on it and pointed to a fluffy ice cream eater at Baskin Robbins and called him a "Fat Cow." Lucky for me, she was pretty young, and it sounded more like "Facka," which I was easily able to turn into "Frankie? He does look like Uncle Frankie. Look at the rainbow ice cream!" We have no Uncle Frankie, of course.


My music repertoire has significantly changed since I have become a mother. Since I'm usually doing some sort of motherly duty when my kids are watching TV (which, of course, my kids never do since I am the perfect mother and the fact that I know the complete morning PBS line-up is just not true), I only hear the music in the shows which they don't watch. I can sing the "Sponge Bob" theme song, the "F-R-I-E-N-D-S" song from "Sponge Bob", most of the "Barney" songs (although my daughter doesn't like the "I Love You" song because it's too nice -- her brother's influence), and the "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle" theme song. Thanks to the blessing of three teenage boys along with my five-year-old, I am also well-versed in such bands as Disturbed, Muse, Big Phat Band (that son is studying Jazz at college), and Dream Theater. I know most of the words to "Welcome to the Black Parade" by MCR (that's mom-cool for My Chemical Romance). :) They've also taught me how to text -- although they enjoy mocking my amazing texting skills. Whatever...

A very important thing that I have learned is that silence is not golden. Oh, no. Matter of fact, if there is silence it usually indicates that either my five-year-old is coloring on the walls or on her body with permanent markers, or one of my teenagers is making out with his girlfriend. Not good.

I have also learned some amazingly wonderful things as a mother. Did you know that every time a mother gives birth, she grows another heart? I loved my first son so, so much. When I got pregnant with son #2, I was worried that I would never be able to love him as much as I loved my oldest. Oh, but I did -- because I grew a whole new heart. And it happened again with my third son. And with my baby girl.

I love being a mom. My horizons are forever expanded. Anyone up for a rousing round of "The Song That Never Ends?"

We have time because it's one Sponge Bob until lunch time...

Athena

The newest member of the zoo is a cute little kitten that we named Athena. It's a big name for such a little cat, but it fits her because Athena was the Goddess of War.
My mom, God love her, likes to sugar-coat. When she asked us to take this sweet little kitten that had wandered up to their barn, we asked her if she was friendly.
"Oh, yes. She comes right up and brushes up against me and talks all the time. She's so sweet," she said.
This was great! We already had two cats: Rocket and Abbie. Rocket is very playful -- overly playful. My son used to have scratch marks all over his hands from the cat attacking him. The cat is not scared of anything, and he sits lovingly on our laps. But I always feel like I need to warn people who want to pet him, "He bites." And if it is a neighbor kid who is getting especially affectionate, I sometimes add, "He'll rip off your arm and use it as a toothpick, so be careful." That usually gives them a suitable amount of caution. Abbie, the other cat, is not really even our pet. We call her "The Ghost Cat." We only see her when she wants to eat. Even then, if she sees one of us, she jets out of there like someone just lit her tail on fire. Anyway, we were looking forward to a sweet, friendly cat that didn't make us feel like we were taking our lives into our hands every time we touched her.
Athena is a beautiful cat. When we first saw her, we were so excited. She was cowering in the corner of her cage that my parents had transported her in. We knew she was a little scared from the trip to our house, so we just figured her eagerly-awaited friendliness would become apparent. She growled at us, but we knew this was normal behavior for a stressed cat. We just opened the door to allow her come out whenever she was ready -- which we were certain would be soon, of course, because she was so friendly!
Well, she got out of her cage and found her food bowl. But she was still growling. My mom said, "Oh, isn't that cute. She's talking."
"Mom, she's growling," I said.
"Oh, I don't think that's growling. She makes this cute little noise all the time. I think she's just talking."
I love my mom. She has such an optimistic point of view.
Athena has lived with us for a month now. She is still "talking." Matter of fact, she pretty much "talks" all the time. She mixes it in with a purr now and then, but she even growls while she's eating (it sounds like a low, guttural "Nom, nom, nom, nom.") She is friendly, though, while she growls. And she's friendly while she terrorizes our other cats. And she's friendly while she marks her territory on our clean clothes and on my husband's computer bag. Yes, she's friendly.
But darn it, she's a cute cat. And she is getting better. Matter of fact, she was just sitting on my lap. You know, maybe she really is talking. :)