The boy introduced me to the band Dispatch when we first started dating. The music is something else, you should give it a listen. The song “Out Loud” sends chills up my spine and quickly became one of my favorites, but that’s for another post.

Last night, after driving home from dinner, their song “The General” came on, and the its lyrics affected me in a much different way that they had ever before. No surprise, but I got a lump in my throat listening to it. It is my understanding that the song was written before the war in Iraq, and by some accounts on the internet was actually written about child warfare, which makes it even more poignant and chilling.

But last night, singing along, I was struck with the thought that the figure in this song might be what we need in this moment in time. A leader who will step up, take responsibility, and send our boys and girls home, without shame.

I’ve posted a live clip of Dispatch singing this song, but because these boys’ frenetic tongues can be hard to decipher on first listening, I’ve also copied the lyrics below.

“General”

there was a decorated general with
a heart of gold, that likened him to
all the stories he told
of past battles, won and lost, and
legends of old a seasoned veteran in
his own time

go now you are forgiven

Who will be our general?

My tiny house - everyone says that, but I seriously mean itty bitty - has an even more tiny kitchen, which judging by the exposed pipes, tubes, and wires upon moving in, once also housed a washer and dryer.

From what I could tell, there was a spot for a washer ONLY, and for months I tried to solve the mystery of how it all once fit. Was it a stackable unit, which someone later prohibited by building the shelves that are there now? (If so, thanks a lot.) Was the dryer installed IN FRONT of the kitchen doorway (where the hookup seems to be) causing prior inhabitants to leap over it upon entering? Honestly, I can only think that someone once kept a dryer on the back stoop.

Up to this point, we had been surviving on a combination of laundromats, friends’ washers and dryers, and hand washing our clothes - none of these the most accessible options, especially for those few months we were car-less. When you think of the slightly lazy taurean mindset the boy and I were born with, you could see how the mounds of laundry were about to overtake the house.

So, after nearly an entire year without a laundry room, I broke down and posted a cry for help under the “wanted” section of Craigslist.org.

—–

In my humble abode, I have room for a washer but no dryer, and am having a hell of a time finding someone willing to split up a pair. I’m on a budget, and do not need anything new - I just need something that works. This is your perfect chance to get rid of that old eye sore - I can even pick up! Help!

—-

Within an hour or so, I had 10 responses in my email box of people dying to practically give away their old washers so they could get new ones. Gotta love Craigslist.

I also had a response from someone looking for a dryer and asking if I found one if I didn’t mind delivering it to their house when I picked up my washer.

Yeah, um, no. But thanks.

So after a trek to procure our new appliance - including two flights of stairs and a borrowed hand truck - we got the brand new (old) washer hooked up snugly between my stove and refrigerator. I’m happy to say it works great and even created a little counter space, which was until now, non-existent.

There’s just one issue with my new set-up. I’m now line-dry girl.

I’ve got a good sized back yard with a privacy fence, so I’m not self conscious of the clothesline way of life. And honestly, with as hot as it’s been here lately, clothes dry in about 10 minutes. Plus, line drying saves more energy than using an electric dryer - not to mention running a dryer in my itsy bitsy house would make it so hot it’s unbearable.

I’m not complaining. There are perks. But I have to say, I went home on my lunch break today and felt as if I’d stepped into a different century. And I had a hell of a time finding the simple supplies one needs to dry their clothes outdoors. Clothespins for example. I had to visit three stores before I found them.

Another century, indeed.

I’m kind of liking it so far, though. I like how my clothes smell after being dried in the sun, and I feel like I’m channeling a prior life when I’m out there barefoot in the grass, drinking up the sunshine. I have to say it’s not bad. Not bad at all.

Then again, ask me after it rains.

I read an article today (is it just me, or do a lot of my posts begin with that statement?) that truly sickened me. The article itself was written beautifully, and it was enlightening to say the least, but the topic was not one I love to dwell on. Titled “The Most Curious Thing,” It was written by a filmmaker named Errol Morris who has completed a documentary on torture at Abu Ghraib.

(The article can be found at nytimes.com. It’s worth the read if you have time, but squeamish be forewarned. Lots of photos.)

Upon finishing the article I was a bit fired up, to say the least. It was in the middle of a rant to my (more conservative) sister about how much money is spent in Iraq every week - the lyrics of War Pigs furiously swimming in my brain - that I realized I’m on the road to becoming that girl. The girl whose blood starts boiling when discussing politics, particularly with those who do not share her point of view.

“This is what I hate about politics,” she responded. “People spend their time defending their political positions when they should be talking about the weather.”

The simplicity of the statement made me giggle. Very “stop and smell the roses.” But it drove home a point.

I’ve often drawn the connection between political sparring and playground antics. In our progressive (right?) society, every form of discrimination is discouraged, save one. Politics. In political arenas it is completely acceptable to act as childish as one pleases when another is speaking. There is no compromise, no gentility, no going out of one’s way to make another feel comfortable or accepted. One only goes out of one’s way to ridicule all those opposed.

It’s immature and offensive, but it’s easy to get emotionally involved in political talk, and I do it myself. I’ve discovered I need to check my soapbox at the door in certain arenas.

I find myself in the position of having differing values than most I grew up with. My ten-year high school reunion is in a few weeks, and I’m struck with the thought that I might not have much in common anymore with some of my former classmates. Then I tell myself to let go. Take everything less seriously for a bit. There is more to life than talking about the negativity of current events.

I came from a world of black and white politically, and I’ve grown into someone who sees more nuances of color every day. I’m miles from where I began, and I’m happy about this, but I know that sometimes you need to let go of your politics and just be for a while. Sometimes you need to just sit and talk about the weather.

I read an article this morning that really touched me - probably more than its lighthearted nature intended - on the topic of happiness.

For one, it centers on a sort of “manifest destiny” theme. I’ve spoken, and written, about my fundamentalist education and upbringing before, and how it fosters more of a “wait and see” than a “forge your own way” sort of attitude toward life. And I hardly think this is exclusive to the religious. SO many people sit and wait for their life to begin, when in reality you have to create your own life, your own destiny. It takes a conscious decision and a good deal of self awareness to do this.

The article also speaks to a tendency - perhaps one a bit more exclusive to those with religious upbringings - to feel guilty for experiencing pleasure or happiness. If it feels good, it’s wrong. If something good happens, it’s bound to disappear soon. But as I’ve grown older I’ve found that this isn’t a law of nature, but rather a self-fulfilling prophecy.

One of the points of this article is “allow yourself to be happy,” and that was one of my motivations for beginning this blog. To train myself to find the happiness — the pleasure — in every situation, so that I would be able to recognize it more readily. (It’s always there, we just have to open our eyes and see it.) To embrace a little hedonism in my life in spite of that little naysayer in the back of my mind saying, “it’s all going to fall apart soon.”

That voice is getting smaller and smaller by the day.

Alright, enough of the commentary. Read …

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Five Things Happy People Do

By Gabrielle LeBlanc

Sages going back to Socrates have offered advice on how to be happy, but only now are scientists beginning to address this question with systematic, controlled research. Although many of the new studies reaffirm time-honored wisdom (”Do what you love,” “To thine own self be true”), they also add a number of fresh twists and insights. We canvassed the leading experts on what happy people have in common — and why it’s worth trying to become one of them:

They find their most golden self.

Picture happiness. What do you see? A peaceful soul sitting in a field of daisies appreciating the moment? That kind of passive, pleasure-oriented — hedonic — contentment is definitely a component of overall happiness. But researchers now believe that eudaimonic well-being may be more important. Cobbled from the Greek eu (”good”) and daimon (”spirit” or “deity”), eudaimonia means striving toward excellence based on one’s unique talents and potential — Aristotle considered it to be the noblest goal in life. In his time, the Greeks believed that each child was blessed at birth with a personal daimon embodying the highest possible expression of his or her nature. One way they envisioned the daimon was as a golden figurine that would be revealed by cracking away an outer layer of cheap pottery (the person’s base exterior). The effort to know and realize one’s most golden self — “personal growth,” in today’s lingo — is now the central concept of eudaimonia, which has also come to include continually taking on new challenges and fulfilling one’s sense of purpose in life.

“Eudaimonic well-being is much more robust and satisfying than hedonic happiness, and it engages different parts of the brain,” says Richard J. Davidson, PhD, of the University of Wisconsin-Madison. “The positive emotion accompanying thoughts that are directed toward meaningful goals is one of the most enduring components of well-being.” Eudaimonia is also good for the body. Women who scored high on psychological tests for it (they were purposefully engaged in life, pursued self-development) weighed less, slept better, and had fewer stress hormones and markers for heart disease than others — including those reporting hedonic happiness — according to a study led by Carol Ryff, PhD, a professor of psychology at the University of Wisconsin-Madison.

They design their lives to bring in joy.

It may seem obvious, but “people don’t devote enough time to thinking seriously about how they spend their life and how much of it they actually enjoy,” says David Schkade, PhD, a psychologist and professor of management at the University of California, San Diego. In a recent study, Schkade and colleagues asked more than 900 working women to write down everything they’d done the day before. Afterward, they reviewed their diaries and evaluated how they felt at each point. When the women saw how much time they spent on activities they didn’t like, “some people had tears in their eyes,” Schkade says. “They didn’t realize their happiness was something they could design and have control over.”

Analyzing one’s life isn’t necessarily easy and may require questioning long-held assumptions. A high-powered career might, in fact, turn out to be unfulfilling; a committed relationship once longed for could end up being irritating with all the compromising that comes with having a partner. Dreams can be hard to abandon, even when they’ve turned sour.

Fortunately, changes don’t have to be big ones to tip the joy in your favor. Schkade says that if you transfer even an hour of your day from an activity you hate (commuting, scrubbing the bathroom) to one you like (reading, spending time with friends), you should see a significant improvement in your overall happiness. Taking action is key. Another recent study, at the University of Missouri, compared college students who made intentional changes (joining a club, upgrading their study habits) with others who passively experienced positive turns in their circumstances (receiving a scholarship, being relieved of a bad roommate). All the students were happier in the short term, but only the group who made deliberate changes stayed that way.

They avoid “if only” fantasies.

If only I get a better job — find a man — lose the weight — life will be perfect. Happy people don’t buy into this kind of thinking.

The latest research shows that we’re surprisingly bad at predicting what will make us happy. People also tend to misjudge their contentment when zeroing in on a single aspect of their lives — it’s called the focusing illusion. In one study, single subjects were asked, “How happy are you with your life in general?” and “How many dates did you have last month?” When the dating question was asked first, their romantic lives weighed more heavily into how they rated their overall happiness than when the questions were reversed.

The other argument against “if only” fantasies has to do with “hedonic adaptation” — the brain’s natural dimming effect, which guarantees that a new house won’t generate the same pleasure a year after its purchase and the thrill of having a boyfriend will ebb as you get used to being part of a couple. Happy people are wise to this, which is why they keep their lives full of novelty, even if it’s just trying a new activity (diving, yoga) or putting a new spin on an old favorite (kundalini instead of vinyasa).

They put best friends first.

It’s no surprise that social engagement is one of the most important contributors to happiness. What’s news is that the nature of the relationship counts. Compared with dashing around chatting with acquaintances, you get more joy from spending longer periods of time with a close friend, according to research by Meliksah Demir, PhD, assistant professor of psychology at Northern Arizona University. And the best-friend benefit doesn’t necessarily come from delving into heavy discussions. One of the most essential pleasures of close friendship, Demir found, is simple companionship, “just hanging out,” as he says, hitting the mall or going to the movies together and eating popcorn in the dark.

They allow themselves to be happy.

As much as we all think we want it, many of us are convinced, deep down, that it’s wrong to be happy (or too happy). Whether the belief comes from religion, culture, or the family you were raised in, it usually leaves you feeling guilty if you’re having fun.

“Some people would say you shouldn’t strive for personal happiness until you’ve taken care of everyone in the world who is starving or doesn’t have adequate medical care,” says Howard Cutler, MD, who co-authored The Art of Happiness in a Troubled World with the Dalai Lama. “The Dalai Lama believes you should pursue both simultaneously. For one thing, there is clear research showing that happy people tend to be more open to helping others. They also make better spouses and parents.” And in one famous study, nuns whose autobiographies expressed positive emotions (such as gratitude and optimism) lived seven to 10-and-a-half years longer than other nuns. So, for any die-hard pessimist who still needs persuading, just think of how much more you can help the world if you allow a little happiness into your life.

I’ve heard they can be ferocious, but this is striking fear into the heart of absolutely no one.

I’ve been thinking a lot about travel lately. With two friends vacationing in Budapest, and another two beginning their indefinite global trek in Indonesia, the view from my office on this rainy Thursday is looking a little bleak.

Sure, I can brew my coffee at my desk, clutch my mug between my cold hands and close my eyes, imagining I’m really sipping cafe au lait at a sidewalk cafe in Amsterdam. But soon the dull whir of the overzealous air conditioner and the incessant tapping of my coworkers fingers against their keyboards snap me back into reality.

At lunch, I’ll make a trip to the Farmer’s Market, with it’s strong smells of spices, coffee, and fresh herbs and produce, and its cafe that serves up everything from Asian vegetables to curried lentils to goat stew (no, I haven’t sampled that yet, though I’ve heard rave reviews). And while the diverse clientèle and flags from every possible country decorating the vast building may let me escape for a while, soon it will be back out to the sterile, concrete parking lot - back to the congestion that is DeKalb Industrial Boulevard. Back to the real world.

Later, when the business day is over, maybe I’ll put on my iPod, turn up some Brit Pop, and stare our through the rain. Maybe then I’ll be able to pretend I’m visiting London.

But for now I’m here, and I’m having an anywhere but here moment. Like I’m homesick for a place I’ve never visited. I want to see something new, and right now I’m feeling so dull, so monotonous, that I can’t even daydream of anything exciting.

I believe this is called ennui, no?

There are certain conclusions that can be made about a girl living in Decatur who freely admits she is an Ani Difranco fan. Suffice to say I have never been, and never will be, happier than I am in my relationship with the boy.

That said, I’m freely admitting it. I love Ani.

I love her ability to make a single guitar sound like three or four. I love how gutsy she is in her presence and in her art; she’s a soul completely exposed for all to see - no pretenses, no walls. I love how strong and passionate her voice is - possibly the strongest I’ve heard from a female vocalist. I love that you can hear the joy in her voice during a live performance, like she was born to be on stage.

And I love the way her lyrics - GOD, those lyrics - can make my heart drop to my toes and plant a lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit. One of the best examples of this is in “Both Hands,” a song I have yet to listen to without tears stinging the back of my eyes.

and both hands
now use both hands
oh, no don’t close your eyes
I am writing
graffiti on your body
I am drawing the story of
how hard we tried

[tear ...]

I am watching your chest rise and fall
like the tides of my life,
and the rest of it all
and your bones have been my bed frame
and your flesh has been my pillow
I am waiting for sleep
to offer up the deep
with both hands

[sniff ...]

in each other’s shadows we grew less and less tall
and eventually our theories couldn’t explain it all
and I’m recording our history now on the bedroom wall
and eventually the landlord will come
and paint over it all

[sob ...]

Makes me hug the boy just a little tighter, just thinking of the pain that inspired such words. Though her music is hardly always melancholic. Much of it is political; most is irreverent. I have yet to catch the live show, and that sucks because every time she comes through I say I’m going to go. I just want to be in the crowd when she sings this:

I broke down in Louisiana
and I had to thumb a ride
got in the first car that pulled over
you can’t be picky in the middle of the night
he said
baby, do you like to fool around
baby, do you like to be touched
I said
maybe some other time
fuck you very much

I wanna be brave. GOD, I envy that.

I want to be at home.
I want to be with my boy.
I want to talk with my friends.
I want to host a party.
I want to write a blog.
I want to write a column.
I want to write a book.
I want to work from home.
I want to travel.
I want to see Morocco.
I want to see the Eiffel Tower.
I want to see the Seven Wonders of the World.
I want to live on the Square.
I want to live in Canada.
I want to live in Paris.
I want to be a wife and mother.
I want to raise my family in Decatur.
I want to open a brewery.
I want to take improv classes.
I want to be in a production.
I want to sing.
I want to sing on stage.
I want to sing in a band.
I want to sing on Broadway.
I want Fantine’s death scene.
I want to be Tina Fey.
I want to be Hollis Gillespie.
I want to be recognized.
I want to make an impression.
I want to make a difference.
I want to retire to a chateau on a vineyard.
I want a glass of wine.
I want to be at home.

I lost a trip to Paris.

Ok, so it wasn’t a trip to Paris. THAT I would have cried over. But I let an absolutely amazing door prize - a vacation package with lodging and airfare included - slip through my fingers at a recent benefit dinner for a client.

I bought a raffle ticket. I actually bought one. I never buy those things. I don’t like them. I can’t really explain why. Some sort of sense of dread - maybe of getting my hopes up and then having my dreams dashed to pieces before my eyes all because of chance. Because of a number.

I’ve never been good with numbers.

Still, I bought the thing. Only ten bucks! It’s for a good cause! What’s there to lose?

Honestly, I’d had a few drinks and had completely forgotten about the ticket when a coworker rushed out of the auditorium - to where I was situated next to the doors - yelling, “The winning number ended in 47!”

That’s me!

“They called it out five times and then drew the next number!”

WHAT?!?!

And there you go. Hopes built. Dreams dashed. And numbers? Evil.

“You have to be in the room when they call it to claim the prize … blah, blah, blah”

I never win these things. This is how I rationalize. I don’t win stuff like this. If I had been in the room, they would have called another number.

Truth be told, it all just seemed too nice anyway. A little above our heads, the boy’s and mine (though he was just as upset when he heard of my simultaneous win and loss later that night). Who knows? It may have been a lovely trip. But it also may have been a little stiff, a little forced. When the two of us talk of traveling together, I generally have a different image in mind.

I’m fairly certain, in my own experience at least, that these sorts of all-inclusive, “we’ll take care of all the details” sort of vacations actually hinder the experience of traveling to a new place. Not that comfort isn’t a welcome part of any trip. But when the travel, lodging, entertainment, dining, and every other detail has been decided for you, how can you really feel anything other than being shuttled around like cattle?

When I think of travel, I think of writing my own itinerary. Deciding to go see something at a moment’s notice with nothing holding me back. Packing belongings in a car and taking off in whatever direction sounds good at the time. Making a scrapbook along the way of photos and postcards and words describing who and what we saw. Planning a soundtrack that later will transport us back to that time and place instantly. Wandering aimlessly between the historic and the odd; between the Grand Canyon and the largest ball of yarn west of the Mississippi.

Or maybe Mt. Rushmore. That seems it would be a perfect combination of the revered and the weird.

Yep. Paris would have been completely sterile compared to the trip I’m planning in my own head.

Right?

After writing that less than joyous post, I happened upon this:

Giggling hurts like hell right now. Still feels good though.