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