This one goes out to you and yours.

Turn this up while you're siting outside in the sunshine with your toes in the grass and I dare you to not just feel a little bit of joy.

Michael Franti & Spearhead - Say Hey (I Love You)

(Double click the link to download)

It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing.

Everything looks different right before you're about to leave somewhere. A detail which would have been overlooked a month ago suddenly holds much more significance now that you know its days are numbered. When everything might be the last time you get to do it, it's hard not to eulogize the experience.

When I think back to my time in Columbia and the sleepy little one-bedroom apartment I've called home for the past two years, I will likely zero in on only one memory. Surprisingly enough, it won't be the fact that I was robbed or suffered through gas leaks or broken furnaces. It won't be the fact that I've learned to take navy showers because my drain is so slow or have gotten used to the way my toilet only sort of works when it wants to. Either I'm too forgiving towards my landlord or I'm too easily pleased... but either way, the memory I leave of this place will likely be my porch swing.

Who doesn't love swinging? Fact is, I have probably at one point or another gone swinging with all of my friends, whether it was a forced activity or a mutually adored one. There's just something freeing about sticking your legs in the air and gliding back and forth, dipping your head back and seeing the world from another angle. So having one to swing upon night or day has brought me a great deal of joy. It has greeted me early in the morning while I drink a cup of coffee, and provided the backdrop for many late night conversations with friends. I've caught up with old friends while I swung back and forth and made plans with new ones with it by my side.

I know it might seem strange to wax nostalgia over a swing, but as my time in Missouri draws closer to an end and I head towards a lot of adventurous question marks, it's hard not to be sentimental about things like that.

Austin-bound.

Today's joie de vivre is....
employment.

Hook 'em Horns.

We're progressing beautifully.

Recently I was in Washington DC visiting my sister during what will probably be the final spring break of my academic career. Let's just pause for a moment in reflection and admiration for this fine vacation, shall we? Because every year, spring break saves my sanity and gives me that final jolt of energy to send me sailing towards the finish line. Rest in peace, spring break. While I never got drunk with you in Panama or arrested with you in Cancun, you sure were good to me.

Anyhow, during the day while my sister worked, my friend Rebecca and I toured the capitol, running around to all the obligatory monuments and memorials that were free and crowded by eighth graders. Meanwhile, the cherry blossoms in the city were literally blooming right before us. In the morning, they were still just tight buds hanging from the trees but almost magically by afternoon they had opened up into beautiful flowers. Everywhere you looked, trees were blossoming.

As someone who is always in search of a good analogy (and bad ones too, I'll admit), I found it particularly fitting that all this rapid-fire change was going on the same time that me and the people I care about were experiencing our own metamorphoses. It seems like every time I answer my phone or check my email nowadays, I hear about friends who are getting engaged, finding jobs, moving to new cities, or starting school again. As someone in the middle of her own job search, I'm finally about to embark on my great adult adventure. It's three parts excitement plus one part nausea. Change is in the air.

Today's joie de vivre is that good ol' friend called progress. We're all just a bunch of cherry blossoms, after all, opening up and spreading out. It's frusturating while we're still waiting to blossom, and we question whether it will ever happen. But eventually, we all come into our own in some way, shape, or form. So let's just embrace the whole experience and pat ourselves on the back for being so gosh darn pretty in the process.

Eat your fruits and vegetables.

When I was younger, you could not pay me to eat my vegetables. One evening after my mother had served me mixed vegetables at dinner (the absolute worst punishment that could be inflicted upon my eight-year-old self), I came up with a grand idea. Instead of trying to hide them underneath the potato skin again (my parents were becoming too smart for this technique), I would just occasionally drop a carrot or bit of corn onto the floor. Of course, once all of my vegetables had landed near my foot, there was the question of how I would get rid of it, as we didn't have any pets around the house to help remove the evidence. My young mind started to panic. What do I do? I began to stomp the vegetables subtly with my shoe, as to not alert my sisters or shake the table. I dared not look down to see the mess I made - the veggies would just evaporate, right? As we got up to clear the table and my mom made a passing comment that I ate my vegetables rather quickly and without complaint for once, I disappeared into our den to watch The Cosby Show. About midway through the witty Huxtable banter, my mom came into the room.



"Lizzie, come into the kitchen with me." My stomach dropped. Maybe my naive mind thought the vegetables would eventually just exit the kitchen on their own, that they would do me a favor just this once and am-scray. Turns out, the vegetables had no such intentions. That night I didn't get any dessert. Instead, I was stuck on my knees, picking up the smashed green beans, carrots, and corn from the linoleum, cursing the day vegetables were born.

Vegetables and I have long since reconciled our differences. While I wouldn't necessarily say I daydream of cucumbers or fantastize about my next dish of peas, I can certainly recognize vegetables for what they are: natural, nutritious, and beautiful. I took these pictures from a farmer's market in Kansas City over the weekend. The beautiful heaps of fruits and vegetables piled next to each other put a smile on my face. The friendly merchant's smiles, the handwritten signs, the colorful displays - I loved it. It was perfect. It was simple. It made me want a salad.

A joyful photo

The Magic Tree

Columbia, Missouri

Ode to Ira

I'm not the type of girl who has many crushes. Occasionally I'll lift an eyebrow in the general direction of a male, or in a rare instance I'll be so enamored with a beauty of a waiter that I'll drop my fork and forget how to say "water" at a busy Mexican restaurant. But, in general, crushes take too much effort and I'm either too practical or too boring for them.

With one major exception. I adore, nay, LOVE Ira Glass. If I had a crush list, he'd be in the top five, easy. It could be his glasses or soothing Thursday night voice. Maybe it's his charming demeanor or cute dopey grin.

Mostly it's just that after an episode of This American Life I always find a renewed interest in something, whether it's the episode's topic or just a desire for conversation. In college, I used to wonder what kind of conversations my professors would have with their partners at the dinner table. I always imagined it to be incredibly intellectual, something that despite nearly 20 years of schooling, I can't quite replicate during my own meals unless I get a little help.

I'd bet Ira Glass has a few things to say come dinnertime and he's been generous enough to share the topic with me once a week. For those of you who aren't already in love with Ira, you can always join me here. Let's discuss afterward.

Le gâteau de joie

Recently I'm finding that I have a lot to be joyful about. Everywhere I turn there's another joie de vivre just around the corner, maybe because I'm actually looking for them rather than letting it slip by.

Today's joie de vivre is unexpected cake.

...that a friend bakes for you just because comps are over.
... from a recipe you randomly mentioned to her just once that you wanted to make but were too overwhelmed to try.
... that is so delicious and pretty it's almost art.

I don't know about you, but for me, cake is absolutely a philosophy of life. Because it's sure difficult to complain about much of anything with a dessert like that sitting in your kitchen.

I speak for the trees.

Night and Day.

Being in grad school, I am conditioned to have two modes: on and off. For ten to twelve hours of the day, I'm on campus with the switch turned to 'on' but the second I stumble into my apartment in the evening, all bets are off. In fact, I find myself only capable of the basics, such as:

• Cooking, sort of. I can generally manage to pour myself a bowl of cereal, and if I'm feeling particularly cheeky I can punch in a few numbers into the microwave. This is why cooking on the weekends is vital, unless I want to have a 5-day date with Cheerios.
• Checking voicemail. I am, however, not capable of returning these messages.
• Occasional grunts.
• Lying horizontally, whether on my couch or bed or sometimes, in worst case scenarios, in the middle of my living room floor. Sitting and standing are completely and utterly out of the question.
• My apartment, for inexplicable reasons, does not allow dress attire and therefore I am usually in pajamas within 4.5 seconds of walking in the door. I am not, however, capable of putting away said dress attire which hangs out in a heap near the corner of my bedroom.

If On-Campus Laura ever met Off-Campus Laura, she'd probably be taken aback. Weren't you just running around like a crazy person a few hours ago? Where's the wit? Where are your pants? I haven't heard you say anything remotely intelligible since you got home.

Today's joie de vivre is what makes On-Campus Laura possible: the 8-hour night of sleep... expendable for some, but a requirement for me. I'm the person who gets really jazzed about going to sleep. Someone who, at 10 o'clock, is hurriedly brushing her teeth so she can jump into bed. I have the gift of a pillowtop mattress and the ability to fall asleep in under three minutes; I take neither for granted.

I tip my hat at those who can get four hours of sleep and still say coherent things the next day- I am in awe of your existence. Still, I get a little too much joy from a good night's sleep to trade places with you. Bonne Nuit.

My Joie Club.

A couple years ago, I visited my friend Liz in Korea where she lived for a year teaching English. Early into the trip we spent an afternoon wandering around Gyeongbokgung Palace, admiring the odd animal statues and flurry of tiny Koreans girls, giggling into cupped hands. Gyeongbokgung is smack dab in the middle of a busy area of Seoul so it was interesting to look right and see an ancient temple, and then immediately to your left you could see a giant skyscraper with scrolling advertisements.

"It's an interesting juxtaposition, isn't it?" Liz asked. "I think juxtaposition might be my favorite word.... what's yours?"

"...Sandwich," I responded.

I might have dropped the intellectual level of that conversation considerably that day, but it's the truth. Sandwich is a great word. A great food, too. For those of you who read Stuff White People Like, you might recall that expensive sandwiches made the list and I can't even begin to raise argument with that. I like sandwiches - especially the expensive ones. The truth is, no matter what kind of sandwich is, I have a theory that it will always tastes better when someone else makes it.

So the day I discovered Ninth Street Deli, a sleepy little Mom and Pop operation carrying the sandwich known as the North Village Club? Well, let's just say I've already decided I will never find a better sandwich. Ever. Forget it. Columbia, Missouri might not be the eighth wonder of the world, but what it lacks in glamour it makes up for in sandwiches.

After a long day of work and class, I usually grab the North Village Club to-go with a pickle, but the walk home seems like an eternity. So if you're ever on that side of town and you see me speeding towards my apartment with a stupid grin on my face, just assume I have precious cargo in my backpack. And don't even bother trying to get my attention until I am down to just the crumbs - I can only focus on one joy at a time.

joie de vivre: a music entry.

The first time I heard Bon Iver, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up tall. I was left in what I can only describe as a musical stupor - who the hell is this and how many times can I hit 'replay' before I start pissing off the neighbors?

Bon Iver is today's joie de vivre because listening to him is like walking through fog or staring up at misty street. It's haunting, it's beautiful, it's poetry. It reminds you what music is capable of.

Justin Vernon wrote his first album one winter in the northwoods of Wisconsin, sequestered in a remote cabin - and you can hear that in his voice, in his lyrics. Even if you didn't grow up braving freezing cold and dark winters, anyone can relate to the feeling of winter. It's desolate and beautiful. It's lonely and comforting. Most of all, it makes you stand up and take notice of your surroundings instead of letting it all slide into the periphery.

Good day, sunshine.

Today's joie de vivre is that first warm day in the winter which reminds you spring is just around the corner.

It's the sight of those hopeful folks in shorts who clearly are jumping the gun but can be admired for their forward-thinking anyway.

It's the downtown which seemed to have woken from its hibernation and the hipster crowd who've returned to their places outside the coffee shop, lazily stumming guitars and carrying on quiet conversation. Even the hipster dogs have taken their place back on the sidewalk, sniffing alongside storefronts and looking all together pleased for having found such hip, progressive owners.

It's the ice cream shop which opened up its doors a few weeks early on account of the weather and the steady stream of patrons going in for their first dish of mango ice cream.

Like most people with a pulse, I'm a firm believer in new beginnings, and spring, if anything, is just that. I have long thought that New Years was oddly placed on January 1st. Who can be hopeful and resolute towards change in a time of year so dark and cold? If the new year began when things were actually looking new, maybe I'd have more success with that whole self-improvement thing.

This warm spell we had today will likely not last. The groundhog saw his shadow, after all. But warm days remind us (or tease us) about warmer days ahead... and I can't argue with that.

Yoga for the awkward.

If a stranger met me on a crowded street, I can guarantee that a thought running through his or her head as we crossed paths would not be, "My, there goes a particularly graceful and flexible young lady." I am neither of these things, quite frankly. My gait is awkward at best, and because of a condition I was born with my balance is all but on permanent vacation. Maybe that's why I'm drawn to those who can fold themselves in half or gracefully balance upon one foot with their arms stretched towards the sky... maybe it's just the manifestation of my jealousy issues.

The truth is, people practice yoga for a lot of different reasons. For some it's strength training; for others, it's a ways to keep stress at bay. I suppose the reason why I keep dragging out the blue mat is a combination of the above reasons, but also for the simple fact that it brings me to some sort of awareness of this thing I call my body. For some reason, breathing in through my nose and tripping over my feet as I attempt to get into downward dog position reminds me that when you strip away all the noise, it's just you and your body. When you're only left to concentrate on your breathing and the movements of your body, it can clear out the cobwebs. Today's joie de vivre is yoga. Not because I'm any good at it, not because I'm some hippie-in-training. It's because yoga pulls life a little bit into perspective... sort of the same way it pulls at your hamstrings: it can be uncomfortable, but overall it loosens you up and makes you feel good.

Say cheese.

Today's joie de vivre is Wisconsin cheese. You'll have to pardon me when I say this, vegans and those intolerant of all things lactose, but there is nothing greater, nothing finer, than a slice of Wisconsin cheese on top a cracker or when it's in cahoots with a sandwich.

I'll take cheese in almost any form, although I draw the line once it turns blue. But in almost every case, I prefer that it come from Wisconsin.

Why? It all boils down to pride. When I first meet someone here and they find out I'm from Wisconsin, 9 times out of 10 they will mention cheese (honorable mention: beer, the packers, and "Damn, I hear it's cold there"). I always welcome the cheese conversation, quite truthfully. I might go on to mention I have a cheese poster in my bedroom, or that I carried two pounds of it in my suitcase on my last trip back from the Badger state. I might mention a bumper sticker I have which states "Life is too short to live on grocery store cheese." I will very likely get into a rant about the sheer audacity of California's dairy campaign.

When I was growing up, my family used to pile into our van after church and head down the road to Rudolph, Wisconsin where we were known to pick up $80 of cheese in a single afternoon. Cheese and I go way back - we have a wonderful history together. If I want a piece of joy, I need to look no further than my refrigerator after a recent visit home. Behold, the power of cheese.