In keeping things topical, I want to comment on something we saw last weekend during Rob’s bachelor party (which, incidentally, was a blast).

So I’m standing at the bar, trying my best to get the attention of any of the myriad of bartenders flying around, in order to buy Rob his umpteenth shot of the night (it ended up being a Kamakazi for anyone interested). A woman standing next to me at the bar turns to me and starts talking. She’s with two other women, and the biggest reason that I even noticed that was because they all had various… um, phallic paraphernalia. They also each wore a nametag depicting a stereo-typical stripper name; I had the pleasure of speaking with “Exotica” and “Bubbles”. Even at this point, I could possibly have ignored the entire situation had they not asked me if I was wearing boxer shorts and, more to the point, if they could have them for a scavenger hunt.

Not surprisingly, they were there for a bachelorette party (of which there happened to be many in AC that night). In trying to get the conversation away from my boxer shorts, I started talking about our respective agendas for the night. What followed was a more detailed schedule than that of the recent Democratic Convention (intentionally omitting any political views I may possess here). Everything was planned down to the minute, with all sorts of “extras”. These extras seemed to all involve random men for one reason or another, be it getting phone numbers and boxers alike.

Our agenda was much more simplistic. Atlantic City: Dinner, Drinking, Gambling. Not necessarily in that order. We didn’t head down there with any idea of which restaurant, bar, or casino we’d end up at. And more importantly, we didn’t have any cute bachelor party games planned; Rob did not get a pair of rubber breasts to carry around all night and I most definitely did not ask for anyone for her bra.

Which brings me to my point. Bachelor parties are typically held in the poorest light. Guys, either attending or being the reason for said party, typically get some form of crap for what may have transpired on that night (to give credit where credit is due, Meg has not expressed an ounce of concern about what may emerge from the delusional mind of Lucas for my bachelor party). Yet last weekend was an example of what I seem to see more and more; bachelorette parties appear to be much more risque than their male counterparts. So before getting up in arms about what Joe Bachelor may do at his bachelor party, I ask that brides-to-be first wait to see what the maid of honor has in store for their bachelorette party. It’s probably not as PG-13 as you make it out to be.

By now I’m sure I’ve mentioned that I’m in my college roomate’s wedding at the end of July. As such, I’m naturally going to be at his bachelor party, which happens to be this weekend. The plan is to head to Atlantic City for the night: dinner, gambling, drinking, drunken walk back to hotel. It’s the first time all of my Villanova friends have gotten together for a big drink-fest since college, so we’re all extremely psyched for the weekend.

During all the planning and discussing, I got to wondering exactly why we were doing all this. Sure, I’m excited to see everyone, but at the end of the day I’m left wondering what the purpose of a bachelor party really is. I’ve heard some people joke (I hope they are joking at least) that it’s the bachelor’s “last night of freedom”, which is a total crap answer since it’s not like the guy will be acting like he’s single; he’s simply out without his bride-to-be. Like I said, this is the first time since college that we’ve all gotten a chance to go out together, but realistically we didn’t need one of us to get married, we just needed a break from work/grad school long enough to get together.

So this brings me back to my original question on the purpose of bachelor parties. For now I’ll save comments on the bride’s extracurricular activities; I can’t tell you the difference between a bachelorette party and a wedding shower, all I know is that the bride ends up with an ass load of gifts and the bridesmaids end up flat broke. If anyone has a better idea of what the bachelor party is supposed to accomplish, I’d be much appreciative for the guidance.

1.) Go On Honeymoon
2.) Change Phone Number

While Meg was researching all of the support players in our wedding (photographer, videographer, some-other-ographer), she was pretty thorough. That was very effective in getting us good deals on these already overpriced services (although why we have to feed these damn people is beyond me).

However, in the process, our phone number has managed to be circulated to every wedding related service in a 25 mile radius. Let me tell you, these people are persistent. Despite our sincerest efforts to convince these people that their services are not required, they insist on following up with weekly phone calls to ensure that we still don’t need them. Before signing up for caller ID so we can avoid them entirely, my responses grew considerably more intense:

“We already have a photographer.”
“We already got married.”
“The wedding is canceled.”
“I became a priest.”
“She left me to move to [insert South American country here]”
“The bride was eaten by Godzilla.”

Each response was met with “Thank you anyway. In the future, please consider our company for your [insert service here] needs.” Only to be followed up the next week with “We just wanted to make sure you didn’t cancel your other photographer and decided to look for a new one.”

So a word of warning to the newly or soon-to-be engaged. When talking to these people, give false information to many of them. Make a yahoo/hotmail/gmail address specifically for the spam these people will send you, so once you’re married you can just stop checking it. Give them your parents’ address, so when you get married and move out, they are stuck with the junk mail. Same with phone numbers. And if by some chance you figure out the magical incantation to get these people to stop calling, please, by all means, let me know.

We just got home from our food tasting at Drexelbrook, and while I realize the subject of this entry does little to inspire faith about the cuisine we will be providing, let me elaborate. It’s rare that I break my diet, but when I do, I tend to go overboard. The food was amazing, and I ended up eating way beyond my normal exciting dinner of chicken and broccoli. So as I sit here ready to explode, I only hope I have a spare moment at the actual wedding to stop and eat.

As a credit to Drexelbrook, the setup tonight was way beyond my expectations. The first hour featured appetizers (I can’t spell the fancy way of saying that) and an open bar in what was effectively a mock cocktail hour. I didn’t think it was possible to actually see estrogen in the air, but it is in fact feasible provided you collect the proper amount of engaged women into a small enough space. The excess in estrogen made everyone especially friendly, and we soon found ourselves talking to another couple. It took no more than about 15 seconds for Meg and the bride-to-be to establish that they are both card carrying members of, at which point the yapper dog “Isn’t that site just the best?” secret handshake drove me back to the aforementioned open bar. I was not alone, as the line to the open bar was filled with grooms-to-be all avoiding the Lifetime channel inspired conversations taking place at the tables spaced throughout the room. Greeting the other grooms with the grunt of a truly broken man that is only audible by men in such circumstances, I took my place in line.

After the cocktail hour we moved into another room for dinner. Each table was decorated with a different configuration of the various upgrades available. For the uneducated, when you pay for a reception, you get the “standard” accoutrements. You can then pay more to have them upgraded to something nicer. For instance, the “standard” centerpiece is a stick with a shoelace tied around it. Shell out some more money and you get flowers. Spend enough money and you can get centerpieces that rival the Parthenon. And don’t even get me started on seat covers…

Dinner consisted of samples of all of their offerings from fish to chicken to beef. The desert menu in particular rocked, with bananas flambe and this spiced rum pineapple thing. For those of you lucky enough to be invited to this debacle, feel privileged that you get to sample the menu.

Speaking of guests, my mom tells me she has her list for me (I’m going to see her on Saturday, so I’ll see the list for the first time then). Originally, we had said a wedding of about 150 people. Being generous to our families, we had roughly estimated that to be 60 for my family, 60 to Meg’s, and 30 for our friends. That does not include all of the rat bastard other people we have to feed, such as the wedding coordinator and photographer. So, with a rough estimate of 60 seats to fill, does anyone want to venture a guess on how many people my mom actually came up with for her list? Even better, does anyone want to guess how many of the names I’ll actually recognize?

Tonight did serve two other purposes. First, I am infinitely happy that we are not using the sample DJ they provided during dinner. I loathe DJs that pressure people to dance, and this guy was the epitome of this breed of fun-mongers. He went so far as to bring inflatable saxophones and guitars for the guests to use while dancing. I’m going to have to have a long talk with our DJ before the wedding to ensure this type of “entertainment” does not take place.

The other feeling I developed tonight was a general excitement for the wedding. Despite my incessant bitching about the cost of this one-day blessed event and the anal-retentive attention to detail that must be made in planning, the prospect of spending a day with my closest friends and extremely distant relatives that I haven’t seen since I was 16 is actually quite appealing. Once all is said and done I think it’s going to be a blast. In the meantime, I’m now looking forward to Rob’s wedding more than ever to hold me over until next May. Rob is the first of my friends to get married, marking the transition into the period in my life where I am attending one wedding after the other. So keep in mind that despite how I probably come off on this blog, I am actually very excited for our wedding to arrive.

… after all, once it’s arrived, it’ll be over, right?

This is the last in what became a 4 part series on my recent business trip to Indiana. If you haven’t read the last few entries, start back at “Greetings from Indiana” so you’re not totally lost.

Well, I write this to you from the comfort of my Yankee Candle laced house. As anticipated, I didn’t bother to set my alarm and woke up on my own accord, and am now “working” from home.

The rest of the night is a bit of a blur. I managed to fall asleep on the floor shortly after stopping that last novel of a blog entry. I was soon woken up to board the plane, at which time I fell asleep again until we landed. After a long hike across the economy parking lot at 3:30am, and probably the fastest trip from the airport to home, I found my way to my bed at 4am.

In the interest of trying to make the best of the situation, I figured I would enlighten everyone by posting “What did I learn last night?”

  • Clouds are evil. All of that crap about nice puffy white clouds being beautiful is a farce, invented solely to hide the true face of evil. Ever fly through a cloud? Ugh.
  • Never fly with someone who is more comfortable than you are in the air. One would think it would be reassuring to be with someone with confidence. It’s not. Anyone with confidence in the air should be not only avoided at all costs, but should be viewed as a danger to society.
  • Pittsburgh shuts down at 10:30pm. If you ever have to fly through Pittsburgh, bring your own food.
  • Pittsburgh also has no power outlets. If you ever have to fly through Pittsburgh, bring a generator.
  • After 1am, Pittsburgh airport is eerily similar the mall in Dawn of the Dead. I’m not making that one up, maybe it was all the closed stores, but I had some serious flashbacks to the recent remake of that movie.
  • In fact, just try not to fly through Pittsburgh ever.
  • Apparently, a plane can be struck by lightning and continue to fly. While this is somewhat comforting knowledge, I never plan on getting in a plane again, so it makes little difference to me.
  • Hindsight is 20/20. You’ll notice at the onset of this 4 entry epic that the only reason I was on this flight was because I got finished early at work. By all rights, I wasn’t even supposed to be on that flight…

In a continuation of yesterday’s epic journey from Indiana to Philadelphia (you might want to start a few entries back at “Greetings from Indiana”), I write this entry sitting on the floor of the Pittsburgh airport, outside the men’s room, near the only power outlet I can find. I say “yesterday’s” trip as it is now 12:15am. A word of warning, as I will not be moving from this spot in the foreseeable future, you may want to get comfortable, perhaps grab a snack, since I sense I’ll be rambling on about whatever may cross my mind in an effort to hold on to my fleeting sanity.

We managed to make it from Indiana to Pittsburgh intact; however I can honestly say it was the hands down worst flying experience of my life (to be potentially topped in an indefinite amount of time when I finally board my flight to Philly). Again finding myself in a propeller plane, we were informed that it may be a “bumpy flight” due to the storms, where “bumpy” is pilot-speak for “scary as hell.” Despite claims to fly around the storms, repeated removal of my head from between my knees only resulted in me witnessing fire and brimstone raining down from the heavens above.

No wait, let me start over. I’m on this fantastic journey with a coworker named Brian. Brian is a former Major in the Air Force, serving a solid 15 years and logging over 5000 hours in the air.

I am a whiny, fragile computer programmer, barely remembering what I was doing 15 years ago and logging a cool 15 hours in the air.

Brian used to be a navigator on B-52 bombers. By navigator, I mean he used to drop stuff… bombs, people, tanks, and a 1200 lb. vibrator about which I followed my better judgment in not asking for clarification.

I defecate myself upon the slightest turbulence. Sorry for the graphic imagery, but bear with me, it’s been a long day.

So amidst the apocalyptic tsunami in which we found ourselves, Brian turns to me and declares triumphantly, “This is so cool.” Upon focusing my attention on the alarmingly close lightning bolts, he proceeds to tell me he has been struck by lightning while flying 8 times.

Eight times.

I’ve often wondered if I will ever have a “life changing event.” I don’t think I really need one, I’m pretty happy with how things are now and I don’t see a need to jumpstart myself into any drastic changes. To me, being struck by lightning while in a plane qualifies as a life changing event. And the first of said changes is to adopt a policy of never again coming within 500 yards of an airplane. This psychopath not only decided to tempt fate again, but upon repeated signs from the powers that be continued to partake in airborne activities.

Where was I? Oh ya, so we survived, ending up in Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh, derived from the words “Pit” meaning “pit” and “tsburgh” meanng “of hell.” White-knuckled (and white-faced as well), I race over to my next gate. This is at about 10pm. The flight was supposed to leave at 10:20. After quick call to Meg to tell her I’m alive in Pittsburgh, I found myself pacing in an attempt to get blood flowing to my extremities.

Jay’s Life Sucks, Take 1 – Broken plane. There was an issue with the air conditioning exhaust, which was to take an hour to fix. I do the math. That equates to a 5 minute call to Meg to tell her I’ll be late (later than the original 1am expected arrival at home) and 55 minutes to bitch and moan. And bitch and moan I did, let me tell you. In the middle of my rant, they announce they have a new plane for us. We pick up all of our belongings we “may have brought with us” (something about that phrase bothers me) and like a herd of cattle, we graze down a few gates.

Jay’s Life Sucks, Take 2 – Philly is closed. Due to thunderstorms, we can’t leave because we have no place to land. It’s roughly 11pm now. I don’t know how many people have been in the Pittsburgh airport, but it’s quite a site to behold. I repeatedly accidentally referred to it as a mall. There are a ton of brand name stores, including Victoria’s Secret, GNC, and Staples. I don’t imagine I’ll ever understand why there is a need for a Victoria’s Secret in the airport. Regardless, there is also a food court. Everything from McDonald’s to TGIFridays, Ben and Jerry’s to Wok and Roll.


The airport is booming with people. It honestly looked much earlier than 11pm with the amount of people that were around. And for some reason, the airport food court shuts down at 10:30. So now I am here, frustrated, tired, and worst of all, hungry. In a fortunate turn of events, I happen to have two protein bars that I will have to cower into a corner and consume lest I be mobbed by the gang of fellow hungry, pissed off Philadelphians. Also somewhere in this timeframe, we moved to another gate. Moo.

This takes our story to about midnight. By this point, I’ve resolved myself to going into work late. The time I arrive at work is proportional to the amount of time I spend in this godforsaken airport. It originally started at getting in at 10, then it moved to 11, now I’m not even planning on setting my alarm and will arrive when I’m good and damn ready, if at all. Something about being across the state of Pennsylvania at 1am screams sick day.

The flight attendant guy picks up the phone again to address us. Formerly greeted by anticipated and hopeful passengers, he now cowardly lifts the receiver to his mouth in anticipation of the boos and hisses he is about to receive for his news. I tried to start a “You suck” chant, but it didn’t take. Nevertheless, this man is now the most hated man in the airport, and I believe he honestly fears for his life.

As a side note, one of the other guys on my flight just joined me. We are starting a small clan of computer dorks that hang out outside the men’s room in order to get power. We huddle over the laptop screens as if drawing heat and light from them. Which we are, since they dimmed the lights an hour ago. No joke. We have gotten a few goofy looks from our fellow, would-be passengers, but joke’s on them, I’m not bored.

As another side note, my computer just informed me there may be a wireless network in the airport. When I finish this, or at least stop to take a break and get feeling back in my legs, I’ll have to do some recon in an attempt to post the trials and tribulations of my night in real time. Not like real time would matter, since everyone else is asleep in their beds right now. I hate you all.

Where was I? Better question, why are you still reading this? Sorry, I went off on a bit of a tangent there. Again, bear with me, it’s been a long ass day.

Oh ya, so the flight attendant gets on the speaker. Turns out, the storm passed and Philly is open again.

Jay’s Life Sucks, Take 3 – Now Pittsburgh is closed. I wish I was kidding. I look outside, the fire and brimstone we had passed through earlier has caught up to us and is now screwing with my life again. This takes our hero to 12:45.

Jay’s Life Sucks, Take 4 – Pittsburgh is still closed, but even if it opens, we no longer have a crew for the plane. So we have to wait at least another 90 minutes for a crew to show up. In doing so, they move us to yet another gate (that’s number 4 for those of you keeping track at home), which is where I sit now, having found the only other power outlet in all of the Pittsburgh airport. It’s 1am. People are attempting to sleep, sitting up, laying on someone else, or just flat out on the ground. I too am going to attempt to sleep, so I’ll finish up this story at a later time.

… or “I’m the Geek – Volume 2”

Still trapped in the cultural and social hotspot of America that is Fort Wayne, Indiana (see today’s other entry), I figured I would comment on recent events that have once again caused me to wonder how I am the one labeled as the geek.

I have quite a bit of computer stuff. A certain bridesmaid who likes to work with dead people and the mother of a certain flower girl had their share of comments on the absurdity of me owning so much computer stuff. To a certain extent I agree. On the other hand, it’s just what I’m into, so I don’t see the issue. The aforementioned hecklers, as I’m sure many women reading this would agree, don’t seem to understand the need for so much equipment.

Two words for all of you: Coach bags.

Meg has recently expressed an interest in purchasing one of these seemingly ordinary, yet undoubtedly magically enchanted by some otherworldly force, bags. She’s shown me a few of them.

It’s a bag.

It’s a bag with a little label that says “Coach.”

And above all, it’s an expensive bag.

Yet for some reason, these bags possess a quality that men cannot see. We just cannot comprehend what makes these bags so desirable. Perhaps, we lack the mental capacity to comprehend the divine nature of these bags. Maybe they emit a hormone that men do not possess the receptors to notice. Half the time, I can’t even tell a Coach bag from any other purse.

Even more disheartening is trying to figure out how these bags achieved the mystical power they command through leather and buckle. Who first saw a Coach bag and said “I’d pay $400 for that!” Who heard that and then said, “From here on out, I shall charge $400 for all of them.” How does a brand name become a brand name? If there are any marketing majors out there that can shed some light on this, I’d be most appreciative.

Perhaps Coach bags are the yang to the yin that is men’s obsession with electrical gadgets. Yet somehow, if this dichotomy does in fact exist, the net result is still that I am “the geek”, and the woman counterpart is “in style.”

Last night, I flew out to Indiana for a business trip. My first adventure on a propeller plane, it served to remind me why I am a firm believer in the concept that had God wanted me to fly, I’d have been born with wings. The work stuff went extremely well, and not only do I get to go home a night early, but I am actually writing this entry from the airport. As a goof I figured I’d power up my laptop and see if they had a wireless network. Sure enough, “Fort Wayne Airport” appeared in the list of available networks. One registration page, promising not to do anything evil, and I’m in. The real paradox is that I have a ton of homework I should be doing right now, but I am oddly compelled to utilize this Internet access simply because I have it. Pavlov would be proud, I just feel wrong not using an Internet connection in a strange place. As I sit here in the bar, drinking myself to the point where turbulence becomes bearable, I figured I’d clue everyone in to the differences between Meg’s business trips and mine.

One of the differences in living with Meg versus living alone is what happens when one of us isn’t home. Tonight, I’ll get home to find the house almost exactly as I had left it. The changes will likely be due to Meg cleaning or straightening up something. The house will linger with the aroma of an overpriced Yankee candle. Ahh, home… just three white-knuckled hours away.

Meg also went away on business last week. Sunday night found me alone, superficially enjoying the place to myself while harboring an unacknowledged loneliness. However, Meg’s arrival was not met with the same olfactory overload my own return will likely experience. Rather, Meg arrived home to the proverbial bull in a china shop. The house had been extremely hot last week, so I spent a night on the couch on the less brutal second floor. Rather than the typical coffee table magazine, Meg found an alarm clock, remnants of a bowl of cereal, a blanket, and a pillow (and absolutely no stuffed bears, no matter what Meg would have you think).

The rest of the house didn’t fare much better. The kitchen, while clean, was cluttered with drying tupperware, ready for next morning’s preparation of my lunch feast (I’m up to eating 5 meals a day at work). I didn’t think it was possible, but there were actually more scattered water glasses than days Meg was gone; the mathematics of how this happened are mind-boggling.

The moral of this story is three-fold. The first is to give credit to Meg for putting up with my lazy ass. To the women readers, which likely includes a number of soon to be married knotties (and again, I shall comment on you folk very soon), have patience. We don’t mean to be this difficult to live with. To all the single guys out there, ranging from soon to be married to taking his sweet ass time getting engaged… well, you’ll have to e-mail me to find out how I get away with all this.

Lovely, just found out my flight is delayed 40 minutes. Looks like the forecast calls for thunderstorms between Indiana and my arrival in Pittsburgh as well. Time to switch from beer to something stronger…

Like so many other nights, I stopped at the gym after work and thus arrived home after Meg. As it had been a good 2 hours since I had last eaten, I made my customary bee-line to the kitchen, briefly glancing over to acknowledge Meg’s presence, who was on the couch in the living room. Rather than checking the day’s events on, I found her watching TV. But she wasn’t watching the news or Real World or anything, well, normal. She was watching a wedding video. Part of me wanted to believe that it was someone she knew; however the consensus of the monkeys in my head was that this was some random couple’s video.

Luckily, seeing the fear in my eyes she quickly pointed out that it was a demo DVD from a videographer. My initial paranoia as to Meg’s wedding obsession level subsiding, I found myself somewhat interested in the DVD. On one hand, the geek in me wanted to examine the production value, sound, video, etc. (which incidentally was surprisingly good). However, another part of me was intrigued to watch the antics of these random people. I figured at bare minimum, watching a bunch of drunk people dance is always funny.

So I indulged for a while. In the midst of a mental calculation of the cost of the videographer against the number of times we’ll actually watch the video (more on this in a later blog, but this is definitely a topic I will be revisiting), we arrived at the introduction (or as my wedding-inept self put it, the “announcement”) of the bride and the groom. A concept that I don’t believe I’ll ever fully understand, I do see the room for creativity and the introduction as a way to express the personality of the couple. A friend of mine came out to the Star Wars theme. That’s a cool idea, and if you know the couple, it works very well.

However, this particular wedding was a bit… how do I put this? Trashy. As bridesmaid after bridesmaid, or “BM” as you knotties would put it (more on you people in a later blog too, trust me), bounced their way into their room and out of their dresses, we couldn’t help but laugh. Again, it’s one thing to have fun. It’s another to have flesh bubbling out of every opening in the dress.

The highlight of the introduction, of course, was the bride and the groom.

I’m a WWE fan. I’ll admit it. Lucas and I have joked about how the introduction would be funny if set to a WWE background. For Lucas and me, the joking stopped there.

However, for this couple, the temptation was apparently too much. For those that can appreciate it, they were introduced to Rick Flair’s entrance music. Every three steps the groom stopped to give a hearty “WHOO” to the rest of the guests. He then proceeded to circle the room, giving high-fives to all of the guests and nearly scaring the poor grandmother into an early grave. This was soon followed by the Hulk Hogan “listen to the crowd” ear motion to all four sides of the dance floor (those that watch WWE know what I mean and to those that don’t, it looks as absurd as I’m sure you are imagining). While this gallivanting was taking place, the bride found her way to the center of the dance floor and proceeded to flex for the guests, following suit with the bridesmaids and nearly spilling out of her dress. Again, Hulk Hogan made an appearance as she mimicked the classic three Hogan poses (come on, you know what they are). All the while, the groom is still running around like he just won the Superbowl.

And these people decided that it would be ok for the videographer to show this to all of his potential customers.

There’s actually more to this wedding. The garter ritual was especially trashy, but that’ll have to wait for another blog entry (I’ll try to get to it soon because I know all of the monkeys in my head are scrambling to replace that image with thoughts of getting cavities filled, memories of working at HP, and the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard.).

I can’t believe my delay in posting this; a surprising number of people have asked me why this blog took so long to be written. Monday and Tuesday I was on an Air Force base in VA, and the rest of the week was a bit of a nightmare.

As you gathered from the day one blog, the sessions weren’t all that bad. However, apparently the stress of everything I had to do was a bit overwhelming on day two, and I was less open to the talks.

The sexuality talk went on forever. Not to mention the fact that the couple actually referred to their marriage as a three-way with Jesus. Sad part is that I’m not kidding about that. Not a good way to open my mind.

The following spirituality talk was even worse. It was the typical couple one would imagine to find at this type of retreat. They went on and on about how they share their prayer time together and how they find their strength in each other ad nauseum. It was mildly useful to hear them talk about the issues they’ve faced in their marriage, but again, I was so stressed with school that I was not in the mood to sit around and listen to people tell me about their problems.

The highlight of the day was the start. After arriving a cool 15 minutes late due to the rain (read: and the long lines at Dunkin’ Donuts), we got to take a personality test. It consisted of around 70 questions, selecting one of two answers for each. Each answer corresponded to one of two opposite personality types, with a total of 4 different categories (I’m doing a poor job of explaining this, but you’ll see where I’m going with this). The results were amazingly accurate:

  • Introvert – In a clean sweep of 10-0, I was declared a complete and total introvert (versus being an extrovert, obviously). This doesn’t mean that I can’t function in a social environment (which is in fact very much open to debate). It simply means that I draw my energy from being alone. They related this to marriage by describing a situation where an introvert will get home from work and typically not want to talk before having a chance to unwind. Meg is also an introvert, which works out nicely for us.
  • Sensor – A sensor is the type of person who acts simply on the facts at hand, as compared to reading into things and acting on that (labeled an Intuitor). This pretty accurately describes me again as I consider myself a very logical, calculating person. Meg also came up as a sensor, which again should make life easy on us.
  • Thinker – This also fits in with what I was saying about being very calculated. A Thinker simply acts on the facts at hand. A Feeler, on the other hand, will take into consideration the less tangible aspects of a situation. Meg is a feeler, which I think will work out great when we have kids. The example they gave in class was a situation where a teenage daughter wants to borrow the car, but it’s snowing lightly outside. The Thinker will say no, simply citing dangerous driving conditions. The Feeler, on the other hand, will take into account the extra stuff, like the fact that they already told the daughter she could borrow the car or the possible embarrassment the daughter will face for having over protective parents. What this all boils down to is going to be that our kids don’t want to ask me permission because I’ll likely say no, so they’ll go to their mother instead. I’m sure you can also apply this to the situation where a shady guy comes to pick up said daughter for a date. The Feeler mom (Meg) may sympathize with her daughter about whatever wrong feelings she may have for this guy. The Thinker dad (me) will sit on the couch with Uncle JJ and a six pack on one side and a baseball bat on the other. So once again, the personality test proved accurate.
  • Judger – This is the one I’m not entirely sure I agree with. The Judger will plan everything ahead of time. The Judger has to be in control. The woman running the test mentioned how vacations with a Judger are a nightmare as the Judger has every last minute planned out. So far, it completely describes me, especially the vacation part (Meg’s already dreading the marathon week she’s facing when we go to Orlando in September). However, the other side of that trait, the Perceiver, is big on compromise and seeing all sides of issues. That also describes me, as I rarely if ever think things are black and white. In fact, I often end up arguing with people who can’t or refuse to see the gray area in things. Meg was also a Judger, which balances us out nicely. One would think that two people who plan would bump heads, but there’s a difference. I like things planned, but am often too lazy to actually plan them, so Meg fills in that gap nicely.

So, now that all is said and done I still stand by the fact that I could have better spent those 10 hours on something else. On the other hand, if anyone has the opportunity to take a personality test, especially with your respective mates, I highly recommend it. All week Meg and I have been citing that test, especially when I’m feeling overly introverted. It seriously does make a relationship a bit easier having made the personality differences more concrete.