Please Sire, may I have a drop of dye?

My parents and I make a point to not only drink beer on St. Paddy's Day, but to drink green beer. The first time we participated in this activity, I was underage. And we were on a seminary campus. As in, a "sacred ground" of sorts (albeit, arguably, a Lutheran one), where men are instructed and brought up to be future leaders of Christian congregations.

Umm...no comment.

Well here's our argument. Number one, I was supervised. By my parents. Number two, my parents never gave me alcohol prior to this event. Three, I was two months and six days away from turning twenty-one. Four, I had been in southern Africa the semester before, where the legal drinking age is 18, so I had already (responsibly!) participated in drinking elsewhere in the world. Four, we did it behind closed doors; we didn't invite other underage-ers in to join the party. And five, we were on vacation. Give us a break.

So we took our little cups, dropped drops of green food coloring in the bottom of them, added our Michelob Ultra (Amber Bock for Dad, who insists on the darker, even though you don't get quite the same effect because the dark lager kind of blocks out the green hue), said "Cheers," and had a little parental-daughter bonding moment.

Two or three years later, when I was already old and boring (it didn't take me long to advance well beyond my fun years), reading books and doing little else, and once again living with my parents post-graduation, we decided not to be total bumps on a log on March 17th, and discovered,

Gasp!

we had no green food coloring. And declared that we must fix this problem.

So we each grabbed a pilsner (I grabbed my vanity pilsner, with the Bailey's Irish Cream emblem etched on the glass) and went on a neighborhood scavenger hunt. I am a little sorry to say that, while we were not prepared in our own possession of green food coloring and thus should not be able to judge, our neighbors were not quite helpful in providing the specific required means to our 3.2 percent, kelly green end. It took us not one, not two, but three knocks on doors until we were finally successful. Tony and Eva provided us with our drops, and we headed back up the hill to continue on in our tradition.

By the way, to my understanding, we're, like, barely Irish. I'm not even sure Mom is at all. Yet my 'rents named their children Kelly, Patrick, Bailey and Riley. And we felt it necessary to knock on three doors--as I recall, some of us may have even been barefoot--to add a tinge to our festive frothies. I'm not complaining. I'm just sayin'.

5 minute post!

Okay race against the clock, friends!!! Whooo!! I'm here at the library and have FIVE MINUTES REMAINING on my allotted internet usage time! What WILL I write about???

This is the most thrilling thing to happen to me today.

Hmm....

Well, I guess I'll tell you about the dog I'm house sitting for. Her name is Cookie. She's tiny, like a cat, which I highly appreciate, and I know nothing about dog breeds but if I had to guess I'd say she's a schnauzer/daschund mix. I've nicknamed her "Circle Dog," (I guess I have a thing for renaming animals) as her signature move is to run around in tight little circles when she's excited. She also spontaneously runs up the stairs for reasons I haven't quite figured out, and I love the sound of her claws on the wooden floors, scampering around.

But. I think she finds me boring. I do a lot of reading, and thus make her do a lot of lying down next to me. She does get excited when I give her a treat, however.

Less than two minutes left! Gotta go! You'll have to excuse any typos!

Nerd Calculation

Let's look at some numbers, shall we?

Last night I made a stack of books in an attempt to tidy up, and in realizing the intimidating height of the stack, decided to count the actual number of books in the stack.

Total number?
13

Total number if you count the Bible (which I do, in terms of considering it an actual "book," but if we're looking at books that I am likely to finish within weeks rather than years, then I might cross it off the list)?
14

Number of those books which are checked out from the library?
10

Number of books in the stack which are nonfiction (I'm gonna leave the Bible out of this argument and let you decide that one for yourselves)?
9

Fiction?
4 (I'm highly biased in my reading selections)

Amount I presently owe to the public library in fines?
Well, it is unclear whether I owe:

$16.95
or
$18 even

All but one of the books that I owe fines for are returned, thus I can no longer rack up fines on them, BUT the one staggering book is still checked out, accumulating 15 cents in debt per day to Bailey Daily's name...

My parents are probably pouring glasses of wine right now, having an emergency conference to plan how they will rescue me from the collection agencies. No seriously, they will probably talk to me about this for realsies in the next week.

What is really sad* is I am at the library now, and I do not have the one book that is racking up fines with me so that I can return it.

Awesome.

What is even more sad* is that when I log off this computer, I will quite possibly stroll on over to the biography section, then on to world history, and pick up a few more bound beauties to take home and add to the stack, which will probably at that point topple.

Dear eligible bachelors, wouldn't you love me for your wife? I hope you're better with money (and hopeless library obsessions) than I am... ;)

*What is really exciting, not sad, is that while I was sitting here typing I heard a little girl saying, "Mama," and kept thinking, "That sounds like Lynn's little girl Claire." Turned around, it was Lynn and Claire and new baby Charlie. Holla!! What's even funnier is Lynn saw me walk into the library and didn't recognize me. Maybe we should carry pictures of each other in our wallets, since we just had dinner together three nights ago and apparently can no longer recognize each other.

I love Sheldon!!!

I have renamed the cat. His new name is Sheldon, in honor of my favorite cutie pie Sheldon (Jim Parsons) on the show The Big Bang Theory. Riley does not enjoy the name change, as when I first informed him of the name change he kept saying, "Quit calling him that!" He also argued that Sheldon (formerly known as Dibbs or Dibby) has "nothing in common with Sheldon [Jim Parsons]," to which I answered, "WRONG." Sheldon hates people, and aside from me, Dibby/Sheldon also hates people. They have everything in common.

This evening my Mama got sick at her Spanish class, too sick to drive home, so she called me and Dad to rescue her. I had just let Sheldon out on the back deck, and figured he would be pretty cold after an hour outside, so I went immediately outside to let him right back in. Sheldon ran to the left, away from me. I followed. Sheldon ran to the right. I followed. Sheldon again ran to the left, this time swooping back into the house through the open door, and I said, "Thank you. That's where I wanted you to go." Sheldon really just didn't want me to pick him up. I'm pretty sure he forgot that he ever wanted to be outside once he got back inside. I worship that animal, but I never said he was smart.

I do not like Me, Sam I Am

I would say that I am contrite, but I know I'm not there yet; I'm too much of a child. Ironically I am also too much of an adult, which is creating my troubles in the first place, because I am living with two other adults and it is not as fun as Three's Company (luckily it's also without sexual innuendos from John Ritter; at times the fog is so thick that it's difficult to count my blessings, but I'm pretty sure I count that as a blessing every day in my life).

Mom and Dad, if you're holding your breath, don't worry, this post will not put you in a bad light, but rather me.

I have been an ugly person for the last week...month...months...or so. Particularly things have escalated in recent days. This morning I was physically ugly as a result. We all get bags under our eyes when we're tired (duh), extra stressed, emotionally exhausted, or a combo of the three. Well have you ever had "double bags," as I will dub them? Kind of like a double chin, if you're having trouble coming up with a visual. People, I pray this never happens to you. Last night in my distress of being an ugly person with an ugly attitude and losing all hope in humanity and life, I called my big brother Kelly, who is equal parts mentor and big-bad-tells-me-life-is-tough brother. I snotted up a lot of tissues during our conversation, toward the end of which he kept repeating, "Bailey Kathleen, you just need to go to sleep." Well I slept like a rock, but this morning I looked in the mirror and was actually a little disgusted. I have always been low maintenance, I do not own or wear makeup, I wear mismatched colors and styles all the time, so I rarely look in the mirror and think, "Ooh, I can't let people see me like this." But this morning I thought, "I think I would actually enjoy some makeup right now." But I am helplessly and eternally honest, with my heart on my sleeve, so I just schlepped off to work with my double bags (it's even disgusting to think, write, or say those words), ready to explain myself to my coworkers, who were faithfully prepared with hugs and caffeine.

Anyway. Long story short, details removed, I reached the end of my Independence Rope the other day, freaked out on my family, in return they purchased me a gift, and I am yet to say thank you for this gift. Millie, my 10-years-senior colleague who I believe to be my soul sister and who is a mom herself, told me today, "You better say thank you," because she's a mom and she knows these things. But before that I explained to her that I didn't want to receive a gift because I feel wretched and I am acting wretchedly and to receive a gift willingly with such an attitude would be like accepting an engagement ring from a man with whom I am in the middle of a bitter argument. It just wouldn't be right. I don't deserve it, I'm not ready to treat people properly so therefore I don't want to be treated properly. (Honestly, people, these days all I want to do is hide in my bedroom reading a big stack of books. I simply need a social break and a vacation.)

I was driving home about an hour ago and my favorite radio preacher Chuck Swindoll came on and I pulled into an empty parking lot in the rain to let him finish before I drove home. He was talking about anxiety (right up my alley) and the story of Mary and Martha from Luke 10. Now this story always excites me but it also bothers me. Like most stories in the Bible, especially parables, I leave them scratching my head. Perhaps that is Jesus' trick to get us to follow Him a little bit longer. "I'll give them puzzles that are impossible to solve and their egos will drive them on..." Chuck only touched on Mary and Martha briefly, but he explained that, basically, Martha has a crap little attitude. He puts it more eloquently and gently than that, but that was his gist and that was the piece this little troll that is me needed to catch.

I always butt heads with my mom more than my dad. And that is no less true right now than it has been before. With my dad my trick is to avoid topics where we disagree, and I find that we have a lot in common, and we are fine, and he gets me, because he is as weird as me. My mom and I actually agree on a lot of things, politically, spiritually, intellectually, cat-lover-instead-of-dog-lover-ly, etc. We also both love Chuck Swindoll, a lot. But we step on each other's toes all the time. So my "trick" with her is one that harms us; I avoid the stepping on the toes, and unfortunately that stifles a lot of conversations that we could be having about books, cats, politics, Jesus. We could have so much more between us but I say no. And this breaks my heart because I know that I am breaking her heart.

And I avoid the toe stepping because getting your toe stepped on hurts. And I can't bear to see my Mom hurting, for the VERY REASON that she has been an amazing mom who has given me so many memories and moments of sheer security and love. I avoid the toe stepping because I don't want my toes stepped on, but I really really don't want to step on hers.

Like I said, it was raining while I sat in my parked car with my Doritos, a water bottle, a pressure-filled bladder, and Chuck. I love the rain. It is my favorite weather ever, always. It calms me, restores me. I have been waiting specifically in the last month for the springtime Kansas rain and for the chance to, alternatively, wear my sundresses.

Often when it rains I remember a night when I was a senior in high school. I was reading my Psychology book, and I was home alone. Mom came home from work and had brought a variety of things from Burger King: chicken nuggets, fries, a burger. She figured she'd raid the menu and we could eat a little bit of everything. It was raining, and Mom loves the rain too, and so we decided to open the sliding door and turn off all the lights and eat in the dark, sitting on the floor, listening to the rain. I can still taste the nuggets; I always can because it such a simple, happy memory for me. I gladly put my book down and joined Mom just to be with Mom. Now I spend too much f-ing time with my books.

Like I also said before, I would say that I am contrite, but I know that I am not there yet. I am not yet humble, not ready to say out loud, looking in their eyes, to my parents, not through them, "I am sorry."

So Mom, Dad. I owe this to you in person, and when I get contrite I will do so, but for now I'll give you this:

I'm sorry.
Thank you for your gift.
I love you.
I want to try harder to be better, but I have a Martha attitude (and am pretty nonchalant like Mary), and so I am stubborn and don't really know how to get there. And you two are the ones who taught me that only God can get us there.

Chuck finished with a prayer tonight and he said, "He will get you from here to there if you let Him take the lead." Amen!