Sometimes, I Like To Do Nice Things Without Being Coerced

The aliens decided I was too boring and dropped me back in the Longhorn City. I somewhat made mention that there might be some interesting people's out there in Florida, southern Texas, Minnesota, Missouri, Canada, Scotland and maybe the Cyprus area too. . . .Maybe I did and maybe I didn't. All I'm going to say is that those of you who may live in said areas, might want to keep your eyes on the skies, the cows and Uranus.

I'm just sayin'.

And now back to me, me, me.

So, aside from alien abductions, I was asked to take a few tests at my newly acquired place of employment. Because I just can't seem to refrain my impulses as well as being one that practices the vein of embarrassing the hell out of myself by not minding the shame, I've decided to share the test results with my seven readers.

My Personality Type is: INFJ

Apparently, the basis of these answers say quite a bit about the individual - likes, dislikes, career choices, compatibility with others, etc., etc., etc. In giving you a bit more detail, here is what you can expect of moi:

I = Introversion
N = Intuition
F = Feeling
J = Judging

And, I quote, "INFJ: "Author". Strong drive and enjoyment to help others. Complex personality. 1% of the total population. Serious students/workers who really want to contribute. The are private and easily hurt. The make good spouses, but tend to be physically reserved. People often think they are psychic. They make good therapists, general practitioners, ministers and so on. . . "

The husband was sure to point out "complex personality." I don't believe that's good. Is it? How soon he forgets that I am an Amazonian perfect Princess. . . pffft. Anyhow, he was also sure to mention, "physically reserved?" more so in question, because with him let's just say I am not-so-much if you catch my drift. M'kay?

Ahem. . . . moving on. . . I also started to think "1% of the total population of people are INFJ's. . . .and are considered psychic. . . ." Fabulous. I am a freak of nature in every aspect of my personality.

That's just lovely.

There are all sorts of additional and deeper explanations of what my MBTI [Myers-Briggs Type Indicator] actually means. But I don't need to verify that I am an abnormal aberration.

Let's just move on to test #2, shall we?

What are my strengths?

After a 30 to 40-minute test, here is what has been determined as my top five brawniness':

Harmony
Developer
Empathy
Communication
Input

Harmony
To boil it down, I look for areas of agreement. I do not see much to be gained from conflict and/or friction, so I seek to hold it at a minimum. I know when people around me have different views and I try for common ground. Harmony is my guiding value. I do not understand why so much time is wasted by people trying to impose their views on others. I think we would all be more productive if we kept our opinions in check and instead looked for consensus and support - I live by this belief. I hold my peace when others are sounding off about their goals, claims and fervently held opinions. I steer clear of debate. (This; however, goes away with 6 bottles of wine, trust me on this) In my view we are all in the same boat and we need this boat to get where we are going. It is a good boat. No need to rock it just to show that you can.

Developer
I see loads of potential in others. Very often, this is all I see, because to me, no individual is fully formed. We all are a work in progress. When I interact with others, my goal is to help them experience success, but I also challenge them. Over time, individuals will seek me for help and encouragement. This is both genuine and fulfilling to me.

Empathy
I can sense the emotions of those around me. I feel what they are feeling as if these feelings are my very own. I can see the world through their eyes and share their perspective. I do not necessarily agree with each person's perspective and I don't necessarily feel pity for each person's predicament. That's sympathy - not empathy. Duh! I do not condone the choices each person makes, but I do understand. Apparently, this is powerful. Don't ask me how; I do not know.

Communication
I like to describe, to host, to speak in public (I'm sorry, what?!) and to write. Ideas are a dry beginning. Events are static and I feel the need to bring them to life, to energize, make them exciting and vivid. So, I turn events into stories and practice telling them. Over and over and over and over. Okay, maybe not over and over the last time, but I do like making them more alive.

Input
I am inquisitive. I collect things. This collection may consist of information, words, facts, books and quotations or even tangible things (um. . . no. As that would mean I have to dust them). I collect because they interest me. I find most everything interesting. The world is exciting precisely because of its infinite variety and complexity. Apparently, my collection is huge.

*******************************************

Finally, you ask, "what does this all mean?" And I say, "I don't have a flippin' clue." I mean, am I a psychopath, antisocial cereal killer? Why can't I just stay in my Amazonian world of those perfect pretty things such as flowers, puppies, couture hand bags, butterflies, the husband, stiletto shoes, kittens, sugar and a little devilish spice here and there? Why?

. . . . Dammit. I'm going to bed.

Promises, Promises . . .

So, I have been abducted by aliens from the planet Uranus. No, it is not just a dream and I am not trying to scare you. You have seen the alien spaceships, right? They are out there. Believe.

Interplanetary rockets aside, there was also a lunar eclipse last night, which was completely due to the aliens. It had nothing to do with the moon passing through a portion of the earth's shadow due to the fact that the sun, earth and moon are in planetary alignment. It is all about the aliens. From Uranus.

Anyhow, the cows aren't taking the bait, but they are not talking as of this posting either. We all know how much aliens love cows. I just wish it were the cows instead of me.

In closing, I'll be back soon; hopefully, without the cycloptic robot, 80-foot fart flames or any basic sort of alien anal-probing. That would just be bad. . . .

Broken

They are not so much in the family anymore. It has been chosen by them – not the family. Thoughts run on why it cannot be fixed. This is up to them. Regrettable, as they are not the only one involved. Another that cannot be given away, but can be taken without regard. It makes no sense. Another might have no chance. They will either make it or not. Of course there are pictures and memories, but they are making sure such things will be erased. Loose ends will not be tied up. Anything personal will exist no more, because they made a choice.

What will happen? Can the family see the extended part of them? Can they hope? Will those who have chosen to rip themselves from the ones who care, clean up their life before it is over? Narcissism. Then again, that is they and how they have grown them self up. Something that is non-treatable. Overly inflated with self-love. Unfortunately, it is not just they anymore.

This is the hurt. Blackmailing with a person is grossly erroneous, but then they always fight to harm; to be triumphant over those who would be concerned. To make others cry. Selfishness prevails once more. Always has. Continuously a matter of money and who made the most. Forgetting that worldly possessions are of no matter. What is right, is right does.

They do not care. In the end it is not between they and the family – it’s between they and God. They must answer for themselves. The family has done what can be. They have grown. It is up to they now.

Finally, the family will go on. Hurt is predominant, but will be replaced with speculation, questions, conjecture and then, eventually (hopefully), maybe some smiles and laughter. Even if these are not real. Starting to realize that they have faded into their own memories. That death is permanent. Only life is temporary. Maybe they need to realize this. This choice does not have to be for life. But it can.

Life Is So Much Simpler Here

Things I learned in two weeks time with a wee little 4-year-old:

Ketchup is essential. A food group of its own accord. [We've gone through more ketchup in the one week than in one year total.]

Boo-boo's [safety blanket] and thumbs, no matter how gross dirty, are an essential part of life.

Chicken-fries and nuggets are real food.

4-year-old love is unconditional.

Counting to 3 works. [Regardless of whether you have no backup plan as to what you will really do if you reach the number 3.]

Music is universal. [***radio playing*** "hey! How can you have the same music as my dad does?!"]

A hug, a kiss and a "I love you" are the only vital things necessary.

Sharing is relative.

Amazingly, 4-year-olds, if given a choice, will usually make the right one.

Do make their own bed and pick up their room daily without being asked. [Will also voluntarily clean & make Uncle's and Mintie's too.]

They are picky about what constitutes cool clothes.

Prefer quiet time alone now and then.

Kids fight. When it's over, it's done and they are best friends all over again.

Will try anything once. [You only have that "once" to get it right or it's done forever.]

Imagination, as are questions, are limitless without boundaries.

Life is about colors [pink], princesses and laughter.

Wishing she were ours permanently.

The Man Sleeps Naked & Spoons the Pillow

Jen at the end of day one at jobbie-job: scrambled egg brain. Bedtime: 8:45 PM.

Jen at the end of day two at jobbie-job: deep fried scrambled egg brain. Bedtime: TBD.




Can't. . . . make. . . . heads or tails of. . . . anything.

Well, I guess I should mention that I did buy a faux rattus norvegicus at lunch today (my 2nd day) with a co-worker. It looked real enough and I thought to myself. . . . . my boss has to have that! So, I forked over the $1.80 and took Fred to the office with me where I somewhat positioned him in the boss man's office. . . . . On the keyboard. Apparently, Fred had some letters to type, invoices to fix and orders to place. Or so I thought.

Taking a break from afternoon training . . . . . Upon walking into his office, the boss man convulsed and followed up with some mention of having to go change his drawers as he quickly fled his office.

Later, my coworker ratted me out - no pun intended. ***bah*** Note to self: no coworkers can be alerted to practical jokes before or after they happen.

However, in the end, the boss man was laughing and even became endeared enough with Fred to actually call him Fred. I'm bringing the rat a pretty pink bow for his tail tomorrow. Eventually, I hope to learn to knit to make the rat some clothes. Or maybe I can kidnap him in the future, "give me a raise or the rat gets it!" notes will be sent with tuffs of rat hair attached as well with anonymous photos of blindfolded-Fred will be taken . . . . The possibilities are endless.





And that's it for tonight regarding my new jobbie-job endeavor. I have nothing else. Goodnight.

Where Do People Look When They Eat Alone

So, the husband and I just made it back to our Longhorn City from the Great White North. We no longer have the 4-year-old with us. I am sad. Really sad. I walked into the room the husband was in from having put my suitcase in our bedroom, of which where it will most likely stay unpacked for 2 weeks:

the husband: what's wrong?
moi: I just. . . . I just . . . . miss her. ***don't cry, don't cry, don't cry***
the husband: I do too. ***great sadness***
moi: [blink, blink, blink, blink] ***eyeball leakage***
the husband: don't cry!Don't cry, honey!Don't cry. . . .
moi: I know. I really miss her though. ***deflated***
the husband: ***big bear hug*** don't cry, it'll be okay, hon.

I hope she knows that her Mintie, "mucho, mucho loves her."

Cut Footloose

A day in the life at Six Flags Over Texas:

. . . . .and just so you don't think we fatally wounded the 4-year-old:

Lead Him Into a Trap and Take All His Checkers

I'm certain that this has been brought to attention by more important people's than moi, but I just want to do a quick ranting shout out for the "most confusing assessment formation". One that which irritates me most often and not due to the fact that my day was craptacular, because it was anything but that. It's been a fabulous day, in fact. This thing however was a slight annoyance and had it been a mosquito, I would have squashed it dead.

This thing that irritated me today and mostly every month of every year since I was a, . . . okay, right . . . that's my business, is: insurance companies will insure men for Viagra and all those wonderful male enhancement type druggy-things-in-a-bottle to make the sexy-time more pleasurable, but will not cover the costs of birth control for women.

There. I said it.

Does this make any sense? Can someone explain this to me so that I stop sending evil thoughts, hexes and vexes towards our insurance company? Why do men get insured the help in being prevented an embarrassment, but women are denied the help which can assist in stopping a potential unintended pregnancy? Why, why, why?

I mean, I certainly don't want to get preggers 8 to 15 times throughout the remaining years I have left in me for birthing. Apparently, after doing a very small amount of research on the world-wide web this evening, this is the average a women can have a parasite growing inside her during her fertility years, which, amazingly happens to be for 20- to 30 years. Ah. Menses. That wonderful womanly thing we endure for somewhere close to 7,300 - 10,950 rotations of the earth around the sun during our lifetime. Most excellent.

Anyhow, I could rant about this and how it costs more to raise a baby than it does to prevent one, but my posting would be entirely too long and you, my 7 readers, would get insanely bored. Which could potentially lead you to never re-visit again. Instead, I'll just leave it at this one last thought, I don't usually post political, religious, sexy or debatable items on my post. I don't feel the need with so much of it going on elsewhere in this great blogosphere of ours, but I had my monthly slight irritation at my local drug store drive-thru once again today. I just had to tell you all.

So, now you know.

P.S. According to the Alan Guttmacher Institute, 33 million American women are in need of contraceptive services and supplies, yet most women using birth control pay for it themselves. Moi, being one of the included.

I'm just sayin'.

Dude, You Are So There

Regarding life with an overtired under-napped 4-year-old.



the husband: this is the perfect birth control.

Up2D8

So, I've checked and apparently there is no full moon this week. The recent craziness as well as non-bloggingness in our Longhorn City home is not due to expansively full moonlight or lack thereof. Nope. It has nothing to do with the moon orbiting the sun. Nor the stars, astrology or alignment of the planets either. The delirium is wa-aaay outside of our planetary paths, worships, assumptions and our galaxy itself. I'm here to tell you it's 100% 4-year-old madness. A 4-year-old who knows of the world and it's entire going-ons where thy cannot be told any different. Fits of rage, while rare, can beseech thy creature if you decide to be brave enough to tell thee otherwise. It's sometimes a hysterical situation while other times it's very distressing condition. And I'm sure that there is logic to a 4-year-olds thought processes. I'm just sure of it. The only thing is is that I need to find it (and its place of zen). Maybe it's locked within ice cream - this seems to be the cure-all detail. Or M&M's. Maybe I should just spoon feed the kid sugar. . . . ?

Furthermore, you get loads of hugs, kisses and "I love yous" just for being the Mintie [AKA: Auntie]. It comes with complete adoration of an bonkers 4-year-old. I can't say this isn't nice, as it is wonderful. It's also commendable to have the kid want to do dishes and take 90-minutes to wash only 3 bowls and 4 spoons. All I, the Mintie, had to do was make sure she didn't play with knives and lose a finger, toe or hand in the process. It's pretty cool that a 4-year-old sees toys in almost anything on the planet, including chores. I suppose that won't last too long in life. . . .

Finally, all I really have to say is that things get a little bit nutty when there is a 4-year-old-going-on-40 in your home. That's for sure. The kid is the Energizer Bunny on sugar x 102-to-the-tenth-power. I'm so not kidding. Maybe ice cream, M&M's and sugar isn't such a good idea. . . . ? Note to self: must revisit 4-year-old cure-all.

Anyhow, right now, our Longhorn City house consists of:

4-furry legged dogs
2-kitties one lovable and one completely pernicious. . . ahem. . . .just 2-kitties
1-the husband
1-Nana, but only until Friday morning. . . ***the end of the world is near***
1-moi
unknown amount of toys
3-suitcases
6-bouncy balls
1-Indian tepee
unlimited amount of 4-year-old spunk
sidewalk chalk
frozen bag of chicken fries ***mmmm . . . compressed processed meat***
swimming lessons
unlimited amount of crazy-time

One week down and one more to go. Will the husband and I make it until next Friday?

******************

P.S. How cool is it that Uncle Thomas and Mintie got the kid to eat baked Alaskan Salmon for lunch today? And. . . . she LOVED it! 4-year-olds just don't do that! The kid never ceases to amaze. Never.

Oh. One last little tid-bit before I bid you adieu, she also put her head fully underwater for about 10-15 seconds while swimming with her arms this morning at swim lessons. That's pretty darn fabulous if I do say so myself! Swimming lesson number 5 on Monday.

I Don't Want My Brain Measured

6 AM Saturday. The husband is just home from the graveyard shift. I have an issue, if you will.

moi: soooo. . .
the husband: yes, honey? ***the "now what" interruption***
moi: is it possible that my left eye can spontaneously combust? ***it happens to zombies***
the husband: no.
moi: ? ? ? ***he didn't even think about my question***
moi: seriously, there is absolutely no way that my eyeball will just. . . .um. . . . explode?
the husband: no, honey. ***it's not the 9th wonder of the world***
moi: but if it did. . . .would you put it back together again?
the husband: no.
moi: youwouldnothelpmeputmyeyebacktogetheragainifitexplodedandrandownmyface?! ***shock***
the husband: no.
moi: you wouldn't help me? ***ow***
the husband: no, I'd call an Opthamologist. ***the baba ghanoush special***
moi: - - - ***pouting***
the husband: do you have another headache?
moi: itfeelslikemyeyesgonnagokablooey! ***where's my mom***
the husband: I'm sorry, honey.
moi: but what if my eye did explode. . . ?
the husband: it can't.
moi: but what if it did?
the husband: it can't.
moi: but if it did spontaneously explode. . . .
the husband: unless you poke it, it cannot do that. ***chuckling***
moi: so you're saying that my. . . .
the husband: yes, I'm saying that your eye is not going to spontaneously combust, as you so put it.
moi: Imagine, if you will, my eye going boom right now, 'cos it feels like it will and it's goes to the back of my head.
the husband: it's not going to go boom right now. Did you take your medication?
moi: but how do you know?
the husband: I just know.
moi: but how?
the husband: because I do.
moi: well, if it did, would you put a cow eye in to fix my eye?
the husband: no.
moi: youwouldn'tputacoweyeintofixmyeye?! ***you're the cause of my breakdown***'
the husband: you can't.
moi: why?
the husband: you can't repair the optic nerve. Once it's severed it's severed.
moi: what if I found a donor?
the husband: it still won't work.
moi: why?
the husband: because you cannot repair the optic nerve.
moi: so, if my eye pops right now, there's nothing you can do?
the husband: I'd put a patch over it. ***ear-to-ear grin****
moi: - - - ***that's. not. funny.***
moi: would you put a fake wooden one in my eye socket like that guy from "The Pirates of the Caribbean"?
the husband: yes, I would ***laughter***
moi: awww. . . . I love you
the husband: I love you too
***silence for 27.9 seconds***
moi: . . . .but what if it just so happened that my headache forced my eyeball to. . . . ***pursuit of insistence***

_______________________________________________

So, I've been stressed a bit lately. Aside from the fact that Mr. Friendly will be visiting soon, which, I have to point out, always intensifies my "pressures" as well as causes a severe tension headache. I'd also like to state that I. am. never. cranky. or. acquire. dissociative. identity. disorder. during this time of the month. Ever. So, back off. But, as is customary, I diverge from my all important misery. A misery in my head is technically only a 24-hour burden that occurs in my PMS'ing stage. So, at least it's quick - maybe not to the husband, but beggars cannot be choosy and I say it's abrupt, so it is. Please note that other stressful events; however, can tend to trigger head-splitting, but these are rare instances. Mine is mostly a womanly associated thing. It's great. Let me tell you how great it is.

It's so great,that this fantastic womanly adventure is an affliction that burdens me more than I'd care to carry. Well, in the very least 13.04 times per year. . . . An encumbrance, of which I'd like to point out here, where the husbands' (and my) wonderful, awe-inspiring, fabulous and just out-right phenomenal insurance company has deemed unnecessary for me to have medication for. In fact, I'm not covered for this type of alleviation for 2-years - or so they have informed me - at which time they will reevaluate my need for such a blah, blah, blah, yaddy, yaddy, yaddah. I'd also like noted, that this is a medication I need and will consume (understand, that there is not much more in this world that I dislike than to take medicine. My body is my temple. Uh. Right. Whatever. I find myself taking more as I grow old, cumbersome and crotchety, but I do dislike taking any sort of med's, I can't explain why, I just do. The husband is educating the masses. . . er. . . me, but it takes time to erode rocks, people. Geesh.)

Anyhow, in an effort to go with the insurance companies advice, I once tried to not medicate myself for my head pain. After 4-days I was laid out [flat] in bed, sick to my stomach where "cranium-splitting-worse-than-your-worse-hangover-x's-52" doesn't even do the description justice. I couldn't take it anymore. The husband couldn't take it anymore. Phone calls were made. Med's were finally ordered. 16-hours of timed dosages later, I was feeling right in the ole noggin' once more.

Finally, I should admit that I do try to will it away on more than just this one occasion, but I will not go past 12-hours of pain. Never again will I torture myself for 4-days. "If I just rest, relax, think pretty pink princessy thoughts and it'll go away" does not work for me. I have to refrain from my impetuousness and take my medicine, because I know it does my thinker good. Or so I have learned.

Either way, all that is neither here nor there. I just wanted you all to know that I'm still here. A bit pained, but still on earth in our Longhorn city. I'm just stressed and heavily medicated so I know not what I say. Maybe I should start doing shots?

When You Were the Whole World's Special Little Guy

Here's how my puny leetol brain works, especially while perusing Best Buy.

dapper dan: can I ask you to what the Tour day Goat. . . .the GoatLeg . . . . the Geeeee. . . er, um, what your shirt says?
the husband: sure. You mean the Tour de Goatneck?
dapper dan: yeah! Can I ask you what that is? I mean, I saw your shirt and wondered what that was.
the husband: it's a annual bike ride in Cleburne, Texas. *it says it's a bike ride. Hulll-oh*
dapper dan: you ride bikes? How far do you have to ride for this Goatneck?
the husband: well there are staggered rides - 10 miles, 25 miles, 40 miles and 70.
dapper dan: so I suppose you rode all that?
the husband: yea - *laughing*
dapper dan: I would've done that in . . . . . . . . . . . *wait for it*. . . . . . . . .my car!
*everybody laughs*
dapper dan: so you get paid to race your bike?
the husband: *laughs* no. I just do it for fun. I mean, if you're lucky enough to get paid, you only make about $12,000.00 per year, so it's not really worth it monetarily.
dapper dan: so how do you have time to ride your bike? What is it that you do?
the husband: I do shift work. I'm lucky it leaves me the time it does to ride my bike. *what. do. you. want.*
dapper dan: how much time weekly do you spend on the bike?
the husband: *hesitates* . . . . . at least 15+ hours a week.
dapper dan: I love basketball, but you'd never find me doing that for 15 hours a week!
*everybody laughs again*
dapper dan: so, are you ever looking to diversify your income?
the husband: *gets very dark look on face* no. thank you for your time. *oh holy hell, dapper dan just brought out the dormant demon lord in the husband. Even I know not to do that. Geesh*
- - -
*dapper dan takes what he says is his wife and sulks out the front door of the store*

So, right. I'm standing next to my husband appropriately smiling, nodding, adding some awesome wit when befitting all the while thinking, "these people seem nice enough. . . . friendly. . . . engaging. . . .amusing. . . . " You know, all that jazz - just as if it's totally normal to walk up to 2 complete strangers and engage them into a 15-minute conversation. This, obviously, is utterly commonplace for us/moi to get accosted by two party crashers at Best Buy. Especially, since we were in the middle of deciding on that all important next X-Box 360 game. My thought processes. They're enchanting, really.

moi: did that guy. . . .did . . . did we just get SOLICITED in Best Buy?! *oh. my. gawd.*
the husband: yea - I wondered what he wanted.
moi: I just thought they were being nice - you know, friendly. How did you know? *you're my hero - my white knight in shiny, shiny armor*
the husband: well, they were nice. No need to be rude to them, I just wondered where that was going. . . . . Talk about a cold-call sales job!
moi: we just got solicited. at. Best. Buy. andIfellforit hook, line and sinker. *mortified*
the husband: I knew something was up.
moi: Thank God you were with me! Can you imagine if it was just me. . . . *shudder - double mortified*
- - -
moi: do we look like some sort of street bums that need extra money? I'm a princess you know - I don't work. *sort of comprehending that I just came in from a downfall of rain with frizzy hair and I was wearing damp workout clothes sans makeup. Note to self: look more fabulous going out to run errands*
the husband: *deep laughter* I guess we do and that's why you're getting a job, eh? 'Cos you're a princess and you don't work, huh?
moi: well, I am too a princess . . . *consternation*

___________________________________________

Here's how the husbands brain works, especially while perusing Best Buy.

Get away from us you jackhole doofass. I don't know what you want, but I don't want it. *hostile witness*

How the heck does he know these things? More importantly, why do I think this is normal behavior from 2 strangers to come up to us and start talking about bike racing when they know absolutely nothing about it? Do I have an unknown tattoo across my forehead that says, "naively gullible" so come to me my disciples? Do I smell?

Come to think about it, dapper dan's job totally sucks. The husband is, once again, unfathomably correct, "talk about a cold-call sales job." I am of the opinion that these types of jobs should be illegal. I'm enjoying my time shopping with my husband, not looking for a job. If I was looking for a job I'd be talking to the manager or at home on the computer researching or sending out resumes, etc., etc., etc. Not standing in the game section of Best Buy just hoping for someone to spot us and ask us if we want to diversify our income.