Insecurities: Naming the Thing

Everyone's insecure about something. No matter how confident a front they put on, everyone's got something. Me? I got a whooooooole crapload; and the funny thing is, even after you reach supposedly landmark events in your journey to adulthood--like getting married--some of those same insecurities still rear their ugly heads. Only they take on a more insidious form because they directly affect someone else now, and not just you. I battle feelings of inadequacy all the time. I have felt that I am not pulling my weight at home. I am here almost all day every day; I should take better care of the house. I have felt like my Masters degree, the one semester I have nearly completed, is a joke, a walk in the park compared to what my husband is doing and I feel silly. I can't feel proud of what I'm working for. There are many other things that I have felt at one time or another.

As this time of year rolls around again, it is hard for me not to draw parallels to last year. Last year at this time, I was, what I thought, a silly girl with crush. And I did silly things because that's what happens when you have a crush. It is hard for me not to feel embarrassed about some of the things I did or thought even a mere year ago. I once lectured my then-friend Travis over g-chat, this time last year, about how he shouldn't be so physically affectionate with girls he only intended to be friends with. At the time, I thought I was being grown up. But I was also nursing a little bit of hurt pride. I had begun to fall for him, had recognized belatedly that it was not reciprocated, and was pushing back in the only way my pride knew how: by pretending like I knew all along what everything was about. Covering my naivete by affecting urbanity.

Like I said, at the time I thought I was being grown up. Now, I feel supremely foolish about it. I say, "Travis, how did you end up with that silly girl with a crush? That unsophisticated newbie who had never even kissed a boy before you came along? Who thought she knew what everything was about because she'd had her heart broken before?" I cringe when I think about this time last year... even though, even though there was so much good.

*****

I have developed a system for dealing with the times that I am falling under the influence of an insecurity. I think I am borrowing this idea from my sister-in-law Mary--maybe read it somewhere on her blog, can't remember--and I am certainly stealing it from Ursula K. Le Guin. But there is a certain power in naming something. In the book A Wizard of Earthsea, Ged is endlessly chased through by a nameless shape, a fear, that nips at his heals and threatens to consume him wherever he goes. At the end of the story he turns around, faces the thing, and defeats it by giving it a name. It's a beautiful story, and this same concept works, for me, in real life. Whenever I sense that I am succumbing to the influence of an insecurity, if I just stop, take stock, and name what it is that's bothering me, I am almost immediately freed from its grip.

I find that over the last four months, i have had to do this over and over again as various little insecurities crop up. But they have all been successfully navigate, including the last one mentioned above. The fact is, we all need to go through whatever it is we go through in order to grow up, and it doesn't do any good to look back on our past selves with scorn or with embarrassment. We change--even from one year to the next. We make mistakes, we learn (or we don't) and we move on (or we repeat). True!

And so it behooves us all to give ourselves the benefit of the doubt, yes? To allow that we change.

I'm probably writing this post more for me than for you because, frankly, I'm one of the most insecure people I know. But I'm learning not to let that form of pride--because pride it surely is--get in the way of the rest of my life.

I look at it this way: In spite of my being silly and naive, and in one case just stupid, things turned out as they should with me and Travis. Who cares about last year. It's now that matters. Now and tomorrow and the rest of forever.

So there. I've named my insecurities: Pride. And Pride leaves no room for growth. Or love.

Sunday at the Lake

(Photos may not be used without express written permission.)

Whale of a Tale/Tail

IF YOU HAVE LANDED ON THIS BLOG POST LOOKING FOR PORN, YOU ARE IN THE WRONG PLACE. ALSO, IT'S TIME TO REEVALUATE WHAT YOU DO IN YOUR SPARE TIME. NOW GO AWAY.

 

Travis has been growing his beard of late. Ever since we got married, to be precise, and even before that. It became more a joke than anything to let it keep growing. And then he had the brilliant idea to build a Halloween costume around the beard. Face it. It isn't every day that one has a beard the ilk of which Brother Brigham himself would have been proud. Captain Ahab it was. Of course, this being our first Halloween of married life, I wanted to do a couples thing, which could only mean one thing for me in the costume department.

Moby Dick.

I knew right away I'd have to make my own costume, but in a flurry of denial, I did my research on the internet. Someone, somewhere had to be selling a whale costume!

Well, it turns out that someone, somewhere does :

BAHAHAHA!! Best picture ever.

It simply wouldn't do. Besides being the wrong size, it was the wrong kind of whale. So I sucked it up, went to Joanne, waited half an hour in the pre-holiday costume-making rush to get my swatch of fabric cut, bought a few other things and went to work. I already owned a white hoodie, so I decided to work with that as the top half of my costume and, for the tail, to construct something like a white mermaid tail. But a whale tail.

(As an aside, I learned something as I researched the shape of a whale tail--an intriguingly descriptive slang word, in fact. According to Wikipedia, "whale tail" was selected by the American Dialect Society in January 2006 as the "most creative word" of 2005. For this:


Yep, that's a thong. And I think I agree with the American Dialect Society's pronouncement.)

Anyway. What I was really looking for was something more like this:

So with this shape roughly in mind, I began to design my own patterns--which I did before going to the fabric store--guestimated the amount of yardage I would need (which I ended up grossly overestimating. I'll have to make a few hundred fleecy stuffed animals with the leftovers, I suppose.) re-taught myself how to use a sewing machine and got to work. Below are pictures of the work in progress:

The foam required a lot of trimming down. Also, I learned too late that sperm whales do not have dorsal fins. Apparently only porpoises, such as Orcas, do. Oh well.

I don't know why I thought I could finish this in a couple of days. Probably because I could have if I'd really set my mind to it. In any event, I am not a very crafty person, so it was a real challenge. Still, it was fun. And my photography fails to show the full extent of the shoddy workmanship so all is well.

Dream Journal: Chocolate Cake Batter Ice-Cream

I dreamt that I was out late one night and my friends Shanelle and Mike, Julie, Whitney and Daniel all pulled up in a car. They were going somewhere without having called me. I thought, “Since when do my friends start doing things without telling me? Is this what happens when you get married?” Anyway, I told them I really wanted to go to Cold Stone and get chocolate cake batter ice cream, so they all agreed. I also casually dropped into the conversation the fact that it was August 5. “Oh my gosh, it’s Pear’s birthday!” They all said. I said it to make them feel obliged to go to Cold Stone. (Heh.) So we all went and we ordered from the girls behind the counter, and we got the little pagers that tell you when your order is ready ('cause it takes SO LONG to get ice cream ready.) Anyway, we all went outside to wait, and it was suddenly late afternoon and not evening. Travis and I decided to go for a bike ride up to the church building just up the road to check it out for some reason. When we got there, people from our old ward were playing broom hockey in the cultural hall. We said hi to a few of them. I was anxious to get back to Cold Stone because I was pretty sure the pager wouldn’t work from this distance, but Travis told me to relax. I also had to go to the bathroom, but since there were several wards’ activities going on, I couldn’t find an empty bathroom. Finally, after walking across at least two cultural halls, I found the other side of the immense church building, and an empty bathroom. When I came back, I was really insistent that we go back to the creamery. So Julie (whom Travis had mysteriously transmutated into) and I rode back down the hill to Cold Stone in the late afternoon. By the time we got there, it was dark again. Which was weird. My pager had never gone off, but I was quite sure it was because I’d been too far away. So I went into the creamery, which was about to close, and lied and said my pager had never gone off and could I please get my order. I was as nice about it as I could be. They were nice, too, but they handed me two free cookies instead of my ice cream because I guess they had really closed up shop. I said, “This is really nice, but can I please just get a SCOOP of chocolate cake batter ice cream? It’s all I want.” One of the girls went into the back room. I think she didn’t know how to handle the situation because a manager came out and said to his staff, “Now girls, what do we do in a crisis?” And he pointed to a poster on the wall that told them how to react in a crisis. Then he asked how he could help me. I told him I just wanted some chocolate cake batter ice cream. It took him about ten minutes, but he finally was able to fish a tiny ben and jerry’s type container of chocolate cake batter ice cream out of some freezer. The freezer was a tiny hole behind the counter that was way up close to the ceiling. It was bizarre how hard it was to get my ice cream. Maybe the girl who had complained had a legit reason. I finally got my tiny container of ice cream and I rejoined my friends who had long finished theirs.

And then I woke up.

10 Things this Public Librarian Hates About You: True Confessions of a Fledgling Reference Assistant.

It’s not easy working with the public. Any flight attendant, receptionist or customer service rep can tell you that. So I present for your consideration 10 things that make my work harder than it needs to be. And this is going to come off as really negative. But level with me: Sometimes it’s fun to be snarky and my snark-o-meter is off the charts today. So get ready for some good-hearted—and perfectly legitimate—reasons why I hate (certain) patrons:

1. Lunch.

Does this look like a cafeteria? Is there a big yellow M rotating slowly outside our building? No. So eat your food elsewhere. “But I’ll just eat at home around the library books, so what’s the big deal about eating in the library?” We don’t really care what, where and how you eat at home just as long as you don’t ruin the books. But we can control what, where, and whether you can eat in the library.

2. Apologizing.

I can’t tell you how many patrons apologize for “interrupting” my work at the desk with a question. Your questions are my work! And believe it or not, I’m not going to think you’re stupid. I really don’t take for granted that you know your way around or how to read a Dewey call number. So when I’m sitting at my desk “deeply absorbed” in my work, 19 times out of 20 I’m playing around with different search techniques, or reading work-related emails, or even just reading the New York Times online!

3. Overly chummy patrons.

Like I said: we love answering questions. It’s why we do our job. But please don’t talk about your uncle’s best friend’s cousin or your crazy political conspiracy theories or anything else completely unrelated to your reference question. We’re not your best friend, so don’t draw us into pointless conversations when other people might really need our help. No, actually…just don’t do it because it’s annoying and we have to pretend to care.

4. Impatience.

No…let’s call a spade a spade: Rudeness. In what universe is it okay to be impatient, nay, rude to someone who is sincerely trying to help? A patron who is already in a bad mood will often find any way to misconstrue a librarian’s genuine mistake into a deliberate attempt to sabotage them. You may be having a crappy day but please don’t project your hostility on to me. And if you threaten to talk to my supervisors? Be my guest. They don’t tolerate a bully either.

5. Waiters.

Not food servers. People who wait at the desk without ringing the bell. I try to stay at the desk as much as I can. I really do. My job is to be available to answer questions when they come. But sometimes something pulls me out into the stacks and I may not notice you standing there, pursing your lips and tapping your fingers impatiently until I’m on my way back again. Ring the damn bell.

6. Babysitting.

I am not responsible for providing your child with pens and an unlimited supply of paper while you play on the computer. If you bring your kids to the library, take them out of the kids section and expect them to be patient while you do your thing, you better provide your own distractions. My job description does not include making paper airplanes, cutting snowflakes or making sure your kid is not disrupting everyone else who’s trying to study. Believe it or not, I don’t think your kids are as cute as you think they are. And if I catch them pulling books off the shelves with reckless abandon, I will hunt you down and kill you. (I should just note here that children are some of the best public library patrons, usually polite, and delightful in almost every way.)

7. Pornography.

There’s a little thing called the Child Internet Protection Act that not only makes it a bad idea to look at porn in a public library, but illegal. Are you so pathetic that you can’t wait to look at this at home? Or on your own computer? You don’t have one? Not my problem.

8. “Is it clean?”

Here in Happy Valley we get this question a lot, especially down in the movie section. Probably this question shouldn’t bother me, but it does. Who am I to be the arbiter between you and what media may or may not be “clean?” And how am I to even know what your standards are? Don’t assume that I know what you mean. Moral standards may be important to you—and to me too! But don’t assume that I too consider a movie with one or two swears in it to be “unclean.” I don't let the MPAA dictate what I do or don't watch.

9. Complaining.

Bad and annoying things happen in libraries. They do. Sometimes other patrons are inconsiderate. Sometimes things are too hard to find. Offer a suggestion. Fill out a form if you must. But I, the person at the desk, am but a peon in the library hierarchy. All I have the power to do is to pass along your suggestions to the Powers that Be. But if you offer them in the spirit of complaint—or entitlement--I may be less inclined to do so.

10. Indecisive reader.

One of my duties is to advise people in the choice of a novel, and while this is often challenging, you can have some fun with it as a librarian. But for some patrons, nothing I suggest is good enough. The one book they’ve read in their entire life is Twilight by Stephenie Meier and they want to read something exactly like that. Exactly. Newsflash: (Do I even need to say this?) NO TWO BOOKS ARE EXACTLY ALIKE. All I can do is offer suggestions based on a brief discussion with you about your tastes and some books you’ve read that you liked. It’s hard enough recommending books to people you’ve known your whole life. I can only do so much for a total stranger. And another thing. Do yourself a favor and branch out a little.

I love my job. I really, really enjoy helping people. There is pretty awesome satisfaction in helping someone achieve something, whether that be finding a book or creating a document or leaving with an armful of fantastic movies. But don’t be a bad patron, because then I will have to hate you. And that would be sad.

Injustice, Improvement, and an Effort to Ignore the One and Embrace the Other

Week after week, I've been sitting in church quietly reflecting about my week and feeling out all the little pockets of bad feeling still left in the pit of my stomach. And usually the things I feel the worst about--or the things I feel anything about still--are the times when I let my flash response of anger get the better of me. I was sitting in church just over a week ago thinking about this very thing. I let myself think about something unjust that had happened to me months ago--months-- and I felt myself getting angrier and angrier about a situation that was long past.

And then I thought, "I'm better than this. And what's more, I have control over who I am and what I do." I made a resolution that day that I was going to control my outward response to things. I may not be to the point where I can control how I feel, but I can control what I do about it, and that in turn will help my feelings change. My goal was to take things a week at a time.

I should know by now that whenever I make a goal to self-improve, temptations, trials--whatever you want to call them--inevitably pop out of the woodwork. Last week was one of the most upsetting weeks for me at work, to date. Without going into specifics, I'll just say that something I said was misconstrued and there were repercussions. No, I did not get in "trouble" per se. But it was one of those times where I felt like I should have known better than to do something--in fact, deep down I did know better--and yet I did it anyway. I'm not used to feeling like an idiot, so when I feel like one, it's extremely upsetting. I have always been outspoken and impulsive, a bad combination. And a tendency toward hypersensitivity doesn't help either.

Even now. Even now, I want to stand on the rooftops and defend myself! Explain myself! And to my sister (who is my coworker) and my husband, I did plenty. But my small triumph this week was that, at work, I was able to respond to the situation in what I thought was a mature way. I wasn't perfect. I don't believe I was totally able to mask my upsetness, but I tried. I may not have swallowed everything, but I swallowed a lot.

It's a start.

Now, I have to learn to forgive my own and others imperfections. Life really isn't fair, and those who live it expecting it to be are in for a lot of frustration.

Starcraft II

Travis bought this about three weeks ago while I was in Alabama for my three-day library school orientation. It was sitting on his desk when I came home. My first reaction was, "You blew 60 bucks on a computer game? At the beginning of the school year??"

Fast forward to yesterday. I spent two hours (maybe a little longer) playing three levels of a campaign. That's right. And it was fun.

Years ago, my brother-in-law introduced me to Warcraft II, and I loved it. I loved building farms, mining gold, chopping down forests, and amassing huge armies. I loved my birds-eye view of the world and my omnipotent command. It wasn't exactly that I grew out of Warcraft--rather, our computer software at home grew out of it. We became Mac people, and WC just kind of faded away. Nobody really noticed. Not even me.

Something about the presence of Starcraft, the shiny newest version of the old Warcraft (there was an older Starcraft even) must have awakened in me my former love. Hence yesterday. But in reliving my childhood I made a couple of mistakes: 1) I played too long. 2) I played too close to bedtime.

Right before bed last night, I was involved in a mission where I had to get seven convoys of colonists off the planet before the Zerg picked them all off. I was having to balance the training of troops and the position of bunkers and the mining of minerals, etc. Meanwhile, the Zerg just kept coming and coming and one of the convoys was destroyed and most of the colonists got picked off, and Travis was watching over my shoulder telling me to do this and that, and....I won the mission. But barely. It was tense.

Then we went to bed, and I felt asleep right away. But the mission carried on. My mind kept playing and replaying certain scenarios, figuring out what I had done wrong and what I could do better. I built more bunkers and positioned them more strategically. I mined minerals more efficiently. I trained a better ratio of marines to medics. Still, the Zerg kept barreling in from outer space, burying their huge bulbous bodies into the planet's surface and releasing their disgusting, slimy spawn! (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, that's a good thing.) I kept losing! But I kept fighting, and worse, I kept replaying that damn scenario over and over in my mind!



Finally at 2:30 a.m. I clawed my way out of sleep, having figured out that I was dreaming, and demanded that my brain STOP thinking about Starcraft. It was ridiculous! And it took a good little while to get that broken record of a dream to stop playing in my mind.

Lesson learned: don't play Starcraft right before bedtime. Or ever. (Not likely. ;)