Why I'm (supposedly) losing weight

I washed the pot.

I filled the pot.

I brought it to a boil.

I reduced the heat.

I let it simmer.

I waited for 30 minutes.

I fluffed the rice with a fork.

I put it in a bowl.

I added gooey butter to it.

I walked to the living room.

I got back up and put more butter in the bowl (still hadn't taken a bite, though).

I walked back to the living room.

I honestly don't know what happened, but I tripped or caught myself on something in my path, causing...

the bowl to fly onto the floor--

luckily not breaking--

of course upside down.

I stared at the heap of beautiful brown rice on the floor.

Then I grabbed the vacuum cleaner and had goldfish crackers and animal cookies for dinner.

So to all of you concerned family and friends who said I was too skinny during Thanksgiving

(brother Kelly: "Your job today is to go into the kitchen and eat"),

let this be proof to you that I do try to fill myself with fatty calories.

But sometimes rice falls on the floor.

I really am eating, I just really, really wish I had a personal chef sometimes.

Possible TMI--you be the judge

Friends.

I have the strangest zit.

Its placement? The tip of the nose. A Rudolph zit. A stereotypical-sitcom-teenage-acne-crisis zit.

Now I'm not vain about it. It actually just looks like my nose is cold. On one side of the tip of my nose. It's not that it looks bad.

It's that it HURTS!

The pain extends well beyond the epicenter, if you will, of the zit itself. And we're talkin' super tender.

Bonus problem: I blow my nose. A lot. I got home for Thanksgiving last week, headed for the tissues, and Dad said, "Foghorn's back." I went into my old Starbucks to visit and suck down some java during failed attempts at studying, and when I paused to blow my schnoz my old friends in green aprons looked up with reminiscent smiles.

Anyway, every time I bring a tissue to the nose it hurts like whoa. Light, thoughtless touches also send me reeling, wishing I hadn't forgotten my temporary condition. And if I purse my lips--like, while I'm thinking--in a way that moves my nose with it, yowsa.

I feel like a big baby today.

The weirdest thing is that at times it throbs, or feels like it's twitching, when I'm not even touching it.

Is this TMI, btw?

Anyway, it's just mega weird, and I hope the swelling goes down overnight, because I don't want to be interviewing a source tomorrow and suddenly yell "ouch!" when seemingly nothing touched me. All I have to do is unwittingly twitch my nose. Sorry, can't be held responsible.

Hello my name is Worn Out

I never should have sat down.

I hit the ground running on August 9th and was told I could stop for a week to celebrate Thanksgiving.

Yeah. Good luck getting me back up to finish things up before winter break.

I'm sitting here with coffee and instead of rapidly tappity tapping up Word documents, I'm feeling rather comatose.

The good news is I've raised my Freecell winning percentage from 56 to 57. And I've made progress on a crafting project for my little niecy niece (Shh, don't peep if you know what it is, her parents sometimes read this).

So what does this say about me? I care about the kids...I want to be like Martha...My neighbor Phil was right and I should have gone after a math degree?

Sorry, Phil, not switchin'. I am considering boycotting this week long break, though.

Calm down, fellow j-schoolers, I know, I know, we're exhausted, we deserve it, but seriously do you really think you're going to be able to get back up on Monday and go get 'em again?

This is strange to say, but maybe the lack of sleep makes me a better worker. When I get enough rest I just want to keep sleeping. Especially when there are three kitties available for snurgling with.

(Let's not talk about the fact that I'm not exercising and how that is contributing to my lack of energy...)

Okay, time for a refill on the java.

Clean Bill

When I need an ego boost, I don't put on a sexy outfit. I don't flash around my report card from high school.

I go to the dentist.

They love me there. More specifically, they love my mouth.

The dental hygienist said today, "If only all of my patients looked like you, life would be so easy!"

Then the dentist came over and was looking around in my mouth, saying that he was trying to find "something to complain about."

He found a "tiny" bit of gum recession, which he was quick to blame on my genetic nature and

certainly not

on my sweet, sweet nurturing care for my teeth.

Did I mention I love to floss? It's true, I do.

Love it when Mom says the kinds of things I would say

Earlier today I walked into my bedroom and Dibbs was on my bed, facing my open laptop. If we had slapped some glasses on him, you might have thought he was paying his bills online.

"Science Diet, paid, Tidy Cat, paid...Did I already pay for my flea medication this month?"

I asked him if he was checking his email.

Mom asked Dibbs if he was watching porn.

The sound of an organ, full and rich and briiiiight!

My parents had this Julie Andrews Christmas album when we were growing up.

I L-O-V-E LOVED it. Over time it started to grate on the ears of my family members, so when the CD made its way to my bedroom and there were no complaints from the others, I kept it for good. I still love it, so the aforementioned comment that I "LOVED" it is really quite inaccurate.

I just looked it up on youtube and apparently "The Sound of Christmas" is not only a Hallmark CD but was also a

TV SPECIAL.

I am experiencing three major emotions at the moment as a result of this discovery:

1. Thrill. Obviously.
2. Mild disgust: cannot believe I was not previously aware of this.
3. Impatience: I just tracked down the DVD and (duh) ordered it, and now I must wait for its arrival in the mailbox.

So. Who will be joining me for our viewing of this fine, fine production from 80s television?

Procrastination go-to

Do you think there are support groups for Freecell addiction?

P.S. My win percentage is 56. :)

Kansas hosts 2 Curious, 1 Growler

Don't worry, don't worry!

I'm still here!

Just had a few late nights, some travel, a day with G'ma, herding cats (Dibby plus his two cousins--yes, that's right. All the Daily cats, in the same house. Uh oh...), and, well, let's be honest, kissing Mike.

I've had some pretty good post ideas, so just know that I've been with you in blogging spirit.

Stay tuned for likely-to-come posts about Dibby, Yogi, and BooBoo: The Chronicles of Cat Introductions. Tonight, there were curious kittens and growling big cat. Who knows what tomorrow may hold.

Whatcha gonna do about it, Pops?

(Sorry for yet another Dibby post. But it's really a Dad post, so read on.)

I am inspired to tell this story because Dibbs the cat and I are in bed together right now. This is a triumph because while Dibby used to get in my bed regularly, about a year ago there was a bedroom rearrangement and then later there was a whole move to another place, and just in the past week or so he's finally jumped back on the bed which I love because I spend a lot of time lounging on my bed and I like kitten company.

Anywho.

Back in the day when I was living with Mom we were laying together in her bed in my parents' room talking on the phone with Dad who was in Cali (because she was still working in Kansas but Dad's job had already started in California, blah blah). One of us told him (jokingly, I think, but honestly I can't be sure) that the cat was in the bed with us, just to make him squirm 1300 miles away. Dad, who

"hates cats"

said with hardly a pause,

"There's a what in the which?"

We laughed. It was funny.

Don't ask, just don't go there

I am so damn sensitive.

Crying. (Almost) arguing.

Oh it aaaall happened today.

Warning: I don't want to debate anything, not until I get to winter break and even then! after I've had about three full days to at least begin to recover from my bone-deep and brain-deep exhaustion.

Then we can ease into sarcasm (careful now! tread with caution) and work our way slowly up to debating the day's comic strips. Then if I'm feeling like I can go on we can look into discussing favorite foods, movies we'd like to see. And then maaaybe we can dare to peruse the newspaper together. But don't get your hopes up.

Just save yourself some pissing-Bailey-off time and under no circumstances discuss the following for the next month:

• cats vs. dogs
• world travel
• politics
• employment (salary, hiring processes, plans for summer, all of the above)
• prostitution
• gender roles, marriage
• baby names

Don't ask (I know, prostitution, left field--it just always seems to get me riled up), just don't go there.

[Big Exhale]. It's gonna be interesting attending class discussions for the remainder of the semester. Especially considering I don't remember the last time I kept my mouth shut for a 50 minute class session,* so I undoubtedly will break my own rule and join a debate, somewhere, somehow.

Look out, World. Over tired, sensitive Bailey is out and about.

*If nothing else I make sarcastic asides to my pal next to me. 50 minutes is a long time.

Issues (I have them)

Today in my class we were discussing a psychological phenomenon known as the "orienting response," or orienting reflex.

Essentially what it is is a reaction to something new that appears in your surroundings, be it a noise (such as someone saying your name), something visual, etc.

In class we were using the cocktail party effect as an example, talking about how you can orient your attention, aka your cognitive "resources," onto a specific person or group of people talking within a crowded room, but then when someone says your name somewhere across the room--Aha! The novel stimulus, inciting the orienting response--your attention shifts to whoever said your name, trying to figure out who said it, if they are getting your attention or gossiping about you, what might they be gossiping about...yada yada yada...and suddenly your focus has shifted completely from the original conversation you were involved in.

SO.

While discussing this in class, I was trying to think of other relevant examples and it occurred to me that I was picturing my cat walking through the door of the classroom. As in, Dibbs the cat is my novel stimulus that incites an orienting response in me.

People, I have a problem. Someone faints, you wave ammonia under his nose, he comes to. Bailey starts to lose focus, Dibby appears anywhere in her peripheral vision, and her attention is instantly reoriented to the tabby cat.

(If you care): The only reason this goes against the characteristics of the orienting response is that over time within a specific context, as you become accustomed to a stimulus you don't react to it quite as quickly. So, if your name is John and there are lots of Johns at the party, after a while you'll stop paying attention if you hear someone say "John." That said, you would think that after seeing Dibbs thousands of times I would no longer view him as novel.

Nope.

It was both comical and disturbing to me as I realized this during our discussion today. I almost raised my hand to share it with the class, but I felt that would be too public and embarrassing.

So I took it to my blog. ;)

Must. Have. Vitamins.

Bailey needs to partake of more vitamins.

In something other than supplement form.

She went to the grocery (I really want to call it that right now, drop the "store") this evening and bought:

• sweet potatoes
• bananas
• apples
• celery
• an onion

Now she's hoping that her good deed in the produce department will fend off any pestering illness, as the last two nights she has felt a little weak. And she has a big week (ha--see what I did there?) ahead.

Wish me luck, my readers, almost all of whom eat better than I.

Love,

Bailz

"Hello, this is Tom"

I am very reluctant to delete phone messages from my dad.

There are almost always sound effects incorporated.

There is usually at least one silly voice. Variability in volume as well (Dad is of the school that finds whispering to be tremendous fun).

I called Dad on my way to school today because Edgar Winter Group's Frankenstein was on the radio. I was going to just let the song play into his voicemail if he didn't pick up, but unfortunately the song was over by the time it got to his voice recording.

So I hung up, didn't leave a message.

When Dad called back he did leave a message.

There were some beeping noises (his own) followed by some honking noises (ibid.). These were repeated for emphasis.

"That's the sound of two ships passing," he said.

Dad then explained that we too, like the ships, had crossed paths and that he was sorry he missed my call.

And then he said a prayer for me on my voicemail. Just asking God to be with me today, with whatever was going on. He also prayed for a good attitude for me--uh, yep. Need that one for sure.

Adorable. Totally.

I hope you understand now why I have multiple messages saved that I can't quite bring myself to delete.

(This doesn't even get us into my brother Patrick's messages, in a whole epic class of their own. His choice voices are usually foreign accents--most often Eastern European--and currently I have a saved message of him using a female voice, pretending to be his wife.)

Three, girl it's plain to see, that you're short on electricity

Today I led a discussion for Mass Media Seminar with my classmate Amy.

As part of our presentation, I incorporated a clip from America's Next Top Model (Cycle 9, episode 6). Because, you know, I wanted to.

(It was also relevant.)

This isn't the first time I've done something like this--I'm sure you're surprised.

In seventh grade we were studying Asia in Geography class, as, naturally, we would--working our way through the continents until ta dah! School year is over!

Well when we got to Asia I suggested to our teacher, "Since we're studying Asia, could we go to a Chinese restaurant?"

As if American seventh graders had never been to a Chinese restaurant before.

She coordinated it. We took a bus to a restaurant less than five minutes away, the restaurant took our orders ahead of time; they may have even opened early for us.

My senior year of high school my friend N8 (Nate) and I both approached our sociology teacher after class one day following a discussion--or the start of one, at least--about something to do with guns or gun control. We told him about a movie that had just come out, "Bowling for Columbine," that was all about guns and gun control.

And yet another field trip was coordinated for all the sociology classes to the movie theater.

In southern Africa I really let my educational opportunities stretch to their limits.

First of all, as often as possible, we (and by "we" I mean my friend Liz and I) would try and turn any assignment into a musical.

What's that? Create a presentation about ongoing struggles in Namibia?

Oh, certainly you must have meant to rewrite the lyrics for "Back at One" in order to express the inconsistencies of electrical services in the nation.*

Oh that's not what you meant? Um...too late...

Discuss past marital laws of Namibia, regarding interracial relationships?

Okay, we'll jump into the pool and perform a mock "wedding" to illustrate that for you.

No wonder I was called a troublemaker yesterday. Daily Bailey, disrupting formal education patterns since (at least) 1998.

*There was ultimately an encore performance, I will point out. Our driver, Passat, who loved "Back at One" and would play it often, much to our thrill, in the kombi, was not initially present in the room for the original vocal recital. He was sought out and we started back at one (I crack myself up) for him.

Could I have the root origin, please?

Last night I had a dream about a spelling bee.

A girl was asked to spell "tootsie roll."

I was already amused by this (and I am not taking credit for this, either. I can't claim the humor in my dreams as my own original thought).

To make things even better, the girl asked for a clarification of meaning.

She wanted to know whether this was referring to the candy...

...or the song.

Interestingly enough, they are in fact spelled differently.

Just a little taste

When I lived in Namibia for three months, I didn't struggle with being unable to see my favorite people every day.

I missed seeing them at certain moments, for snippets of time.

I would have overwhelming urges to see someone for three or four hours. I felt that if I could have that quality time with specific people, then I could go another month without direct contact with them.

Similarly, my freshman year of college I went to my friend Claire's room and asked her, "Do you ever just miss your mom?"

We talked about how sometimes you just want to hang out with Mom. You don't need to see her every day, you're a grown woman, you can survive. But sometimes no one will cut it but Mom.

Our senior year Nick and I used to get coffee almost every Friday in the fall. I have a hard time not wanting that every Friday these days. Nick and I have been friends for so long that at this point we can sit together at a coffee shop and all but ignore each other. But there's no ignoring someone like there is ignoring Nick.

(Believe me, that's a compliment and he loves it. Likewise, I'm sure that he loves to ignore me more than anyone else.)

Last night I was suddenly compressed by stress and called Mike and woke him up. He talked to me and I felt sort of better, but then I read some really disturbing chapters in what should have been a fluffy novel (pissed!) and then had not one but two nightmares and I really just needed Mike here, not on the phone.

"Mike, I had a bad dream."

Permission to use such childish phrases, and to be comforted as a child. That's what I need. I'm too busy (as he knows, and patiently waits through) to see Mike every weekend, or even every other weekend. But for certain hours, or minutes, I need his hugs. I need to be a baby and let that be okay. He does his best over the phone, but both of us hang up knowing that satellite connections don't lessen the distance, even if they can connect people who are hours apart.

Crush

Dibby, I would argue, is mostly a cat.

He lies on his back, but that does that make him like a dog?

He's pretty independent, pees indoors, acts nonchalantly, you know, the usual cat actions.

But when he finds a balled up sock, he puts it in his teeth and throws it around. It is the strangest thing.

And he discriminates. It doesn't matter if another piece of clothing is of the same poly-cotton fiber, or a similar size. He only plays with socks.

Did I mention I love him?

Lazy bum

Trying to do homework on a Saturday night is kind of a lost cause.

I've looked up a soup recipe, searched multiple church websites*, added some books to my Amazon wish list (which I'm pretty sure only I look at, but it gives me a strange comfort to know it's there), perused Oprah's suggestions for memoir reading...

Amazingly I've stayed away from youtube. And if I was currently on facebook, you wouldn't even have to ask what I'd been doing with the last three hours.

Just FYI. If you ever tell yourself, "Oh I think I'll do some homework on Saturday night," you might find yourself doing other things instead.

*specifically, I've been listening to sermon podcasts to see which pastors' voices I find to be the most convicting. Not in a creepy way, just because that has a lot to do with my choice to listen and thus gather something from a message.

Breathing room

5 boys + 2 girls at a bar on Friday night = necessary break.

Thanks, pals.

I Dream of Research

Sometimes I laugh out loud at the research articles I read for class.

When I was reading about Sesame Street in a coffee shop, I lost it as I was caught off guard by a paragraph about children dancing to a song on the show. Of course the writing was very straightforward, but its static tone juxtaposed with its content about young students' "out-of-control dancing" had me cracking up despite the audience of strangers around me in Kaldi's.

Tonight I was reading about horoscopes in magazines whose readerships are either primarily middle- or working-class. Interesting stuff, truly. But when it gets down to which zodiac signs were more likely than others to be advised of something in particular "in 1992," I can't help it. That's just hilarious.

And just like a study would say that gender was controlled, or a sample was random, this one made note that zodiac signs were equally represented in the study.

Well, phew! We wouldn't want to leave Leo out of the equation!

I've also had at least one dream about conducting research in the last month or so. But I'm going to leave it at that before some of you decide I'm too much of a freak to be worthy of blog followers.

Cat Munch makes lifey better

I want to provide you with a post, dear readers,

yet.

I am afraid I will just whine.

So I will just tell you that Dibby has been extra cuddly lately and we have been enjoying our time together and that is my positive note for today. And, I know it seems scientifically impossible, but I'm pretty well convinced that he has gotten cuter.

So I'll leave on that note. And I'll share these delicious songs with you:

Audrey & Adele

Nap. Time. Ahhhhhh.

My day started out cold (literally).

There was a mani-pedi and a yoga session later on.

Then there was a long drive to a rural town in the dark.

Then a drive back.

And now I am tired.

Oh so tired.

But election reporting is done for the season. The chapter is closed. Yessssssss.

I'm actually really glad and honored I was put on the assignment (not by myself, of course). But it gets old. And Dibby was tired of seeing me leave.

Right now he's chasing his tail, because he's carefree, because I'm home. Yes, little boy. For a long time. Until I must leave for class tomorrow.

My body is my buddy

Bailey's exercise plan for the time being:

Yoga.

Pilates (if and when I replace my DVD player. The yoga video's a VHS*).

Brisk walks outside.

I did my yoga video tonight and definitely had to skip some poses because my back is weak. Too much time sitting in classrooms, way too little time out on the trails. Sorry, body.

*You'll note the older technology is working, while the newer is experiencing some hiccups. Hmm, isn't that interesting...[satisfied Luddite smirk]