Joie de quote.

"blue skies are coming...

but I know that it's hard."

-noah and the whale

(via sullenbluesky)

Fro-Yo: Why I Love America

One of my friends always likes to tell the story of her mom on a diet. "We were at a restaurant, eating typical diner breakfast type stuff, and my mom was sitting there with her cottage cheese, making yummy noises over it and saying how delicious it was. She wasn't fooling anyone. It was cottage cheese... not a pancake."

I'm not the type of person who makes yummy noises over cottage cheese. I don't jump up and down saying, "Another helping of kale? Don't mind if I do!" I'll eat your fruits and vegetables, USDA. But I'm not going to like it.

With one notable exception: FRO-YO! I can't even type FRO-YO! without conveying my excitement over the stuff. It's sweet, it's delicious, it's the bomb-dot-com. So a few weeks back when I noticed a little shop called Yogurt Planet tucked away underneath the Yuppie McTrendy Apartments in my neighborhood, I accidentally veered a little into oncoming traffic. As I moved safely back into my lane, all I could think was please, don't let this be a chain.

Not only does Yogurt Planet free me from hipster guilt, it also allows me to pay by the ounce! Pay by the ounce?! Consider the power in that, my friends! As I chose between a myriad of fro-yo flavors and beheld the topping bar, I felt invincible. This is my FRO-YO! With so many choices, it was hard not to feel a little patriotic. You enjoy that communist vanilla, rest of the world!! This is my American (i.e. strawberry mango with blackberries, raspberries, and brownies) FRO-YO! In your face, Karl Marx!

I'm probably a little over-excited about this whole adventure, given the fact I chose the no-sugar added stuff. Still, anything that causes potential car accidents and jingoistic outbursts is worthy of an entry. FRO-YO!, I salute you. With my spoon.

The joy of baking

Joie de vivre:

Making muffins on a Sunday afternoon in fall.

Kindergarten comeback.

Whenever I want students to do something that might be considered juvenile at a workshop, I'll preface it by saying, "Now, I'm going to ask everyone to harness their inner kindergartner with this. Be brave. " Then, often reluctantly, the students will pick up the crayon or marker and go along with it, but make sure to roll their eyes at their friends. "She does know we're old enough to own fake ids, right?"

Truth is, like most people, I spend a good portion of my day repressing my inner kindergartner. I still am tempted by the afternoon nap. I'd prefer my mother to anyone else's company when I'm feeling ill. Pass the cookies?

Still, some things can't be repressed. My most notable childhood-turned-adult activity would probably be finger painting - I still get a little too much joy out of getting my fingers discolored. What I like about finger painting is that there are no winners or losers. Now, I'm sure a studio art major could make my crayola masterpieces look like colorful pieces of crap, but judging someone's finger painting is like kicking a puppy. Who the hell would be so cruel to even think it? Finger painting is an excellent form of release for me. For a little while, I can get relatively messy, swirl my fingers around paper, and transition out of my work day. And, as a bonus, I can decorate my fridge. Twenty years may have passed since kindergarten, but some habits are just too fun to let go of.

Joie de voicemail

"Hey Laura, um, I'm fiiiinally getting back to your call after that guilt-filled facebook message you left me, you know, publicly shaming me. That's... that's an effective tactic. Um. You'd work well with the Republican party, I think. Give me a call back when you have the time. Bye."

Proof of public shaming:

The power of a simple question.

Whenever I have a long day at work, I feel it necessary to tell everyone I know. Guess who's working ELEVEN hours today? Huh, what did you say? No, ME. I'm working ELEVEN hours. In a row! Aren't you impressed with my stamina? Holy long day, batman.

In grad school, eleven hour days are commonplace. No one raises their eyebrows and say "How many?" when you're toiling away at all hours. Now, because it garners attention, I tend to play it up. I AM STILL AT WORK AND THE EVENING NEWS IS ON.

Today was one of those exhausting days, the 2-cups-of-coffee-just-to-stay-alive type. These sort of days make me lose faith in humanity a little bit and Crabby, Crotchety Laura takes over.

To make matters more crabby, something flew into my eye while I sat waiting for the bus. Ever have something sting your eye so bad that the harder you blink the stingier it gets? Well that's what happened here. One wonky-eyed sting fest with streaming tears and everything. I kept jerking my glasses off and rubbing my eye with my sleeve (I know, I know. That doesn't help), mentally barking about what a ridiculous day I was having. C.C. Laura was irritated, and it wasn't just her eye anymore.

And then the nicest thing happened.

An older gentleman waiting with his daughter for the bus leaned over to me and said, "Are you alright, miss?" I looked at up him, one eye still wildly tearing up and said, "That might be the nicest thing anyone's asked me all day." This response confused the man who eventually turned away towards his daughter.

As I sat on the bus ride home, my one eye now bloodshot, I suddenly didn't care about my eleven-hour day. I wasn't annoyed by the disrespectful students or my email inbox. My faith in humanity had momentarily been restored. Today's joie de vivre? Strangers who care enough to ask.

Joie de poem.

:the realm of possibility || david levithan

(via loveyourchaos)

I'd scratch yours.

When I was a little girl I used to walk up to my mom or dad sitting in the living room after dinnertime and often without saying a word, I'd just sort of flop onto their lap. In my family, this strange invasion of space articulated everything - specifically, "Back scratch, please."

Let me just lay it out there - I love having my back scratched. LOVE it. I remember asking a college boyfriend to scratch my back once. He looked at me momentarily confused and then asked, "Wouldn't you rather have a back rub?"

No. No, I would not.

Back rubs are great and all, but in my book there's a clear winner. Sure, there are similarities - both you can't really effectively do by yourself, both have poor substitutes that you can pick up at a drug store for under five dollars (give me a break with the wooden hand, seriously), and both result in a milder, more sedate Laura.

But for me, a back scratch is the more primitive, loving way to make someone's day a little bit more comfortable. And isn't that all we're looking for in each other, when it comes down to it? For someone to help us feel comfortable in our own skin and to listen and respond when we say "a little to the left?"

Oh, my. I think I've just described the perfect relationship.

Everybody likes cupcakes.

As I was leaving work on Friday, a student staff member called after me, "Have a good night with your cupcake and pajamas, Laura." I smiled. The previous week I had admitted to her that Friday nights meant two things for me: pajamas by 5 pm and a cupcake from my neighborhood bakery. While it's not destined to make the seven o'clock news, Cupcake and PJ Friday is one of my favorite parts of the week.

Even in my college heyday, I was never a fully functional social animal. I think I attended one "after bar" in all four years of college, and that was only because I had a crush on a guy who I thought might be in attendance (I need something particularly compelling to keep me awake past midnight, see). Since college, my bar-hopping habits have increasingly waned. I've stopped purchasing clothes that could only be worn on the weekends and I've learned that more than three beers is usually not worth it come Saturday morning. Old and boring? Maybe. But I think I've always been this way - I just have less people to call me out on it now.

Maybe Cupcake and PJ Friday will fade into the distance after I've made more friends in Austin. Perhaps with a more bumpin' social calendar, the guys at Quacks Bakery will stop giving me that knowing glance once the door jingles upon my arrival and I walk up to the bakery case. But in the mean time, every Friday I'm rocking a cupcake and a glass of milk in some pretty ugly sweatpants. And it's awesome.

Unsolicited Advice From My Living Room Wall

"You have one new voice message"

Oh. my. god, Laura. You are the funniest person alive. I... (laughs) just got on your blog... and saw your pictures? (Laughter.) You made my day with that. Anyway, give me a call, I'll be around tonight. I might be drunk, though, if you call later... yeah, I really just want to get hammered. (Laughter.) Anyway! Love ya, dude. Talk to you later.

Facts:

A) You can receive joy from a voicemail.

B) We are all pretty lucky that we know the people that we do - myself included.

C) Some nights... you just want to get hammered.

3...2...1... (beep!)

Today's joie de vivre is the absolute genius who created photobooth on mac computers. This application is an endless source of childish entertainment for me (with a touch of narcissism thrown in for good measure). After a particularly exhausting day at work there's no better way to transition out of the office than a quick trip to the Eiffel Tower or an opportunity to squish and stretch my face to bring out a kindergarten sense of glee. I salute you, photobooth. In fact, I might just take a picture tomorrow of me saluting you in the middle of the ocean, just to prove it.

No more visitors, thanks.

Let's talk about insects for a moment. Now, I consider myself a pretty rational person. Even when upset, I can usually see two sides of a story. I can even comprehend how someone could have voted for McCain in the last election (although, under no circumstances can I wrap my head around why anyone could have been gung-ho for Palin).

Still, my rational responses come to a screeching halt at the sight of an insect. Maybe I don't hop on furniture, but spotting one sends me screeching and running towards the nearest exit. Cockroaches, as it turns out, scare me the most.

A few days ago, I met Mildred. Here I was, innocently enjoying my Tuesday evening, lounging on my couch eating sushi and watching Arrested Development for the billionth time (I literally heard my DVD sigh as I put the disc in). Mildred interrupted tranquility and scuttled toward the TV, causing me to absolutely panic. PANIC. IRRATIONAL, UNINTENTIONAL PANIC.

I think I named her to help diffuse the fear. Oh, Mildred- lost again, are we? You belong outdoors! That Mildred - always getting into shenanigans. The desensitization process, however, didn't work. It still ended with the same result: me making ill attempts to end things, growing discouraged, and heading to bed early to let Mildred have her space. Now I consider myself a pretty feminist-minded being, but I would give anything to have someone else deal (read: male) with my unwanted house guest.

Tonight, I finally brought out the big guns. Perhaps it's too preemptive to claim Raid my Joie de Vivre, but I need it (and the extra bait I bought) to work so badly, that I'm hoping this entry will put the positive/lethal vibes out in the universe and will it so.

Rest in Peace, Mildred... please?

My personal motto.

"All my mistakes have become masterpieces."
-Teitur

(photo by LinusVanPelt)

Birthday reflections.

As a child, I would almost hyperventilate over an upcoming birthday. Whether it was a McDonald's let's stack styrofoam burger boxes up real high for a game! theme or it was a pre-teen slumber party watching Edward Scissorhands (which was TOTALLY PG-13 and ohmygod, don't tell your Dad!!!), I lived for my birthdays.

I turned twenty-six today. This morning I walked into my office and sat down in front of my computer and I worked 8 hours. I talked to students about majors and careers, I prepared for some upcoming presentations, and then I logged off my computer and caught the bus home. There were no ball pits or Totally Hair Barbies wrapped in comic book paper. It felt like every other day.

Then I got home and checked my email and voicemail. I was flooded with messages from friends and family wishing me a happy birthday, letting me know that they miss me, that they hope I'm doing well in Texas. Then a co-worker picked me up and took me out to a nice dinner. We drank wine and talked about the importance of friendship. We shared stories about beginnings of relationships and our favorite "how we met" anecdotes that people begin to collect over the years like tea cups or baseball cards. I was struck by such a strong feeling of contentment, it caught me completely off guard.

At some point without even realizing when, the importance of birthdays have shifted from pomp and circumstance to reflection and humility. The people that make up my everyday are my joie de vivre. They create the stories worth telling. They help me celebrate who I am and help me aspire towards what I want to become. To me, that's a damn fine birthday present.