Paranoia Strikes

Housesitting brings out the paranoid in me, which is why I will never live by myself for an extended period of time. Last night I curled up in bed at just the right angle to keep both the door and window in my line of sight.

Every ten minutes my eyes would fly open when that Household Appliance That Makes a Noise Too Quiet to Hear in Daylight But That Becomes Exponintionally Louder at Night would go off. Then at two o'clock, I heard whimpering. I carefully opened the bedroom door, but didnt see anything. I looked down as I closed the door and saw Toby the Dog staring up at me.

I figured Toby the Dog might ease my paranoia, so I let him in. But the scaredy dog took the side of the bed nearest the wall, forcing me into the position Most Likely to be Attacked. I wasn't having that (after two more HATMNTQHDBTBELN), so I shoved him over and took the Paranoid Position by the wall. Around three o'clock I think I fell asleep.

Thank goodness I'm still getting used to the new coffeemaker and always end up with super-strength caffeine.

Staying Home Is Less Fun Than Going

I've missed a couple WBC family mission trips, but they were all because I lived in Jackson during summer break. This is the first time I'm missing one while being in Peoria. I think people assume I'm not going because I'm leaving for Mongolia next week, but that is not the case. I couldn't go to South Dakota because I am semi-contractually obligated to work 40 hours a week at the library during the Summer Reading Program.

That means I'll never get to go on a family mission trip, not while I work at the library, not while they take place June. I find this unfortunate, because the family mission trip is one of my favorite events of the year.

The only good thing so far (besides my housesitting job, and its faux independence) was the impromptu gathering outside the secret bathrooms this morning before Sunday School. The Webers, Bruce, my mom and I talked about why we weren't in SD, gave hih fives, and then...went to the bathroom. Hahaha. It's the little things.

Sweden

The other night, Emily came over, and I decided to show her some of Lady Gaga's epic music videos. When I asked if she'd heard of Alexander Skarsgard, she was blank.

Travesty! Confession time: I tried to watch True Blood because of him (but the unnecessary nudity put me off...even I have limits, strange though that may seem). Instead of watching the whole episode, I hunted for clips of him on YouTube after each episode. This might seem extreme until I reveal to you that each of his molecules are bonded together with sexy.

Anyway, that reminded me of last November, when I was visiting Fatick. I was a little nervous about reuniting with Liz, because what if our joint mind thing only worked when we were roommates, and now that she had two new ones of those, she didn't need me? Wanting to spend as much time with her as possible, I volunteered to help her carry the garbage can full of hospital waste across the courtyards to the burn pile.

As we avoided the dead beetle, I told her about my habit of giving the weight of prophecy to men who tell me predictions about my future. She sympathized, and told me that he dad had once said she would marry a Swedish man. She told me "I would to okay with that, especially..."

"Because Alexander Skarsgard is Swedish!"

"Yes, exactly! You know who he is!?"

Yes, Liz, I did. And with that, I didn't worry about our brain connection any longer.

Books are Stories Before They Are Tools

There is an adorable third grade girl who has come to each week's Monday Book Talk. She always shares what book she just finished reading, and often flips through the pages, showing me specific scenes or lines that made her laugh. She loves filling out the book review templates, and last week she even asked me for extra to take home.

This week, her mom stopped by to talk to me after our Book Talk was over. She wanted to know if her girl could distinguish the main idea of a story, and whether she ought to be reading more non-fiction, and what AR reading level she ought to aim for.

All of which I hate, hate, hate. I tried to explain, as nicely as possible, that books are meant to be enjoyed. Reducing stories to lists of themes or pigeon-holing them into incredibly narrow reading levels does no one favors. Books are entertainment, first and foremost. And entertainment should be informative. A good book will make you laugh or cry, will introduce you to a new way of thinking, will cause you to look at a moral dilemma in a new light, will put you in the shoes of someone from another lifestyle than you're used to.

I firmly believe that most fiction does just that, no matter the level, and despite the fact that it is not strictly "real." Sure, there are some real duds out there. But by and large, I think the answer to any "why can't my kid understand this yet...?" question is simply this. READ MORE!

You don't need a dictionary to learn vocabulary. You don't need a book about manners to teach you what comments will get you punched in the face. You don't need a level 5.6 book to prove that you are intelligent.

Just read, and keep reading.

This is why I never want to be a teacher. I don't want to be forced into playing by absurd rules for the sake of grants or the school's reputation. I already feel like maybe I'm a lazy libraraian. But whatever. More than I am a librarian, I am a reader, and I am a believer in the power of stories, no matter what form they may take.

Insight--I Don't Have It

I like Laura because our conversation flows from Battlestar Galactica/Torchwood to legalism to wedding receptions to God's goodness in trials to my pathetic love life.

And for the first time, I found my love life hilarious. I guess it took telling the whole story to a new person that made me see just how ridiculous it is. "Well, there was this guy. We hung out all the time and I thought he liked me. Then he started dated someone else. Then there was another guy, and he totally flirted with me. But he confided that he was still in love with his ex-girlfriend. And then I met a perfect boy who colored me a picture, but then I facebooked him and he is engaged. Repeat x5."

It's official, y'all. I cannot read guys.

And you know what? That's really funny. And that is why I so enjoy that encounter with the cute boy on Monday. I pointed him out to Mom, and told her that he had said he hoped he'd see me again sometime. She raised her eyebrows and said maybe that meant he liked me. I crazy-smiled, then we both burst out laughing, because who the heck knows!? Not me. I am not a reliable narrator.

Romance is a mystery, and I not a detective.

Being a Fred

As a librarian, I recommend books to a lot of people. And since good conversations involve give and take, I also receive a lot of book recommendations. Way more than I could ever read, but I always act polite and say everything sounds very interesting.

Last week Jenna came in and told me about a book called The Fred Factor. I did my normal polite thing, and a few minutes later one of the desk workers brought me the book because Jenna had given them my name after returning it. I was stuck now.

Thank goodness! It is excellent! It's a little baby book about living life positively. It's largely concerned with business, but the principles it discusses apply to all areas of life.

After working at the library for a year, I've gotten pretty stale. My innovative ideas have dried up. Where once I stopped to put series in order on the shelves, I now leave out-of-place books littered around. But no more (for as long as I remember this lesson)! I will be a Fred!

A girl came up for her Summer Reding prize with the title of the book she'd just returned, but not the author. Normally I would just say it didn't matter and give her the prize anyway. But after reading Fred Factor, I wanted to go above and beyond. So I went to the drop box wi her, found the author's name a couple pages in, and held the book while she painstakingly copied it down. As we headed back to the prize table, we passed her mom, who whispered, "Thank you" like it was some kind of big deal.

And maybe it is a big deal. How often do I take the time to get up and really help someone instead of just helping them in the way that is most convenient to me? I like being proactive and overly helpful. I hope it lasts.

Hurray! I've fallen in love! Again.

The old director of the library stopped by my office because she'd already introduced her visiting family members to my mother. They were about to move on when she paused. "Oh, Kyle, she lived in Africa just like you did."

Cue tall adorable blond. "Are those pictures?" he asked. "Mind if I step in and look at them?"

No, not at all.

Turns out we're the same age. When he graduated last spring, he wanted to live somewhere else. So he freaking moved to Nairobi and started a company. I'm sorry, WHAT!? It was about that point I was ready to propose marriage. But we talked a bit longer, about Mongolia and stuff. He has the best, most ridiculous smile. I felt like we were fighting for the title of Smile That Shows the Highest Number of Teeth, and he was wiping the floor with me.

Two bad he returns to Nairobi in two weeks. Too bad he doesn't want a two-week old acquaintance to join him.

Stop It, Eyeballs!

My word. I've just finished watching the second season finale of Doctor Who, and I've never cried at a television show so hard in my life. Not a exaggeration. I think season seven of Buffy held the title before this, but it doesn't even compare.

I'm talking sobbing through the last eight minutes of the show, shuddering gasps and puffy red eyes included. The only other time I've cried that hard at media was when watching Return of the King for the first time.

It's not hard to understand why I was reduced to a puddle of emotion. Rose is gone. At the start of the series, she was brought into a beautiful and awe-inspiring life of travel and adventure. She was willing to give up everything for it. People told her she was stupid, and they begged her to return home. Even the Doctor tried to send her away for her own safety. But she refused time and again. She knew what she wanted, and that was to stay with the Doctor.

I was prepared for Rose to die in this finale, because I knew it was her last episode. But to live on, cut off from the Doctor and forced to return to the normalcy of a job and family and one location? I CAN'T HANDLE IT. I would rather she had died a hero's death than this. This is far more tragic.

Over-identify much? I know, I know.

THIS STUPID TV SHOW. WHY ARE YOU SO AWFUL!?

Here Comes the Bridesmaid!

I don't even have to be lonely anymore, because I have Doctor Who! And it's not antisocial or anything, because I then spend eight hours the next day discussing what I watched with Laura. (Also we talk about Battlestar Galactica, which I lent her.) It's so nice to get my social quota of the day at work, so now I don't have to force my way into people's homes. I can wait for them to invite me like a normal person.

Speaking of normal people things, my friend is getting married, which I've already talked about. But Ashley called today to officially ask me to be a bridesmaid. I kind of view bridesmaid hood as the adult version of a BFF necklace. It's pretty fantastic.

I love hearing Ashley talk about Stephen, because she is the most unromatic person I know. Yet she spouts off these cliched ideas like, "I knew I was going to marry him before I dated him" and "he makes me a better person." But she says them with a straight voice, because they aren't exaggeration, they are fact.

I have thought I was going to marry a person before dating them, and I have thought that a person brings out the best in me. This is why I don't deserve romance. My poor husband will be the last in a long line of fantasies and romantic gestures and forever ideas. But Ashley? She never thought she would feel that way, and now she does, without any frills or self-made deceptions.

I kind of envy my Ashley Pashley. I wish I were like her.

Distracted by Jesus

The past couple nights, in an attempt to dwell in faith despite doubts (insert clearer concept from O Me Of Little Faith here), I've been writing out Ephesians. I was doing the second half of chapter one just now, and first, I love love love verse 17.

"I keep asking that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the glorious Father, may give you the Spirit of wisdom and revelation, so that you may know him better."

Yes please!

And then Paul goes on to describe how knowing God benefits us, and it's all very nice and enticing, but he gets totally sidetracked when he talks about Jesus. First Jesus is just an example to illustrate Paul's point, but then he takes three verses to talk about how awesome Jesus is, and he doesn't actually get back to his original point--us.

And that's how it should be, yeah? Forgetting ourselves in the presence, or mere mention, of our Lord Jesus Christ. I want to know him so intimately that of course, I do the same.

Joy vs. Happiness

At work, Laura said something about studying the difference between happiness and joy. And that made me realize that I have been putting way too much stock in happiness (or lack thereof) lately.

I am tired of being in one place. I want to travel, see new things, and have new adventures. I want some relationships to deepen, but they aren't. I don't care about others, and they are. I want a friend who chooses me, who needs me most. I'm tired of wanting that kind of relationship with someone whose first priority is family or husband or boyfriend.

I have let my unhappiness affect my spiritual life. And now that things are turning up (Mongolia! Not to mention a sudden spat of new friends and reunited old friends), I worry that I will now let my happiness dictate my relationship with God. It will be better, yes. Until the next time I get unhappy.

How do I break out of this cycle? How do I find joy? How do I live in joy instead of happiness? How do I find contentment in God alone?

I have a feeing the answer is some crappy "keep living and experiencing life!" absurd but true statement. But I don't want to wait. I want to be content now. I want to glorify God now. Why should He wait for me to get my act together?

Technology Ruins My Life

Last week I bought an iPad for traveling. I was all excited to sync to my computer and get my music working. And then DISASTER. Turns out you have to have Snow Leopard to sync with an iPad, not old Tiger like I've got. And yes, that was in the fine print, but did I read it? Psh. No.

But this was an opportunity for growth and development! So I ordered Snow Leopard and it came today. I started it up, but a few minutes into installing, it said the necessary parts weren't there to do it properly. So did I ask for Apple help? No, because I am a stereotypical man.

I put my latest pictures and movies on my external hard drive and wiped my computer. At the time, things like Word and my interwebs favorites didnt seem like a big deal. But then I reinstalled Tiger as if it were fresh from the store. And then put in my Snow Leopard disk. AND IT STILL WON'T INSTALL. All was a waste! I should have left it alone! IS IS ANNOYING and I hate technology and I hate my pride that makes me think i can solve it, and I hate the time it is going go take to get everything back the way it was. Tomorrow.

Stupid iPad. You ruin everything. Except for how you are awesome.

Unification Through Fellowship

Jim Donahue preached this morning, and I got to talk to him a bit after service. I like reuniting with people who knew me in childhood, especially in light of my last post. He said he likes to look at my Facebook pictures because "it's like you have no brain cells."

I see his point. Then he burst out, "And it's so weird because you used to be SO QUIET!". I'm glad he thinks I'm goofy now. He also said he thought I would make a great foreign missionary (his own suggestion, without knowing my own plans). Since I have this thing where men in authority seem like they are speaking Words from Heaven in situations like that, it was pretty cool.

Then tonight, Jonathan preached at Sommer Park. I really like having different pastors. Nothing against Joel-I love his sermons. But I really liked that Northbrook had four different pastors on a rotating schedule. It's good to hear different people talk about God and what He is teaching them I think. And anyway, I don't think the singular pastor is necessarily a biblical standard.

And Summer Sundays! I love them so much! It's like the family mission trip, but shorter, which is really nice for me this year since I can't go to South Dakota. It's just so nice to hang out with church people outside of church. Singing hymns without instruments, cooking hotdogs around a fire, and going on a hayrack ride-those are just things you don't normally experience inside a church building.

Because of this evening, I know more clearly who sings off-key, which I love. (People who sing loudly off-key are always better than. Anyone who sings quietly, good or bad. Shyness has no place in worshipping God, and those uninhibited tone deaf people remind me of that.). I also learned that Nathan is a brilliant hot dog cooker. Who knew you could just lean the stick against the log and LEAVE IT THERE!? He's revolutionized my cookout skills. And I learned that if I ever crash in the Andes with Mary Ellen, she will eat me.

Jonathan preached on unity within the body of Christ, which is a huge other topic that I might go into sometime, but here's how it applies now. I think it's a lot easier to love and promote peace and out other people first when you hang out with them often, in different places and different situations.

I feel more unified, anyway.

Insecurities

Twice in the past couple weeks, Wendy has said something self-deprecating about herself, then said, "Not that you worry about that."

Excuse me for a moment.  ...HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

I am basically a walking ball of insecurities held together by super strength self-consciousness.  I am acutely aware of (what I think) people are thinking of me.  I have definitely matured in some ways.  For instance, I know that people are not staring at my zit or my frizzy hair the way I assume they are.  And I know that if they are, they are probably thinking, "oh thank goodness, she has crazy hair/zits!  SO DO I!" while I'm not noticing their frizzy hair or zits, so.

But even though I don't freak out about that as much, I'm still bound by these stupid thoughts of, "Was I funny?  Why did no one laugh?  Was that a pity laugh?  Should I cross my legs now?  Is that making my thigh fat stick out?  I should suck in my stomach!  Do they think I'm spacing out and not listening to them?  I should widen my eyes and nod."

Sometimes I think my life is just one big performance, and it is kind of exhausting. 

When I was in my angsty teenage poetry stage, I wrote a poem about wearing masks.  That is still the case, though I've chosen just one that I wear most of the time in public:  One in which I'm confident and breezy and always happy.  I think I hope that if I pretend to be that way often enough, it will really become who I am.

Sleeping Drama in a Mongolian Guesthouse

I've heard from Gany, and she has found me a hostel called a guest house, which I think sounds a lot less slasher horror flick. There is a $25 a night private room, but I think that would make me feel like a snob. And then there is a $10 a night room with four beds. This could be awesome!

All my ideas of traveling solo involve making awesome friends, going out for a spot of drinking, mingling with locals, and laughing in the streets. I could make friends at the guest house!

But what if that means manly men would share the room? I have been conditioned to always expect the worst of men, because all they are out for is The Sex. I do not wish to be gang raped while in Mongolia (OR ANYWHERE ELSE FOR THAT MATTER). And of course, that is the logical consequence of sharing a room with a strange man. Or three strange men!

Anyway, I'm mostly being obnoxious (though that was my actual, not even lying fear), because I've already emailed the guest house and they said there is an all-woman room. Bring on the epic friendship adventures!

Forced Affection

When I was little, my grandma let me drink the last bit of coffee from her mug. I didn't like it, but I associated it with something special. I wanted to like it, so years later, when I was old enough to dictate my own beverage choices, I frequently drank coffee. It took a long time before I actually enjoyed it, but I kept drinking it until I did. Now I love it.

A couple years ago, Chacos were popular sandals for the outdoorsy, hipster type. I thought they were hideous. The two of my friends got them, and they loved them super a lot. I decked to love them too, so I bought a pair and wore them every day in Senegal. Now they're my favorite.

Many people on the interwebs who like the things that I like mention Dr. Who as something awesome. Laura, my new friend at work, loves it. She leant me the first season (of the new series), and I've watched the first two episodes. My word, the camp! It is so cheesy, and the special effects are not so special. I wouldn't give it the time of day were it not for the fact that I really want to like it. And I have no doubt that I will.

Is this ability to force myself into liking things a valuable skill or a form of self-deception? I rather think it's of the good. Without it, I wouldn't start my day with a warm cup of French-pressed coffee goodness.