Testing

What's Your True Color?

My Result: Blue

You're blue — the most soothing shade of the spectrum. The color of a clear summer sky or a deep, reflective ocean, blue has traditionally symbolized trust, solitude, and loyalty. Most likely a thoughtful person who values spending some time on your own, you'd rather connect deeply with a few people than have a bunch of slight acquaintances. Luckily, making close friends isn't that hard, since people are naturally attracted to you — they're soothed by your calming presence. Cool and collected, you rarely overreact. Instead, you think things through before coming to a decision. That level-headed, thoughtful approach to life is patently blue — and patently you!

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Mm'kay. Can I tell y'all the truth? I know I can, so I will, anyway.

I'm a big ol' psychological freak.

I know I am, because one of my many shrinks told me I am over 17 years ago.

(Like I hadn't figured it out before then. Snort!)

If any of y'all out there are into Myers Briggs Type Indicators -- and I am, in a huge way, because, frankly, that's what my Type does -- I am an INFP. And if you know anything about MBTI, then that says everything.

The thing was, when that one shrink told me my type -- after a really long test -- she said, "You are the weakest personality type."

I think she must have been an ESTJ, the exact opposite of INFP. Because only an ESTJ would think an INFP is "weak."

Just because we're introverted. Hmph.

I happen to think the Tickle test result that I quoted above fits me perfectly. However, I should say that I know a lot about personality tests, and therefore, I could've predicted I would be a Blue. I just know how they word the questions to skew answers in a particular direction. I can't help it. I'm an INFP. I'm a Blue. That's. What. We. Do.

I've done a lot of things over the last 17 years to try to expand myself beyond my personality restrictions. I work really hard at remembering that money is a real thing and that numbers aren't just a bunch of pretty mumbo-jumbo. I have *totally* overcome my inherent inability to stay on track when emptying an ice tray. I *always* refill the ice tray. That's a big step for us INFP's.

[Bunny Trail: I once found a website with individualized prayers for every MBTI type. The INFP prayer said, "Dear Lord, Please help me finish just one th--"]

I've learned how to load the dishwasher at least halfway, although I'm still unsure how to start the thing. To be honest, I really think it's enough for me to cook the meal. I shouldn't have to wash the pots and pans on top of all that work.

The point is, I'm still a work in progress. I know my limitations, and I'm trying to push past them. At least a little.

And in the meantime, sometimes I really do console myself with the fact that my serene veneer is in place and intact. People usually think I'm a lot more calm and trustworthy than I think I am.

So Blue? Yeah! I can take it!

And by the way, I saw someone smoking outside a restaurant tonight, and for the first time in a long time, I thought, "I don't want to join him."

That's growth. Even for an INFP or a Blue.

Broccoli Casserole

Many, many years ago -- OK, really, it was November, 1998 -- my sister asked me to refresh her memory about Broccoli Casserole, since she was bringing it to Thanksgiving dinner at my house. I wrote back to her and tried to make the experience humorous.

Joke's on me -- the casserole is *delicious*! And I was almost making it up off the top of my head at that time.

From: BayuthL@aol.com[SMTP:BayuthL@aol.com]
Sent: Monday, November 23, 1998 3:53 PM
To: aturner@tva.gov; ltturner@cococo.net
Subject: Remedial Broccoli Casserole, Lesson 1

Dear Student,

Welcome to the wonderful world of broccoli casserole! Soon you, too, will amaze and astound your family and friends when you bake this tasty and nutritious sidedish for your next holiday gathering! Ever wonder what it takes? Well, we here at the Broccoli Casserole Institute have done years of mind-numbing research, sacrificing our figures, our tastebuds, and our gastronomical tranquillity working on this wonderful, much-loved dish. Sit back, and reap the benefits of all our knowledge!

[Editor's note: Please make sure we have your credit card number correctly before you begin reading the Lesson One. Our computers will automatically charge the low, low Beginning New-Student Cost of ONLY $2,419.38 the moment you begin reading. Also, be prepared for a finger-tip scan at the conclusion of the lesson. If technical difficulty is encountered, just lean toward your terminal for our amazing new retinal scan.]

REMEDIAL BROCCOLI CASSEROLE
***WARNING***
This recipe involves really hot things like ovens. And after the baking portion of the activity, the dish is really hot, too. Please use appropriate, government-approved, ULA-certified pot holders and aprons.
Do not stick your face directly into dish upon removal from oven. Contents are hot.
Do not remove dish with your bare hands. Dish is hot.
Do not try to climb into the oven. It is hot. It is also too small to hold the average American adult.
Do not try to filch cheese from the measuring cup. Cheese is addictive.
Do not try to eat casserole immediately upon removal from oven. Dish is too hard and may break teeth. Also, food is hot. Allow to cool 7-10 minutes before eating. When feeding to birds, allow small portion to cool for at least 30 minutes. Can re-heat in microwave.
Do not try to climb into microwave.
Do not use thermonuclear weapons to reheat. Thermonuclear weapons are hot.
Do not attempt to bake casserole in a plastic Tupperware-like container. It will melt in the hot oven, affecting the taste of the casserole for the worse.
Use fork or spoon to eat casserole. Knives can cut tongue.
Do not use knives.
Do not drop knives.
Do not even look at the knives, dammit, you're obviously too stupid to handle them.
Do not try to iron casserole.
And do not attempt to breathe casserole. It is thicker than air.
When transporting casserole from one location to another, do not drive with casserole in lap.

RECIPE
You'll need this stuff BEFORE you begin your fabulous, new cooking project!!!

2 10-oz packages of frozen broccoli
1 can of cream of mushroom soup
1 cup of mayonnaise
1 tablespoon finely chopped onion
1 egg
2 cups of grated cheddar cheese
2 cups of smashed up cheese crackers

(Another warning: Do not attempt to smash crackers by running over them with your car. Your car can do considerable damage to your kitchen.)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Cook broccoli according to directions on the package. Drain. Set aside to cool while you assemble the rest of the recipe. Mix together soup, mayo, onion, and egg thoroughly. Add in broccoli. Add in grated cheese. Smush into casserole dish, which you've thoroughly cleaned before this project. Cover with cheese cracker crumbs, smush into casserole. Bake at 350 degrees for about 30-35 minutes, or until the crumbs have turned slightly browner than they were before.

See above for warnings.

Thank you for purchasing our Remedial Broccoli Casserole, Lesson 1!!! If you're interested, we can send you Remedial Broccoli Casserole, Lesson 2, for only $3018 plus tax!!! Lesson 2 covers the exciting question: What if I tried to use fresh broccoli? And remember, those of us at the Broccoli Casserole Institute wish you and yours a very merry Thanksgiving, and a gassy Christmas, too!!!

Sincerely,
Brock Lee Kasser Oll,
President, Broccoli Casserole Institute of America
email: BCIoA@yummy.com

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Turkey & fireworks & shopping, oh, my!

OK. I'll be honest. I had one of the most truly, spectacularly bad Thanksgivings ever. My evil mother-in-law did things previously unseen by mankind's delicate eyes. She was evil. I have said for years that she is evil, but she really raised the bar on evil this year.

(See, a week before Thanksgiving, she called me and told me not to bring my green-beans-and-horseradish-glop side dish that I have been making for thirty years. She said, and I'm quoting, "Nobody likes it." She also said, and I'm still quoting her directly, verbatim, "Only Steve ever liked it," and the Steve to whom she is referring is my sister-in-law's ex-husband, and whenever his name is invoked, it's kind of like saying "Satan" in their language, so what she was really saying was, "Only Satan would like your green beans and horseradish dish." I mean, my MIL was quite thorough about this point. She even told me that my own husband doesn't like my green beans and glop, which isn't true, but who am I to argue with the woman who gave me my husband in the first place? OK. So we get there, and I bring marinaded asparagus, which everyone loved except the evil MIL, who pushed one spear of asparagus around on her plate for half an hour and finally sighed in disgust, "I just don't like asparagus." But wait. It gets better. Another relative gets three bites into her dinner and asks, "Bay, why didn't you bring the horseradish stuff for the green beans? It's my favorite part!" And I'm sittin' there, trying to think how to answer this without making the evil MIL look like a total bitch, and MIL jumps in and says -- and I am NOT making this up -- "Yeah, Bay, how COULD you be so SELFISH? Where is that horseradish stuff???" OMG. OMG. OMG. I was so shocked by this total, bald-faced lie -- after having been insulted to the core of my being when she claimed that no one liked the horseradish stuff - I honestly couldn't think of anything to say. I aspire someday to being a total bitch who can confront evil-doers when they're in my face and completely wielding their evil lies. I am not that person yet, because I just sat there and said nothing. I shrugged at the relative who was disappointed over the green beans without horseradish sauce. I promised to send her the recipe. But I never said, "The only reason there isn't any horseradish glop is because my evil MIL said no one liked it, and she forbade me to bring it." Like I said, it was a pretty bad Thanksgiving.)

So on the day after Thanksgiving, I went to the grocery store and I bought a turkey breast so I could make a decent Thanksgiving dinner at least for my little family. I totally lucked out, and they were marking down the fresh turkey breasts from $1.49 a pound to 89 cents a pound. Yea, sales! Yea, me! I got a bargain turkey breast and took it home.

Wesley's homemade dressing was leftover from the actual meal at his mother's house. (Not only does she have no taste in green bean dishes, but she has NO taste in dressing, because Wesley makes the most marvelous cornbread and sausage dressing, but evil MIL preferred stupid Stove Top stuffing. She's clearly unhinged.) I made more green beans, and I made the horseradish glop from scratch. I also made our traditional Jello salad. (We do the green Jello with cream cheese and crushed pineapple. Evil MIL prefers Orange Fluff, but she didn't even do that this year, after telling me that my own husband doesn't like my green Jello Thing.) (That bitch.) (Hmph.)

We ended up having a totally fabulous Thanksgiving dinner only 24 hours after Thanksgiving had been served for the rest of the country. Sure, I missed out on Black Friday sales for the most part, but we now have real leftovers and totally fabulous food.

Next year, I really am not going back to my evil MIL's house. It's just too awful to contemplate.

Yet, even with all that unnecessary and totally wretched stress, I didn't smoke. I didn't.

Chantix really *is* a miracle drug!

How Thanksgiving is testing my strength

I am once again going to my mother-in-law's house for Thanksgiving dinner.

I used to host dinner at my house. My sister Amy would come with her husband Paul, my sister Martha would come, and sometimes another guest or two would join us.

This occasion has been blogged about before on my Travel Blog. I love Thanksgiving. Mostly because of the food. I love my menu for Thanksgiving, and I love my cooking. When Amy moved to Las Vegas, I decided it was too much trouble to cook Thanksgiving for only five people. (Also, Amy's contribution was always the world's best broccoli casserole, so it wasn't much of a Thanksgiving without that dish.)

One year we tried eating in a restaurant, which was a horrific and sad excuse for a holiday.

I can't even remember what we did in 2005. But it was probably even more horrific and sad, and I've blocked it out of my memory.

Last year we decided to join our mother-in-law at her fest.

Louise has a different take on Thanksgiving than I do. She's not all about homemade. And she's not faithful to a bunch of specific, fabulous recipes that have been passed down through the years to the point that it just isn't Thanksgiving without those foods in attendance.

So, OK, different menu. It's still better than eating in a restaurant.

I am trying really hard to deal with it.

But here's the thing: Whether it was Christmas, Mother's Day, or Thanksgiving, any day that I spent at Louise's was always accompanied by the fact that whenever I needed an escape, I could always go outside and smoke.

Always.

I could go outside. And smoke.

And no one would go outside to hang out with me, because they all hated smoke, anyway.

Now, no one is going to stop and think, "Hey, Bay isn't smoking any more -- doesn't that make her more good, virtuous and perfect like us?" Nope.

And I no longer have a built-in escape route. If I want to go outside, I'll have to just say, "Uhhhh... I think I'll go see what kind of birds are hanging out in... the... bare trees..."

Next year, I'm doing Thanksgiving for five people. If my daughter moves away and doesn't come home, I'll do Thanksgiving for four people. If my son leaves on a ski trip, I'll do Thanksgiving for three people.

Whatever it takes.

Because I no longer have an excuse to step outside of my mother-in-law's house.

This is, like, the first time since I quit smoking that part of me kind of wishes I could still light up a cigarette now and then. Mostly my cravings to smoke are for stupid reasons like, "I always smoked at this time of day." But seriously, smoking to get away from the madding crowd -- that was a good excuse, wasn't it?

Oh, well. I'll take some gum with me. And bird seed. Maybe I'll see a black-capped chickadee. I haven't seen one of those since... uh, last year.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!!!

Spoiled & feeling guilty

I'm feeling a little strange.

It's kind of like... almost like... I'm ... sort of ... almost ... *spoiled*.

I am not wealthy. In fact, I started taking Chantix and quit smoking because I wanted to save moolah.

Sometimes I go shopping and complain inside my head about how everything costs more now than it used to.

My dear husband Wesley -- who has supported me and the kids for 20 years almost non-stop -- makes more now than ever before, yet we seem to have less and less money available for non-essentials. And even the essentials are becoming more difficult to handle. I'm gonna have to get a loan to take care of all our dental needs this year. And that's ... very upsetting.

Still, we're so much better off than some people, and I can't help but marvel at how serendipitous it all seems when you think about it.

Tasina posted this article --
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20071119/ap_on_re_us/food_pantries_shortage_2

Food for thought, eh?

In the meantime, I have 8 days of Chantix left on this month's prescription, and I'm pretty sure I'll buy at least one more month of the stuff.

But I'm beginning to worry. A non-smoking friend of mine asked me about how things were going on Chantix, and I was telling her that I still have my unsteady and needy days. Then I thought, "Do I really?" When was my last really needy day? I don't remember.

My sister Amy -- or Iron Woman, as I call her -- quit smoking using nothing more than a nicotine patch, and she didn't even stay on it as long as some people do. When she started forgetting to put on a new patch, she quit putting them on. And she still didn't smoke.

In the meantime, I am a little scared to stop the Chantix.

Then my friend asked, and I happened to mention that I love the vivid dreams. My mother died 14 years ago, but when I dream about her, it's like she's still here. And y'all, honestly, my mama was my best friend. I miss her a lot. So with these extra-vivid Chantix dreams, if I dream about Mama, it's *really* cool.

So now I have to worry that I'm addicted to the vivid dreams. ARGH! No one should have to give up tobacco *and* her mama in the same calendar year!

Oh, well. I guess I'll figure it out right around the time I stop taking the Chantix, huh?

Slogans

I saw a t-shirt tonight that absolutely cracked me up -- and probably not for the reason it was intended. This perfectly normal girl at the gas station sported a shirt that said, "i don't do drama". [Sic on the "i".]

Oh, come on. You went to a store, picked through 863 slogan t-shirts with bunnies and fairies and skulls and probably SpongeBob SquarePants, all of which had varying degrees of sardonic phrases, and the one you picked out was a black one that proclaimed, "i don't do drama"?

Girl, you DO drama. You just do the quiet kind of drama, so you can feel superior to those of us who weep and wail and wring our hands and make faces all the time. Personally, I love the face-making kind of drama. If it isn't loud enough to be noticed, then it's just not a parade.

And everyone loves a parade.

Including me.

I totally forgot that today was the Great American Smoke Quittin', or whatever they call it. I always hated that day. The last time I liked it, I was a freshman in college and hadn't *started* smoking yet. But since 1985, perky perfect people with gleaming white teeth were always exhorting me to give up for "just one day." Seriously? Just one day? Impossible. Now look -- y'all made me feel all inferior and slimy.

And those Great American Smoke Quittin' days just kept piling up. I've made it through, what, 21 of those days. And I smoked on every single one of 'em. Ha HA! Take that, you perky pod people! You can celebrate your white teeth, but I shall smoke cigarettes and sing like Bonnie Tyler, so there, ha HA!

Ahem. Those were the old days.

So I went to the grocery store this evening, and everywhere I looked, there were people crouched on the far side of their cars, outside in the cold, puffing on cigarettes. I was genuinely curious about this until I finally passed one of these crouching smokers and asked, "Uh... why don't you get in your car to do that?" He replied that if he did, his wife would be disappointed in him because he was supposed to not smoke today.

I nodded and said, "Ah. You know, I quit smoking three months ago. You might wanna try Chantix."

"The commercials with the turtles?"

"That's the one."

Then I went inside and bought some Starbucks Sumatra coffee beans, because I am spoiled rotten and can't drink normal coffee any more.

On my way back to my car, where a fresh new crop of crouching smokers were polluting the parking lot, I decided that if I were to buy a slogan t-shirt today, it would have to say, "Coffee Snob."

They make t-shirts like that, don't they?

Real? Or Memo-Chantix?

The other day, I was ruminating about how my husband found it odd that I wasn't pushing my alma mater on my daughter.

See, Emily, my daughter, is almost ready to go to college. This is so mindboggling, I can't even begin to blog about the enormity of it. I mean, it was just last week that Em was a sweet little cooing baby in soft cotton pajamas, playing happily on a baby blanket that I laid out for her.

Now I have to contemplate the reality that she will go to college.

Soon.

Anyway, I could have sworn that Wesley commented on my lack of pressure to send Emily to the same college from which I graduated.

This train of thought had me looking up all sorts of things online and thinking, "No, I really am not being a snob. I'm just being realistic"

I mean, my BA came from TWC -- Tennessee Wesleyan College. I pursued some hours of a graduate degree at the University of Tennessee/Chattanooga -- for one semester. Then I got pregnant with my second child, and my mother had cancer, and I didn't finish my graduate degree.

The thing is...

I'm not a big fan of TWC.

I wasn't a big fan of TWC when I was in high school.

I think every teenager thinks that she is going to break out of the mold, escape from the hometown sameness, and become something incredibly special.

I started out my college career at Hollins College. (Now it's Hollins University, but it's still a same-sex school.)

I didn't thrive at Hollins. Parts of that school definitely contributed to the adult I've become. But probably not in the way that Hollins intended.

But the fact is, I only went to Tennessee Wesleyan because it was the college at home. My college experience wasn't so much a part of who I was destined to become, but a part of the fact that it was at home.

It was at home.

It turned out that -- a semester and a half into my freshman year of college -- I discovered that I didn't really belong that far from home. (OK, really, I was bawling my eyes out just a few days after my freshman year started, so I should have figured it out sooner.) I would have gone anywhere if it meant being closer to my mother. If I had lived in the same town as Brown University or Harvard or Cornell of Southern Cal -- that's where I would have gone.

It just happened that the town I lived in had a small Methodist college named Tennessee Wesleyan. My mother worked there. And it was a nice enough school. I got my liberal arts education, and that was important to me. I wanted a BA, not a BS.

But -- I'm sorry -- here's the thing: I'm looking at schools for my daughter. And I thought my husband asked me why I wasn't pressing to send her to my alma mater, which I clearly am not doing.

It turns out that he never questioned that. I can only guess that I dreamed it in one of my vivid Chantix dreams.

How weird is that? I don't know. I just know that it is -- to date -- the most vivid dream/circumstance of my Chantix/quitting smoking experience.

My sister caught a cold

My sister Amy, who quit smoking before me using nothing but the patch (that bitch), caught a cold. And she didn't develop pneumonia or anything.

She says that she thinks this cold is actually less bothersome than the colds she got when she smoked.

I know that every time I caught a cold, it turned into bronchitis or pneumonia, or, hey, almost a year ago, I caught a little cold and developed total laryngitis. Seriously. Couldn't make any sound at all.

That makes it really hard to podcast, y'know.

The coughing -- well, I'm trying to figure out if I cough less now. I smoked menthols for 22 years. I kinda doubt my lungs have totally recovered. But I don't *feel* as if I'm coughing as much.

Amy says I need to go catch a cold and compare notes with her. I think I'm going to think about that before rushing headlong into a free clinic to lick the walls or anything just to give Amy comparative notes.

I'm just sayin'. Is all.

I continue to keep my hands busy with paper, as evidenced with the little book above. I actually made that book and 17 scrapbook pages in the last couple of weeks. I am slowing down on my frantic pace, though. When I think about it, yeah, I still marvel at the way non-smokers sit there without anything to do with their hands. On the other hand, it's kind of relaxing not to constantly be waving the smoke out of my face.

That's Sunday. I thought about posting about dinner -- steaks on the grill, marinated asparagus, roast rosemary potatoes -- but then I thought, "Nah, too much info."

So instead, I'll just complain about my lack of a cold. Amy gets all the fun stuff. Hmph!

10 Weeks, 3 days

I keep starting posts and not finishing them. I really hope I finish tonight's post, because it's significant. Especially if you're one of those new readers who's trying to find out how Chantix might help you.

I have not smoked in 10 weeks and 3 days.

More significantly -- tonight, at least -- today, I didn't even *think* about smoking.

Not once.

Not until I was checking my email and thinking about the podcast that I was listening to. (They were talking about candy corn on How Much Do We Love. Love that!) Out of the blue, it occurred to me, "I didn't even think about smoking today."

I didn't even think about how long it had been since I had had a cigarette. (That's the 10 weeks and 3 days part.) I keep patting myself on the back about not smoking.

But it has honestly gotten to the point that if my cell phone alarm didn't chime twice a day, I would not remember to take the Chantix.

Just a few days ago, when I picked up my fourth month's allotment of Chantix pills, I was bragging to the pharmacist excitedly.

Today, I'm wondering, "If I totally forget I was ever a smoker... does that mean I've really quit?"

Bolstering my resolve is Tasina's report that a lungful of smoke tasted awful after her little slip-up. I had been wondering about that. Sometimes I really would like to smoke again. Sometimes I get a whiff of smoke and think, "Oh, that smells delicious." But I remember what smoking tasted like the last few days before I quit [with Chantix]: I thought, "Gah, this tastes terrible," and "Why, WHY am I smoking if I get nothing out of it???"

If it was that bad on just 20 days of Chantix, what would it taste like now on 93 days of Chantix?

And... OK, I have to admit that I like the look of admiration that I perceive in my husband's eyes. He was never very vehement or violent about my smoking. He was never mean about it, or derogatory. But I know he was disappointed when I tried to quit and went back to smoking. I know he was.

My children? OMG, they can't even remember that I used to smoke or that I have quit now. I do need to repaint the house, because they have started asking, "Why does the house smell like a hotel room?" ARGH.

But that's a project for another non-smoking day. For now, I just have to say -- I have made it 10 weeks and 3 days, and for a while I actually forget about smoking. Considering that I smoked two packs a day for 22 years... I think this is a freaking miracle.

Thank heaven for Chantix.

Thank heaven.