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Confessions of an Introvert

For readers of my blog, it should come as no surprise that I’m an introvert. With posts like Top 5 Reasons to Become a Hermit, Stores That Overwhelm Me, The Holiday Party Survival Guide or Reasons to Stay in Bed Today, you really should have guessed.

But being an introvert does not mean I’m mousy, shy or a little touched in the brain. Okay, it might mean those things, but introverts are a misunderstood group of people, probably because we just don’t care enough about your opinion to set the record straight. So I’m here to set the record straight.

We’ve been called “people haters” or “brooding wallflowers.” Those names are correct. Just kidding. Kind of. Here’s an explanation about what makes introverts tick (and it’s not the vest-bomb strapped to our chests).

We Hate Small Talk. I can easily teach a crowded yoga class or speak in front of dozens of people. But I’d rather eat Black Widow spiders than make small talk with a stranger. I usually end up saying something stupid, then run off to hide in the bathroom.

Instead–I love authentic interaction. While “networking” feels forced and disingenuous, if you get an introvert talking about something they love–you’ll never get them to shut the hell up.

We don’t hate people. As a species, I have nothing against humans. But put me in a social situation like a party, a wedding or standing in line at the grocery store, and it takes all my strength to not run out the door screaming.

Instead–Forgive me if I decline invitations or don’t call you back immediately. Just like your computer needs to power down, so do introverts. Give us time to recharge, and instead of wishing you dead, we’ll gladly enjoy lunch with you. Usually.

(My default position in most social situations.)

We’re not stupid. Just because we’re not the loudest voice in the room, doesn’t mean we’re mute. Sometimes you need to shut up long enough for us to voice an opinion. Rarely will we interrupt your never-ending monologue. Silence does not equal dumb.

Instead—We’re quiet because we’re thinking and/or listening. (You should try it.) Introverts ponder what has been said to find the best response. We don’t often blurt out the first thing we think. If that were the case, many of our conversations would end with us saying, “If another sound comes out of your mouth, I will poison your coffee.”

Don’t single us out. Extroverts think they can “cure” introverts by putting them on the spot, or placing them on a group project. We’re not sick. We’re not “less than.” We don’t need your help to save us. We’re actually very creative thinkers that include people like Eleanor Roosevelt, J.K. Rowling, Bill Gates and Albert Einstein.

Instead—Let us work alone, without noisy distractions (like your voice). We’re writers, creators, artists and innovators. Let us do our thing, going quietly into the world, making big changes.

(The person who owned this car shouldn’t have put me in charge of planning the company party.)

So if you work with, are married to or have ever encountered an introvert, there is nothing to fear. Unless you don’t give us space. Then you might end up with a nice stab wound in the thigh.

Much More Than a Bathroom

I read that women spend 1.5 years in the bathroom, over the course of a lifetime. That can’t be true. It has to be much longer.

For women (especially moms), a bathroom is a refuge, reading room, mini-spa, hiding place for chocolate (behind the unused bottles of dry shampoo) and crying lounge. So 18 months seems highly underestimated. Not to mention the years spent cleaning the damn room.

(Best. Shower. Curtain. Ever.)

Here’s a rundown of ways women utilize the most underrated room in the house:

It’s the weighing room, where the number on the scale determines your mood for the next 24 hours.
As an anti-aging cream testing lab. Once cream is applied to face, look closely in the mirror to monitor the results. If nothing changes immediately, the jar goes into the wrinkle cream graveyard under the sink.
The place where all the lost hair huddles around the baseboards, eventually forming an evolutionary new creature.
A gathering place for half-used bottles of hotel shampoos and conditioners.

(All that hotel stealing for nothing.)

A library where you can finally finish the last ten pages of a novel, without being continually interrupted by grubby-handed children, or husbands.
A studio for trying new make-up techniques found on Pinterest–usually with horrific results. There’s no such thing as an “easy” smoky eye. And don’t get me started on those intricate steps to eradicate lip lines. Pinterest lies.
The black hole where lip gloss, tampons, eye shadow, razors and deodorant go missing–especially if there’s a teenage daughter living in the house.
A place to agonize over/celebrate pregnancy tests.
A selfie photo studio. Obviously, way too many women spend loads of time in the bathroom with their cameras.
A grown-up fort where you end up yelling at your 3-year-old through the door, screeching you just need a few minutes to use the bathroom or you will strangle her Tickle Me Elmo.

(You know they’ll find you.)

The location for “stress-relieving” baths that include your kids methodically kicking the door every 15-30 seconds.
A stop for pregnancy bathroom breaks. Every 15 minutes.
During summer months only: Shaving legs, waxing, applying fake tanning cream.
The place to make phone calls without your child interrupting you. This only works in theory. Your child will still stand outside the door and talk to you.
The room for applying face masks without the risk of scaring small children and husbands.

(I warned you not to open the door!!)

A place for looking in the mirror, checking for panty lines or underarm sweat (or underarm lines and panty sweat).
A place for looking in the mirror checking for pimples, wrinkles, food in teeth, gray hair, lip fuzz, nose boogers, dry skin, eye boogers, errant eyebrows and pore size. Just for starters.
A room to ponder the path of your life, wondering how in the hell you ended up in a bathroom hiding from your family.

Reality Pageants

Summer brings mosquito bites, melted snow-cones and beauty queens in parades. As a community reporter, I’ve sat through many beauty pageants, cringing as teenage girls offer themselves up for physical, mental and emotional critique.

Unless you’re 4-years-old, or were born in Buckingham Palace, tiaras are not everyday accessories. But young women nearly kill themselves to get bikini-ready so male judges can gawk and rate them. In any other situation, adult males ogling teenage girls would get them landed in the county jail.

Organizers of these “scholarship” pageants say they are promoting education, but I don’t remember when education required walking across the stage in teeny bits of fabric and high heels. Or twirling fiery batons while singing “God Bless America.” Or having a veneered smile, and no pores whatsoever.

Girls have enough pressure to be beautiful without the pressure of pageant preparation. I’m advocating the ban of beauty pageants, unless the following guidelines are met:

Include a hot dog eating contest: This will force contestants to eat at least one meal. I talked to one pageant participant who hadn’t had a solid meal for three months. She was very thin, but about as healthy as a doorframe.

Be heard in a room full of men: This could be the talent portion of the program. Young women need to learn to have their voices heard without dealing with condescending comments like, “Isn’t that a cute idea?” or “You leave thinking to us men. You just need to look pretty.” I call bulls***.

Enough with the haters: Recently, the gorgeous Miss Thailand stepped down as Miss Universe in part because of nasty remarks made on the Internet. She was booed, jeered and even called “chubby” by the Neanderthals roaming social media pages. Get a grip you moronic heathens!

(She even looks pretty when she cries. I didn’t think that was humanly possible.)

Be honest about fitness/diet: Don’t tell me you eat cheeseburgers and onion rings on a regular basis–unless by “regular basis” you mean on Maytober 31. Tell people how you only eat jicama, kale and blueberries, and work your A** off every day in the gym with your personal trainer.

Detail a budget: It’s lovely that you want world peace. But be prepared to demonstrate how you can earn 30 percent less than your male colleagues, and still afford groceries, utility bills and those weekly manicures.

Must be over 35: Most teenage girls, and young women, can rock a bikini. But find me a woman who’s given birth to three children who still wears a swimming suit AT ALL, and suddenly the pageant is much more realistic.

No male Judges: Men, unless you’re Neil Patrick Harris, chances are you’ve never had to walk in heels, wax your eyebrows and nether regions, or look cute while answering impromptu questions about world politics. Women judges only. In fact, men shouldn’t be allowed in the building.

(This guy knows the pain of living in heels.)

And don’t get me started on child beauty pageants.

Questions that Keep Me Up at Night

Some nights I can’t sleep. After I stop counting sheep, calculating how many more hours of sleep I could get if I fell asleep immediately, and consider getting up to read (which I don’t because I’m too tired), I start pondering the important questions of life.

Not questions like, “If you weren’t scared, what would you do?” (I would ride a crocodile) or “What is the meaning of life?” (Hot fudge brownie sundaes). I mean questions like:

Who determined the size of a toilet-paper square? When did it become universal?
Why is there nothing to eat in my kitchen?
When did hotels stop using bedspreads, opting instead for the 2-foot wide table runner draped across the bed?

(Why is this a thing?)

Why do I get black gunk in the corner of my eyes?
How can I tell if anti-aging cream is working?
Why are there so many keys on a keyboard?
Is it really possible to tip a cow?
Who ate the last Oreo?
Why are the showers in hotel bathrooms placed at a height of 5 feet?
Why do people keep trying to make me eat guacamole?

(This is about as unappetizing as you can get.)

Is it possible that Victoria’s Secret is that she’s afraid of being fully clothed?
What should I be when I grow up?
What would my gangsta name be?
Is there really nothing to eat in this house?
Why does hockey/basketball season last so long?

About the time my questions turn into, “Why does blue feel like a chocolate donut?” or “If I had a pet genie would it taste like chicken?”, I realize I’m finally drifting off to sleep. Pleasant dreams.

Things Driving Me Crazy at the Ball Game

From coaching my daughters’ softball teams to watching the SF Giants win the series, baseball is a way to kick back and relax. Well, except the coaching part. That’s just nuts.

(Idyllic, right? Except for all the people.)

But, as with everything else . . . people ruin s***. The hubbie and I thought we’d catch a Bees game, hoping to watch major leaguer Josh Hamilton who has been rehabbing in the great city of Salt Lake. We bought tickets, then sat back to watch the game on a beautiful spring evening.

IMMEDIATELY, people began ruining s***. Here are the things driving me crazy at the ball game:

The man in front of me. He was eating a hot dog. Only not just any hot dog. This hot dog was smothered in so much crap, that it dripped onto his beard, shirt, lap and many of the surrounding spectators. I was mesmerized. I couldn’t look away as he shoved the disgusting ball game delicacy into his pie hole. Plus, I could hear him chewing.
No 10-run rule. The first inning lasted FOREVER, because the Bees don’t do defense.

(Please, have another home run, visiting team.)

People in general. We were situated in our uncomfortable seats, when the lady four seats down had to get up and buy beer. So we all stood up to let her through. Then she had to climb back to her seat. More standing. And then go get more beer, which meant more standing. Add the fact she was drunker and slushier each time she stumbled by us. It was like Catholic mass: standing, sitting, standing, sitting (and praying for the Bees to do something).
Kids at the ball game. A baseball game is no place for children. Once they finish their chicken fingers (the top of the first inning) they whine, beg, fight, beg, whine and fight for the remainder of the game.

(Yes, we know you’re bored. We get it. Shut up.)

The mother of these children. If you take your kids to a ball game and expect them to sit still for three hours, you are insane. DO NOT yell at your kids for being bored. DO NOT yell at your kids for begging repeatedly for cotton candy, soda, popcorn, ice cream, etc. You knew what to expect when you brought the rugrats.
The man in front of me, part 2. Once Hot Dog man finished hunching over his ballpark repast, he sat up straight, and I realized he was just a little shorter than Godzilla. We were sitting behind home plate, so I couldn’t see the pitcher, the batter, second base or center field. So I grabbed some paper and started writing a blog.
Food. The only time I eat a hot dog is when I’m in a ball park or being tortured at girl’s camp. But shelling out $20 for 2 hot dogs, 2 drinks and bags of chips seemed a leeeetle steep. Plus, the line was so long we missed an entire inning while the ADHD serving staff tried to fill orders.
Josh Hamilton. The professional outfielder has been sidelined due to an injury, but he hurt his thumb Thursday night–and didn’t even play on Saturday. He returns to the Angels this week.

All that for nothing.

Top 5 Jobs Where I Would Suck

Someone asked me what my dream job would be. The ones that come to mind are a) best-selling author, b) world-traveling yoga instructor, and c) Girl Scout cookie tester. There has to be a job that encompasses all that. Right?

Here are several jobs I could never do:

Anything involving numbers: Math might as well be Cantonese. It’s a language I don’t understand, written in a dialect I have no desire to learn. Budgeting? Meh. This rules out accountant, analyst, astrophysicist, jet fighter pilot or doing color commentary for any sports organization. Stats?!?! Meh.

(Maybe I’ll design roller coasters. I can’t imagine that would involve any math skills.)

Anything involving food: I could never work in a bakery. It’s a given at some point my boss would find me face down in a tray full of cinnamon rolls. Death by vanilla icing asphyxiation. And if I worked in a restaurant, I would stick my finger in each entrée to sample the sauce, and eat leftover food off patrons’ plates. My girth would soon exceed most small moons.

Anything involving people*: If I have to act happy, social, responsive, helpful or friendly, chances are I’d be fired within a few hours. I can only put on my “Happy Extroverted Face” for so long before it starts to slip, and I resort to head bunting people who ask for directions to the bus stop.

Anything involving technology: I’ve had my Stupid Phone for two years, and still can’t figure out how the touch screen works. For me, website design involves selecting a new background for my Twitter page, or changing my profile picture on Facebook. Anything else requires a skills set I don’t have. My gaming experience never got past Pong or Pac-Man.

Anything involving danger: If there is a fear-o-pain scale from zero to Chuck Norris, I fall well below zero. I don’t have a gene that propels me to run toward danger. I have the gene that propels me to stop, drop and roll–even if there isn’t a fire. I could never be a police officer, firefighter, secret agent, Robocop, alien invader or politician. This also includes working with alligators, spiders, rare bacteria or teenagers.

You might be wondering, “Well, Peri, what can you do?” That’s a great question. Thanks for asking. I’m really good at sitting in my home, hiding behind a computer screen, monitoring social media, catching up on hit TV shows and wearing sweats. If you’re hiring, and I fit your job description, drop me a line.

*This also includes children, who are technically not people.

You Know You’re a Mother If . . .

Mother’s are a special breed. Usually a cross between a Pomeranian and a Black Lab, they are either yapping constantly, or smothering you with love. Once you’re a mom, you do things you never imagined, because kids numb your brain to any kind of higher-thought functions.

(Your brain on kids.)

About the time your 2-year-old hands you a long, slimy booger, and you wipe it on the hem of your T-shirt, you realize your mind has become mommified. Here are other symptoms of this exclusive momish behavior:

You stop wearing dangly earrings and necklaces because your toddler thinks they are climbing ropes.
As a gift, you receive a Campbell’s soup can, spray-painted silver and covered with glued-on uncooked pasta (also spray-painted silver). And you treasure it.
You’ve ever said, “No, I’m not angry. Just really disappointed.”
Just the thought of having an afternoon alone makes you cry.
You have a kitchen drawer full of Tupperware lids for kids to play with.
Your child makes a mess, and instead of cleaning it up, you post it on Instagram.

(This situation calls for a camera–not a washcloth.)

You’ve ever yelled at invisible monsters in the middle of the night, saying “Get out of here, you monsters, or I’ll kick you in the butt!”
You try to catch throw-up before it hits the carpet.
Your child sleeps an extra hour, and you are so worried, you end up waking her up.
Your “good clothes” consist of yoga pants without any noticeable food stains.
Your trips to the bathroom are treasured reading times.
You warm up a Healthy Choice meal for lunch, and remember to eat it two hours later.
You’ve realized potty training is much worse than changing diapers.
Your purse is full of rocks, wilted flowers, used Kleenex, pinecones, Goldfish crackers, Band-Aids and spit-out apple skins.
You have chocolate hidden in your underwear drawer.
You can step on a Lego at 3 in the morning without screaming.

(What a Lego feels like on your bare feet.)

Everything you wear smells like peanut butter.
You know the entire TV schedule for PBS, Nick Jr., Disney and Cartoon Network.
Your child plays in the sandbox for 30 minutes, then leaves piles of sand throughout the house for two weeks.
Someone keeps eating the “good” cookies you hid behind the kale chips.
You can make a working volcano out of newspaper, glue and baking soda.
You play the Quiet Game several times a day. With coworkers.
You eat your child’s leftovers, including cold chicken nuggets, soggy French fries and fish sticks with the breading picked off.

Happy Mother’s Day to all you dedicated (and crazy) moms out there!

Proof Our Parents Tried to Kill Us

If you grew up during the ’70s (the 1970s–not the 1870s) then you’re lucky to be alive. The ’70s ushered in the heyday of processed foods, experimental products and sugar, sugar, sugar! The things our parents fed us have now been banned in most countries and labeled with the warning: “DO NOT CONSUME. Side effects include DEATH.”

I’m not blaming my parents, they didn’t know they were feeding their children toxic chemicals that would eventually ruin their lives and cause worldwide destruction. These are just examples of the “food” products that have left a lifelong residue of regret and triglycerides flowing through my veins:

Bologna. Yes, it had a catchy tune–and it taught us how to spell–but what exactly is bologna? Here’s the definition. Not joking. “Bologna is a finely ground pork sausage containing cubes of lard.” Lard!?!?! Yeah, my bologna has a first name–F-A-T-A-S-S.
Hamburger Helper. Exactly what is this product supposed to help hamburger do? Taste like salty cardboard? Mission accomplished. (Besides, unless a hamburger is ready to ask for help, there’s nothing you can do.)

(This hand should have covered our mouths.)

Chicken Kiev. This was my mom’s go-to meal to impress dinner guests. And it worked. It was fabulously delicious–and had 750 grams of saturated fat, and 4,355 calories per serving. This ’70s staple of elegance had the following steps: 1. Take a chicken breast. 2. Wrap it around a 1/2 cube of butter. 3. Roll it in bread crumbs. 4. Deep fry in oil until your arteries explode.
Space Dust/Pop Rocks. I can hear food scientists discussing this product. “I know let’s give our kids exploding candy!! Hahahahahaha!!”
Jiffy Pop Popcorn. It was innovative and clever. You watched it pop right on the burning hot stove. If opening the tinfoil didn’t melt your fingers, the face-vaporizing steam streaming off the popcorn would have you in the burn unit for days.

Cream-chipped beef on toast. I hated this meal. Mom would open a jar of dried beef (with more salt than the Pacific), stir it into a mixture of paste and sadness, then pour it on toast.

(For the love of all things holy!!! Why is this okay to feed to a child?)

Candy cigarettes. Just in case the sugar, chemicals and mystery meats didn’t kill you, we had these chalk-flavored candy sticks to prep us for the stressful world of adulthood. (Disclaimer: my mom NEVER bought these for us. But dad did!)
Textured vegetable protein (TVP). This meat extender was created for use in THIRD WORLD countries, not Utah. (Although some would argue Utah is a third world country.) Mom mixed this . . . . well, whatever this is. . . with hamburger to make patties, meatloaf and meatballs. She always said we couldn’t taste the TVP. She was soooo wrong.

This is only a tiny sampling of the types of things we ingested during our formative years. What foods did you survive? Did you grow extra limbs, eyes or superpowers as a result?

How To Be a Better Parent

Now that my daughters are “adults,” I can start telling other people how to raise their children. I can be one of those women with opinions about EVERY aspect of parenting, especially the ones I really sucked at.

(The tall ones are my daughters. The short ones are my grandkids. They’re all perfect. Like me.)

First, play with your kids. With my daughters, this meant playing Barbies every single day for 16 years. Of course, I was never Barbie, I was always Ken. And I never had clothes. And I was always at work.

Next, listen to your kids. Especially when they’re in the back seat of the car, and don’t realize you’re paying attention to the conversation. I learned LOTS of “secrets” by keeping my mouth shut in the driver’s seat.

Put the helicopter parenting techniques in the hangar. Nothing is more infuriating than dealing with a woman (or man) who does book reports, organizes science projects, accompanies their child to every play date, hides in the car in the parking lot during school hours to make sure kids play nice at recess, and who yells at the teacher when their child fails a subject. You are teaching your children NOTHING!

(Norma Bates: ultimate helicopter mother. And we all know how Norman turned out.)

Allow your kids to fight. Allow your kids to be bored. You are not a cruise director. You do not need to organize, plan and entertain these creatures all. day. long. Kids who are bored are forced to use their imaginations. Of course, that often means you end up with disemboweled stuffed animals and missing spatulas. Still a mystery.

For every rule you set, your child will break it in many, creative ways. That’s all I have to say about that.

Be flexible with your schedule. Sometimes you just need to drop everything and spend the afternoon in the park. Other times, laundry can wait while you read “Brown Bear, Brown Bear” 634 times in a row.

(If this doesn’t drive you to drink, nothing will.)

Spend time one-on-one with each of your children. Go for ice cream, watch a movie, walk through the dinosaur museum–do what they love. Also, spend one-on-one time with your spouse, your therapist, your bartender and your mom–who is now laughing at you as you maneuver the pathways of parenthood.

Ask Me About My Temper

(“Peri angry!”)

I applied for a job recently, and was asked the strangest question: What can you tell me about your temper?

I wasn’t sure what he meant. Did he mean my temper when my dog eats the couch cushions, or my temper when my husband spends the weekend watching the Golf Channel? Was he talking about the time I yelled at my daughter for writing swear words on the floorboards? Or how about the time I lost it when a Walmartian pooped on aisle 12 (true story)?

It made me wonder if I had this inner Hulk raging inside my soul. I don’t feel angry. I don’t think I get mad often. I decided to ask my family.

“Do I have a temper?” I asked my husband.

“Is this a trick question?”

“What does that mean,” I asked, giving him my best pissed-off wife glare. I guess that answered that.

“Do I have a temper?” I asked my daughter.

“Will you yell at me if I say yes?”

“Probably.”

“Then, nope. No temper at all.”

I tried calling my other daughters and siblings, but they had been forewarned and didn’t answer the phone. Even my dog wouldn’t look me in the eye when I asked him the question.

I think I have a much calmer temper now then I did 20 years ago. I haven’t thrown a pizza at anyone lately, and I can’t recall the last time I swore during a PTA meeting. But maybe that’s just repression. Maybe one day I’ll wake up, turn a brilliant shade of green, throw off the remnants of my shredded jammies and stomp through the city, yelling, “Who ate the last donut?!”

Good thing I didn’t get the job.

(The angry bird catches the worm.)

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