Complaint: Too Tired To Be Creative

Seriously.

Question: How Do You Parent an Introvert When You're a Raging Extrovert?

(Sidebar: I totally forgot to do my Question/Comment/Complaint headers these past weeks. Doh.)

This is one of the many pressing questions I have on my plate of late.

I'm seriously extroverted. My son is seriously introverted. He finds crowds of people hellish, and loud noises, and big parties absolute nightmares.

My daughter, on the other hand, like me, would like to have people over pretty much 24/7. It's all about chatting and playing and snacking.

My husband? Decidedly in my son's camp.

So what do two extroverts do for their social/entertainment fix when there are two dear introverts in the family to consider?

I guess one solution is going out, which we do: mostly to birthday parties both guys in the family would rather have their fingers filed off than attend.

But what about having people over to our house?

The thing is, the world is skewed in favor of extroverts. So our introverts, at least some of the time, have to deal with crowds and noise and mayhem. Yes, they can always climb back down into their sub-basement office at CalTech where they're getting their PhD in computer science, but they still have to go to the grocery on Saturdays.

So I'm not sure where this leaves me. Trying to fulfill the needs of one child necessarily does not take into account the needs of the other.

Ahh, the juggling act of parenting.

Facebook Fever or When Dreams Collide with Reality

It's Spring Break (woo.) This leads me to much time while my kids barrel around the house and I glue myself to my only social outlet: the computer.

Sad, but true.

Actually, to be fair, I did indeed interact with real, live humans today. So I'm not a total ScreenHead. But I have spent a lot of time being bored online.

And I did something that kind of creeped me out: I went looking on Facebook for the guy I had a total and massive crush on junior and senior year in college in New York. It doesn't matter who he was, or is, really. A guy. I always wondered what became of him. I expected great things: underground theatre, Obie awards, write-ups in alternative magazines with his tortured, crooked grin on the cover.

But I (da! da! da!) looked at his wall. Why? Because I could. Like the rest of the Facebooking world, I read comments and looked at links. Hell, that's why they're THERE, right?

But I kind of wish I hadn't.

The lesson? Be careful what you go looking for.

Because this guy, over whom every girl I knew, including me, was 300% gaga in 1987, is not...really...all that...exciting.

I'm sure he's still nice. At least, I hope so. And I have no reason to suspect that he's a jackass or anything. But his page made him seem a little too...normal...real...and thus, not a former object of fantasy.

It's kind of like learning the truth about Santa Claus, the adult version.

The people you obsessed about when you were 19 are, in fact, human, and are not perfect. They never were.

But memory is a tricky business.

Because I had imagined this tortured, beautiful-in-a-geeky-way ultra-talented actor, with his loft in Tribeca or wherever the hell it's cool to be in New York these days (I'm sure it's not Tribeca, do not mock me, Solipsist!) and his fabulous artistic oeuvre and his beautiful kids and gorgeous partner, and their fabulous parties and fashionable eyewear.

And I can infer from what I saw today, that this is NOT the case.

What I did today was burst a bubble.

The guy I dreamed about when I was 19 and angst-filled is an ordinary guy. He likes video games. It sounds like he drinks kind of a lot. But who am I to say?

Reality, at times, does indeed bite.

I wish him well.

I wish him happiness.

I wish I hadn't seen his wall.

Age of Irritability

Have I reached that point already?

Am I already considered old enough to be retired? I'm barely getting back to work after having my kids, FFS.

I still have all my lady parts! (as does Jane Lynch, FYI)

Seriously: I just received a card from the AARP.

WTF?

I'm UNDER 45.

In today's new aging system, where 75 year olds work and 50 is the new 40, how in the sam heck does that qualify me for the AARP?!

My mom is 30 years older than me and SHE isn't retired, that's for damn sure. And isn't planning on being retired any time soon. Ditto my dad, my stepdad, and my mother in law.

So what in the WORLD is a card with my (misspelled) name doing in their databases?

And yet...what kind of perks would I receive with said card, I wonder?

Early bird dinners are already on my schedule: I have small children.

Would I get a discount into a museum? Or perhaps Tax-Free Tuesdays for seniors at Barnes and Noble? I do love a good book.

At least I'm doing something retired people allegedly do a lot: complain.

Maybe I should hang on to this card after all.

Imagine My Surprise

Yes, it's happened.

After 43 years, I can actually stand up and say it, as the proud Canadian that I am:

I like hockey.

(And the crowd gasped.) (Do you need to sit down? Cold drink?)

Yeah, I said it.

I went to my first ever professional hockey game today and...it was...fun.

We had a fancy shmancy box seat, avec sandwiches et assorted treats, but the food wasn't what sold me.

The players were.

Man, they look so awesome gliding along the ice, managing the puck, and each other. And the crowd's oohs and aahs? It's actually fun to cheer with other people.

Where have I been? Oh right, Canada, land of no cheerleaders.

The only other hockey game I ever saw, back in college, as I may have mentioned here way back when, involved massive fighting and copious amounts of blood. I had turned my back on the sport thenceforward.

But today, I am a changed woman.

Seeing as I can't even stand up on skates, I find people who can manoeuvre a puck, a stick and massive amounts of molded plastic, quite impressive.

No, I don't like the fighting. But I can see why people go gaga over this sport. It's fun.

But to watch. From a nice box with a great view.

The only job I could handle would be driving the zamboni. And even that is probably beyond my skill set, eh.

Just a Thought

It is a such a relief to find people with whom you naturally click.

Which is something entirely different than a clique.

That is all.

Girls Will Be Girls?

Girls are so complicated.

I'm speaking at the moment of little girls, but, frankly, this applies to us full grown ones as well.

One minute, it's nasty snarks and exclusion; the next, a lovefest.

It's exhausting.

I watch my daughter navigate our new neighborhood full of girls and wonder, will she be a leader or a follower? And once that choice is made, will she use her (relative) power for good or evil?

That is the question.

There is a pecking order in every social group. And now that spring has sprung and the kids are outside pecking about, it will likely become much clearer who the leaders are, where the lines are, and who's who.

Some girls are nice when nobody else is around, but terrors in a pack.

I think that pretty much sums up some of my experience with groups of women: in small groups, they're great; in a pack, horror show.

Partly I guess I just don't understand truly mean girls. (Or mean boys, for that matter. But that's another story.) I mean, I wasn't a mean girl. I was mostly a follower, stayed under the radar and got high off the fumes of my mother and sister's popularity as I trundled through high school. (My mom taught there and was beloved.)

I didn't do mean things to other girls; and luckily, other girls didn't do mean things to me. So I don't know the mean mentality. Or maybe I do, but I'm lying to myself that I don't. I mean, it's not like I've never been a bitch as an adult. But as a kid? No bitchy. Seriously. Ask my mom.

So what makes a mean girl? What makes a victim?

Bet you can guess where I'm going with this: research time. Beam me up, Amazon.com. Stay tuned for the results.