My Arranged Marriage

I had a marriage feast once. I've never been married, of course. But the celebration, oh yes. I spent a semester of college in Namibia, and throughout the semester we had three homestays with families. Two of the homestays were in urban areas, and one of them was with a rural family in the northern portion of the country, about 50 miles from the border of Angola. In other words, all of the homestays were awesome, the rural being one of the best.

For our first homestay we were paired with another student, but the other two were solo affairs. A lot of the host families lived near each other, however, so it was common to see one of your American friends during your ten days as an adopted child. This could be comforting as well as fun. Our host families were excellent and welcoming, but it can nonetheless be exhausting to spend 24 hours a day with companions who may not speak a great amount of English nor share your cultural background.

I will note that just about every man I met in Namibia knew of and loved Celine Dion, and this made me feel right at home and extremely appreciative of Namibians.

I spent my semester with 19 fantastic Americans, but I was extra blessed to be very close with two of them before we ever arrived in the wonderful continent to our East. My friend Samantha and I had been extremely close since our first week of college, and Dan and I had bonded quite a bit our sophomore year. Dan and I further cemented our friendship during our flight from the States (http://thedaileebailey.blogspot.com/2009/11/amelia.html), and then had another opportunity to bond during our rural homestays.

Dan's host family was very close with my host family, so I ended up seeing Dan almost every day during our ten-day adventure. Almost immediately when our host families first got together, Bailey and Dan in tow, did they start telling us to marry each other. I think, honestly, had we given them the opportunity to perform the ceremony, they might have gone right ahead. Dan's host brother Jeremiah, newly married himself, told Dan, who later told me, that I was grown up and deserved a husband. Jeremiah's wife would tell me, "Dan loves you, he really does." Dan and I always laughed, and Dan would remind them, again, that he had a girlfriend. "Oh, that doesn't matter. You two should get married." Eventually we just stopped wasting our breath, but it never really stopped being funny.

At the end of our stay, our two families got together to make a goodbye dinner for me and Dan. Since we had been harrassed about our apparent love affair all week, Dan and I started joking about it and declaring it our wedding feast. They gave us two seats next to each other at the plastic table in my Meme's (Mom) living room, and when they brought out a cake at the end of the evening, Dan and I took it upon ourselves to hold the knife together in our overlapped hands and slice our dessert as a husband and wife should.

We were also both overcome with emotion that evening. So many people crammed in the small house, illumed by candles. We drank "cooldrink," pineapple Fanta. They sang to us, we sang to them ("Leavin' on a Jet Plane"--John Denver always comes in handy when put on the spot to sing a song). People who knew us for ten days cared about us so much. When you're faced with such a circumstance, you don't really know how to react. Except to just clutch the swelling in your heart, I guess, and thank God you're so blessed to be loved so much for no good reason other than He loved us first, and sometimes we follow His example and are lucky enough to get it right. My host sister, Kristi, cried when I left, and I'm not sure why I didn't, because I certainly was on the verge.

I loved looking out the window that week and seeing a cow or a goat walking in the sand. We didn't have chickens of our own, but the neighbors did, and the little cluckers would climb through the holes in the fence to visit, pecking for specs of things to eat. My family had a chicken for one day, and then we had dinner and no longer had a pet in the morning. Every time I went to the outhouse to pee, a couple of geckos on the wall would swish out of sight in a flash, and I would pray they wouldn't accost me while I took care of business.

I loved hearing the endless "Walalepo, Meme"s (good morning) from everyone I passed in the town, curtsying and offering the belabored Oshiwambo response, "Eeeh" (yes, as in "yes, I'm having a good morning"), like a Canadian really stretching out the length of her "Eh?" Heck, I enjoyed being called "Meme" (may-may) for ten days of my life. I equally enjoyed addressing older men as "Tate" (tah-tay).

At the end of the semester we considered printing "Who's your Tate?"--translation, Who's your Daddy?--on t-shirts, but a couple of girls said it made them too uncomfortable. I definitely voted in support of this t-shirt idea, even though it ultimately lost. Oh well. Being adopted in a desert is winning enough for me.

Dum de dum

I'm not sure I'm going to accomplish a whole lot this summer. I am so prone to daydreaming about graduate school, that I'd be surprised if I finish one book in the next three months. I have some great books checked out right now, I just can't do any one thing for more than five minutes (this is generally always the case, it's just worse at the moment, you see).

So if you catch me accepting a dinner invitation excitedly, rushing out of the house to meet you, then find me getting antsy at dinner, ready to go bowling or run through a field instead, please don't take it personally. It's not you, it's my restless mind. And no, I will not take medication for ADD, although I will accept your diagnosis of ADD.

I just watched an hour and a half of TV with my parents in the form of popcorn documentaries on the Food Network. Now I am faced with a book about Cuba, a book about Iran, a compilation of essays/fiction that came in the mail today, one snoozer documentary and another action film based on an event that could be featured in a documentary...which do I read/watch? I could also organize my CDs, file papers, get back on facebook (never!). We're also nearing midnight, and while I don't have to work tomorrow, I still feel strange going to bed later than eleven, yet I'm not exactly fatigued.

Hmm.

Well I'll stop boring you by writing about it and instead go figure out my own life on my own, how's that sound? That's what I thought. Bye! Smooches!

Big & Tall

We had a practice run for Giant Barista yesterday. I was looking for tea bags at work yesterday to brew tea of the green variety, and discovered I would have to scale a large shelf to get to them. This involved climbing on the counter, which I readily did.

(This portion of the project was my personal practice run to be a Coyote Ugly bar dancer.)

As I was still standing on the counter, Matt came in from his smoke break. He got very excited at the sight of Tall Bailey and ran over to get me. "Get on my shoulders!"

"Sit on them? Or piggy back ride style?"
"Sure, sit on them."

I climbed on, Matt giggled, and I said, "Let's go get Alicia!" We proceeded to greet Alicia, who was doing dishes. You know, working, like Matt and I should have been doing. Hey, I got the tea bags, didn't I?

After a few minutes of pretending we were cheerleaders, I got back down to ground level and we discussed, seriously now, our plans for Giant Barista.

Giant Barista is going to be our awesome version of Giant Doctor from the TV show Scrubs, where JD and Turk get on each others shoulders, cover themselves with a giant lab coat, and heckle people in the hospital parking lot.

Matt thinks a shirt from Big & Tall will be long enough to cover us, and he says he's gonna need some pants he can tuck his arms into. We'll need to find a fine seamstress (Mom? Would you like to volunteer?) to sew multiple aprons together.

This is gonna be so great.

300 Posts, Counting, for The Daily Bailey

Holla! We made it to 300 posts! Congratulations, and thank you, readers!

Now I did not promise any brilliant stroke of genius in today's post, so guess what. You're not getting any. Why?

Because I am sick. Speaking of sick, and the number 300...

It felt as if I blew my nose 300 times today. In reality it was probably around 100. A normal day is about ten for me, let's be honest. By the way, when I go to graduate school to study journalism this (!) fall and get a brand new computer to accessorize the journey, I plan on using my new audio and video features (aka, webcam) to your advantage, and by that I mean recording my nose blow so that those of you who do not live or work with me may experience the audio of such an event. It is an event. Things to look forward to in the next 300 posts. Keep your eyes and ears peeled.

Another note about today's post. Today's title is a stealth shout out to my dear friend Carolyn, one of the many devoted followers of the Daily Bailey. Carolyn just sent me an email complaining about journalistic headlines avoiding the word "and," replacing it with commas. So I decided to egg her on/show her I love her through my gesture.

Okay I'm going to declare this post not too thrilling, but also could-be-worse. And if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get into bed for a nighttime snuggle with my tissue box, refraining from adding text to this post which may help it toward the less-than-good category of blog posting.

I really, truly thank you for reading my writing. For sticking through the blah posts, those posts that I need to write for me, to discipline myself as an every day writer, and for letting me know when the better posts touch you or affect your life, as that right there is the true reason I do this.

And, finally, I'd like to thank Dibbs, who received a bath today, followed by a personal blow dry by Dad (the man who claims to "hate" the animal), and who found himself a pile of bubble wrap today and declared it his new bed. Such a good baby, you are. Muah! (What? I warned you that today's post might be a Dibby tribute, and after 300 posts you should be well aware of my cat-loving sickness.)

Nyquil Sleep

Ill am I. In a fog. Staring a lot.

Blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

Feel sorry for me. Give me presents. Thank you.

Factoid of note: tomorrow will be THE 300th POST of The Daily Bailey, so I better pump up the vitamin C and get ready to make the best post ever! Okay, maybe just a really good post. No promises, by the way, of any brilliant genius tomorrow. It could very well turn into a Dibbs the cat tribute post. We'll just have to see.

Sweet, non-sneezing/runny nose/congestion sleep to you. Aka, Nyquil sleep to you.

Hug Me!

I received two unexpected hugs today. One in the morning, one in the afternoon. Both surprised me, and thus made me extra happy.

Thanks, you two who offered your services in the hugging industry today. Your efforts are greatly appreciated.

English Dreams

I would

really, really

like a British husband.

I blame Colin Firth, mostly. Thanks a lot, you sexy jerk.

I would settle for a Scottish husband. Craig Ferguson is to blame for that.

Bailey's Belly

My father just asked me if I am pregnant.

Because, currently, I am sporting a beer belly.

I have every reason to believe that this beer belly is in fact comprised primarily of beer, as Dad himself was the one who purchased me three beers the night of the Mark Knopfler concert. He also encouraged me to chug the final bit of Beer #2 as we were dashing out of the pub, headed to our concert. After all, who wants to waste a Boulevard Wheat on tap? Not me.

So I've decided on the following life steps:

1. No beer. For a while. A long while.
2. Lots of water. To flush all this business out. (That sounded really disgusting, sorry).
3. Limited, limited amounts of salt. No need to retain any more liquid, malt or otherwise.
4. Back to the gym/running trails as soon as I get an open window in this ridiculous schedule of mine (seriously, Prof, only three class meetings between papers? I have other things to be reading this weekend, such as The Cat in the Hat. And yes, yes I did spend the afternoon at the mall with Caleb purchasing clothes I don't need.)

Snoozer

I declare this to be the most tiring time of year. Everyone I seem to talk to is just as exhausted as I am. I have taken so many naps, and each morning feels like sheer torture. On my days off I sleep until noon.

I think it's because for students, it's the end of the school year and there are tons of assignments being piled onto us. It's also brighter and warmer outside, and the days are longer, so we are tricked into thinking that our energy can last as long as the daylight, but then we realize as we're frolicking through meadows in our sundresses (yes, all of us, boys included) that we'd kind of like to take a nap. We just think that taking a nap while the weather is so beautiful seems like a crime. So we continue frolicking. With the boys. All of us in sundresses.

I spent most of today sitting in a car. And I'm beat. Yesterday I came home from work and had to take a nap before heading to the concert with Dad. The day before that I came home from work and turned on Gilmore Girls and my eyes were shutting. "Pathetic are you," I thought to my exhausted, eat dinner at 5, work on the crossword puzzle then go to bed at 9 self.

Well I might be pathetic, but I do rather enjoy being old at heart. I can't keep up with you young folk, bar hopping, clubbing, discussing the latest celeb drama. Pass the oatmeal, please. And keep the noise down, I'm going to bed.

I should've learned to play them drums

Tonight Pops and I went to the Mark Knopfler concert. Hey. Gurl. Hey. If you're thinking, "Who's Mark Knopfler?," trust me, you know who he is:

Most famous:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dlPjxz4LGak

Also quite famous:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HKovMuzox3Y

And, if you STILL don't recognize these tunes, here is the Princess Bride theme, also performed by Marky:
http://www.esnips.com/doc/8204ddf2-922c-4439-9cf2-7dd09f7736fe

Place your Vote!

I have officially registered to take Beginning Ballet this summer. Who votes that Baby Brother Riley should take ballet with me??? Show of comments?

What have I done?!

Do you ever feel bad when you kill a bug?

I was just throwing some clothes in the washer, when I noticed a spider rompin' around on my sports bra. I sprayed him with some OxiClean, then when he kept moving I thought, "Well, he'll die in the flood of water."

That's kind of a horrible thing to think, yes?

Now I can hear the washer churning my clothes around, and I feel guilty.

:/

Sorry, little Boo.

Fine Appetizing

There was a little restaurant right next to my undergrad university that everyone loved. It served American, Mexican, and Italian food, so you could bring three finicky appetite groups with you and be pretty confident all would be satisfied. All the menu items were upscale too, and the atmosphere was perfectly quaint, romantic, aesthetic, and all-in-all delightful. Cute waiters, added bonus.

There was only one menu item that probably could have used a more classy title. It was, no surprise, also my favorite thing to order. My first few times eating there I was an amateur and ordered the Chicken Marsala. After a while, though, I passed up things like the Florentine salad, or the Mahi Mahi. This place even served alligator and ostrich, but what I'm about to tell you about will clarify for you why this adventurous spirit passed up even those choices*.

"No no, thank you. I'll have the Nacho Mountain, please. With a glass of your merlot."

They weren't kidding when they said "mountain," either. I always had leftovers for the mini-fridge. Holla.

*Besides, I sampled ostrich and alligator in Namibia, so you know, eating it in the Midwest just feels tacky. ;)

Eye of the Beholder

Last summer I was having lunch with Mom and Riley, and Mom declared that while she likes raisins by themselves, she detests them in other food recipes. Apparently the re-absorption of water into the shrivelled nuggets grosses her out. She explained this further, with a metaphor. She said, "It's gross, it's like...tics."

To this I pointed out the obvious and said, "...or like grapes..."

I didn't think it was that funny, but water came out of her nose.

Lynn-amon Rolls

I went to Lynnie's house tonight. Oh how she spoils me. Tonight she made me homemade cinnamon rolls, a turkey sandwich with avocado (mmmmmmmmmmm!), and continued to stuff my face until I couldn't take it anymore. I also got to snuggle with new baby Charlie, who's precious with a capital P.

I don't really know what I can do for her in return, except maybe amuse her with my stories involving my ridiculous antics. Love ya, Lynnie! Thanks for din-din!

Dribble Paws

My family used to have a cat who was part angel, part fluff. Her name was Whiskers. She was a stray, and we never discovered quite what breed she was, but her coloring and temperament were very much like a Himalayan/Ragdoll mix. If you've ever met a ragdoll cat, they are incredible. You can pick them up and they just go limp in your arms with happiness. We used to have huge parties for the Superbowl or with all of my brothers' friends from the high school youth group, and Whiskers would just walk around, letting anyone pick her up. Point being, she was SO sweet, and thus the opposite of tough. Dad called her "Brown Cow."

Thus it was ironic that in my dream last night Whiskers was the point guard for a cat basketball team. Roy Williams was her coach (Roy was a human, not a cat). As she came off the court, Roy petted her affectionately. It was like the way a fellow player would slap another player's butt, but instead he was petting the cat slowly like you would normally pet a cat. It wasn't weird or sexual, it was just a cat/human hybrid sort of action.

Patrick called tonight and I told him about my dream and he was very excited about it. Then he brought up the fact that when we moved to an apartment that didn't allow pets when Patrick and I were in high school, we gave Whiskers to my aunt and uncle. Shortly thereafter, Whiskers, who was getting old, got really sick and had to be put to sleep. Patrick was telling me tonight about how if his cats become a problem when his daughter is born, he and Jenny will have to get rid of them. He listed off some potential people he could give them to, noting, "but we won't give them to Aunt Barb and Uncle Doug. They killed Whiskers." I laughed a "that's a horrible thing to say, but also totally hilarious" laugh, reflexively.

"The" Opinion

I called my brother (big brother Kelly) today with a tax question, then told him about a predicament in the grad school decision, and he immediately offered his sass with a side of his famous unsolicited advice. (He sent me an email recently titled "Unsolicited Advice" and I told him that our relationship could be ten times better if he would always put that disclaimer on his emails and phone calls.) Anyway in the midst of his dishing of the sass I interrupted him and said, "That is just your opinion."

"It is not my opinion, Bailey. It is The opinion. Of the world."

Then he called me the Queen of something, probably of Sass, and then I called him the King of something else. Not a compliment, but he took it that way and excitedly said, "I like this." You cannot win with that 30-year old child.

"Don't cut his eyes"

I declared my friend Mike tonight to be the bravest person I know. Why? Because he let me cut his hair.

I have never cut anyone's hair, but last week I told him it looked like a lot of fun, so tonight we bought some scissors and let Bailey live out one of her dreams (one of those dreams that should probably be left untapped).

Mike's roommate Chris decided that the project would probably be better if we were all drinking some beer, so we each cracked open a Blue Moon for our adventure. Chris stayed close by at first, while I got out my jitters, and was then called back in every few minutes for check ups on the haircut. At the end of the cutting, we had Chris with a beer in one hand, the comb in the other, gathering up the pieces of hair that he deemed still too long, and I clipped away at them. At one point, when we were near Mike's ear, with the shears pointed toward the front of Mike's face, Chris gave some of the most helpful advice I've ever received: "Don't cut his eyes." At this Mike yelled, "Drink!" and made us pause while he gave himself a little medicine to make the process slightly less terrifying.

In the end I think we all declared the cut to be a "Well, it could be worse" cut. Mike expressed that he was happy to still have his ears and eyes. We also made plans for our future salon that we will open--tentative name is "Chop Shop"--in which both the hair cutters and hair cuttees will be provided with alcohol. Pending tagline: "We won't cut your eyes."

Holla!

I don't really know how to preface this except just to say it. And I would skip writing about it at all so as not to be a braggart, but I think that'd be like not telling you if I got engaged or had a baby or something. So: I got offered full ride and a living stipend for a year of graduate school today. Needless to say, my decision has been made about where I will be attending. Many, many, many (years of) prayers answered today. Praise God, who gives me so many things I don't deserve!

Lobster Run

I had two jobs today: to run and to locate beverages.

At approximately 5:30 this morning my brother informed me, "Oh yeah, you know how you thought your leg of the race was about 6.5 miles? It's actually 7.25." I don't know why I didn't say "See ya" and crawl back into bed. Now, as a middle child (unite!), I will always be concerned with fairness. So last time I used a calculator, I believe that one fourth of 26.2 miles came out to be 6.55. So how my leg of the race gained an extra three quarter miles (with hills, I might add) is beyond me. So that was job number one: run. Which I accomplished, and now have a delectable sunburn to show for it. And, an official St. Louis Marathon Relay medal, which I'll probably hang on a doorknob or something.

My second job took place at two separate times: breakfast, and post-race. After we sent Dad, Kelly, and Andrew off on the first leg, coffee was obviously the only thing on my brain. So, being the least shy of our posse, I began approaching people with Starbucks cups in hand and asking them where they got the java. As we got closer it became a game of Hot & Cold. "Excuse me, Sir, how many more blocks do we have? Did we pass it?"

After the race, I kept asking, "Do you know where the beer is?" "Is the beer this way?" "Are we headed in the direction of the beer?" And eventually we were greeted by the Michelob Ultra tent and its ice cold cups of frothy hoppiness.

3.2 vs. 6.55

Update on my sweat life (please see Nov. 12, 2009 post if you are unfamiliar with this term, coined by Yours Truly):

Saturday: ran 6 miles (didn't stretch afterward, bad girl)
Sunday: no running
Monday: no exercise
Tuesday: "rode" 30 minutes on the stationary bike at the gym
Wednesday: nothin'
Thursday: ran 6 slow miles, no fun at all (also didn't stretch afterward)

Which brings us to today, Friday. I have to run 6.55 miles (to be exact) in the St. Louis Marathon Relay on Sunday. I am not running tomorrow. Don't have time, and it would be a bad idea before race day. So I'm thinking, "Bails, you should really, really run today." At which point I do what? That's right, call my dad and ask for permission not to run. What? He's the more competitive, better runner than me, i.e. running expert. If anyone has the authority to grant a day off, it's Dad.

I call Dad's cell phone, Mom answers. "I have a question for Dad." "Okay, he's driving, I'll ask him." I explain my situation.

Dad's response? An instant "She should skip today." Not just "She can skip today," no no, "She should skip." As in it would be the right thing to do. As in Dad says so.

Let's just say I had a beer cracked open within minutes. Little measures up to your dad granting you permission to sit on your ass, and furthermore declaring this as the right thing to do. Thanks, Pops. I raise my Michelob Ultra (or two) to you.

Catch up

I just got off the phone with my friend Tommy (because people with landlines can be telephoned and talked to, FYI). First of all, my dad answered the phone, and called to me, "Bucket!" to let me know the call was for me. Immediately Tommy asked, "Did he just call you 'Bucket?'"

"Yep."
"Why??"

I explained to him: a bucket used to bail out water could be called a bailing bucket, "Bailey" sounds like "bailing," thus "Bailey Bucket," my name since birth. Then I told him that my full name from Dad also includes a "Cakeflake," but I had no explanation for the compound word. So I called upstairs, "Dad! Can you get back on the line? We have a question for you."

[Tommy laughing in the background.]

I'd like to point out here that with the landline, Dad and I were able to speak to Tommy at the same time, without irritating Tommy's ears with the obnoxious under water effect made by a cellular speaker phone feature. Land line, 1. Cell, 0.

Dad got dutifully on the line, and Tom Senior explained to Tom Jr. and Bailey Bucket that basically he just made up the name Cakeflake. Tommy and I then proceeded (after Dad got off the line :) to discuss my dating life for over an hour. Apparently it is quite an entertaining topic, as we laughed a lot. At one point Tommy said, "I'm so glad I called you!" Feeling's mutual, bud.

Sweet Dreams

A song that never gets old is really a marvel. I think that it might be

--almost--

safe to say that, collectively, all the songs in the world that never get old, could count as the eighth wonder of the world.

But I only say almost. It's kind of a moot point anyway, because if you google "seven wonders" you get about 700 lists. So who knows what's true anymore.

Well I'd like to give a shout out here to the song "Dreams" by The Cranberries. My journey with this particular song goes a little like the following:

1995: The song "Dreams" is used in the trailer for the film release of The Babysitters' Club, one of the top ten movies of all time (one of the seven wonders of the movie world, if you will--and you will). In 1995 I want to see The BSC movie SO BAD, but will not actually see it until, I believe, 1996. On video. Never have I seen it in a theater. But, worth the wait.

1997: Brother Kelly gives Bailey The BSC on VHS for Christmas.

1999: Bailey lends The BSC to a friend, and never gets it back.

2001: Bailey is not mad at the loss, but rather glad to have passed along the joy that is The BSC on VHS; however, she cannot take being away from Kristy, Dawn, and Logan any longer and buys herself a new copy at Walgreens for ten dollars.

1995-2001: Anytime Bailey hears "Dreams" on the radio during this time period, Bailey thinks of The BSC, as well as her position in the world as Kristy Thomas' alter-ego (i.e. tomboy, three brothers, etc.).

2004: Bailey is home from college missing her friends very, very much, living the dream life of working 8-5 for the summer, but has a few fun weekends when her brother Kelly comes to visit. Bailey and Kelly are driving, listening to Kelly's Cranberries CD. During this particular drive Kelly and Bailey appreciate the delicious, heartbreaking artistry of the song "Linger," but one last listen is apparently enough for Kelly to part with the disc as he gives it to Bailey to keep. Now Bailey can listen to "Dreams" whenever she wants.

2010, March: Bailey is on the treadmill, losing her steam, watching "You've Got Mail" on the TV in front of her and listening to Hanks and Ryan through her headphones. She is about to get off the conveyer belt when the opening tones of "Dreams" begin to entrance her through the wires. "Ah, five more minutes, sure," she thinks, and watches the scene where Kathleen Kelly bounces down the street, thinking swoonily (not a word? don't care) of her nameless email crush. As Bailey runs she thinks fondly of her own crushes, past and present.

2010, April 7: Bailey drives home from ice cream bonding, scanning the radio with intense boredom. Stops instantly on "Dreams."

Tonight, I raise my stereo to The Cranberries. Good work, friends. You've given me a treat that is everlastingly sweet.

Light up

I've been having a recurring dream lately. And that dream is that I am smoking. These dreams are so real, I can feel the cig in my hand, and I can taste it. More importantly, in these dreams, I love to smoke. Now when my coworkers go out on smoke breaks, I sincerely want to join them. Sure I'd cough at first, but in the dreams there is no coughing, and it was delicious and I felt so cool.

In my dream last night I was smoking a cigar. I felt like such an awesome bad ass.

It's nice to know that I am being tempted even in my subconscious states. It makes me wonder if hypnotism would be able to effectively help me quit smoking. You know, were I to start...I'm just sayin', these dreams have me thinking about it. Anybody have any menthols?

365

Happy Birthday, Daily Bailey. Today you are one year old. Congratulations.

:)

Worthy Distractions

Studying...overrated? I am supposed to be preparing for a test tomorrow. Most recent activity? Pouring a glass of milk. Before that? Ate a banana, kissed the cat, flossed teeth, painted toenails, took a shower, danced in bathroom prior to shower, watched second half of Mona Lisa Smile, watched the two best scenes of The Sound of Music*, checked my email...

Well, I guess we'll see how I feel tomorrow after the surprise essay question is placed before me.

On that note, I think I'll go brush my teeth and get in bed with my notes. How long the eyes will stay open to read those notes? To be determined.

*1, where Captain von Trapp hears the children singing and goes into the house and sings with them, then hugs them, then tells Maria, "You brought music back into the house. I had forgotten." And
2, when Captain and Liesl sing "Edelweiss"

Alas, a Mess, Amass

So I've hit crazy woman spring cleaning mode. And in the process I've learned a few things:

1. My family collects some very eccentric books. Among the titles I shelved today include The History of HyVee (for those of you who are not Midwesterners, HyVee is a grocery store), Funeral Sermons, There Was an Old Woman who Swallowed a Fly, Discover Your Genius, Speed Cleaning (ironic), multiple copies of Lutheran hymnals...you get the idea.

2. For the first time ever in my life, I am a girl who has way too many clothes. Okay, to clarify, I have always had too much clothing, I have always been blessed with shelter and food and clothing with an element of fashion and abundance rather than the bare necessities. But you know those girls in movies, those girls in real life whose parents walk in their bedroom in exasperation, saying, "Leah! You have too many clothes!" Yeah, that was never me. Until now. I can't express to you how much this freaks me out. Thank God I still have my tomboy personality, or I wouldn't recognize myself.

***If anyone thinks I have lost my tomboy personality, inform me immediately and I will see a counselor and get it back.***

I have accumulated, probably realistically, 90% of my current wardrobe in the last three years. Mind you, I've gotten rid of a lot of stuff in the meantime, but still. I have more dresses, more black skirts, more babydoll tees, more jewelry, more everything intended for a girl* than I ever imagined I would have. My theory: I spent so many years wanting to be one of the boys around my brothers, and protested "girliness" so vehemently that it is backlashing me in my twenties. Who knows what kind of rebellion we'll see in my thirties, forties, oh boy.

*minus makeup, knock on wood

3. I seem to collect in my car, more than anything, the following:

a. issues of the NY Times
b. clothing (again with the clothing)
c. Starbucks cups
d. McDonald's and Wendy's wrappers (I am working on minimizing this)
e. green aprons

Sure, the piles amass quickly and become rather large and menacing to the passenger eye, but really, it's just a lot of clothes and current events. They won't bite. And if you get lucky, when you curl up with an apron-turned-blanket to read the Science Times, you just might find a Cheez-It or two. Now, to me, that's just a loving car.

Politics? Polygons!*

My word of the week is "square." Not as in the polygon, as if "rhomboid" and "triangle" are big in my vocabulary at other points in time, but as in square in behavior, boring, cautious.

It just makes me smile. Not to mention it's so dead-on in its description of certain people. My friend Nate just sent me an email and I had to reply and almost innately (haha, get it? inNATEly) I dropped the word "square" in my response.

Love it. Square. Drop it in a sentence today. Go.

*Nate, if you're reading this, do you remember the construction paper collage I made in 2007 that said "Politics? Polygons!"? And Nate, if you're not reading this, you really should be.

Hollawood

I cleaned out my car today. With a vacuum and everything. Oooohhh. (I know.)

I turned the car on while I gathered two weeks worth of laundry, food wrappers, and empty Starbucks cups, so that I could listen to my new Bollywood CD while I worked (as opposed to whistling while I worked).

Because nothing says "car cleaning" like Bollywood. I mean, am I right or am I right?

I'm right. I'm not always right, but here, I believe I am.

Sorry about the choppy posts, Friends--busy week, I'll try and give you a big long essay (because I know you love those) soon.