Math Trauma: This post is shockingly void of hyperbole but you'd never believe it

To say that I am bad at math is one of the most severe understatements of modern times. The statement, "Libby is bad at math" is less true than if one were to say, "Biff is indifferent towards manure."

Are you following me? I'm not good at it and I don't like that. Even on my very best days I am hypersensitive to the failure. My brains completely reject any math that is more complicated than what it takes to keep a running tally of the price of things in my grocery cart (and even though I'm rounding up to the nearest dollar, I'm still a little surprised every time I hear my total so obvi I'm no genius even in that department). For some perspective aside from my own opinion, I will tell you that I took Algebra I three times in my college career. I failed it twice (the second and third times, I had a tutor) and the third time, my professor passed me (just barely) because he could see how hard I was trying and he knew that I needed to graduate and couldn't really afford to take this class another time. I did all of my homework. I participated in class as much as humanly possible and I bombed every friggin exam without fail. Well, that's not entirely true. Once I got a C on a test and I had a celebratory cinnamon ice cream waffle at lunch time. Brandon, my tutor/ friend, was clearly not terribly impressed but he also knew how hard I had to work for that grade so while it was probably sort of a personal fail for him, he hugged me and said "that is so great!"

Side note about people who are really good at math: People who are good at math have a pretty bearable tolerance for other people who are okay or alright at math. But, then, when it comes time for a mathy person to talk to me about this subject, I do a lot of blank staring because my brain is entering into a land littered with years of shame and embarrassment while everyone else seems to navigate freely as if on a unicycle through fields of poppies and rainbows. Math Friendly person gets really frustrated really quickly. They feel like they're feeding me super obvious answers but I'm still staring blankly trying to figure out the question--I haven't even moved on to the answer, yet. I can cry much too easily when I'm in the thick of a problem. It's uncontrollable and it's incredibly childish. This does not help the shame and embarrassment. This is why Brandon was a good tutor--his patience was infinite and his hair was curly and he was my friend. Brandon is not reading this--but if he happened to, I'd like to say thanks for not shaming me further. A rose among thorns, sir, a rose among thorns.

Sometimes at my job I have to do math. It's not terribly complex math but for a girl like me--it is a sort of kryptonite. Just knowing that I have to do it gets my mind all frustrated and panicky (you'll be happy to know that according to auto-spell check, "panicky" is totally a word) and I have to actively push it aside to make room to actually do what I need to do. It's a constant struggle. There are so many things to remember and other things to take into consideration and don't forget about the extra stuff and if you don't subtract the whatsit then it will all be ruined and you'll be fired. No pressure! (Okay, I won't be fired--probably--but there could potentially be repercussions that make everyone's life seriously inconvenient and I don't want to be the cause of that for anyone.)

After a particularly frustrating time at work, sincerely pouring myself into figuring out a problem (after all this is my job, it's not some prerequisite for graduation), I was on the brink of tears and I had to take a break. I needed to get out of there. It should be noted that the frustration lasted the duration of my shift and I did unexpectedly break into tears more than a few times. I went to the break room and I had a cup of coffee and peeled more oranges than I had intended to eat and I was thinking about the fourth grade.

In the fourth grade I had a sweet teacher. She was the kind of person that was so happy that it made you nervous. You know exactly what I'm talking about. One day, she didn't speak a word to us and we weren't allowed to speak to one another, either... (you have no idea where I'm going with this) singing was the only form of communication that was allowed for an entire day. Even as a child, I knew that her heavy make up and ultra cheery voice masked something sinister.

Math was her most favorite subject. English was fine. History was okay. But math was her forte and she let everyone know it. She wrote songs and raps (90's kid) to help us remember our times tables. I worked so hard, even at home. I would quiz myself with flashcards all night long. Ones were easy, 2's were pud, 3's were a little more difficult but not impossible, fours weren't that difficult but I used my fingers a lot, anyone's puppy can count by 5's. And then there were the dreaded 6's. (Honestly, as an adult, do you know anyone who can instinctively count by sixes?) By this point I had already been moved into the section of the class with the other kids who were not terribly bright in this department. Many of those children were oral retentive. But, regardless, we all had to learn it. Our teacher was going around the room and we were counting by 6's. The first kid said "6", the next kid said "12", the next kid said "18". It all went in a lovely rhythm. I threw off that rhythm. When it came to me, I just stared. I didn't know. I couldn't count by 6's and I couldn't add it in my head fast enough to keep up. I'm going to borrow a drawing from Allie Brosh's Drunk Post back in October to give you a visual that closely resembles what I probably looked like. It was like this:
My teacher was fine. She knows we all struggle. But she was a little bit irked that the groove had been interrupted. So they went around the room again and other kids had some troubles. Sixes are hard. My turn was coming up, the kid in front of me didn't know the answer right away and neither did the girl that came before him. Then it was my turn again and the anxiety was in full force (I've told you, before, about what a delicate child I was, right?). I didn't know. I was confused. There was too much pressure for me to think clearly. I said, "...I don't know." And my sweet, darling teacher lost her mind. Quite. Literally. Her hands were resting on an empty desk which she grasped tightly and swung against the cinderblock wall. I distinctly remember her yelling, "You guys should know this by now!!"

I don't have any idea what my face might have done at that point but I do remember that my teacher smoothed her denim skirt, delegated that Nicholas King was going to be in charge for a little bit, and excused herself. The principle took over for the rest of the day, I was excused to the library to sit in the beanbag chairs and read picture books and our teacher didn't come back for at least three weeks.

So... I wonder where all that math anxiety stems from?

Love, Libby

Mildly Unrelated Post Script, the following is a text conversation between my friend Katie and myself:
Libby: I cried pretty much all day. ABOUT MATH. If you think that wasn't PMS induced, you're delusional. Now I'm blogging about it. ... That crap. It's so sneaky. It slithers in under the cover of legitimate stress and then KABLOWIE!! Unreasonable shrapnel everywhere. Few survivors.
Katie: It's a war zone. In my pants.
Libby: I'm going to post that on the internet.

After I posted this, all the ads on my side bar are for things like the Oral B tongue cleaner. What Google must think of me...

Dear Libby, In a previous blog, you wrote about kissing with tongues. Do people really do that? How do they do that? Signed, Seriously

Well, Seriously, I'm going to go ahead and address your question as though it was a legitimate one even though I'm fairly confident that, despite your name, you are travestying. Why? Because there are people in the world who really do wonder about that part. Some people don't really give it much thought--but they should. And with that, I'll just provide you with the words of the delightfully precise and inarguable advice of one John Green in a short excerpt from his award-winning novel, Paper Towns*.

" 'As far as I can tell, there are two basic rules: 1. Don't bite anything without permission, and 2. The human tongue is like wasabi: it's very powerful, and should be used sparingly.' "

So, there. That's about it. I hope that helps.
That's the only question that anyone asked me, but this is a very short post and so I'll leave you with some unsolicited advice in the form of a footnote.

Have a similar, sticky social situation? Comment, email, Facebook, whathave you. I'll get to it. It would be helpful if you would clarify how many times you'd like me to incorporate the F word into my answer. Just so I know what I'm working with, here.

*If you're ever thinking, "I wish I had something to read. But I'm not, like, in a Crime and Punishment sort of mood because who has the time and brain capacity for sorting out all of those names, let alone following kind of a convoluted plot line." I'm going to tell you that you should read Paper Towns. The first time that I read it, it took about two days. Mind you, it was a weekend in which I had absolutely zero commitments and after the prologue I was hooked. "Margo always loved mysteries. And in everything that came afterward, I could never stop thinking that maybe she loved mysteries so much that she became one." I mean, is there a better way to end a prologue? Basically, what he did here was say, "The story to follow is going to be really great and I know I've already got you under my thumb so just keep reading, you bastard." Only John Green is a pretty nice guy, as far as I can tell, and he probably wasn't thinking that at all.
More than just being a fun story to read, I loved Paper Towns because it (along with most of his other books) echos the deepest cry of my very soul. I know that sounded really dramatic but if there's a more reasonable metaphor, I haven't thought of it yet. The point being that people are people. Complex creatures. Everyone is. Pretty, young, rich, suburban girls are complex beings. Meth-addicted bedraggled old men in rural Montana are complex beings. Everyone has a story. Everyone wants something. Everyone loves something.
The second time that I read it, it took me about three months because I ate it in very short, acute spurts and took notes throughout on his writing style because, man, if that guy doesn't know how to push along a story with intention and fury and flair, then I don't know what he can do. If I could do that even a little bit, even to a fraction of the degree that he can, even if it's all complete mimicry, then I'll have written one great story. One that I'll equally hope to God that he never read but will also totally read so that we can be friends.

PS I got that photo from here, it's cool. There are lots of creepy/ awesome pics used to advertise Wasabi Chips.

Confused in Cleveland (but not really in Cleveland)

Oh Wise One,
How do you give a close friend frank advice, but keep it kind at the same time? I.e. "You're smothering everybody. If I hear your voice say one more syllable, my ears will spontaneously combust. Also, stop crying." but I want to say it in a KIND way.
Sincerely, Confused in Cleveland (but not really in Cleveland)

Cleveland,
I'm going to put aside all of the insecurities and ideas that tell me that you're doing a terribly humiliating thing to me by choosing my own blog as means to tell me that I'm annoying and cry too much and that's why you've been so distant lately. Because, I mean everyone's got a little passive-aggressive in them but you're a nice girl. That's why you're asking this question--about someone that's not me. I continue.

The answer to your question is threefold. Actually, it's not, but it will come to you in three different parts, I just really wanted to use the word "threefold". The three parts are these:
A. Advice that will make you a better person and give you all sorts of things to pat yourself on the back about.
B. What I would, realistically, probably do.
C. Real talk.
Let's get to it!

A. Now, firstly, Dear Reader, (so many commas) I would encourage you to invest in some reflection time. Try to view your friend as a beautiful, complex, insecure creation just like yourself. This person is not trying to come across as needy or disgustingly annoying, she's clearly going through some stuff right now and could use a little extra room in which to heal. On the other side of the coin, this could just be her personality and as her friend, you have taken an unwritten oath to be a place for freedom of expression without judgment. Work on that and feel good about yourself.
You like that? Complete bull.

B. Here's how I would realistically handle this situation (not ideal advice). I'd get super irritated with my friend and then pretend to fall asleep while she's at my house (I'm just guessing that Friend is a lady because... just because) regardless of the time. That's how I get people to leave, I just fake the narcolepsy. Later, I'll probably text all of our mutual friends and be like, "Oh mah gaw! Soandso is so friggin' annoyz-uh!" And they'd be like, "I know, right?!" And we'll completely tear her to shreds for a while until one of two things happen. She'll realize that we're all bitches and then she'll leave, which would be smart of her. OR I'll start to feel really guilty and then start talking about all of her admirable qualities and then realize how much I really do like her and we'll be friends again until someone has a period and the cycle starts again. Cycles and cycles are absolutely not unrelated and this should always be taken into consideration when you're going through a particularly bad "I friggin can't stand you" time.

C. Real talk. Truthfully, your role in this is relative to your relationship to the other person. If this is someone that you don't know all that well and rarely spend time with (or if this person is your co-worker), all you can really do is chock it up to personality clashes and grin and bear it as much as humanly possible. Sometimes that might mean coming up with work to do in another area or faking an asthma attack in a bowling alley but you gotsta do what you gotsta do, you know?
But if this person is a for-real friend to whom you really have taken kind of an unspoken for-better-or-worse-unless-it's-like-real-bad-and-in-that-case-thank-God-this-was-all-unspoken commitment, then you probably do have to say something. Try to say it in a way that says, "Hey you have super cool qualities and now you're being a little psycho and everyone is scared." Tone it down. Next time that your friend starts shamelessly stealing attention/ correcting everyone's pronunciation of Italian foods/ crying in a big, girl heap try taking her aside and saying, "Hey, you're usually super cool but tonight you're coming on a little strong. That's a little out of character, is everything alright?" And if everything's alright, then hopefully she'll take the hint and dial it back. But if everything's not right, you'll have to actually listen to what's not alright. At another time. When you can give her your full attention because what she's really looking for, when you get down to it, is some genuine attention.

Maybe. Who knows?

Signed, Oh Wise One

Have a similar, sticky social situation? Comment, email, facebook, whathave you. I'll get to it.

I Need a Sexy Advice Columnist Name

These things are all very unrelated, but they couldn't go unsaid another day:


1. Yesterday while I was at work, I was browsing some stuff and came across a 110 page document about how to be a better writer. Granted, it was about business writing--which I am only about 8% interested in but sometimes on those rare days when there is absolutely nothing else to do except for that one thing that everyone hates, hates, hates to do (and so no one ever does it and so, in all actuality it probably really needs to be done), then you settle for 8% interest.
I'm always really self-consious about the emails that I send at work. They're, if you ask me, just not super professional. I don't know how to speak in a businessy way. Here's an example of how an ordinary work email would read:

To: Co-worker
Cc: Everyone else
Subject: Paper
Time: 12:04:45
Hey everyone! So, I was like printing some stuff, you know? And then the printer was all "oh man, I'm so out of paper--feed me!" and then it just occured to me that I don't know where the paper is at! LOLZ I looked EVERYWHERE and I can't find it and I'm all Street Car Named Desire up in here like, "Hey, PAPER!" And I don't know where it's at. So that's why the printer's out of paper.

To: Everyone
Cc:
Subject: Re: Paper
Time: 12:10:23
Found it.

Naturally, you can see how I'd like to remedy that. I want people to think I'm smart and capable and not, you know, a raving lunatic. So I'm reading this document but it ticked me off after a few pages so I stopped reading. It's like, "don't use big words because there are always little words that will work instead and everyone understands the little words." And they gave you this little dinglewhatsie to remember to dumb down your speech: Don't utilize "utilize" when you can use "use". And... frankly, I'd rather ramble on about Stanley and Stella and make myself look like a moron than talk to any of my co-workers like they are one.
When I worked at South Dakota State University, I was always talking to them about how they used jargon that other people can't relate to at all. You know how your office has a bunch of stuff that only you and your coworkers understand but if you took that kind of talk outside of your place of business, you'd kind of have to change the way you said stuff so that any layman could understand it? Yeah, well, they did that a lot. And I was in charge of the writing part of the department and at meetings I'd say, "We really need to work on using a more approachable vernacular if we're going to get anyone excited about what's going on here in our department." And finally one day, in front of all of my co-workers, my boss (who had a freakin' doctorate) said, "I know you're just out of college but you don't have to use such fancy words just to impress us. No one knows what that means." Aside from being totally ironic--that was mean and she made me feel very, very small just because she had to look up the word "vernacular". But, seriously, I guess there are other ways to say what I meant to say but those are the words that just popped out of my mouth. I guess I'm just a natural genius (relatively speaking).
That didn't really flow together very nicely but I'm done talking about workplace language.

2. It is freezing in my apartment. It's 59 degrees. Sure, all of the windows are open and I could close them. But I'd rather freeze and be happy with the pure, unadulterated spring time than go back to my stuffed up existence that I've been living in since, oh, October.

3. One day, when I was too young to be reading Seventeen Magazine, I was found that very publication in the Stafford Public Library and that was the day that I got a taste for advice columns. And in Seventeen Magazine there are a'plenty. At least there were, I haven't exactly picked up that publication in a while. Everyone's writing in saying stuff like, "My mom doesn't like my boyfriend and he wants us to run away as soon as I turn 18 but I think that maybe I want to go to college and become a marine biologist but he's so cute. Help!" or, "I'm 15 and I'm a virgin. Is that weird?!" or, "I'm confused, how to you kiss with a tongue?" (Some variation of that last question is an actual question that I remember reading. I. Was. Intrigued.)
From then on, I was hooked. I would find advice columns anywhere I could, this was back in the 90's when the interwebz wasn't so readily available. I started reading the paper. I loved Dear Abby and Miss Manners and I'd even read Heloise give hints to people who are asking questions like, "How do I get candle wax out of my great-great-great grandmother's lace table runner?" Mostly I would wonder how long those people were sitting there with waxy table runners, searching the paper every day looking for the answer to their question. And what if it never came? What if they chose someone else's question to answer? And everyone used a fake, not-even-a-name-name. It was the best.
Anyway, I wanted to be an advice columnist. I want a nice, tiny headshot of myself and three columns in which to answer the burning questions that people have. Questions that I'm absolutely not qualified to answer--but I'll give it a shot.

Seriously, leave advicey questions in the comments (they don't even have to be for reals) or if they are for reals and you're all like, super embarrassed to come out to the whole world, you can just come out to me. libbymparker (at) gmail (dot) com Dou like how I just got excited about the possibility of getting something really juicy even though we all know that's not really going to happen? That's so Libby.

I promise to take some head shots and we'll put those all together and put Dear Abby to shame. If I get enough, maybe I'll make a regular thing of it. We love regular things!!

Signed, Dreams Really Do Come True

Most of This Story Follows the Fate of a Stew

Good Monday.

Last week was completely bizarre. Due to weird sickness, I barely worked at all. When I was healthy and ready to party, the rest of the world was taking it pretty low key. You know, that's really the only time that I feel alone. It isn't when I'm all by myself but more like when I'm not vibing on the same energy as everyone else around me. Yes. Yes I did just reference "vibes" and "energy" and I did pretty much mean it considering I couldn't think of another way to say it. By Saturday I just said "forget it, I'm going to hole up in my apartment and not leave again until Monday when I have to go to work." That proved to be beneficial.

I did leave, once or twice. On Saturday it was such a gorgeous, rainy, wet day. All day long. I was up for twenty minutes before the rain started applauding on the roof. I opened all of the windows and let the smell in and started thinking of reasons to go outside. I'm not the romantic type who goes for walks in the rain but I don't mind being out in it. I don't run through the parking lots to get to the door.

Side note: My theory is this, there's a certain amount of rain that you simply will receive just by being a person in the elements. Everyone gets the same amount. People who run into the store will get the same amount of dampness, they just happen to get it faster than the girl who walks briskly with her head down.

So, I left my house. Saturday was the kind of day where you put something in the oven and leave it in there to become as delicious as possible and then when you just can't take it anymore, then you eat it. I went to the store and got the ingredients for beef stew.

Side note: as a rule, I freakin' hate beef stew. As a kid, anytime that my mom made it, I couldn't look at it without thinking "dogfoodogfoodogfood". Admittedly, as an adult, it still looks like dog food but maybe dog food is just delicious. Who knows, even? I guess dogs know. But the heart wants what it wants and who am I to question it? I just obey the whims.

While I was at the store, I rented a bunch of (read: way too many) movies (I'll probably write a post about scary movies at some point--we haven't the side note space for it here) and came home, put on my pajamas even though it was only 2:00 pm and settled in.

Then my little sister said, "Want to go to Salina and eat tacos with me and my kids?" And I looked at my pajamas and the remote in my hand and my cup of coffee and I said, "Ohhhh why not?" So I did what I said I wouldn't do. I took a shower and then I did my hair and then I mastered "Rolling In The Deep" so well on my trip there and back that I wouldn't be too afraid to attempt it at karaoke (I still talk about karaoke like I'll ever do it--nope). I did get to hang out with all those kids and it is a little overwhelming and we probably completely obliterated everyone's date-nights but we certainly reminded them about the importance of contraceptives. You know, four kids in a sit-down-restaurant is pretty much a walking, talking PSA for safe sex.

So that's how I didn't make stew for dinner on the most (and potentially only) stew-type-day of my adult life, so far. But even though Sunday was gorgeous and warm and I should have been outside, enjoying it, I watched movies instead. I watched Winter's Bone (totally ideal for the previous day's conditions and I could write a very long essay on this film from a feminist perspective but I won't because that will bore the hell out of you) and Case 39 (this time I watched the scary movie in the daytime and not alone) and the first ten minutes of Eclipse before I was sick. and. tired. of Edward Cullen's completely possessive/ obsessive nature. UGH! Teenagers and their obsessive love lives. I want to line everyone up and punch them in the throat. From Kristen Stewart all the way down to whoever provided craft services. And they will all choke out, "Why?!" And I'll say, "You know why!!"

I made stew for dinner on Sunday even though it was 82 degrees in my apartment. It was weird but it was delicious.

I'm Irish, Let's Make Out

It's sad, really, when you think about how St. Patrick's day has become so commercialized. I mean, you can get all wrapped up in the running around, buying cases and cases of Guinness, decorating your home, baking shamrock treats, consuming salted meats and Irish coffees for every meal but at the end of the day--it's just a day and you're surprisingly already hungover.

For the sad few who don't know the real reason for the season, let me enlighten you. Two thousand years ago, in a tiny town in Ireland, a leprechaun named Doug was born. He was born with orange hair, wearing a green three-piece suit. He was the world's first leprechaun. His parents were ashamed of him and blamed their premarital canoodling for this birth defect. They sent him away so that the other village people wouldn't be aware of their ghastly deeds (even though they'd all done the math anyway). But it wasn't a birth defect and it wasn't a punishment. Doug was actually a perfectly formed baby. He just happened to be a leprechaun baby.

Doug mostly wandered around Ireland, living off of shamrock shaped sugar cookies and corned beef that he found in the forest. Eventually he discovered that there exists in the world, an economy and that economy required that he have money. Being a ginger kid, there was absolutely no work for him so Doug took to pick pocketing and set up camp at the end of the rainbow. Every night Doug would drop the gold coins that he had amassed into this great big cauldron that was apparently operating as a paperweight for the rainbow. At first he was appalled at the shoddy workmanship of the planet's props department but eventually he just accepted it and embroidered a "Home Sweet Home" wall hanging.
Doug collected the coins and collected the coins but couldn't see that all of the money was making him happy. So he went into the cereal making business. He used all of the stolen money to set up a factory and pay wages for a few employees. Who knew that this small operation would one day be bought out by General Mills and be worth millions? Doug did. Because he was a stern businessman.

After forty years in the business, Doug retired and bought a mail order bride. Together Doug and Patty had no children and so that's why there aren't more leprechauns in the world. Secretly, Patty was fearful of her husband because she was raised by wolves and didn't really know about things like dinner conversation and long walks on the beach. One night she pickled his cabbage and killed him. That was how everyone learned that leprechauns are allergic to sauerkraut and besides, sauerkraut is so obviously German.

Using the money that Doug left behind, Patty paid back everyone that he'd stolen from to start his business and that's how Ireland's economy got out of the red and into the black.

And that is why we shotgun beers and make out at midnight on March 17th.

You're welcome.

Things on Which I'd Rather Spend My Money, Than a Subscription to Match.com That Will, Let's Face it, Garner the Exact Same Results; a list

Regrettable shoes: Sometimes what was intended to be sexy, self-deprecating whimsy on the internet translates into defensive, raving lunatic when it arrives at your door. What makes these shoes better than Match.com? I'm taller. And I no longer have to invest in a meat tenderizer. Two birds. One stone.

Three-pack of Fireside Reds courtesy of X Winery: Sure, it says "gift pack"--no one needs to know. This way, you can get sloppy drunk in the comfort of your own home and not have to worry about if you totally blew it. Because, the only one there to judge you is your cat. Your cat who has been judging you for the past six months, now.

The Coz-E Electric Blanket: I don't really think that this one needs too much explanation. Because, I mean, who wouldn't buy that instead of most things? Like a perfect internet boyfriend, this item is clingy in all the right ways and will turn off and on at your very command. Unlike an internet boyfriend, regret is a non-option.

A haircut at Integrity Salon: because if I'm going to pay actual money to feel good about myself, it's going to involve a mandatory hair washing and scalp massage and people saying "did you do something new?" all night.

I'm actually going to get one of these things, today. I know--you want it to be the shoes.