Smiles

Patrick called today and told me two things about new Annabelle.

1)She's an "advanced" pooper. Apparently she has gone #2 more than the average day-old infant. I see a Ph.D. in our future. Keep it up, Girlfriend.

2)Patty thinks that his new baby girl looks like ME :) :) :)

I'M AN AUNT!!!

Welcome to the world, Annabelle!!! And welcome to your crazy family!!!

Love it

Last week my coworker Matt was describing his wife to me. He was explaining her need/desire for organization, straight lines, cleanliness, etc. "She's CDO," he said.

"What's that?" I asked.

"OCD. It's alphabetical."

Imagication

Yesterday I made Spanish rice. Today I went to a Thai restaurant with Mom and ordered a pineapple rice dish.

I bet you're thinking I'm going to write about my overdose of rice. Wrong!

Now. I don't have a lot of money to travel. Let's be honest, I only have enough money to travel as far as the door of my future apartment, then drop my bags and remain there for two years while I finish my degree. Then, after approximately 12 years of paying off student loans, we'll see about maybe landing an awesome job that gives me enough pay for those things people speak of called "vacations." In the meantime I fantasize about traveling/get jealous of those who can travel and find excuses so as not to have to listen to the fine details of their traveling experiences.

I also eat foreign food as a coping mechanism. When I'm really getting pangs for Southern Africa, for instance, I eat rusks and drink rooibos tea with milk. Southern Africa is the only place where I've really traveled, so when I eat Chinese or Ethiopian or Mediterranian food, I just mope about not having been to those places (yet, hopefully).

So I'm thinking. If I mixed yesterday's Spanish rice with today's Thai rice, could I eat it and, finding a geographic midpoint as I do so, pretend that I'm in Iraq? Kind of a three-for-one special?

Toys 'R Us "Kid"

First of all, in regard to yesterday's post: not a hoax, people. Those pictures are not of me. I've been receiving a lot of skepticism, but I promise. Not me.

Okay, now on with today's business. Tonight I was hanging out with my favorite three year old, Lucy. Lucy wanted to give baby Sam a gift, in the form of a glittery, 3-D chicken sticker. I.e., an awesome sticker. She placed the sticker on the bottom of Sam's foot, adhering it to his footy pajamas. I told her to be careful, because the baby could put the sticker in his mouth

(because I am a paranoid freak. It's not that I view others as incompetent parents, it is 99% of the time that I am a paranoid freak. Please always remember this when I point out to you that the jagged edge of your bit-into ice cream cone is centimeters away from gouging the inside of your mouth. Please remember it is me, not you, before you lash out in anger at my comments that seemingly insult and discredit your abilities in adulthood).

Lucy obediently peeled the sticker from Sam's foot and regifted it to me.

Perhaps this was all an action on my part because of my subconscious desire to be the owner of the awesome, 3-D, glittery chicken sticker. I wouldn't throw out this theory.

Lucy placed the sticker on my cardigan a couple of times, and after it kept falling off I suggested she stick it on my face--perhaps it would "stay stuck" better. Again, dutifully, following Aunt Bailey's directions, Mr. Chicken migrated to my cheek.

Lucy stepped back to admire her handiwork and, hands on hips, declared, "Stickers are for grown ups."

Not "Stickers are for grown ups too," just "for grown ups." Period. You speak the truth, Baby Girl. You speak the truth. Keep it up. (But I'll happily share my stickers with you.)

Creepy...

I may have found some fuel to keep me on facebook. Or deterrent. This is a little creepy, that which I am about to share with you.

When I was a sophomore in college (keep in mind I went to a small one), about two weeks into the school year some of my friends starting asking me, "Do you have a sister or a cousin who goes here?" Apparently, there was a girl who had just come in as a freshman who looked a lot like me, especially from a distance or at a glance. My favorite story from one of my friends was when Lisa told me she went so far as to accidentally sit down with someone (I assume this girl) in the dining hall, then, embarrassed, got up when she realized it wasn't me at the table. I eventually met this girl my senior year and we discussed our sorta-kinda-look-alike stance. Neither one of us really saw it. But we became facebook friends (by the way, I'm not capitalizing "facebook" because the logo involves a lowercase "f"), because that's what you do when you have a conversation that lasts longer than 30 seconds.

Today I got on the book o' face--to become a fan of something, and look at how distracted I became...never got around to becoming a fan of said thing--and on my news feed were some pictures of this girl who kind of looks like me, with whom I am facebook friends, and who I haven't talked to since...yes, my senior year.

And there were three (two in particular) pictures of this girl that look just like me. Check these out (presented in order from least like me to most like me, for dramatic effect and excitement):

#1:



#2...


And the grand finale:


Right???! Uncanny! And you thought I looked exactly like my bro!

I just showed these to my mom, told her it wasn't me, and she said, "Yeah it is." As in, honestly thought I was pulling her leg.

Bah.

So someone sneakily snuck (I guess the only way to be "snuck" is sneakily--nevermind, moot point) me back onto facebook. My life is again being sucked away by a technological madhouse.

What a waste of time, People! I am looking at people's photos, getting jealous, getting annoyed, looking at the clock and realizing a half hour has gone by and I was supposed to already be at the gym.

And yet, my account is still active...I give it 48 more hours, tops.

5 Squared

Birthday recap:

Cat
Coffee (overfilled and spilled by Will)
Donuts
Church
Lunch (pizza, round 1)
Presents
Run
Party thrown just for me--holler!!--involving:
David Bowie (aka The Labyrinth)
Pizza, round 2
Jumping in a pool

Thanks, kids, for helping make #25 a success.

I Sing Because I'm FREE

Every day my parents and I have the same conversation.

"Bailey, you should really eat some protein. Would you like some chicken? Are you sure? How 'bout some more broccoli? No? You sure? Okay, then..."

Today I set a record for how much I consumed in a 24-hour period. This is not going to sound very impressive to you, but the fact that I was consistently grabbing at things to eat, one after the other, is a big deal. Trust me. Here's the list:

coffee (duh)
cookies
Junior Mints
spaghetti special (Dad's own recipe)
bread with jelly (not jam and bread, sorry Maria)
Coke
avocado

Later:

milk
banana
chips
Pepsi
water
espresso shot mixed with whip cream (jealous)
sub sandwich
more avocado
half of a frozen banana, mixed with mocha syrup and whip cream (Matt's recipe)
half of an Izze soda
water
water
vanilla scone
cookies
water

Like I said, not that impressive. When I was 14, I could eat three times that much in one day. The thing is, I find eating to be a tremendous hassle. I enjoy food, there are certain things I love to eat (tomato bisque soup, raw tomato with salt, scones, chocolate, lima beans), and when I have people with me, I can sit around a table munching for hours. But the fact that every few hours our bodies stop to grumble, we become agitated, all for the fact that we have to eat?!

Again?!

Drives.
Me.
Crazy!!!

Mom told me a couple of months ago that it annoys her to have to bathe once a day. I told her I would love to shower four times a day, if I could eat once a day and be set for the next 24 hours. There are so many other things you can skip throughout a day, push off for later. I guess it is God's way of telling us to slow down, His way of stopping us in our tracks before we do something stupid; He distracts us with a cookie or a fussy baby who wants some Cheerios so we only watch two episodes of America's Next Top Model, not eight. Whatever. Fine, I guess I'll keep eating.*

*I realize I am extremely blessed to have food in my life every day, and that I never have to worry about that blessing being taken away tomorrow. His eye is on the sparrow (Matthew 6:25-27/Luke 12:6-7).

Favor

I just spent the evening at Summer's house. The library is between her house and mine, so she asked if I would mind returning a Barney video for her on my way home.

It was a little weird returning a Barney video to the library at 10:30 at night. I kind of felt like a robber, but like I was stealing diapers instead of money.

'Sup, Dawg

I just watched an episode of Dog the Bounty Hunter with Dad and Riley. Entertainment start to finish. Wow.

In all seriousness I think "the Dog" and his wife have an awesome mission. What the Dog does, essentially, is contact drug dealers, fugitives, etc. personally, to make a relationship with them and give them the option to turn themselves in (I could be getting some of these details wrong, I've only watched the show a few times). If they agree to turn themselves in, he'll go to their homes, give them the opportunity to say goodbye to their families, and personally escort them to jail, giving them heartfelt advice and truth about how going to jail is a step in the right direction, offering hope for a new life after serving time. I really think that what he does is amazing, and takes great courage and character.

And, just to make the whole thing better, the show is so funny. Before I quote some of the goldmine lines from tonight's episode, I'd like to clarify that, yes, I am making fun of these people, but I am also appreciating their personalities. We can do a little mixture of those two things, right? Find something in someone to be not exactly classy, yet also kind of precious at the same time? And, as I said, I have tremendous respect for these people's hearts, so I am merely poking fun at the semantics they choose to use.

I'll poke fun at myself first to be fair. I use the following words on a daily basis: "holla," "Dibby Pookin Pie Kitty Baby Teddy Bear," "Good morning, Starshine!" I have Riley sitting with me and have asked him for some input here. He has informed me that I am often quick to declare, "I love such-and-such" without giving a lot of upfront explanation, thus coming off a little awkwardly to my audience. He also said, quote, "You also have trouble telling your own stories that you think are funny...Well, you think they're funny, we don't usually get it because it comes out half giggles."

Okay, now on to the Bounty Hunter (and his wife). Tonight we had such gems in dialogue as:

"When you're married, his problems become your problems, Sista."
"Don't be coy, Roy."
Referring to the effects of using methamphetamines: "You have instant b*lls [knowledgable head nod to punctuate the point]."
"She's goin' down. She can go down as a lady, but she's goin' down."

Okay, all of those were Dog's wife. God bless her. Beth.

Tonight's particular episode got us very excited (we were channel surfing at first, but we ended up watching the entire hour) because they were bounty hunting in Colorado Springs, where my family used to live. When they mentioned a particular intersection in the area, Dad said, "I used to have an apartment there!" (When we were moving from one city to the next, Dad went before the family to start his job, and lived for six months in an apartment until we could join him in a house.) We immediately called Mom down to join us for the party; she couldn't miss this. Minutes later, the cameras revealed the exact apartment complex where Dad used to live.

As a group, we literally cheered. Mom and Dad high fived on the couch.

Tea Time

Kansas, we have a success. A baking success.

The way I cook, (when I cook), is to scavenge through the kitchen, find one ingredient, then head to the internet to find a recipe involving that ingredient. My standards for a considerable recipe are: can be a challenge, but must be doable, and must be likely to taste at least somewhat good.

There have been some flops. A cream based vegetable soup, curried water chestnuts (a big letdown, as I love curry and water chestnuts), and a rice krispie-chocolate chip cookie hybrid thing. Yeah, that last one definitely didn't work out.

But there have been some real winners along the way as well. Just last week I made a recipe that I found from a resident of Bethlehem, which I have made multiple times now. It has rice, black beans, and garbanzo beans, with chicken broth and turmeric, cumin, coriander, and cayenne pepper. Enough said, right? Stir in some plain yogurt--done.

Well last week I opened the vegetable keeper and discovered that we have carrots upon carrots upon carrots. And then I headed to Google. I successfully used eight ounces of those carrots today, which means we still have heaps of orange in our fridge, but hey, a journey of a thousand miles begins with one cup of carrots. I found a delightful/hilarious website devoted to carrots, and from there I found a "biscuit" recipe--essentially an oatmeal raisin cookie recipe with some grated carrots added.

Today I set up shop in the kitchen, turned on some Duffy to support the British mood, and got to work. Dad helped me set up the food processor (another step of progress in my life as a cooking adult--pat on the back), and I greatly enjoyed beating together the honey, eggs, vanilla, and oil--the four make a paste delightfully pleasing to the eye and nose. When I mixed the liquid, oats, carrots, and raisins together, well honestly it looked like vomit. I showed Riley and he snickered; then I tried a spoonful and he wouldn't try it with me. He had just gone for a run, so I let it slide because I often feel like vomiting after running when presented with any food, let alone such that resembles upchuck. I told him as I spooned the goop onto trays, "Well, if they taste awful we'll call them sh*t biscuits."

Luckily! The cookie biscuits are awesome! And there is no sugar or butter in them! They are amazing. Mom, Dad, and Riley all enjoyed their samples. I have three placed in a plastic baggie for my breakfast tomorrow morning. My apologies, Domesticity, for ignoring you all these years. Welcome into my life.

Here comes the beep

Patrick called tonight. The phone stopped ringing and I heard Riley pick up, then a fair amount of time went by before he finally said, "Bailey, I think the phone's for you."

"You think?"
"Yeah..."

I got on the line and on the other end was a quiet, burnt out voice. "Bailey? Is this Bailey?"

"Patrick?"

Instantly out of character, now sheer excitement: "See, you knew who I was! Riley didn't know it was me!"

I told him of course it was him, because he was doing his Milosh voice. "That wasn't my Milosh voice," he corrected me.

By the way, my brother Patrick is 27 years old, and about to be a father any day now. Take that into consideration when you read the following conversation.

"My Milosh voice goes like this: [a demonstration, 'Hi, I'm Milosh.']" He performed his demonstration in a slightly different Eastern European accent than the first. Pardon me for not being able to distinguish.

Whenever Patrick calls, it's for one of three reasons.

1. To tell me he just caught a possum. Again. (He has captured many possums.)

2. To tell me about the piece of rock he just climbed, using numbers such as "a seven" or "a ten," never bothering to explain what these numbers mean. All I know is I am supposed to be impressed, unless he just went climbing with Riley, in which case he is usually upset because he thinks Riley is a better climber than him.

3. If I don't answer the phone to hear about his latest marsupial or climbing adventure, then he switches to an accent--usually reminiscent of Napoleon Dynamite or as his alter-ego Milosh--and leaves a ridiculous message. This weekend he got the machine and pretended to be our brother Kelly. "This is Kelly, I'm just calling to say I smell bad, and that you should give Patrick $50 every month."

One more day in my life without a cell phone. More proof to you that life certainly does exist without a cell phone. In fact life is abundant on my answering machine. Give me a call sometime, add to the recording collection.

Prowlers

My friend Alley called me today. A pleasant Sunday afternoon surprise. During our conversation she said, "Guess what I'm looking at," then described to me the scene of her two cats unfolding before her: Jack, the scraggly one with red fur (I love Jackie; so does Alley's husband, who gets a kick out of the cat's indifference and says that "indifference is the greatest aphrodisiac"), was prowling behind her newest kitten, contemplating an attack.

I told her that my Dibby tiger was sleeping on my pillow next to me, and I scratched his head.

Alley's cats.

My cat.

Alley cats.

Silk Spin

John Denver? Anyone?

Love him.

As you may or may not know, my family moved a lot while I was growing up. Yes, for my dad's career, no, not a military career. Anyway. By the time I graduated high school I had been in four public school districts, and by the time I reached registration for my senior year, I was a little, well, burnt out. So after signing up for AP Calculus and AP Psychology, I sighed a little sigh and looked at that remaining slot in my schedule. I thought, "I could take AP European History...Or. You know. I could take something else."

So I signed up for Sewing my first semester, made a pillowcase, a purse/backpack hybrid thing, a skirt, and the front of a(n awesome) Kansas Jayhawk quilt for Mom. Um, that was in 2002, and we still only have the front of the quilt. That's right, not a finished project, eight years later. Bailey Kathleen, leaving things unfinished since 1985. Anyway.

Second semester I took Folk Guitar. I had never heard a John Denver song before this class. I also had never heard of Linda Rondstadt, and the scratchy recording of her singing "Desperado" that Mr. Ballard blared over the speakers changed my life. One of the first songs we learned after mastering the G, D, C, and E minor chords was "Country Roads." I quickly fell in love with this song and still declare it to be one of my anthems.

After we mastered the "Roads" themselves, we moved on to bigger and better songs, involving more complicated picking and strumming. We learned the concept of "drop D tuning," I realized that the song "Blackbird" is surprisingly easy to play, and I only got mildly (mildly) better at strumming. I never got over my fear of singing in front of the class that semester; that came later, in Africa. 'Nother story, 'nother time.

After a couple of months I started to really miss the Roads. I ached for my anthem. Luckily, one thing moving three times will do for you, if you're lucky, is it will make you embrace your awkwardness. Or at least shed your shyness and dispense of it like a soiled shirt on a busy metropolitan street, for good. Thus. Once I recognized this ache inside of me, I raised my hand. Mr. Ballard asked us to get out a particular piece of music we were working on, and stopped himself when he caught sight of my hand in the hair. An apologetic look came over his sweet, unassuming face, making it look as if he felt he had been so rude to almost start class without realizing I had a concern. This, rather than a look that could have regarded the situation as it actually was: that I was interrupting class.

Interrupting class to make a request for John Denver. Like I said, you shed that soiled garment for good. It is a life pact one makes with herself when she realizes she must make the most of circumstances outside of her control. Abandon the shame, but get ready to do some awkward things well into your twenties (I haven't gone beyond that yet, I'll keep you posted about one's thirties, forties).

My teacher didn't have to say, "Uh, yes dear?" because his whole face said it for him.

"Could we play 'Country Roads' today? I really miss it."

"Oh, of course [dear]. Everyone get out your chords for 'Country Roads.'" Completely rearranging class for my benefit. Ask and you shall receive.

All but the experienced guitarists in the class (because we were an all-inclusive, no-cut policy class) got out their sheets bearing the delicious, sometimes poignant words "Mountain Mama." The boys who played in garage bands outside of school played from memory, by ear. And we had a little reunion with Mr. Denver right then and there. If I didn't thank my teacher aloud afterward, I should have.

Sometimes today when I open the store at 5am, I play John Denver in my car driving to work. 4:45am, JD coasts me down my suburban streets. I get so lost in the song that it's almost as if his voice is driving. I can't usually sing along that early, because my voice is still crackly from too recent sleep. But I listen. It wakes me up, mentally, yes, but also to myself. I've never lived in a rural area, so it doesn't make a lot of sense that a song about rural roads and a rural life should speak to me as it does. In fact I often fear a rural life, getting trapped in a place that's too quiet, becoming too alone with only my circular thoughts, without enough eccentric personalities around to instead bounce the thoughts off of, making them more weblike than circular. Weblike and messy, broken in places and patched in others, but beautiful in the way that surpasses knowledge.

I don't try to understand my heart's lodging in a song that doesn't seem to apply directly to me. I don't try to understand spiderwebs. I don't try to understand the fact that God will drop an old friend in the grocery store when I am on a spontaneous search for chickpeas. I just drive, trying to remind myself that He is truly driving. I listen, I hum along when I am too tired to sing. I drop an octave when Celine or Mariah go too high for me. I sing in my feminine voice, trying my best to harmonize with John's masculinity. I observe, I listen, I talk too much, and I write. Because that is what I trust He designed me to do.

"I get a feelin' that I should have been home yesterday, yesterday. Take me home, Country Roads, to the place I belong."

Knowledge for granted

FYI, if you decide to google "blog topics" to find something to write about, not exactly helpful. I was given topics that made me want to hit the snooze button just thinking about them, and then I found such common sense, straightforward, duh! advice such as: "read books and magazines" and "watch the news" to get blog ideas.

Officially: not helpful. Essentially this advice told me to live my life as I already do. And I gotta say it's a little depressing that we have to wait until we're out of blog ideas to motivate ourselves to read books in the first place. I won't lie when I say that I cringe when people tell me they haven't used their library card in years. That's terribly judgmental of me, but at least I'm honest about being judgmental. Seriously, Americans love free things, am I right? And what does the library have? Free books. Let's get a move on, people. To la bibliotheque. Maintenant.

It's true, I love libraries perhaps a little too much. I brought a stack of eight books to Starbucks tonight and laid them out on the rug and four different people asked me, "What on earth? Are you reading all of those?" I realize I am not your usual, well, anything. But it breaks my heart to know that over the course of several years, one cannot find a single reason to walk into a library. I mean, not one little thing piques your curiosity in all that time, something that you can only find the answer to in a library? Instead of the news channel, word of mouth, even a bookstore?

And if nothing else, what about the ambiance? The quiet, the cushy chairs, the precious old men shuffling around? And if you're lucky, a coffee shop? I am lucky enough to enjoy all four of these things (quiet, chairs, old men, coffee), so for me entering a library is really striking gold, but surely your average person has to appreciate at least one of these things? Am I being to harsh here? Is it too much to ask that each person go to the library once in the next month, for me?

Yes please

Pauletta Washington is a lucky, blessed woman. That Denzel is so, so beautiful, inside and out.

Here's me, jealous.

Distant Divas

The girls in this picture are far away. I miss them. Kim (sleeper on the left) is from KC and Carolyn (middle sleeper) came with our friend Sarah from Chicago to visit me and Kim a couple of summers ago. We spent the weekend scanning the radio for "I Kissed a Girl," wine tasting, boating, sampling food at the farmers' market, drinking Bud Select (Sarah and Carolyn's new favorite drink, discovered during their tour of the Budweiser brewery in St. Louis en route to KC). Kim and I taught Sar and Car the difference between Kansas City Missouri and Kansas City Kansas, along with their abbreviations, KCMO (pronounced K.C. Moh) and KCK, which they liked very much. We had dinner with Kim's precious parents, while discussing the irregularly small size of Kim's full grown cat (seriously, this thing looks like a kitten). We watched the Baby Sitters' Club. It was a delicious weekend. Here's to you, ladies (Sarah included, duh, just not pictured):

Experiments

My hair smells delish. Why, you ask? Because I just added some Garnier Fructis Curl Construct Mousse to it. Oooh.

I know.

I got my haircut today (P.S. I love haircuts), and as we were finishing up I said, "Oh I meant to ask you, is it possible to make straight hair curly?" A little spark appeared in her eye and she said, "Oh it's definitely possible." And then we got to work on Project Make Bailey's Hair Curly.

And oh it worked. I told her that my hair definitely holds a curl if acquainted with a curling iron, but I was trying to explore alternate options. So she put some delicious mousse in my hair that smelled like candy, and then introduced me to the diffuser. And my hair decided to get quite curly. It's probably a lot like me, wanting to mix things up, so when it realized it was getting curled it probably said, "Heck yes! Let's do this thing!" and then got all crazy like.

So, clearly, this hairstyle will not appear on a daily basis, weekly basis, or monthly basis for that matter because

a)I have to have my hair pulled back for work anyway
b)This is me we're talking about, and while I love showers, I like to leave the bathroom rather quickly after taking them--I get pretty restless at a moment's notice--so extra bonding time with mousse, diffuser, curling iron, and hairspray is not super likely to occur very often

So. Where does that leave us? For the moment, my hair smells delish, and I'm about to sleep on it, so it might look quite funky in the morning. And I'm okay with that situation.

Potential Puppets

Slouchy socks? Love 'em or hate 'em?

Hate 'em!

Now, obviously, we all hate it when our socks slip all the way off of our heels down into our shoes, but I realized this week that I really hate it when my socks are even just a little bit loose. I take extra care in putting them on in the first place, making sure they're snug around the toes, arch, heel, ankle. Pull 'em up real tight, as high up the shin as they'll go.

I don't mind wearing a piece of clothing more than once, dirt and oil speaking, but as for socks, it's more a matter of form. So I could put on formerly sweaty socks and not be so bothered by the sweat, but what would get me is the fact that they'd be all stretched out.

Who's with me here? A little sock solidarity?

Well hello, Mr. Lincoln!

Cleaning pays. Truly. In the last week I have found:

$20 in my desk drawer
$20 sandwiched between two CD cases
$20 being used as a bookmark
an uncashed (and not yet expired) paycheck
lots of coins, probably 7 or 8 dollars worth
about $17 in the back pocket of my green shorts
$5 in my messenger bag

and other various bills and coins throughout my car, bedroom, and bathroom.

Where did the majority of that money go? Oh...massage, scone, lunch. But nevermind my inabilities with money. The important thing, people, is that I have been cleaning! Yay!! Yay, Bailey!

Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes

It is way past my bedtime (no, really, since I have to work tomorrow, unlike you spoiled sleeper inners), but I am okay with it, because I just spent an evening singing "Edelweiss" with seven children, just like the number in the Von Trapp family.

Three families from my church gathered for this long awaited and planned for event, plus me, and combined we numbered five adults and seven children. We followed the rule similar to that of Jewish tradition, where Shabbat prayer can't begin until x number of people are gathered in a Synagogue. Well, for us, we need seven kids and then we can commence the Julie Andrews festivities. After assigning the obvious adult roles of Maria and the Captain, the remaining parts were divvied up. I called dibs on the Baroness, even though people don't really like her. But she wears some pretty rockin' outfits for "the final golden days of the thirties."

Marta's counterpart (i.e. second youngest) spent much time in my lap, which made my evening complete. He quickly discovered that if he scrambled out of my lap onto the coffee table, only to jump back toward me, I would catch him, and I believe this game of "fly and catch" made his evening complete.

Sigh. Dreamy Georg Von Trapp, with his dual-toned suit jackets. Austrian vistas. Clothing made from drapes. This, friends, is my Utopia.

Pyramid

Try* as we might!, Dad and I cannot seem to consume anything beyond pizza, popcorn, and beer when Mom is out for the evening. We're hopeless without her.

*Let's be honest, we're not trying very hard to eat, say, fruit.

Dad's picking up our pizza right now. I'm expecting him home any minute.

Who invited Bailey?

Tonight was one of those nights I should have just shut my mouth. First I accidentally called Aleks fat. Then I tried to backtrack and made things worse, saying something along the lines of "well only your butt is fat." (Aleks is not fat, that is why this was especially bad.)

Then I told Laura she was like a man. "In a good way!" was my comeback to that.

The worst moment for me, simultaneously the best moment for my audience, was when I declared myself to be "asexual." Awesome. Shut your mouth, Bailey. Shut it. Then of course all ears were on me, waiting for an explanation to my (metaphorical!) definition, and I just laughed/blushed on the floor, hoping they would forget my comment. They will never forget it. I'm sure stigmatizing nicknames are being drawn up at this very moment. Perhaps a facebook group is being formed. Called, "Don't invite Bailey to your social events."

Zebu!

I introduced Mike to Veggie Tales tonight. There's only one word for that, and that would be education.

Bored Games

Are you one of those people who, when you're bored, you do something productive?

I am definitely not.

When I am bored, even though I detest the feeling of being bored, for some reason I let it win. When I was younger and complained about being bored, my mom would tell me to take a nap. I would solemnly refuse her suggestion, feeling that the action of sleep was succumbing to the boredom, letting the boredom wave its gloating power of winning over me. Sleep, to me, was the only thing more boring than being bored in itself.

So I ask myself now, as an adult (sometimes I use this term loosely), isn't just being bored letting the boredom win? By refusing to do anything else to pass the time? Instead I wait for the boredom to pass, and complain to the lucky people nearby while I wait.

I guess my logic is that doing productive things isn't always boring, but when you're bored to begin with, then filing your taxes, vacuuming, emailing colleagues, etc. become activities that make you feel like you've joined the ranks of boring and bored people everywhere. I won't lie, I can enjoy vacuuming, filing papers, corresponding via email. It's just that when I'm forced to do things because I have no other option and I'm bored, then I feel like if I choose to do them then I am becoming a boring person in doing so. And that right there may be one of my biggest fears, as a person, as a writer, as a woman who's still single and needs to keep herself interesting until she lands a man.

I'm afraid I may be boring you right now, writing about this. How many times have I dropped a variation of the word "bored" in the last three paragraphs (by the way, if you stop to count them, I will diagnose you as bored yourself)?

It has also just occurred to me, in the same way that it occurred to me this post might be boring, that I have just accomplished something productive whilst being bored: writing my daily post. Hmm. Didn't see that one coming.

So does that make me boring? Or bored? Did the boredom win? Where did we land in this discussion? People, now is your opportunity to speak.*

*Except you, Nick. You can hold your tongue since we already know you're going to declare me to be boring. Rude.

Bond Bons

When my parents lived in LA, my Mom bought us fun candy and gum from a Japanese community there. Some of the candy is really entertaining, such as the grape flavored rings that double as whistles, and some of it's pretty tasty. The gum, not so good, although packaged fashionably and labeled "Watering Kissmint." Oooh.

The really fun part is that all of the candy, aside from the Watering Kissmint of course, is labeled in Japanese, so you have no idea what is inside the box until you open it. And, once you do, you still may have no idea what you're about to put in your mouth (warning to those with strange, severe allergies). Just this week Mom uncovered a leftover stash from Cali and I opened a box with something purple inside, assumed it was candy; turned out to be gum.

All of the Japanese candy reminds me of an American candy a friend and I used in a "focus session" for MLK Day in college: Diversity Beans (http://www.diversitybeans.com/history.html). Diversity Beans are jelly beans whose flavors don't match their colors, i.e. you can pop a yellow jelly bean in your mouth and be surprised by the taste of cherry. All is well until you pop in a red one and discover it's licorice flavored. Personally, I looove black jelly beans, so I ended up eating a lot of the remains of half-eaten jelly beans, spit out by others, as we prepared for our focus session. We used the beans as an exercise to teach middle school students about stereotypes, judging a book by its cover, a person by his skin color (this is actually the point behind the creation of D-Beans). Pretty awesome tool, definitely check them out if you have a seminar/get together/somethin' rather coming up.

As for the Japanese candy, there are two items from Mom's latest stash that I am saving for Riley Francis, but I am bristling with curiosity concerning their contents. Riley, come home now so we can crack these suckers open! One of the boxes has Super Mario characters on it, and the other involves Pokemon. I can see a piece of brown plastic through the Super Mario packaging, so I'm hoping it has to do with Donkey Kong. Some of the mysterious packages have some English words on them, and I've just discovered in the time that I've sat down to type this that these say "Chocolate" and "FIZZY CANDY" on them. Riley, let's just say if you're not home in 48 hours you might not have the opportunity to open these with me. I lost a considerable amount of will power upon reading "FIZZY CANDY."

Do you guys love that I use my blog to communicate with my brother, instead of just privately emailing or calling him?

Riley and I seem to have many adventures involving candy, now that I think about it. A few years ago Santa Claus brought Riley some Harry Potter Bertie Bott's jelly beans, including flavors such as vomit, dirt, and sardines. Riley decided he would pick out only the good flavors, until his big sister stepped up to her duty as educator of minors and ate each disgusting flavor alongside him until we had conquered the entire package. P.S. the vomit beans sincerely taste exactly like vomit.

Our big brother Kelly used to take those big variety packs of Jelly Bellys and play a "fun game" called Guess the Flavor. We would close our eyes and he would give us a jelly bean and we had to guess the flavor. At first he was nice, of course, giving us cherry, pear, cinnamon, so we would trust him. Then he gave us buttered popcorn, or grape mixed with cappuccino. When my guy friends today try to understand why they can never get away with pulling my leg, it's because of antics like this. Years of practice, putting up with immature males. Strength is the golden reward. Strength and cunning. Very few people have been able to successfully tickle, sneak up on, trip, or scare me in recent years--three brothers pulling those tricks for 24 years eventually elicit little more than a yawn over time.

Okay, Riley, get on home so we can open up these boxes and beat Donkey Kong for the twentieth time. And eat grilled cheese sandwiches, pet the kitty, watch Spice World, etc. As for the rest of you, go to the grocery store and find the strangest candy you can get your hands on. Then find your nearest sibling and get to bonding. Might I suggest a Craig Ferguson youtube video to get you started...http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kAqrJYWeG34&feature=channel