Am I Happy?

On the morning of what is to be, ultimately, three Thanksgiving meals (and none of them actually on Thanksgiving Day), I find it appropriate to ask myself if I'm truly happy.

By all rational accounts, I should be insanely happy. I enjoy good health, as do those around me, I have a good family and a few good friends, a steady job, money in the bank, a wealth of entertainment at my fingertips. I don't own a TV. I have a lovely new life partner, and we've made good steps to building a sustaibale lifestyle in the past few weeks. There's no one dropping bombs on me, curtailing my freedoms in any significant way, taking my home away. I've lost money in the stock market, just like everyone else, but at least I have some savings, and the mentality to save.

Maslow's hierarchy of needs says that humans have five basic levels of need. Each level is dependent on the one below it; you cannot reach for a higher level of need without achieving the one below. You can temporarily regress and place a higher importance on health, for example (say you suddenly get sick), but you don't necessarily have to work back through all the levels to get back to where you were.

It's interesting to look around you and try to figure out where people are. (It's even more interesting to determine what level they lack, but that's mean-spirited.) My father-in-law recently started writing novels and is now published. Could we say that he has attained the fifth level of creative output? Does my growing knitting habit represent a channel of creativity? Am I really the happiest when I'm sewing something?

Around this time of year, it's worth taking a look at this pyramid. I could always have more friends, more security, more confidence, more spontaneity, but overall I'm doing pretty well. Here's to remembering that.

Vade retro

As heartened as I am by Barack Obama's victory, as much as I believe this is the first election in a while in which people voted for a candidate rather than against his opponent, as disappointed as I was when I finally made up my mind that McCain was no longer the moderate ethical voice in the Republican Party, mostly what I feel today is relief.

Relief that the hokey woman in the lipstick, heels and designer suits is going back into obscurity where she belongs.

I can handle someone who believes in an abstract story of creation. I don't judge a person for having a regional accent or for using earthy language. I have felt myself the mind-blank when put on the spot.

But to ridicule solid, promising scientific research on fruit flies and bears? Research that can potentially lead to breakthroughs, not to mention contribute to the worldwide body of knowledge? That is unforgivable, short-sighted and warped.

Good riddance.

Liesl's Magnificat

Yesterday was luscious. We had almost written the whole weekend off, what with Saturday's rain and slop and wet. Saturday was a non-day. A day to clean the kitchen, a day to finish up that project that's been sticking its tongue out at you from the floor of the hall. A day that we simply endured together, sleeping and eating and sleeping some more. A day for drinking raspberry tea. Not a bad day, just a prosaic day.

But, oh, Sunday, sweet Sunday, the autumn day of my dreams. The rain brought in warmer air, for one precious Indian summery day. The sun woke us up, nudging us into the day earlier than usual, so that we could taste and savor the sweetness of the bluest sky and hear the crispness of the leaves.

We wandered through Central Park, the only proper destination for such a day. We shared the gray-beige rocks of Turtle Pond with other couples and watched the men row their ladies in green rowboats. Impromptu kisses beneath the goldening leaves may or may not have been shared. We talked of cabbages and kings, of wedding plans and future things. Shared one slice of pizza between the two of us, a sip of coffee, and a free chocolate. Played in the leaves and the stuffed animals. Walked and talked and walked and talked down the sidewalks of the city.

Sublime and pure, the sun warmed our hearts and the leaves opened our souls to each other. It was, in short, the consummate fall afternoon, the prototype of autumn, the mold from which all fall days should be cast.

And the best part of the day was sharing it with you.

Rain

So, this has been a day. I arrived at my office building to find that the elevator was out, and I'd have to walk up the eight flights of stairs to get to work - again. The stairs were wet, with water dripping down my neck as I climbed. It actually got worse as I got farther up.

If only that were the worst of it.

When I finally got to my floor, it was raining. Inside the building. Yes, raining. Like, dangit, I forgot my umbrella. Like, I want to stay in bed and watch a movie. Like, good day for ducks. Inside the building.

It appears there was a false fire alarm on the 10th floor, or a pipe leak, or something, that didn't get checked over the weekend. It's 3:30 right now, and they tell me water is still running on the 9th and 10th floors. My specific office isn't affected, fortunately.

The director's office was a soggy mess. His computer no longer works. His chairs squished when you sat down on them. When you lifted up a corner of a ceiling tile to see where the water was coming from, a fountain gushed out the other corner. We emptied out his office entirely, moving 60 years and a PhD's worth of books. We strategically placed recycle bins to catch the drops. We rescued his diplomas and family pictures and knicknacks. We set up fans to dry his important documents into crinkly, crispy pages. We set up a temporary office for him in another room. We called the crew to bring carpet fans. We thought we were done.

And then...we opened the storage closets next to his office. The ones that hold ten years' worth of paper archives, in cardboard boxes. Which were now wet archives, in wet cardboard boxes. I took a puddle of dirty cardboard water to the face when emptying those shelves.

So now we have archives, Christmas decorations, electronics, chair cushions and all kinds of documents strewn around every possible surface, drying. Fortunately they tell me the floors are made of concrete, so there's no risk of those collapsing. The ceilings, that's another story. I'm keeping my ears peeled for the crash.

Talk about a flashback to Odo-Ban!

The Frozen North

It occurred to me that Canada might be feeling a little left out of this presidential election.

"Hey, we're next to Alaska, too!"

Ypres

Browsing NYTimes.com this morning, I found this gem of a sentence:

Heretofore, my chief anxiety about traveling to France had always been that, at some point during my trip, I would be called upon to pronounce the name of the town Ypres.

You can read the rest of the article here. Let's just say that from the very first sentence, the article grabs you. (Caveat: You have to speak boarding school French to fully understand the article; the author resorts to peppering phrases en français throughout the text, to give it more of a je ne sais quoi.)

Rethinking The Desire To Live In Northern France

You know it's going to be a long day when you arrive at work and have to squeegee yourself off. Rain rain go away, at least for the twenty minutes while I walk from home to subway and subway to work. Seriously, I am wet to the upper thigh.

But yet, I still can't bring myself to buy the silly rubber boots all the girls here wear. While certainly more functional than Crocs, they're equally funny-looking. Bets are on for how long I'll hold out.