tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39540008742416758792024-02-07T05:54:25.208-08:00Archives of Our Lives{a narrow and broad look into the lives of people I love}Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154831275765419510noreply@blogger.comBlogger235125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3954000874241675879.post-10762418130279567002008-12-18T12:49:00.000-08:002008-12-18T12:54:03.516-08:00Why Are You Still Here?<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">It has come to my attention that many of you have not changed your links from this blog to my new website:</span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.archiveslives.com"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >www.archiveslives.com</span></a><br /><br />I know it's annoying, but I will never ask you to do it again. So you might as well do it--one time, and it's finished.<br /><br />As further incentive, I am warning you that I will be deleting this blog before the week is through. If you don't switch your links, you won't have any way to remember my new website address, and then you'll be sorry, won't you? Yes, you will.<br /><br />Remember, that's:<br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.archiveslives.com"><span style="font-size:100%;">www.archives lives.com</span></a><br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.archiveslives.com"><span style="font-size:130%;">www.archiveslives.com</span></a><br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.archiveslives.com"><span style="font-size:180%;">www.archiveslives.com</span></a><br /><br />A simply copy-and-paste action oughtta do it.<br /><br />Thank you and goodbye.<br /></div>Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154831275765419510noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3954000874241675879.post-48220564428677313052008-11-11T14:46:00.000-08:002008-11-11T21:08:27.243-08:00I'm Closing My Doors...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ8_dUOySgqp4yjTJaTfutRaaxnAaOwO6CO5GSSdHwXUHi4YZsQfmXD75awOHAjqVjCtdGbNx6qxXwtMryziHXTDYLAS89YteU9__Dv7ca4r2-F_DngKFwjpPhXbTAxXTeczEhSX9kHNFH/s1600-h/PICT0035.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ8_dUOySgqp4yjTJaTfutRaaxnAaOwO6CO5GSSdHwXUHi4YZsQfmXD75awOHAjqVjCtdGbNx6qxXwtMryziHXTDYLAS89YteU9__Dv7ca4r2-F_DngKFwjpPhXbTAxXTeczEhSX9kHNFH/s320/PICT0035.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267630334539010066" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">...but opening all my windows. Or at least one window.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU8qyEEx3GzjRAOZ1G7gXy-XPjS2dLo7HOy_hq7uIMlW7Z0gtcECfXq0lxGBhkmvKbbDLnJYSJg6M2Xs9X8Q23qS13_FbCaCVqZLOmnsSMYaT82N2U26FrXVHaCpx0SWveT-ISezxXvffH/s1600-h/PICT0042.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU8qyEEx3GzjRAOZ1G7gXy-XPjS2dLo7HOy_hq7uIMlW7Z0gtcECfXq0lxGBhkmvKbbDLnJYSJg6M2Xs9X8Q23qS13_FbCaCVqZLOmnsSMYaT82N2U26FrXVHaCpx0SWveT-ISezxXvffH/s320/PICT0042.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267630325293539506" border="0" /></a><br />Guess what? This is the last time I will ever post on www.archives-lives.blogspot.com.<br /><br />Sad? <span style="font-size:130%;">Me too, a little bit.<br /></span><br />Don't worry, though. The future is bright and shiny, like a new quarter straight from the mint.<br /><br />Because starting today, my website is <span style="font-style: italic;">self-hosted</span>. Not gone, just...growing up a little bit. Maturing. Acting its own age. Looking more professional so I don't feel silly handing out business cards at next year's <a href="http://www.blogher.com/">BlogHer™.</a><br /><br />It's in the rough stages of development, but you'll see a lot of changes within the next little while. Things will be looking better. You'll be happier this way, in the end. I know, it doesn't <span style="font-style: italic;">feel</span> happier. It feels sad. And lonely. But I promise...I'm still here for you. I haven't disappeared, I've just moved. It's going to be excellent.<br /><br />So, with no further ado, I give you...<br /><br /><a href="http://www.archiveslives.com/"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >www.archiveslives.com</span></a><br /><br />Switch your links now. Do it. Just change them once, and I'll never make you do it again. Switch your links, your bookmarks...anything that used to be connected to the blogspot.com version of this blog, go<a href="http://www.archiveslives.com/"> SWITCH THEM NOW TO THE NEW ADDRESS!</a> Please. It's annoying, I know, but it's just this once, and I'd really appreciate it.<br /><br />Okay. Enough housekeeping. Go visit the new blog, leave a comment there, and we'll reconvene tomorrow for more enthralling discussion of my toothless husband and whatever else pops into my brain. Thanks, everyone!<br /><br />And goodbye, Blogspot.<br /></div>Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154831275765419510noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3954000874241675879.post-54770184272298751542008-11-11T08:36:00.000-08:002008-11-11T13:22:55.685-08:00The Miracle of the Elevens.Last night, after watching a movie on my laptop with Poor Kyle, I glanced up at the toolbar in the right hand corner and noticed the battery read 11% charged. I plugged in the laptop to let it build up juice, and went to lay my tired little head on the memory foam pillow awaiting it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the red numbers of the alarm clock glaring out at me: 11:11 p.m. On the eve of November 11. 11/11. 11%. 11:11 p.m.<br /><br />It's a Remembrance Day miracle.<br /><br /><a href="http://remembrance.sympatico.msn.ca/ContentPosting_template?newsitemid=8656&feedname=TRANS-CANADIAN-LIVING&show=False&number=0&showbyline=False&subtitle=&detect=&abc=abc&date=False"></a><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMl7XSNZI48AROBYAfxEfc_AWvyFnPfCLJPGfORuoihVdTYB2aeBvUfuUuEPGqkFNa16oDFjmebRC3s8l9t_AKah2jC1047jqA_zbfy4490hURJ8XfnHRQa4_FnFVT7b-nmIi8u2MNoqWC/s1600-h/Picture+2.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMl7XSNZI48AROBYAfxEfc_AWvyFnPfCLJPGfORuoihVdTYB2aeBvUfuUuEPGqkFNa16oDFjmebRC3s8l9t_AKah2jC1047jqA_zbfy4490hURJ8XfnHRQa4_FnFVT7b-nmIi8u2MNoqWC/s320/Picture+2.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267442420145390434" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Image from </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://remembrance.sympatico.msn.ca/ContentPosting_template?newsitemid=8656&feedname=TRANS-CANADIAN-LIVING&show=False&number=0&showbyline=False&subtitle=&detect=&abc=abc&date=False">here.</a><br /></div><br />Where I grew up, this holiday was called Veteran's day, and it meant absolutely nothing to me. That sounds cold and heartless, but it's true. To me, it was a day off school. The end. While I'm sure my teachers put forth a noble effort to help me appreciate the significance of the day, I'm also sure I blocked those attempts out of my memory--I didn't care why we had a holiday, but I was glad.<br /><br />Well, I've changed. Maybe it's the fact I've moved to Canada where I'm inundated with poppies and flags and war stories and memorials, or maybe I've just grown up [the former, most likely]. But whatever the reason, I find my thoughts drawn ever-increasingly to the veterans of old these days.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3jYcw2P7V8OA1YvX1noFc1WGeiO21isk6aS4xBFGrNMSm_SzW6VfU4_ffSiUuzLjvGThDmvcCuHPPYfSVPoy-Xz7rm8BWvEJxyzoTKapBY_xoS_hkgZWjmpjPIxr5nwvnXH6heA_wbBaA/s1600-h/PICT0003.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3jYcw2P7V8OA1YvX1noFc1WGeiO21isk6aS4xBFGrNMSm_SzW6VfU4_ffSiUuzLjvGThDmvcCuHPPYfSVPoy-Xz7rm8BWvEJxyzoTKapBY_xoS_hkgZWjmpjPIxr5nwvnXH6heA_wbBaA/s320/PICT0003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267447184722726114" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Cemetery-Brussels, Belgium, 2007. </span> I passed this site every day while I was living in Belgium, on my way to drop off my charge at school.</span><br /></div><br />If you are American, you may or may not have ever heard of the significance behind poppies at this time of year. You may not even know what a poppy is--I know I didn't, until a few years ago. {Poppy seed <span style="font-weight: bold;">muffins</span>...now <span style="font-style: italic;">that's</span> another story.}<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4C2DjHUHs9QZhtMtzCFFx9qMB1c_62tel_jQaf_1x3w11pc75EIfGtHxbG9UvCgb27PVHCXsZFoZvUcILk2U5Zi8g3kimVYEeibiqFCMNPXQ59tsa04KTYnwemRYxxijtmT0tSmcaI2W1/s1600-h/Poppy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 284px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4C2DjHUHs9QZhtMtzCFFx9qMB1c_62tel_jQaf_1x3w11pc75EIfGtHxbG9UvCgb27PVHCXsZFoZvUcILk2U5Zi8g3kimVYEeibiqFCMNPXQ59tsa04KTYnwemRYxxijtmT0tSmcaI2W1/s320/Poppy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267442425718622850" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Well you're in luck--it looks like this. Image from </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://toronto.metblogs.com/2007/11/09/its-poppy-time/">here.</a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">In Canada and England, the poppy is hailed as a symbol of the sacrifice veterans made for peace back in World War One (and all wars thereafter). Based on a poem written by Major John McCrae published in 1915, the poppy has come to signify all the lives given during time of war. The poem is very moving; Canadians have rather adopted it as their own, and even have it printed in itty bitty writing (both English and French, of course) on their ten-dollar bill:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie5xVrtcAAE6a6RMmBomM9UhaW3N8sdJozZSyUZBchO91k5K_x3XKl4YUkhkNaKEM4qFybwVkcXqAdqdsSfL1qQmIVU2zsRgmcHuC_kDdgK-z1xrX3wX5klKEl4CgHBpaozE_me9f84DFk/s1600-h/Picture+5.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie5xVrtcAAE6a6RMmBomM9UhaW3N8sdJozZSyUZBchO91k5K_x3XKl4YUkhkNaKEM4qFybwVkcXqAdqdsSfL1qQmIVU2zsRgmcHuC_kDdgK-z1xrX3wX5klKEl4CgHBpaozE_me9f84DFk/s320/Picture+5.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267444510867893810" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">That's some hard-core appreciation right there. Image from</span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.snopes.com/business/money/flanders.asp"> here.</a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Don't worry--you needn't strain your eyes to read the teeny words. I've reprinted them here. Normally I'm not much of a poet, but it's an important day. I have a huge amount of love, respect, and appreciation for our veterans. One of my grandpas made the military his career, and sacrificed much to do so; my other grandpa was drafted into the Korean war, but went willingly. Both are heroes to me, along with everyone else who fought--or is fighting--in some way for these countries.<br /></div><h3><div id="headline"><span style="color: rgb(184, 9, 9);">In Flanders Fields</span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;">By John McCrae (1915)</span> </div></h3><div id="xsmtext">In Flanders fields the poppies blow<br />Between the crosses, row on row,<br />That mark our place; and in the sky<br />The larks, still bravely singing, fly<br />Scarce heard amid the guns below.<br /><br />We are the Dead. Short days ago<br />We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,<br />Loved and were loved, and now we lie,<br />In Flanders fields.<br /><br />Take up our quarrel with the foe:<br />To you from failing hands we throw<br />The torch; be yours to hold it high.<br />If ye break faith with us who die<br />We shall not sleep, though poppies grow<br />In Flanders fields.</div><br /></div></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6BjTeEniRZJObgzquw23FbU_6E9HRRQJu9zHr6eJatuuPr3xcgXvv7-l5aLztzqWHUGjYQ6I50jih3YRsQZ20imfe2VwhXu7evdvzY2e83Qh3XoB6FGfTCWPo5RTj9l6_62trwfZa3quL/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 59px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6BjTeEniRZJObgzquw23FbU_6E9HRRQJu9zHr6eJatuuPr3xcgXvv7-l5aLztzqWHUGjYQ6I50jih3YRsQZ20imfe2VwhXu7evdvzY2e83Qh3XoB6FGfTCWPo5RTj9l6_62trwfZa3quL/s320/Picture+1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267442414357335074" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Image from </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://remembrance.sympatico.msn.ca/ContentPosting_template?newsitemid=8656&feedname=TRANS-CANADIAN-LIVING&show=False&number=0&showbyline=False&subtitle=&detect=&abc=abc&date=False">here.</a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I wouldn't have gotten all sappy on you, except for the Remembrance Day Miracle I was given last night--it was a sign, for sure. Happy Veteran's day, and please take a moment or two to remember and give appreciation to those who deserve it.<br /></div></div>Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154831275765419510noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3954000874241675879.post-35611141699954592852008-11-10T06:28:00.000-08:002008-11-10T06:56:28.399-08:00My Brain Thinks Funny.I have been having nightmares lately. It's weird.<br /><br />The first one came right after watching <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0468569/"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Dark Knight</span></a> and then promptly falling asleep--I dreamed that I had Martha Stewart over for dinner, but my house was messy and I served macaroni & cheese with hot dogs sliced up and mixed in. It was awful.<br /><br />Last night I had another nightmare. Poor Kyle had gotten me pregnant, but instead of growing a human child, I gave birth to a pile of dirty laundry.<br /><br />It weighed 100 pounds.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgozv6FabJD4MBHl5RsGmKEN3eFNu0uM4kLh1enDnc4NZsllGp8j182EksFtBJ5I0buNhxNh-D0pkEXDkxGYdObyuyOd1m2o0JsBSwC3zj1_3q6pFNxPCHf7zPt6KRdj_Ss7FZ6v7SDF0Fk/s1600-h/Laundry.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 290px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgozv6FabJD4MBHl5RsGmKEN3eFNu0uM4kLh1enDnc4NZsllGp8j182EksFtBJ5I0buNhxNh-D0pkEXDkxGYdObyuyOd1m2o0JsBSwC3zj1_3q6pFNxPCHf7zPt6KRdj_Ss7FZ6v7SDF0Fk/s320/Laundry.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267037821227971410" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Hi, creepy. Image from </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.alexandrablythe.co.uk/commissions.htm">here</a><span style="font-style: italic;">.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I don't know why this is happening to me. I suppose I have been more stressed lately than usual, but if that was the reason for my nightmares, wouldn't they be somewhat themed on my stress factors? I haven't thought about laundry <span style="font-style: italic;">once</span> this weekend--it's the least of my concerns. So why would I dream about it?<br /><br />If the themes of nightmares my nightmares were based on the issues in my life that are <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> causing me stress, my mind-movies would play out something like this:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I re-start University in Canada this January. On my first day of school, I arrive dressed like a {fairly} normal student, wearing what I would have worn back at Arizona State University: jeans and a t-shirt. I park my car, walk into a building, and realise everyone else is wearing parkas and flannel. I look like a fool.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Then, since I can't decide between majoring in Art History {which makes me immensely happy} or English {which could actually be <span style="font-weight: bold;">profitable</span>}, I end up taking Engineering classes. But since I so dislike mathematics, I end up being the worst engineer ever to walk to earth, and thousands of people die trying to cross my bridges.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Moreover...because it took me so long to declare a major and get through school, and also since I never completed my immigration papers, I had to pay double tuition (that's a real-life nightmare, by the way) and Poor Kyle and I never could claw our way out of debt. Financing my education, on top of paying the medical bills to give birth to my worthless pile of dirty laundry, made it so we could never get ahead.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I die poverty-stricken, leaving Poor Kyle with nothing but huge debt and soiled clothes, so of course he would re-marry.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"> And she would be skinny.</span><br /><br />Those are the nightmares that race through my brain almost every waking hour of my days. <br /><br /></div></div>Happy Monday to you, too.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154831275765419510noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3954000874241675879.post-69968728407906615142008-11-06T13:11:00.000-08:002008-11-06T13:17:22.782-08:00No New PostSorry no new post. In Oregon. Poor Kyle hates stopping. I was lucky to get three chocolate chip cookies for $1.00 at the Golden Arches.<br /><br />Be back tomorrow.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154831275765419510noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3954000874241675879.post-44965266345541043202008-11-05T02:00:00.000-08:002008-11-05T02:00:02.319-08:00Hey Y'all, Watch This!Tonight I'm watching CNN.com for breaking news. I'm seeing a whole lot of this:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiIrji_6soBW9kVpeKvywQ_naXONZ4cH5BzHtcY2xdPJ1djcZSw2_34QXaQdEc_D0LZKrF0pf5gmuuGL1UU9e2omCdf-EI1qqvZNUL3YbIHZWxvHJGwYm96uZEPQNtOF5HV92GBkKxBmBT/s1600-h/Picture+3.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiIrji_6soBW9kVpeKvywQ_naXONZ4cH5BzHtcY2xdPJ1djcZSw2_34QXaQdEc_D0LZKrF0pf5gmuuGL1UU9e2omCdf-EI1qqvZNUL3YbIHZWxvHJGwYm96uZEPQNtOF5HV92GBkKxBmBT/s320/Picture+3.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265016216012876866" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Image from cnn.com.</span><br /><br />**Update**<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtiFf7lb7XK761SCX6GSH5OGgJ3hrOOKhzteHb4e2zpguq0wRRqTlw3lBghGyO8RCInB442i-EnfiKuy69qHlMKmq8QvsUHNjBdD7Ok88QKS7Nw5SHICjrX72t7hyphenhyphenqfHUUXhdDL9C4za8Q/s1600-h/Picture+7.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 287px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtiFf7lb7XK761SCX6GSH5OGgJ3hrOOKhzteHb4e2zpguq0wRRqTlw3lBghGyO8RCInB442i-EnfiKuy69qHlMKmq8QvsUHNjBdD7Ok88QKS7Nw5SHICjrX72t7hyphenhyphenqfHUUXhdDL9C4za8Q/s320/Picture+7.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265022802914261794" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">**Which has, incidentally, changed to this since I started the post about 20 minutes ago. Poor McCain. Image from cnn.com.**</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">This being only the second election of my adult life, and the first one I've ever really paid attention to, I'm wondering just one thing: <span style="font-weight: bold;">When do we find out who wins?</span> I mean, if we don't already have a really good prediction, like CNN does.<br /></div><br />***Update: Never mind. I got it sorted.***<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUN7VX7s90fJu5vfu1iXdhu84PPHiQ0VZc5XgDWISsr72T6TpWDW-MACHp5nLUzWzDheT9MMnoX1HXgJIk4C2TEXf0UYQdY8MT7CBj-XZIvz-FBAeaFo91cSpwkO8vJJWFVLLUK53JPg8N/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 244px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUN7VX7s90fJu5vfu1iXdhu84PPHiQ0VZc5XgDWISsr72T6TpWDW-MACHp5nLUzWzDheT9MMnoX1HXgJIk4C2TEXf0UYQdY8MT7CBj-XZIvz-FBAeaFo91cSpwkO8vJJWFVLLUK53JPg8N/s320/Picture+1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265089691127969634" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><br />If you're heartbroken about this {or if you're jumping for joy, this could be a good celebration}, I would like to introduce you to a brand-old feature of Archives of Our Lives that should cheer you up: <span style="font-weight: bold;">The Follow Me Feature.</span><br /><br />See there, to the left of this post, the group of 16 people who follow this blog?<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKsa-CUhAW6ufJ5zWBtDEOAtsCLXGI3_lDZHXboDQT_3x4n2b1vzOBFFmph8lenuNIGkIlu9w2QMZ9BfRbQGcVdodg_Z_JDkIS58Ye_Rce6ARSIFmYe-e7WUwdgqRFTqOCXuyMNg81YSnb/s1600-h/Picture+4.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 256px; height: 249px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKsa-CUhAW6ufJ5zWBtDEOAtsCLXGI3_lDZHXboDQT_3x4n2b1vzOBFFmph8lenuNIGkIlu9w2QMZ9BfRbQGcVdodg_Z_JDkIS58Ye_Rce6ARSIFmYe-e7WUwdgqRFTqOCXuyMNg81YSnb/s320/Picture+4.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265020110515933074" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Don't they look like they're having fun? That's because they are. They are having fun following this blog.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><br />Here's how you, too, can have fun for the low low cost of nothing:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Step 1:</span> Sign in to your Blogger™ account. Don't have one? Start one up at blogger.com. Don't want to? Fine, then. Forget about it.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Step 2:</span> Return to <a href="http://www.archives-lives.blogspot.com/">www.archives-lives.blogspot.com.</a> It should look something like this:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoJzsEFVvPEpm4h6VLxy0Hlow2qMeeK525OB4kWF3r6ZktclgsrIWsZAp-ke_BpcNJYoE1ms8_MnM8uLqDxpKfGhEaeTbFTIPO4QIbGUebeoQwCxwT_UEbJhpA5KOqsu5l7-BhSOJoAdJW/s1600-h/Picture+6.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 165px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoJzsEFVvPEpm4h6VLxy0Hlow2qMeeK525OB4kWF3r6ZktclgsrIWsZAp-ke_BpcNJYoE1ms8_MnM8uLqDxpKfGhEaeTbFTIPO4QIbGUebeoQwCxwT_UEbJhpA5KOqsu5l7-BhSOJoAdJW/s320/Picture+6.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265019253148896738" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Or in other words, exactly where you are.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Step 3</span>: Direct your gaze (and your mouse) to the "Follow This Blog" feature. It will be easy to find, because it's at the top left-hand corner of the blog, and it's titled "Maybe I Can't Lead, But You Can Surely Follow."<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzpXWORr_ZEzch05xZKnlVulQvesgOVDuQ0PJ0MbxYRTC9KPNVytCscNmXGZSrVe30O0-W-7qzg9BIaxWfmKtbYDqu8ggP3oTrNmmZqcLlE-v60WrCTRuboEEQ7xBhFUTEaRf9kHFQ6dPd/s1600-h/Picture+4.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 256px; height: 249px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzpXWORr_ZEzch05xZKnlVulQvesgOVDuQ0PJ0MbxYRTC9KPNVytCscNmXGZSrVe30O0-W-7qzg9BIaxWfmKtbYDqu8ggP3oTrNmmZqcLlE-v60WrCTRuboEEQ7xBhFUTEaRf9kHFQ6dPd/s320/Picture+4.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265020285404956434" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Just a reminder--it looks like this.</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Step 4</span>: Click "Follow This Blog." It's the red link above the photos of all the other happy people who are already following this blog.<br /></div></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk8RvJRpPNh_eSMQDNnRxMgs6Ng7E_vY5l4jdXNmNT_RWaarUjE3ucBfGrvBHgGJg8dPNK5aAwIRChiug7b1rhnPFRlUfncMXktrf3Ogf_Jn9Uqg_Vp9y_3msDg4TcZcufCk6sVJCMgFy2/s1600-h/Picture+5.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 199px; height: 49px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk8RvJRpPNh_eSMQDNnRxMgs6Ng7E_vY5l4jdXNmNT_RWaarUjE3ucBfGrvBHgGJg8dPNK5aAwIRChiug7b1rhnPFRlUfncMXktrf3Ogf_Jn9Uqg_Vp9y_3msDg4TcZcufCk6sVJCMgFy2/s320/Picture+5.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265018717702599218" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Step 5</span>: Enjoy fresh updates right in your Blogger™ Dashboard every time you sign in--and ever time I've updated. It's like Google Reader™, but for people who don't understand how to use Google Reader™. People like you and me...<span style="font-weight: bold;">or maybe just me</span>.<br /><br />And a note to those 16 of you who've already signed up: Thanks guys. You're the best.<br /><br />Anyway, join in the fun--I'll make it worth your while, with a special giveaway only for people who are signed up to follow this blog. When? Soon, I promise. I just have to go to Oregon and come back, and we'll be golden.<br /></div></div>Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154831275765419510noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3954000874241675879.post-49630486545737714362008-11-04T08:42:00.000-08:002009-02-28T23:47:46.871-08:00Call Me a Convict-I've Got a Conviction.I have a conviction.<br /><br />Nobody freak out--it's weird, I know. But I've found something to take a stand for, and now there's no going back. You should be proud.<br /><br />Beginning this, the Fourth Day of November, 2008... I, Camille of <a href="http://archives-lives.blogspot.com/">Archives of Our Lives</a>, <span style="font-weight: bold;">will hereby never step foot into another Wal*Mart™. Ever.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjamjOD23q9mzpv4RQsMG3VR-REPoDChx3w8bZCaX6HU4pkqwCAwoMl2k0AqRKRg2nw7enqFqY6UcqZTpmTVpQ2DAEetJ_BYazZdNKBL7ktL-4YvFaIv0zyqn6Ji7tU-Fe2ChwFs0W9x8Ls/s1600-h/Picture+2.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjamjOD23q9mzpv4RQsMG3VR-REPoDChx3w8bZCaX6HU4pkqwCAwoMl2k0AqRKRg2nw7enqFqY6UcqZTpmTVpQ2DAEetJ_BYazZdNKBL7ktL-4YvFaIv0zyqn6Ji7tU-Fe2ChwFs0W9x8Ls/s320/Picture+2.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264845453467521938" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">I'm so passionate about my new conviction, I could probably go write for </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://walmartwatch.com/">these guys</a><span style="font-style: italic;">.</span><br /></div><br />How's that for conviction? Oh, what? You thought I was going to write something political, given the fact that this is a very big day for America? Nah...I got over that. No more politics on this blog.<br /><br />But back to the matter at hand: Wal*Mart™. I will no longer be using their "services," and calling it "service" is being generous.<br /><br />How did I come to this amazing conclusion, you ask? Simple. Last month, during the most stressful week of my life, I walked through the doors of a Wal*Mart™ at 3:30 a.m. I walked out an hour later, and my faith in humanity was gone.<br /><br />See, I was accompanying <a href="http://thoughtful-tuesdays.blogspot.com/">Chelsie</a>, who needed to buy spray paint for--well, it's a long story. Of course there were no available associates within a 10-aisle proximity to the paint department, and of course the spray paint is kept locked away, so we were forced to scour the aisles for 10 minutes before finally finding any life form whatsoever.<br /><br />It was another 10 minutes before we actually found any useful life form (i.e. someone with a bloody key to the spray paint case).<br /><br />If that had been the end of the trauma, I would probably be fine. However, as we approached the one and only check-out line, the dense air of change hovered thickly over my head. I should have known.<br /><br />There they were, two middle-aged ladies standing behind one checkout counter, chatting away as if they were getting mani-pedis together, instead of what they were actually doing [working for, in my opinion, the world's most hateful and monopolising enterprise]. Though we approached the conveyor belt of doom with our items (I'd detoured to find my favourite lotion ever made) in the same cart, we put them on the black-top seperately, and divided them clearly with a plastic bar reading "Wal*Mart™...Always low prices. Always." <span style="font-weight: bold;">{Subliminal messages, anyone? Brainwashing? Lemmings? What?}</span><br /><br />Chelsie's spray paint was first. The woman in charge of scanning (she wasn't wearing a name tag, or I surely would have remembered what to call her) turned towards us and began lethargically scanning each can of paint. Upon completing that task, she asked to see Chelsie's identification (as buying spray paint is illegal for minors in the state of Arizona). No problem. Chelsie's 23 if she's a day. {Though, may I point out, this was at least our fourth trip to Wal*Mart™ for spray paint within the week, and she'd been carded once, and been taken on good faith twice. Not exactly the most stringent standards, Wal*Mart™.}<br /><br />Chelsie produces her I.D. with no incident, and the lady looked at it--with only her eyes--and returned it to Chelsie. End of story.<br /><br />But <span style="font-weight: bold;">not</span> the end of story. Instead of proceeding to swipe Chelsie's debit card--as all the other cashiers had done during the past week--she turned to me and asked for my I.D.<br /><br />"Excuse me?" I asked, thinking I'd heard her incorrectly. Surely she wasn't carding me, too! I wasn't buying any paint--there was a divider between my lotion and Chelsie's paint. What more did she want?<br /><br />"I.D.," she repeated, almost menacing this time. Clearly she was annoyed by having her 3 a.m. chat interrupted.<br /><br />"Oh," I explained, "well I'm not buying any spray paint."<br /><br />"You're in the same party, though. I need your I.D."<br /><br />Seriously? Seriously. This had never happened to me before, and I was mad. Of course I had an I.D., and of course I'm over 18, and of course I could produce it at will. But this woman seemed to go about it so bitterly, as though this--this harassment of me--was going to make everything right in <span style="font-style: italic;">her</span> world. I was not happy.<br /><br />"Well," I said, "I'm not in her party, then. We just met up back there on aisle one hundred fifty, and she let me put my lotion in her cart. I don't even know her." I knew there was no way this blatant lie would get me anything, but I wanted to make it as miserable an experience for that woman as she'd made mine.<br /><br />She looked at me blankly.<br /><br />Oh, was I ticked. If poor Chelsie didn't need the spray paint so much, I would have simply walked away. [But therein lies the power of Wal*Mart™. They stay open later than any other store in the universe (i.e. <span style="font-style: italic;">always</span>. There's that word again.), so that fools like me can plan on procrastinating, and then I'm forced to accept their mistreatment of me, simply because there's no alternative.]<br /><br />Finally I handed her my driver's license--it took me all of one second--along with the sentiment that this was the stupidest thing I've ever heard [immature, I know. But I needed some shred of...dignity...or...<span style="font-style: italic;">something</span>.].<br /><br />This time, though, when the cashier took <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> I.D., instead of just inspecting it for a birth date, she <span style="font-style: italic;">swiped it</span>. <span style="font-weight: bold;">She swiped it!</span> Through her credit card machine! As if it would give access to the Arizona State I.D. records, and she would be able to see if I had a history of sniffing spray paint at 3 a.m.! <span style="font-style: italic;"> SHE FREAKING SWIPED MY DRIVER'S LICENSE! </span>{No amount of exclamation points could possibly express how furious I was.}<br /><br />Upon seeing nothing--absolutely nothing--appear on her screen after swiping my card, she handed it back to me with a huff. I paid my total, took my own bag, and walked away with Chelsie, fuming for hours afterwards (That's right. hours. 3:30 a.m., and our day was still hours away from being finished. It was a really long week.). So is Wal*Mart™ telling me that if I was a mom of four kids who needed me to buy spray paint for their community theatre backdrop, I would have to hire a sitter so that I could legally buy the cans of paint without a minor "in my party?"<br /><br />Go to hell, Wal*Mart™. I've never--<span style="font-style: italic;">never</span>--had a positive experience there. And yes, I do believe that a certain amount of retail therapy can make one have a more positive outlook on life. But with Wal*Mart™, I leave feeling like my soul is sucked right out of my body. I really, really loathe Wal*Mart™. Their customer service is sub-par on every level and at every department I've ever braved. I will pay a little more to shop somewhere I'm treated like a person, <span style="font-style: italic;">not a number.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWG9bUu-Oy1HVaCcXIVXK924LPRLh3zGW9ghyphenhyphenIeTmi2TdU4dbgpWSSb7IccRjr6qoEtqWMt3Hep5dit5mqrdoUTCMBDXOp14sHtKMJ-iouUCSqILuX10Q4_PkYt1FDnVtoHKMf6T3UOuJa/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 206px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWG9bUu-Oy1HVaCcXIVXK924LPRLh3zGW9ghyphenhyphenIeTmi2TdU4dbgpWSSb7IccRjr6qoEtqWMt3Hep5dit5mqrdoUTCMBDXOp14sHtKMJ-iouUCSqILuX10Q4_PkYt1FDnVtoHKMf6T3UOuJa/s320/Picture+1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264842101917779010" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">"Save money. Live better." is their newest slogan. More fitting would be "Save money. At a cost." Image from </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.walmart.com/">here</a><span style="font-style: italic;">.</span> </div><br />Think about it...have <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">you</span> ever left Wal*Mart™ feeling better than when you arrived? Probably not.<br /><br />Good deals be d*mned. I will cut coupons and watch deals as much as I have to, so I won't even notice a dent in the budget from the sudden change in grocery stores. <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> No amount of blue light specials are worth my value as a human being.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span> I'll plan ahead so I can shop at a store that closes at 10 p.m., and if I fail to do so, I will simply <span style="font-style: italic;">fail</span>. No more last-minute run-ins to buy poster board for the assignment due tomorrow. And since making this commitment, since finding the conviction never to step foot in a Wal*Mart™ again, I have noticed a little spring in my step. A bounce to my spring. I'm like a dadgum Tigger.<br /><br />I feel free.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154831275765419510noreply@blogger.com39tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3954000874241675879.post-22324352906891133812008-11-02T20:00:00.000-08:002008-11-03T20:37:32.360-08:00{Captivated by the Season}<span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIA0H4jBYDJ1jrAgv8hz4hCEmnJHJXDTeR8RbvxUcY2DNtFleoq1JcVsJoR6ydqbA1lp3wJgLKCQY1HQYQnZTTBPoFNvg2kmfVuU6TT7riWbSRjaI5bhxRUW4SSmh-hItOBS438KAyX2Cr/s1600-h/PICT0125.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIA0H4jBYDJ1jrAgv8hz4hCEmnJHJXDTeR8RbvxUcY2DNtFleoq1JcVsJoR6ydqbA1lp3wJgLKCQY1HQYQnZTTBPoFNvg2kmfVuU6TT7riWbSRjaI5bhxRUW4SSmh-hItOBS438KAyX2Cr/s320/PICT0125.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264276956805051570" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span>My original plan for today's post was to write something very profound. I was going to write something deep, perhaps even wise, and make you all stop to reflect on your lives. <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">I was essentially going to change the world.</span><br /><br />Then I sat down with my laptop and I could not bear the thought of all the effort it would take to change the world. Since it's Monday and I never really got to enjoy the weekend, I'm making today an extension of yesterday. Today it's gonna be all about the fluff of my life. Lots of pictures, not many words. It's my Monday gift to you...<br /><br />Currently my iPhoto library looks like this:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSB3z_HXSKZAXxaxb9AVtuzfnCOI_9XAo5BW94U2O-KDEf9TfEKKZMVCQnuwk9f_QN-Ov0o0PMfxCvgOXtRC9KoNTm_oXEGuHKyWtqgNpgz26C8d6iv9ZBlr0a21IfuIQ7L6CSZTMqKOJO/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 209px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSB3z_HXSKZAXxaxb9AVtuzfnCOI_9XAo5BW94U2O-KDEf9TfEKKZMVCQnuwk9f_QN-Ov0o0PMfxCvgOXtRC9KoNTm_oXEGuHKyWtqgNpgz26C8d6iv9ZBlr0a21IfuIQ7L6CSZTMqKOJO/s320/Picture+1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264230706624196626" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Gorgeous. </span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Why? Because I went to Oregon. Why? To be with Poor Kyle. Why? Because I love him. Why? Good question. (Smiley face.)<br /><br />Anyway, I was glad to go on the three-day road trip even though I had just returned from Mesa the day before. After taking all these photos of fall leaves and anything that struck me as beautiful, I'm even gladder [more glad?].<br /><br />I hope you are as captivated by the season as I have been. Enjoy.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;">Everyone should take a long drive through fall foliage at least once in their life. It's really very healing. I wasn't even sick, but I feel healed.<br /></div></div></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD7lCRF6oIxwtYdQUvRnXw8A091Hl9OYT7wh3Xu2zlUDjvU3UJsp9md61DXIOGDPoSVqsWPz8DzzAV_tYz4XOhxeTWEmsDyD0X2EkhFKVTT3gFiD30AKhgGxH4fmjQWC2PloJxVMxXkU8t/s1600-h/PICT0056.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD7lCRF6oIxwtYdQUvRnXw8A091Hl9OYT7wh3Xu2zlUDjvU3UJsp9md61DXIOGDPoSVqsWPz8DzzAV_tYz4XOhxeTWEmsDyD0X2EkhFKVTT3gFiD30AKhgGxH4fmjQWC2PloJxVMxXkU8t/s320/PICT0056.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264234573869144674" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8p52-rye-_xn3fnR9CNIXwttaa8msySxS9twX7hpLfsB_umx35MIN0bS2LeRTFHV251iToT3NWgmIOKFxA1qhyphenhyphenBOuxXFIT0MvKlWzl07z6QYk22Favoz9q6zxw7RzrQcOxV7JadJkaMpj/s1600-h/PICT0054.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8p52-rye-_xn3fnR9CNIXwttaa8msySxS9twX7hpLfsB_umx35MIN0bS2LeRTFHV251iToT3NWgmIOKFxA1qhyphenhyphenBOuxXFIT0MvKlWzl07z6QYk22Favoz9q6zxw7RzrQcOxV7JadJkaMpj/s320/PICT0054.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264234569892066850" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Don't <span style="font-weight: bold;">you</span> feel healed?</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid_ANaqq67Yg9VfbAOhaGLo_nfcLm4Zu2bZewZEDAA9YJXiYC1FE6mpHlxHIXw543uJHj3rm9WdKTbtvoAvjy8ydulcpFIJRPLFX1teXpeag2dOutwf25QIrW8Sl3M4rE6LOalCQ2MXrNi/s1600-h/PICT0064.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid_ANaqq67Yg9VfbAOhaGLo_nfcLm4Zu2bZewZEDAA9YJXiYC1FE6mpHlxHIXw543uJHj3rm9WdKTbtvoAvjy8ydulcpFIJRPLFX1teXpeag2dOutwf25QIrW8Sl3M4rE6LOalCQ2MXrNi/s320/PICT0064.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264235735979111730" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAd4j3KRyLBOcjulMTddYcGLpSZjPEZkmI2X9JXTD12y50-WFXaVxPmstqfJ6OhsO_9jOVwkdRxcvQFMTk88yUU1ej5QGoQY_5Di4s59ftccK159S5Xo3LMlFMU3j5x_jCWHIgn8x5EMx4/s1600-h/PICT0061.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAd4j3KRyLBOcjulMTddYcGLpSZjPEZkmI2X9JXTD12y50-WFXaVxPmstqfJ6OhsO_9jOVwkdRxcvQFMTk88yUU1ej5QGoQY_5Di4s59ftccK159S5Xo3LMlFMU3j5x_jCWHIgn8x5EMx4/s320/PICT0061.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264235729906772802" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMmJGHuEpdPXZsVeVQpTKgaazjZmwF1L-xj9U4FrvHZ1GMPfDv1TvogHuZ3lBNBXPYWygzS46F_n2UpUt5c9n6TjHPKg_rAV79o-6Pvh8P5447NQNkeb7uC-ZO3HkKxLqwrWcNMnDOAa1z/s1600-h/PICT0057.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMmJGHuEpdPXZsVeVQpTKgaazjZmwF1L-xj9U4FrvHZ1GMPfDv1TvogHuZ3lBNBXPYWygzS46F_n2UpUt5c9n6TjHPKg_rAV79o-6Pvh8P5447NQNkeb7uC-ZO3HkKxLqwrWcNMnDOAa1z/s320/PICT0057.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264235722385914194" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">If I could tear out the trees in front of our house and replant them with these beauties (above), I would. Only I don't know what they're called. Any ideas?</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaOiZKpod-Knsd7FgMQ_fl84n3oFtrnTjYyrlDuU0K6KeJC7tkYa2jvwxeskcnD_Y9rlOQJWAFo7yl-byDaDWq452VgAlk5GBSsZ24ASdElgp8GHgaVFFSDRBGapAhQBKrg3HlGN6MPhs_/s1600-h/PICT0069.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaOiZKpod-Knsd7FgMQ_fl84n3oFtrnTjYyrlDuU0K6KeJC7tkYa2jvwxeskcnD_Y9rlOQJWAFo7yl-byDaDWq452VgAlk5GBSsZ24ASdElgp8GHgaVFFSDRBGapAhQBKrg3HlGN6MPhs_/s320/PICT0069.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264237037045670066" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjZjwuqBpUXjNZB1V8iypPAcREGhAYNyBmw8f3JjDbtG6YmO1uEjUms8K-L65k8OVjhyLGE1Zw72RN18HYrTIseSOw4_uV7KauNp7jEpeIHP3JgI8c9q9cfMmY3wt-iDuobR0hGvtoodsC/s1600-h/PICT0072.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjZjwuqBpUXjNZB1V8iypPAcREGhAYNyBmw8f3JjDbtG6YmO1uEjUms8K-L65k8OVjhyLGE1Zw72RN18HYrTIseSOw4_uV7KauNp7jEpeIHP3JgI8c9q9cfMmY3wt-iDuobR0hGvtoodsC/s320/PICT0072.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264237044232185138" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitS1fKxhck6QorjOwgs5l3nxnenjuFaMkweq8UGTB9-ExeSVA3lTDvzRCPzNRk3ABvWBo91H99fCRdxqrIAusU0kAnePR3gZDD4F02jCHqljmDFBUNyy97wl8iqtEoP-r88kyNDfMaqdkI/s1600-h/PICT0078.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitS1fKxhck6QorjOwgs5l3nxnenjuFaMkweq8UGTB9-ExeSVA3lTDvzRCPzNRk3ABvWBo91H99fCRdxqrIAusU0kAnePR3gZDD4F02jCHqljmDFBUNyy97wl8iqtEoP-r88kyNDfMaqdkI/s320/PICT0078.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264237051722543826" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_9fnwfTs0s4e4G5pKyFaUM9fHulIGI0_5J5MGqnBuO_x-0B81diq_pGsm9PlPzeHH-eujMUxLONB7Vlpz8OtdIWAURgW5QvcZGzQLn6RuvFa7AnUHFTFIMDYDnbB9quDW7kvFtq3MpYPh/s1600-h/PICT0081.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_9fnwfTs0s4e4G5pKyFaUM9fHulIGI0_5J5MGqnBuO_x-0B81diq_pGsm9PlPzeHH-eujMUxLONB7Vlpz8OtdIWAURgW5QvcZGzQLn6RuvFa7AnUHFTFIMDYDnbB9quDW7kvFtq3MpYPh/s320/PICT0081.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264246133533889954" border="0" /></a>I thrill at the sight of a long, straight bit of railroad track. There's so much hope in a railroad track.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3gfGjQ-ZsV3Q-cJdkjhPt58TphlHCitMTDG5IbJ1UV8JPDps0ZTgLW4uMshKpYiniHjkTMs2w1a0HR4DpV4Hzy9omKagfe4MVIyJg9FdUPAsxnjd2qTszsdPkAeRQ5God-vi3XmlLzIWD/s1600-h/PICT0131.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3gfGjQ-ZsV3Q-cJdkjhPt58TphlHCitMTDG5IbJ1UV8JPDps0ZTgLW4uMshKpYiniHjkTMs2w1a0HR4DpV4Hzy9omKagfe4MVIyJg9FdUPAsxnjd2qTszsdPkAeRQ5God-vi3XmlLzIWD/s320/PICT0131.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264266769337837858" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmHI5liTvvVi3mSCPY6aobMiUsIJ9u6o-0XWfgSMjLZUmBEA7-COWSIGkRimD3Tef9SwSf1qcjfZewrYsGSkPju11pGHG2YoPsISxRQykmdc_7XZ-ruyUzXyyzXIzyTpiH50WOdS2i-92j/s1600-h/PICT0087.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmHI5liTvvVi3mSCPY6aobMiUsIJ9u6o-0XWfgSMjLZUmBEA7-COWSIGkRimD3Tef9SwSf1qcjfZewrYsGSkPju11pGHG2YoPsISxRQykmdc_7XZ-ruyUzXyyzXIzyTpiH50WOdS2i-92j/s320/PICT0087.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264252924873614722" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMe-lyuYS5wTtX_ZCWS4N_IydhIlFfZ5xFxhLV66qkiV2VhxHcm1PuGkkU_yT54FUqvUKntYWjShKbUTwi6shmJXgIb-UC8Zud3NuDnyir-nS8GVZBEYlVBcCubcSCSOulR-5KnMGHoSgm/s1600-h/PICT0086.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMe-lyuYS5wTtX_ZCWS4N_IydhIlFfZ5xFxhLV66qkiV2VhxHcm1PuGkkU_yT54FUqvUKntYWjShKbUTwi6shmJXgIb-UC8Zud3NuDnyir-nS8GVZBEYlVBcCubcSCSOulR-5KnMGHoSgm/s320/PICT0086.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264252915904531650" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs7aSb1G9DsRtMCPnSsS2hm1yULE-V4LK-OQ4mT9xsXVe6PxmtYBEbkPopKzz4DKozcVWrtmvQS85NiMc7oanicrDTdIwF39yht0xlZ88eC361D-Go8qIWdgytKnmZEMf5NTJpf_6j1hXy/s1600-h/PICT0083.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs7aSb1G9DsRtMCPnSsS2hm1yULE-V4LK-OQ4mT9xsXVe6PxmtYBEbkPopKzz4DKozcVWrtmvQS85NiMc7oanicrDTdIwF39yht0xlZ88eC361D-Go8qIWdgytKnmZEMf5NTJpf_6j1hXy/s320/PICT0083.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264252902041886434" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqdWNQpV9V11jRBS6TdZPm0EHoyH7UdJPX9cmQnZ9z-QWg7pNnFLZAd1IzYPQbvI9QFEB0HcR7658LW-VXlVyBuFbCQ9-SyWoAVMjtrgaz16jEBVGAuNhaWxW9ahuWBx2IdNqcTRjBLtih/s1600-h/PICT0115.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqdWNQpV9V11jRBS6TdZPm0EHoyH7UdJPX9cmQnZ9z-QWg7pNnFLZAd1IzYPQbvI9QFEB0HcR7658LW-VXlVyBuFbCQ9-SyWoAVMjtrgaz16jEBVGAuNhaWxW9ahuWBx2IdNqcTRjBLtih/s320/PICT0115.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264261150859443042" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Oh, and also...I don't brush my hair anymore. Not worth it. I threw away every brush I own, so any hairstyling I do from now on will be with fingertips, bobby pins and </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.trashties.com/">Trash Ties™</a><span style="font-style: italic;">. Just thought you should know.</span><br /><br /><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbvc8-X6P4XDRb9zm4HNLp83k7ERBVT1braz__brhU1jhj5SZN7e6xtHzqK8gdSNYHiKMfBELR4VM2vd_Ctseire5dsD-LpDx6E5KnnGTWw-1pA9yNRgI2yA6QCxgwGrmj-saTkhkvG1fx/s1600-h/PICT0103.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbvc8-X6P4XDRb9zm4HNLp83k7ERBVT1braz__brhU1jhj5SZN7e6xtHzqK8gdSNYHiKMfBELR4VM2vd_Ctseire5dsD-LpDx6E5KnnGTWw-1pA9yNRgI2yA6QCxgwGrmj-saTkhkvG1fx/s320/PICT0103.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264261133673187922" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Leaves in the gutter--how lovely.</span><br /><br /><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2zbK5xigTOIggR0XBmRxNs0562vvQslLdGA8q7A4HNA-i7NqRiVgY0VLSg1Hq8OuHyRXrTZZmgjAZKWWS9bOfhxM2x8m2TJu-E9ZWCJIjcEazC4HWcbTzUSgN-63H4e8pV3Xo9cOc6J6J/s1600-h/PICT0122.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2zbK5xigTOIggR0XBmRxNs0562vvQslLdGA8q7A4HNA-i7NqRiVgY0VLSg1Hq8OuHyRXrTZZmgjAZKWWS9bOfhxM2x8m2TJu-E9ZWCJIjcEazC4HWcbTzUSgN-63H4e8pV3Xo9cOc6J6J/s320/PICT0122.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264266776421536642" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Again with the railroad tracks--I'm sensing a theme.</span><br /><br /><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj30LJJuCZ7Ruy3HIDd1hB5Mc48V8_lPPdYseU2sozdf1MBnGt_1FrWLi942bAHMCmLjhDD63OWMmEr2aEiH8y4F53Nyv85VI0HcT42LXKzWAOsq4QSVC2PjRNwr3HixmV_SMZ6Kla8k-OZ/s1600-h/PICT0092.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj30LJJuCZ7Ruy3HIDd1hB5Mc48V8_lPPdYseU2sozdf1MBnGt_1FrWLi942bAHMCmLjhDD63OWMmEr2aEiH8y4F53Nyv85VI0HcT42LXKzWAOsq4QSVC2PjRNwr3HixmV_SMZ6Kla8k-OZ/s320/PICT0092.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264252928584314258" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">There. All better. Like chicken soup for the friggen soul.</span><br /><br />{Happy Monday.}<br /></div>Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154831275765419510noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3954000874241675879.post-25111238838421549552008-10-31T06:00:00.000-07:002008-10-31T22:05:41.181-07:00Boo.Halloween used to be my favourite holiday. It was my one chance to dress up like a beautiful and sparkly (insert over-clichéd childish dream); the one time out of the year I could beg—and eat—all the candy I wanted with no thought of negative consequences. Halloween was almost better than Christmas for me. I truly looked forward to it every year.<br /><br />Then one year…all of that changed. It was a tradition in our extended family to do our separate trick-or-treating, then head over to the neighborhood Halloween party, and eventually meet up with all our cousins at my grandma’s house down the street. My Grandpa would have prepared a pot of beans (why he chose beans I may never know, but man…were they ever good) for everyone to eat, and that was only if we had room leftover after hoarding Grandma’s stash intended for the neighbor kids.<br /><br />This time, though, as my sister and I approached the front door of Grandma’s house, something seemed different. Where the door would normally be swung wide open, inviting all to enter, it was unwelcomingly closed. Usually we would be able to hear the raucous laughter of my uncles telling the latest jokes, or my granddad joining in the chaos with his booming, trademark voice—but this year, the lights were off in the house, and all was quiet. Even the jack-o-lanterns, who were glowing with the customary light of candles, seemed to droop and frown. All was not well at Grandma’s house.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSoyt1uGj09rvcLMANmuFVYTNmUaOZLOddkz2foD5j6Zd4uV0OHu0RI0Cqxjvv1Ab0k5uGrxqnrQdKvMT6juNeBXYpwS-unKzqjiUWyWP6KbsHdqEe0tpcUohwjVD-hLLbicAATubYkBaH/s1600-h/C19+copy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 298px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSoyt1uGj09rvcLMANmuFVYTNmUaOZLOddkz2foD5j6Zd4uV0OHu0RI0Cqxjvv1Ab0k5uGrxqnrQdKvMT6juNeBXYpwS-unKzqjiUWyWP6KbsHdqEe0tpcUohwjVD-hLLbicAATubYkBaH/s320/C19+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263186669803112850" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Here I am around the time of the dreaded day--in the foreground {my favourite place to be, evidently}. Adell is squished in the back, wearing the gray T-shirt. Don't we look innocent and unassuming? Totally unaware of any bad in the world...</span><br /></div><br />Nevertheless, we two girls approached the entry, foolishly—as two young girls are wont to be—assuming the best. Never considering foul play. Naïve along with the best of ‘em, that’s how we were.<br /><br />Suddenly, as we took our last step to reach and turn the doorknob, we heard a heart-stopping wail.<br /><br />“Waaaaaaaaaa…uhhhhhhhhh…waaaaaaaaa…uhhhhhhhh…”<br /><br />The pitch was piercing, oscillating between two notes of an interval I never knew existed. It sent shivers through my spine, and I knew it was the last noise I would ever hear, for I would soon be dead—murdered by the boogeyman before I ever got to tell Daniel Wilsford of my true love for him, and that was that.<br /><br />“Run, Adell!” I screamed, for—though I was the younger sister—I always worried for her presence of mind during frightful situations. If one of us should die, I was the best for the job. {I’ve always made a very good martyr, you see. It’s my gift.}<br /><br />We ran. Both she and I screamed blood-clotting screams of terror, our eyes squeezed shut, as if it would make the horror disappear (though running with our eyes closed did substantially hinder our progress of escaping immediate danger).<br /><br />Tripping over our fairy princess shoelaces, we didn’t make it far before we collapsed in the grass of Grandma’s front yard, damp from our own sweat along with the early-evening dew that was just beginning to form. We panted our pathetic breaths, having skipped out of P.E. often enough to know we were--neither of us--cut out for such exertion. We were doomed.<br /><br />The pause gave us time to breathe, and during the break we realized the noise of terror emitting from the portico had faded into that of…humour? Humour indeed. Looking back from whence we’d shortly escaped with our lives, we saw the lights had been turned on, the front door opened, and all our long-lost relatives laughing from the entry. Jubilantly. They’d gotten us—the snot-nosed little girls who were always reading books (in Adell’s case) and beheading chickens (in my own).<br /><br />A practical joke had been played, and we were the butts. I’m always the butt.<br /><br />And who was the major culprit, you ask? Who was to blame for the wail of fright (and “fright” is putting it mildly)?<br /><br />A battery-operated ghost hanging from the eaves of Grandma’s front porch. Of course. She’d unearthed them from the bottom of a bin at Pick ‘n Save™ the year before, at the after-Halloween markdown sale for what was no doubt “a steal.” It had a sensor—a sensor!—which detected the movement of any innocent passerby, at which signal it would flatly freak people out. This technology was ahead of its time during the mid-90s, and I had never imagined anything so horrifying. I can hear the wails to this day—probably because they are still common decorations among my relatives—and they frighten me…to…this…day.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKcYYmjZX174zMOSkGcFv9y8wDrD78aLgIHjWlcBTunJPpMmrvtCU_p2CF1vlTpH3dKUJPN9Xf7Lyn5Kxt-LZhuLTqoAgaF3Nw5OI-yD8ra5eHNnBHN9y_OSF21kqL_Sh3R0YGmlUCfHri/s1600-h/C45.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKcYYmjZX174zMOSkGcFv9y8wDrD78aLgIHjWlcBTunJPpMmrvtCU_p2CF1vlTpH3dKUJPN9Xf7Lyn5Kxt-LZhuLTqoAgaF3Nw5OI-yD8ra5eHNnBHN9y_OSF21kqL_Sh3R0YGmlUCfHri/s320/C45.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263187553181669394" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Adell and I have gone on to live {fairly} normal and well-adjusted lives, despite the turmoil of our youth.</span><br /></div><br />Strangely enough, however, I’ve never felt the Halloween fervor since then. I’ll buy my own candy, thankyouverymuch.<br /><br />Happy Halloween, from everyone (all two of us) here at Archives of Our Lives.<br /><br />Boo.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154831275765419510noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3954000874241675879.post-12684475633680320802008-10-30T07:37:00.000-07:002008-10-30T07:44:50.418-07:00I'd Rather Not.<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Q (from Aimee): My question (and excuse if I missed this post): Have you ever driven one of PK's rigs on a roadtrip or are you always the passenger? Do you have any desire to drive such large mechanical beasts on long, open roads?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A (from Me): Hi <a href="http://yates-forever.blogspot.com/">Aimee</a>! Good question. The answer is...no. Emphatically. No, no, never, no. </span>Let's do keep in mind that Poor Kyle's "rig" consists of a Ford F-number-50 and a 52 foot-long wedge trailer. Nothing too ridiculous like a Peterbilt with a sleeper in back, or a "Kenworth hauling logs." (I'll give 10 points to the first person who knows from whence that quote originated.)<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMwiTncY2yi9h0y-wF4XhqBFCyeSdhUZf2SmWQ8tfgxlKFGZMR40p0DAbI2lwwsiZPkEfBlUbUD4T7IHg42TgoTmDnVHuLCS1oLhIIq3vWEqjYjyQrDKjGQh-kuJn5QAYpNpl00whwbRb5/s1600-h/PICT0066.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMwiTncY2yi9h0y-wF4XhqBFCyeSdhUZf2SmWQ8tfgxlKFGZMR40p0DAbI2lwwsiZPkEfBlUbUD4T7IHg42TgoTmDnVHuLCS1oLhIIq3vWEqjYjyQrDKjGQh-kuJn5QAYpNpl00whwbRb5/s320/PICT0066.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262954052036623586" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Poor Kyle, he loves this rig. Sometimes I suspect he loves it more than me...sometimes he admits it. </span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Though if we're being honest (and we always are here at <a href="http://www.archives-lives.blogspot.com/">AoOL</a>), Poor Kyle would give his two front teeth for a flat-top Pete with a queen-sized sleeper in back, complete with a fridge, microwave, and plasma TV.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiVIuI75Ds4sNjm-x-Di7CgC5PrES-pFd44sQ1ZlHhhtnhOjlwSV2Ka6uSx5-i_Hnziv5PMKqgXsLbonOM-37tFVQ4fOKDBjfnBF4mI4Ubix0s-lRMKlp_8LMijVuZUjylfKj8Ay6-C8VD/s1600-h/PICT0039.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiVIuI75Ds4sNjm-x-Di7CgC5PrES-pFd44sQ1ZlHhhtnhOjlwSV2Ka6uSx5-i_Hnziv5PMKqgXsLbonOM-37tFVQ4fOKDBjfnBF4mI4Ubix0s-lRMKlp_8LMijVuZUjylfKj8Ay6-C8VD/s320/PICT0039.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262955197491231234" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">{Good thing he has no front teeth to give, or I'd be in <span style="font-weight: bold;">huge</span> trouble.}</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">But back to the very important matter at hand. I have had occasion to drive the Fnumber50 once or twice since its purchase in February of this year. However, I married a man who cares--really, truly cares--about his posessions. And though I know he wouldn't mind if I took his truck out for a drive every day, I know I would be ultra paranoid about...well...messing it up.<br /><br />Add that paranoia to the fact that hauling trailers absolutely terrifies me, and you've got the world's worst match as a wife for Poor Kyle.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPCIf6DxSXbVLoOAJlok2dmbNP3NGUZGbQAvT3lwQS1Rk5lG0DfgnTd2_B9jN6_STa6ZP4GIMge1uu8gg25KjMLX2YoG4Qlsf_bHe7OltzV8mcnWVgXrLZPWSe-H1N-gnwaZZEe5_0zeUR/s1600-h/PICT0061.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPCIf6DxSXbVLoOAJlok2dmbNP3NGUZGbQAvT3lwQS1Rk5lG0DfgnTd2_B9jN6_STa6ZP4GIMge1uu8gg25KjMLX2YoG4Qlsf_bHe7OltzV8mcnWVgXrLZPWSe-H1N-gnwaZZEe5_0zeUR/s320/PICT0061.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262956656612856050" border="0" /></a>I do, however, make a fairly excellent passenger. Nobody works the seat-warmer like I work the seat-warmer. Nobody.<br /></div></div></div></div></div>Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154831275765419510noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3954000874241675879.post-85183696599695005772008-10-28T05:45:00.000-07:002008-10-28T05:45:00.580-07:00D@mn That Grass.<div style="text-align: center;"><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif8JTsoKihxXvXtCS9EBhepHlutkc7_DR6Lz2GiGM05CqM7Zc8xa-5a0Fpw1iqS6gmcC0oHhhymhbTZbAgOLi3h_17umv7FIlrDpzo22NDAEvnlAtXbEl5E7WIp6LAsq8cMnwKsvOJTCxr/s1600-h/PICT0121.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif8JTsoKihxXvXtCS9EBhepHlutkc7_DR6Lz2GiGM05CqM7Zc8xa-5a0Fpw1iqS6gmcC0oHhhymhbTZbAgOLi3h_17umv7FIlrDpzo22NDAEvnlAtXbEl5E7WIp6LAsq8cMnwKsvOJTCxr/s320/PICT0121.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262129619190990754" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">It's always green somewhere in the world--only never where I am.</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>I have lived my life holding strong to the mantra "the grass is always greener on the other side of the hill." I don't mean to do this; I know it's totally fickle of me, and nobody likes a fickle woman {though some in my acquaintance would profess that "fickle woman" is totally redundant}.<br /><br />Only in my case, the grass is always greener on the other side of the border. Any border. I always want to be wherever I'm not--it's a wretched affliction, truly. During July, outside of Arizona the grass will surely be greener. But amidst the frigid Canadian winters, there's no place I long to be more than my lush green<a href="http://iheartmesa.blogspot.com/"> City of Mesa.</a><br /><br />It doesn't <span style="font-style: italic;">just</span> have to do with the weather, however. When I am living the <a href="http://archives-lives.blogspot.com/2008/08/sweet-life-of-single-wife.html">life of a single wife</a>, visiting friends and family in Arizona, I miss Poor Kyle terribly and can hardly wait to see him again. But inevitably, as I re-pack my bags the night before I'm scheduled to return to his country, I once again mourn the loss of my family. I have two families, you know, and both of them love me so very much.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I would that everybody's trials could be so simple as deciding which loved ones to visit.</span><br /><br />Of course there's really no question: I married Poor Kyle and now I'm stuck with him (hello dear!). I am stuck with him, but the phrase "stuck with" implies that it's against my will. I should say I'm stuck <span style="font-weight: bold;">to</span> him [but actually, that sounds a little less G-rated than I normally try to keep this blog. Dang]. Well at any rate, he and I will<span style="font-style: italic;"> "be an item"</span> forever, and <span style="font-weight: bold;">not once have I regretted my choice to be his wife.</span> *Mushy alert: I love him more with nearly every day that passes. I never even knew that having an understanding, calm and patient disposition would be a requirement of the man I married--it just happened that way, and I can see now it was absolutely necessary. <span style="font-style: italic;"> In case any of you noticed, I'm not exactly the easiest person with whom to live.</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;"> And that's the understatement of infinity</span>.<br /><br />I only wish that "cleaving unto my husband" as is preached in the Bible, didn't require to take me so far away from everyone else I dearly, <span style="font-style: italic;">dearly</span> love.<br /><br />I'm lucky I've been able to come down and visit so frequently this past year. To everyone I was able to bond with for the last two weeks: Thank you. I love you. I'll miss you. To those of you who I wanted to spend more time with, but was forced--for one reason or another--to neglect: I'm sorry. I love you. I'll miss you. And to anyone else who had hoped to meet/see/visit me and was totally shafted by how busy I was <span style="font-style: italic;">{I really don't know any person more vain than myself, to think of a whole city full of people who are sad they didn't get to see me this month}</span>: I regret that, too.<br /><br />Maybe for Christmas...Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154831275765419510noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3954000874241675879.post-1139830753494171172008-10-27T09:00:00.000-07:002008-10-28T02:18:53.119-07:00Not That I'm Judging, or Anything...I was raised with the understanding that I was to dress modestly. In our family, "modest" was very specific: cover my shoulders, cover my bosom, cover my midriff, cover my buttocks. (In other words, <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">boobs, belly, butt</span>. [Only we're not crude here at Archives of Our Lives. We're very ladylike, and we use words like "midriff."])<br /><br />My parents were firm in laying down this family law, and I never thought to question it--it was not negotiable, so I didn't even bother trying. {Later on in life, I realised my physique was not conducive to showing all that skin anyway, and skanky clothing never appealed to me; I knew it would only showcase my chubby imperfections, and I wanted no part of it.}<br /><br />But for some reason, a lot of girls in my acquaintance--who were raised the same way as I--have taken a liking to wearing bikinis.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Bikinis!</span> I'm floored. Me, I'm a fatty, so I have never been tempted to wear one (except for maybe when I was a young little thing--seven or eight--and thought a bikini would make me beautiful. But I got over that.)<br /><br />I've been asking around a lot lately--people in my family, people I knew growing up, people who knew me growing up. The question of my poll was this: "Was it ever a gray area? Bikinis, I mean. Was there something I missed, wherein our standards mentioned dressing modestly except at <span style="font-style: italic;">Cabo</span>? What the...? Did YOU ever think it was okay to wear bikinis?"<br /><br />And it wasn't just me. I didn't miss something. It has never been a gray area. The answer is so simple: if one believes in dressing modestly in every other situation of one's life <span style="font-weight: bold;">{and notice I said "if," because this doesn't apply to anyone who was never raised this way, neither does it apply to anyone who simply doesn't embrace these values {to you: go for it. I'm not judging. It's not hypocritical if you never said one thing and acted differently. Please. Wear all the bikinis you want. You don't even need my permission--nor my approval.}</span> there is no reason to wear a bikini on vacation. Or at the pool. Or to the prom. Or at the mall. Or snorkeling. Or anywhere.<br /><br />If a person (specifically a female, but hey--I'm not judging) considers themselves a follower of the modest movement, then said person might also look into finding a swimsuit which will cover their stomachs. It can be done.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHOFQVAewhulwxdJ52jOuXGi-nyFNeXtnRdMsvI9b-5UzB5aOei64o1ZleDwHAaNEzTTcffEkKGizrBP0wJ1zPuxmhMkD1Nt_nx9-RIhryB2n895NuPr9irLgUapEXLTgM7sDFJSocDUGF/s1600-h/12947_full.jpg.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHOFQVAewhulwxdJ52jOuXGi-nyFNeXtnRdMsvI9b-5UzB5aOei64o1ZleDwHAaNEzTTcffEkKGizrBP0wJ1zPuxmhMkD1Nt_nx9-RIhryB2n895NuPr9irLgUapEXLTgM7sDFJSocDUGF/s320/12947_full.jpg.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261876965905330034" border="0" /></a>Image from <a href="http://www.modbeclothing.com/IndvItem.asp?InventoryID=1825">Modbe Clothing.</a> Other ideas include <a href="http://www.shadeclothing.com/">Shade</a>, <a href="http://www.downeastbasics.com/">DownEast Basics</a>, and that one about an apple.<br /></div><br />The question is not "Should people wear a bikini?" or "Should Camille wear a bikini?" or "Does Camille hate bikinis?" or "Would Camille make a good movie star?" or "Are bikini wearers bad people?" No. The question is none of these. Quite simply, what I want to know is....<br /><br />"Has a bikini ever been considered a modest choice in swimwear?"<br /><br />And if we can all agree that indeed, bikinis are <span style="font-weight: bold;">not</span> a modest choice in swimwear, then why do so many women--<span style="font-style: italic;">who otherwise consider themselves modest to a T, and would never so much as <span style="font-weight: bold;">think</span> about wearing a <span style="font-weight: bold;">tank top to the grocery store</span></span>--wear them?<br /><br />I suppose it sounds like I am standing on a self-righteous soapbox and think extremely highly of myself...<br /><br />Think what you will of me. And wear bikinis if you want. Just don't think bikinis are modest.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154831275765419510noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3954000874241675879.post-89983353470476050782008-10-23T07:30:00.000-07:002008-10-23T07:33:46.517-07:00I Have Completely Lost My Capacity for Making Decisions.My body cannot take much more of this exhaustion. Every morning that I wake up to the sound of my phone's alarm, I think, <span style="font-style: italic;">"If it is really time to get out of bed I'll kill myself."</span> The days are long and the nights are short, and my predominant feeling is one of constant pain.<br /><br />I'm just...so...<span style="font-style: italic;">tired</span>.<br /><br />Nevertheless, I care about my blog, and the people who read it. So I will continue to post during this trying time, and hopefully reap the rewards [a readership who trusts me when I say I will write every weekday possible] later on in life.<br /><br />Oh, I'll write; only I can't guarantee I'll be making any sense.<br /><br />The good thing is, Thursday is here. And that means I get to answer a question--one of my favourite features here at Archives of Our Lives.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">Q (from </span><a style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(153, 0, 0);" href="http://loraleeslooneytunes.com/">Loralee Choate</a><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">): </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">How the hell and why do you have so many anonymous commenters? I read hundreds and hundreds of blogs and I've never seen such a high ratio.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">What's the deal? Have they told you? Is it family that hates registering for things or something?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">Finally (Because this would be how I feel):</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">Does this not drive you nutso? Have you considered turning the anonymous option off?</span><br /><br />A (from me):<br /><br />Oh, Loralee. Your query breeches the subject that is a <span style="font-style: italic;">constant</span> issue among the inner echelon of <a href="http://www.archives-lives.blogspot.com/">Archives of Our Lives</a> cronies. To allow, or not to allow? That is my great inner debate. Poor Kyle, he thinks I should not allow anonymous comments anymore. Ever. He gets as annoyed as you seem to be.<br /><br />Me? I'm not so bugged. I mean,<span style="font-style: italic;"> I like readers</span>. I do. The fact that I seem to have a million who are sneaky and unwilling to own up to their true identity...well...<span style="font-style: italic;">I still like readers.</span><br /><br />I don't know why I have so many. Maybe they're all one person; maybe they're 100 separate people.<br /><br />I have considered removing the ability to allow anonymous comments--I consider it every day, and come to no conclusions.<br /><br />So what's the skinny, everyone? <span style="font-weight: bold;">I have completely lost my capacity to make decisions. </span>I am numb from exhaustion this week, and I cannot--physically and mentally <span style="font-style: italic;">cannot</span>--decide if I should do something about this, or leave it be.<br /><br />You can leave your opinion in the comment section, or at the poll to the right.<br /><br />I'd be much obliged.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154831275765419510noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3954000874241675879.post-81251689350931222352008-10-22T06:11:00.000-07:002008-10-22T06:11:00.693-07:00{Ow to the Nth Degree}<div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">One-word Wednesday:<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Ow.<br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyqw2AexuqqBoi21Czpip9nQecs5LytnK0JnFV9qRyXmHpLcP-YzxZp3voZhMR_mXRs1LKGzM_ivYM3ah11JftuFCqc-GVOKAZxv5BM9SYOd-eGuHzrwXP09XYlWrlXbe6ORA0qj2I39vr/s1600-h/Photo+124.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyqw2AexuqqBoi21Czpip9nQecs5LytnK0JnFV9qRyXmHpLcP-YzxZp3voZhMR_mXRs1LKGzM_ivYM3ah11JftuFCqc-GVOKAZxv5BM9SYOd-eGuHzrwXP09XYlWrlXbe6ORA0qj2I39vr/s320/Photo+124.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259890270924089762" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">No, that's not just a dirty thumbnail. </span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNNwtNGCbeVdcTfEASPl59a9nT8ndHqPJ6WnScsNgXEHF_PQd8WTCRO5HG5Z0R0lN3smy8RavycIJzZoNX9-0RCZkQyq8TpMEshhAFD0BgUdl8svwFKS9AJAcRoyKj005k6efKPQfDJN_2/s1600-h/Photo+131.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNNwtNGCbeVdcTfEASPl59a9nT8ndHqPJ6WnScsNgXEHF_PQd8WTCRO5HG5Z0R0lN3smy8RavycIJzZoNX9-0RCZkQyq8TpMEshhAFD0BgUdl8svwFKS9AJAcRoyKj005k6efKPQfDJN_2/s320/Photo+131.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259890269553198354" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The pointer finger, on the other hand {ha! Get it? <span style="font-weight: bold;">Other hand</span>?} is dirty (dirty with seven hours' worth of spray paint); but the <span style="font-weight: bold;">thumbnail</span> is nothin' but a nice dark shade of "<span style="font-weight: bold;">ow</span>."</span><br /></div><br />Okay, so I've never been great at one-word Wednesdays. In fact, one-word <span style="font-style: italic;">anything</span> is a challenging concept for me to grasp. I'm a person of many many words. If you were to ask me to describe myself in one word, I'd surely use something double, like <span style="font-style: italic;">absentminded</span> or <span style="font-style: italic;">overrated</span>.<br /><br />So instead of simply posting a photo and<span style="font-weight: bold;"> one word</span> about the thumb I smashed with all my might into a piece of wood tonight, I am going to write a list. A list of things that become increasingly difficult without the use of my right-hand thumb. And I will include the same "one word" in each item of my list. One-word Wednesdays, the <a href="http://www.archives-lives.blogspot.com/">AoOL</a> way.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thumb"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ow, My Opposable Digit.</span></a><br /></div><br />1. Using the "space bar." Ow.<br /><br />1.5. Flossing. No way, <span style="font-style: italic;">José</span>. Ow.<br /><br />2. Removing my contact lenses. Ow.<br /><br />3. Writing with a pen. Ow.<br /><br />4. Gripping. Anything. Ow.<br /><br />5. Putting my hair into a ponytail. Ow.<br /><br />6. Wiping (you guessed it). Ow.<br /><br />7. Zipping zippers. [What is the correct verbage of the word "zipper?" Zipping? Zippering?] Ow.<br /><br />8. Cracking knuckles. Ow.<br /><br />9. Pulling ceiling fan chains. Ow.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQG4nutu1Dw0yNtYvVTg6daUY3Y_qlHHDUviueXX4hmHMdbsgGIxTvbgUBZ_qggU5UOu-uQrX1fV4ZSXeTsC6sjtlQpTolAKn-2ooCGmJnwxM4r9wFaX6kIAsjfApnUVn2WSW6VzLonKi7/s1600-h/71G01PJAH3L._SL500_AA280_.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQG4nutu1Dw0yNtYvVTg6daUY3Y_qlHHDUviueXX4hmHMdbsgGIxTvbgUBZ_qggU5UOu-uQrX1fV4ZSXeTsC6sjtlQpTolAKn-2ooCGmJnwxM4r9wFaX6kIAsjfApnUVn2WSW6VzLonKi7/s320/71G01PJAH3L._SL500_AA280_.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259890266239892162" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Photo from </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.amazon.com/Ceiling-Pull-Chain-Brass-Teardrop/dp/B00002NAI3">here</a><span style="font-style: italic;">.</span><br /></div><br />10. Thumb wars [though I can never win anyway {something about having rheumatoid arthritis at a young age}]. Ow ow.<br /><br />Without the use of this thumb, I might as well be a monkey. Or a sloth.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">What's hurting you today?</span>Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154831275765419510noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3954000874241675879.post-76546386268401262562008-10-21T06:30:00.000-07:002008-10-21T06:30:00.463-07:00Hello? Kansas? Anybody?<div style="text-align: center;">A recent map of visitors to <a href="http://www.archives-lives.blogspot.com">Archives of Our Lives</a> looks something like this:<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtsGqZpKHXysmW091TjpHNb72L8rkUbJLMNCZsjGYbSiII9QPqA8ZnyZmRLUXaAlgjP4RVkbRzVG2Y4d9NW9vTg7lDNwSe89q2cHuCORBTwVED2XVxZs3HtK2DW66vJWGccGUYIMXZ4wIq/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtsGqZpKHXysmW091TjpHNb72L8rkUbJLMNCZsjGYbSiII9QPqA8ZnyZmRLUXaAlgjP4RVkbRzVG2Y4d9NW9vTg7lDNwSe89q2cHuCORBTwVED2XVxZs3HtK2DW66vJWGccGUYIMXZ4wIq/s320/Picture+1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259502239354471346" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">And when I say "recent" I mean <span style="font-weight: bold;">mere minutes ago.</span> And when I say "something like this," I mean <span style="font-weight: bold;">exactly</span>. </span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />I'm thinking <a href="http://www.archives-lives.blogspot.com">Archives of Our Lives</a> needs to branch out. <br /><br />Quick, tell all your friends in the mid-west (why do they call it the "mid-west" when it's really just the "mid?") to read my <a href="http://www.archives-lives.blogspot.com">blog</a>.<br /><br /><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiavIu7j1_gTpuTNG5ISNvfCswrxtlmYvncmCMh3uyjAtkZ0HgLXmpuQZBwmIh7DKMB_ApebjZSzTq70rhVf8-6Abds-GKRn0_Kv0MbbyprgTRsb4i7iVgiR_cLMH59btobk5ghL9BzArJY/s1600-h/Picture+2.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiavIu7j1_gTpuTNG5ISNvfCswrxtlmYvncmCMh3uyjAtkZ0HgLXmpuQZBwmIh7DKMB_ApebjZSzTq70rhVf8-6Abds-GKRn0_Kv0MbbyprgTRsb4i7iVgiR_cLMH59btobk5ghL9BzArJY/s320/Picture+2.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259502243223796722" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">For that matter, tell anyone outside the North American continent, too. </span><br /><br />I'm the next big thing. I'm taking over Dooce™. <br /><br />Or didn't you hear?<br /></div>Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154831275765419510noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3954000874241675879.post-68459376766897999362008-10-20T08:30:00.000-07:002008-10-20T08:44:09.057-07:00Days are Long 'Round These Parts.Whoa, I am exhausted.<br /><br />Not only because it's been a busy weekend, but wow--<a href="http://archives-lives.blogspot.com/2008/10/growing-face-of-leather-thick-and-tough.html">did you see that last post</a>? I impulsively decided to make it a "Reader Appreciation" weekend, and responded to every comment I received. No wonder Pioneer Woman™ and Dooce™ don't do that--I had 31 comments, and it was all I could do to keep up with them. Think of what it must be like to have 12,000 comments daily! Mind-blowing. [I'd be in hog heaven, yes...but it's mind-blowing.]<br /><br />Still, I hope I got the message across--I'll say it one more time just to be sure: <span style="font-weight: bold;"> If you're reading this blog, you're helping me fulfill my purpose in life. Thanks.<br /></span><br />If you commented on that last post, be sure and check back in the comment section to see what I said back to you. It might be the last time I ever do it, so you won't want to miss it.<br /><br />Now, enough housekeeping. As I am typing this, it's 4:06 in the morning. Why am I awake? I have an entire pageful of reasons. I'll tell you about them later. Like tomorrow. For now, what I am going to do is sleep.<br /><br />But do not despair--I've got my alarm set for 7:45 a.m. When it rings, I will promptly turn it off, sit up in bed, open my laptop, and type--in this post box--the first thing that comes to mind [most likely it will be what I was just dreaming]. It seems like a good way to start off my Monday.<br /><br />Let's just hope I wake up witty...<br /><br />...<br /><br />5:13 a.m.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Nephew whimpering in the next room over. Debated whether my sister would rather I pick him up and play with him, or let her get him and try to feed him back to sleep. Pondered the fact that babies often fall asleep while nursing. Thought it would be odd if I ever fell asleep in the middle of the drive through at Taco Bell™. Spent so much time thinking about this that sister got up and fetched the child herself.</span><br /><br />We all promptly fell back asleep.<br /><br />6:59 a.m.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Woke up to the gritty sound of the garbage truck. Felt like I was a kid again, since my hometown has had the same garbage trucks...well...since I was a kid. Heard the garbage truck set off the same car alarm twice. Wondered why that had never happened when I was a kid. Concluded that car alarms never came standard when I was a kid. Life was so simple when I was a kid. Fell asleep.</span><br /><br />7:45 a.m.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Hit snooze on my cell phone's alarm clock.</span><br /><br />8:16 a.m.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Received text from Gus, my partner-in-crime in all things regarding this wedding I'm here for, informing me of a last-minute change of plans. Realised she was probably more tired than I, and not making any sense. Called to clarify. Decided I might as well stay up. Peed. Remembered I was supposed to write this post. Couldn't recall what I'd dreamed about, except that it involved Taco Bell™ and the garbage man. Calculated my total sleep for the evening to be aproximately three hours.</span><br /><br />It's going to be a long day.<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYyYbQSoFkNfBSgwv1YLJmbblvgRa27iGrwGcAw1-e735xVfw6KpuiI5k4ri209jNRcU7vl3obGxGV3WTOOuTCN_ECxTsFAvmdKgiwUJ1lR07HuzvNjvIOTjvw7DgAwySmQvNDAMzKlWsG/s1600-h/PICT0015.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYyYbQSoFkNfBSgwv1YLJmbblvgRa27iGrwGcAw1-e735xVfw6KpuiI5k4ri209jNRcU7vl3obGxGV3WTOOuTCN_ECxTsFAvmdKgiwUJ1lR07HuzvNjvIOTjvw7DgAwySmQvNDAMzKlWsG/s320/PICT0015.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259261102799103106" border="0" /></a><span>p.s. One year ago today, I was also very tired. <span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" > Happy Anniversary, Poor Kyle.</span> I would have loved to spend it with you!</span><br /></div>Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154831275765419510noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3954000874241675879.post-81519846611642779772008-10-18T02:20:00.000-07:002008-10-19T02:15:03.244-07:00Growing a Face of Leather {Thick and Tough}.<span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">**Update</span><span style="font-style: italic;">: Everybody's comments have been so sweet today, I decided to declare this "Official </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.archives-lives.blogspot.com/">AoOL</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> Reader Appreciation Weekend." Every comment I get, I will be responding to. I will read all the blogs of any new person who introduces his or her self, so if you left a comment (or are planning on it still), there is {or will be} a reply comment waiting for you. Boy, if that isn't a treat, I don't know what is. {Yes, I do. Something that starts with "Golden" and ends with "Spoon" comes to mind. I'd way rather have ice cream than a personal message from me, but it's the best I can do.}**</span><br /><br />I have had this on my mind a lot lately; I would like to address a few topics here on this blog today.<div><br /></div><div>Well, only one topic, really: me. That is, me in respect to <a href="http://archives-lives.blogspot.com/">Archives of Our Lives.</a></div><div><br /></div><div>A lot of people say that blogging is their "journal;" their creative outlet; the place they go to vent and feel all of their feelings. I say, good for them. I read lots of those blogs, and faithfully so. I follow several blogs written by stay-at-home moms who mostly write so their friends and family can be updated on their lives. That's fine, too. In fact,<span style="font-style: italic;"> I haven't met many blogs I don't like.</span> There's something intriguing to me about peeking into the lives of others, whether they be career people, family people, homeless people, or all of the above.<br /><br />Each blog has a purpose...<span style="font-style: italic;">and the purpose of my blog is to entertain. </span><br /><br />I have never aspired to anything more. I don't expect to change the world, nor do I anticipate anything monumental ever happening here. I blog because I hope to brighten people's day--to give each and every one of you something to look forward to.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfleQXvTnrd3X4-BT3hnEBV_wWFUo9XbU8lR8hLuCQGnfV3K0xhJVZIi_qYaFqo7UG5bxuQfOlgujD6_h1x0zWMT0Rtsj_nGmzLWywsqDdFQd0_X0Tc5h8Uus7gE3G3u0ujh22chb9_Kf_/s1600-h/100_8641.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfleQXvTnrd3X4-BT3hnEBV_wWFUo9XbU8lR8hLuCQGnfV3K0xhJVZIi_qYaFqo7UG5bxuQfOlgujD6_h1x0zWMT0Rtsj_nGmzLWywsqDdFQd0_X0Tc5h8Uus7gE3G3u0ujh22chb9_Kf_/s320/100_8641.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258419385582199442" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Here I am--just me and the ice cream truck driver. I like waffle cones and the colour pink, and I never mean to make people mad. <span style="font-weight: bold;">I'm just me, plain and simple.</span></span><br /></div><br />A well-known theme of blogging is that many of us "live for comments." I subscribe to that school of thought, one hundred percent. I read <span style="font-style: italic;">each</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">every</span> comment made on my blog--most comments I read more than once. Every piece of advice I receive, I contemplate. Every time a new person de-lurks, I immediately swing by his or her blog to check it out [though it takes a few comments from a new person for me to feel a true bond, so if you feel like I don't give your blog enough attention, just say so {by commenting}]. And I notice when otherwise-regular commenters go missing.<br /><br />In other words, <span style="font-style: italic;">I care what you think.</span> I care very much, and it's not necessarily because I want you to like me (though that's always nice). Rather, I care because<span style="font-style: italic;"> <span style="font-weight: bold;">I write for you</span></span>. Not for me. For you. If <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">you</span> are reading this post, whether you like me or not, you are fulfilling the purpose of my blog.<br /><br />And because I care so much what my readers think, I put forth a great effort not to offend people.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>But guess what? I am doing a lousy job of it. Despite the fact that I never--<span style="font-style: italic;">ever</span>--publish a post without carefully considering ways my words might be misconstrued, I have learned that I am quite often unsuccessful. I have estranged people who are dear to me, along with people I've never met. Posts <span style="font-style: italic;">I have considered hilarious</span> have driven many people to the point of boycotting my blog altogether. I've been called a b**ch. I've been cordially invited to eff off. I have been told I'm immature, inconsiderate, inappropriate, disappointing, disrespectful, ignorant, rude, thoughtless, careless, mean, selfish, cruel, bitter, vicious, a button-pusher, and starved for attention. {I've had to grow some pretty thick skin, but not so thick that I ignore people altogether. <span style="font-style: italic;">Only thick enough that these comments can't </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">quite</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> seep into my self-esteem</span>.}<br /><br />To solve this problem, I've been advised to close my blog to anonymous comments. I've been told to close all comments <span style="font-style: italic;">period</span>. It's been suggested to make my blog private.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Many people think I should simply delete my blog and quit this aspect of my life completely.</span><br /><br />But none of those ideas appeal to me: I don't really <span style="font-style: italic;">mind</span> anonymous commenters; forbidding all comments completely would defeat the purpose of my blog, as would going private; and I don't relish the idea of quitting altogether.<br /><br />Instead, I've decided the best solution for my dilemma is to write a disclaimer:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">This blog is not homework--reading is not mandatory</span>. It is never my intent to hurt people's feelings. Inasmuch as I cannot forsee what everybody is experiencing in their lives, I cannot predict which phrases to avoid, which words to gloss over, or which parts of my brain to keep to myself. If your feelings were hurt and you want to tell me...<span style="font-style: italic;">by all means, tell me</span>. If your feelings were hurt and you want to quit my blog, I will understand.<br /><br />But if your feelings were hurt and you can find the time to step back, realise I didn't mean any offense, and you still sort of agree with or enjoy some of the things I write...then please know that you are welcome here.<br /><br />I may not babysit your kids, but I will--<span style="font-style: italic;">with any luck</span>--give you something new to laugh about nearly every day of the week {give or take some [or all]}.<br /></div>Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154831275765419510noreply@blogger.com53tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3954000874241675879.post-44780506160269227072008-10-15T20:32:00.000-07:002008-10-17T01:35:57.898-07:00Picture This: Your Face.Confession: I left <a href="http://archives-lives.blogspot.com/2008/10/hello-my-name-is-fickle.html">the last post up</a> for two days because I liked reading it every time I opened my laptop.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I have never met anyone so intrigued with their own life story as I am with mine.</span> But that's another post for another day.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">This</span> day is Thursday! Time to <a href="http://archives-lives.blogspot.com/2008/08/introducing-best-new-feature-since-i.html">answer a reader's question</a>! Hooray! Enthusiasm!<br /><br />I know <span style="font-style: italic;">one person in particular</span> is going to be thrilled with my choice of the week.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Question, from Raygon [to whom I would link, except her blog is all fancy pants and private, so most of you wouldn't be able to access it]:</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><br />What kind of camera do you have? Do you Photoshop your pictures (like the pics of the flowers)? Or are they naturally that colorful and vivid?</span><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Please, oh please, answer my question...I have only asked 100 times! Come on, Camille!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Answer, from Me:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Oh, Raygon. Thank you for your long-suffering support of my blog. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to answer this question, and even more sorry that I won't be able to answer it the way I wanted. Ideally, I would have a photo of the cameras I use, and maybe one of me using them, but life is not always ideal. I thought I'd better go ahead and answer this week, for fear of losing you as a friend altogether. Sorry for the delay.</span><br /><br />The answer is...<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">...it depends.</span> There are two cameras in my life that I use on a regular basis. Both are cameras I have commandeered from Poor Kyle. (<span style="font-style: italic;">Poor</span> Kyle, indeed. All that he has is basically mine now, and nothing I have appeals to him in the slightest. I think he got a bum deal.)<br /><br />For everyday point-and-shoot pictures, I use this:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifDL4ytKgM8E5rCsNZZv-H31JzNV18Ppid9VSGzXEOAr49nvnzorUcxuPFq8Y5lT632eoE8WviFFXXr3uBlkhuLoNPSuKhAcntJbDB4M47TcwOgW-zFovhPxN540loawp4cvg5uHd4vcsA/s1600-h/Picture+2.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifDL4ytKgM8E5rCsNZZv-H31JzNV18Ppid9VSGzXEOAr49nvnzorUcxuPFq8Y5lT632eoE8WviFFXXr3uBlkhuLoNPSuKhAcntJbDB4M47TcwOgW-zFovhPxN540loawp4cvg5uHd4vcsA/s320/Picture+2.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257708964595238514" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Image from </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.imaging-resource.com/PRODS/KMZ3/Z3A.HTM">here</a><span style="font-style: italic;">.</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyc9g9B_PhWj0pnuQJHGxrRBk2wJEPFsvBQzpeei1QKbh-zZmfvPFZzkzjHesaxuubL3I1WNY-sz5wnIM4kkAdcOLA_jBTahH6QGUrYzl7G5258pctE3k1LekaT1fuSZ0j0VqE_MVT_iNO/s1600-h/1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyc9g9B_PhWj0pnuQJHGxrRBk2wJEPFsvBQzpeei1QKbh-zZmfvPFZzkzjHesaxuubL3I1WNY-sz5wnIM4kkAdcOLA_jBTahH6QGUrYzl7G5258pctE3k1LekaT1fuSZ0j0VqE_MVT_iNO/s320/1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257704595451069442" border="0" /></a>There it is in the mirror, being clutched by my rather fearsome-looking left hand [curse this rheumatoid arthritis].<br /><br />It's a Konica Minolta DiMage Z3, and it's not made anymore. Which is just as well, because probably none of you have heard of this brand anyway. Which is why they went out of business, I suppose.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5WuR8FdI4NbyqOLr6zp3TJ4TlPBq7C_pyAW_eo24xdarcxVCGSse0-oJHoq2AJT-zvlqcdnvOcCBsqjTqdJqn4oF354Ibln1kafWwg0UDVDfzL_AEjxcNK46R09jiE4lBtt2NzxPdyiyO/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5WuR8FdI4NbyqOLr6zp3TJ4TlPBq7C_pyAW_eo24xdarcxVCGSse0-oJHoq2AJT-zvlqcdnvOcCBsqjTqdJqn4oF354Ibln1kafWwg0UDVDfzL_AEjxcNK46R09jiE4lBtt2NzxPdyiyO/s320/Picture+1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257708157901473362" border="0" /></a>"Dear our customers..." Such a thoughtful way to end an era. Page from <a href="http://ca.konicaminolta.com/">here</a>.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Nevertheless, it's a fantastic machine, and is 100% user-friendly. I use it for quick photos that I need right away. I'm sure I'm not utilising even a tenth of what it can do, but I'm not too savvy when it comes to apertures and f-stops. For me, and for most pictures, it works like a charm.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyp8iKzOXjPJWGAvpSP7xjAN6Cx0leiJJSEv6oubNewNdm7Q6TOI1K2BFZvplm-2WCVuib0svSqEtv9-veEIjOPc66IQaWDOmHXIx58JYcqEeh7TkZBTFq9Qmo-BRYYh9jQoCpdYiqz7w5/s1600-h/4.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyp8iKzOXjPJWGAvpSP7xjAN6Cx0leiJJSEv6oubNewNdm7Q6TOI1K2BFZvplm-2WCVuib0svSqEtv9-veEIjOPc66IQaWDOmHXIx58JYcqEeh7TkZBTFq9Qmo-BRYYh9jQoCpdYiqz7w5/s320/4.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257704602819321602" border="0" /></a>It took this photo...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJQFxlQep55fRaVJLJbQeQHXkhIR4qPzMMwmTcymlDEJQgb2O0fBg9OmzMzaggM_SAuu6ausW_5QrFuin6DNZgzTATqBfuhQJbt5TSJApqPDiw3pyg3HZbmVL73e5HmP_OZfhcgW0Us6dl/s1600-h/3.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJQFxlQep55fRaVJLJbQeQHXkhIR4qPzMMwmTcymlDEJQgb2O0fBg9OmzMzaggM_SAuu6ausW_5QrFuin6DNZgzTATqBfuhQJbt5TSJApqPDiw3pyg3HZbmVL73e5HmP_OZfhcgW0Us6dl/s320/3.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257704601750560610" border="0" /></a>...and this photo.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"> Uploading my snapshots to iPhoto takes seconds--not minutes--and I'm very pleased with every aspect of it, save perhaps its bulkiness. When I take pictures with the Konica Minolta, I do not edit the shots in Photoshop. I usually only use iPhoto's limited editing options, because that's all I really need for my instant-gratification snapshots. [Fact: I actually only use the "enhance" feature. I kind of don't know how to do anything else.]<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjraGHXQK0Tlhqij7SpF3xVWyfyyO8NPmVNEVt7mymgD75-sM9avv_lrKUFd0-N-8RD_VFHKIeRkMul7BaDmr3k0qAGciSZnLL46K25-DpqH3jvd-u53st714_DuQG2gJVpP-KWutkH8LDG/s1600-h/Picture+3.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjraGHXQK0Tlhqij7SpF3xVWyfyyO8NPmVNEVt7mymgD75-sM9avv_lrKUFd0-N-8RD_VFHKIeRkMul7BaDmr3k0qAGciSZnLL46K25-DpqH3jvd-u53st714_DuQG2gJVpP-KWutkH8LDG/s320/Picture+3.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257715209358993554" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Poor Kyle let me take this camera to Europe with me last year [he wanted to marry me], and it has been my nearly-constant companion ever since...</span><br /><br />...Which seems fine by him, since he upgraded to this:<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Canon EOS Digital How Long Can They Make This Name SLR:</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipyDPDMOBHgE7V0xznMrObcJ6oT8qTAMaCnbnzsh50ynlVclQA1RFPFk5IE0ShSIZvWMSVxxd9sxrOUhi4UJsvEKdjrHb7zZ5BPQn4Bq6xgRdZ9BFoNWQF74_CWfBKc93diTs4UfL4rJn7/s1600-h/Picture+4.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipyDPDMOBHgE7V0xznMrObcJ6oT8qTAMaCnbnzsh50ynlVclQA1RFPFk5IE0ShSIZvWMSVxxd9sxrOUhi4UJsvEKdjrHb7zZ5BPQn4Bq6xgRdZ9BFoNWQF74_CWfBKc93diTs4UfL4rJn7/s320/Picture+4.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257712415196510226" border="0" /></a>An SLR is a <span style="font-weight: bold;">digital camera</span> that is better than other <span style="font-weight: bold;">digital cameras</span>, as far as I can tell. It does better things--though I'm not sure what, exactly. It might have something to do with pixels. Or all the lenses available for purchase. Image from <a href="http://www.usa.canon.com/consumer/controller?act=ModelInfoAct&fcategoryid=139&modelid=14257">here</a>.<br /><br />And I'll tell you the honest truth:<span style="font-weight: bold;"> I know nothing about photography.</span> Sometimes I steal the SLR to make myself feel fancy, but I never change the settings from "automatic," and I only know that I like one lens: the 50mm f1.8. I don't know what it means, but it makes the backgrounds of photos all blurry, which is a style I like:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCe_vECHiwO71dwfY_6Bv2cPKco5oxCw1FjeUe6W0OtYC-y1Pce3wj1-EBPKIqGvjSNrFV5eAXMWek4Wb6FHm6GVV5CVkETcj2SlWgNQjUO0Hw37ikkJOAuQ3CSqrNvMInQRNXoRNb9QRt/s1600-h/2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCe_vECHiwO71dwfY_6Bv2cPKco5oxCw1FjeUe6W0OtYC-y1Pce3wj1-EBPKIqGvjSNrFV5eAXMWek4Wb6FHm6GVV5CVkETcj2SlWgNQjUO0Hw37ikkJOAuQ3CSqrNvMInQRNXoRNb9QRt/s320/2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257704599635759362" border="0" /></a>I used the fancier camera for this photo of my inquisitive nephew...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBkWexR_iDVp3LN3A7JM_20n3sBKOAhszoRwpIipg4OR6DrPfOvwaL6s3804RbxuSqdziHe5Y3Oz_UuUGZ6-EEHeaBcz_w2Bz3e4GYcGUNTICvEqELy0IQD_ZW1F5ER67UPD0G0Kg1hwB4/s1600-h/6.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBkWexR_iDVp3LN3A7JM_20n3sBKOAhszoRwpIipg4OR6DrPfOvwaL6s3804RbxuSqdziHe5Y3Oz_UuUGZ6-EEHeaBcz_w2Bz3e4GYcGUNTICvEqELy0IQD_ZW1F5ER67UPD0G0Kg1hwB4/s320/6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257708970460425986" border="0" /></a>And for this image of my favourite new bedding.<br /><br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs2_06Oxrv6pCSPR8Yuw7ADtU4y92Nf2O4ntmeZYKeC5cJU-D78cCVlCCnelO6sagHe0qXJGka90i2CEhud-QEfab3FO4T-LDa2fQG1KifWUfNsW_qqqR089usn8N1PHZm-saBmBBpdY1H/s1600-h/Fire+Pit.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs2_06Oxrv6pCSPR8Yuw7ADtU4y92Nf2O4ntmeZYKeC5cJU-D78cCVlCCnelO6sagHe0qXJGka90i2CEhud-QEfab3FO4T-LDa2fQG1KifWUfNsW_qqqR089usn8N1PHZm-saBmBBpdY1H/s320/Fire+Pit.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257715209950706482" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpcUZo91bgK-BFYPWQphFNp5zbrv58gB2dZjIsit0zBRrIUXnlwh-IFuNf1a7kvUVk7met-SoqM3TdcxhucQkjv5Hyh2qNiKGmHwZ4womTAmnT7IriYY6sVQIVJg5qbEXIkmoRj5TedibV/s1600-h/Log.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpcUZo91bgK-BFYPWQphFNp5zbrv58gB2dZjIsit0zBRrIUXnlwh-IFuNf1a7kvUVk7met-SoqM3TdcxhucQkjv5Hyh2qNiKGmHwZ4womTAmnT7IriYY6sVQIVJg5qbEXIkmoRj5TedibV/s320/Log.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257715210472695218" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">And for these images of my backyard [those were happier days when the grass was green].</span><br /><br />{It kind of bothers Poor Kyle when I sneak away with his camera. First I thought it was because it costs more than my life. Then I thought it was because he thinks I take ugly photographs. Finally I learned he just likes being the one who <span style="font-style: italic;">knows how</span> to take pictures. I was stealing his thunder. So someday I'll just buy my own--perhaps for my next birthday--and that will be the end of it. He doesn't have to look at my artwork if he doesn't want to.}<br /><br />For the photos that I <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> attempt with the SLR, I do use Photoshop for some minor touchups--again, I am far from well-versed in the program; I simply follow <a href="http://thepioneerwoman.com/photography/">Ree Drummond's easy tutorials</a>, and I can usually come up with something that looks nice enough.<br /><br />And that, my friend, is everything I know. I bet you were hoping for a bit more wisdom, huh? Sorry. I can't be acting all wise, or people might start expecting more out of me.<br /></div>Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154831275765419510noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3954000874241675879.post-67283335116247108882008-10-14T07:00:00.000-07:002008-10-17T02:05:17.504-07:00Hello, My Name is Fickle.<span style="font-style: italic;">*Warning: Long Post. Worthwhile, but long.*</span><br /><br />October 20th will be the first anniversary marking the marriage between Poor Kyle and Me.<br /><br />Today is the third anniversary of the day we met. October 13, 2005. I remember it like yesterday...<br /><br />...but instead of recalling the story in its entirety (yawn) for you today, I will sum it up like this:<br /><br />I moved to Canada, where there was a boy with a big head. He introduced me to a boy who spoke French. Frenchie introduced me to Poor Kyle. I moved back to Arizona. Two years later (almost to the day) we got married. I moved back to Canada again.<br /><br />One year later, I wrote this post.<br /><br />But the union wasn't all smooth-sailing. In fact, some of the roughest waters of my life, I forged during those three years.<br /><br />You know, come to think of it, there's really no way you could understand how we got to this point, without going into at least a <span style="font-weight: bold;">little</span> bit of detail. So this is what I'll do: Provide an ultra-condensed version, taken directly from excerpts from my journal (read:<span style="font-style: italic;"> my life history</span>). Except for name changes and present-day perspectives, which will be indicated by [brackets]. You can skip to just the pictures and captions, if you'd like--I mean, it's not like you don't know how it ended. But if some of you think you might enjoy this peek into my helter-skelter mind, <span style="font-weight: bold;">this post is for you</span>.<br /><br />So with no further ado...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">The True Saga of Poor Kyle and Camille</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">October 20, 2005</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">...So Friday night [Frenchie] showed up, with his friend Kyle, to our chips and salsa night. It was lots of fun getting to know [Frenchie] more, and the initial meeting of Kyle (who is so funny, and I like a lot). The next night we had an odd array of people over for more Mexican food. [Frenchie] and Kyle came back, along with [Boy 1] and several girls I didn't know. Needless to say, it was a pretty awkward night. Eventually, though, the crowd dispersed and I was again left in peace.</span>..<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFmRupDgPa4nKGvHWOspRM2wacGGRcIJYuwNJhxhp6O2Z0RHcbqQ5ZNF82EkllUqek2EQS0gzfusS7fp9jgAV1aNb6E4B77UMb96KFdAo9rhKkzJRpSkMWPgo8UmZgmkWKNNpqqnY1e8vt/s1600-h/c001i152.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFmRupDgPa4nKGvHWOspRM2wacGGRcIJYuwNJhxhp6O2Z0RHcbqQ5ZNF82EkllUqek2EQS0gzfusS7fp9jgAV1aNb6E4B77UMb96KFdAo9rhKkzJRpSkMWPgo8UmZgmkWKNNpqqnY1e8vt/s320/c001i152.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256900843555371474" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">October 2005--the selfsame weekend I met Poor Kyle.</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">November 4, 2005</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">...Well so much for [Frenchie]! The verdict is...I have a lot to thank [Boy 1] for because he introduced me to [Frenchie], who in turn caused me to meet Kyle, who is a splendid--truly splendid--chap...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">November 10, 2005</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">MONUMENTAL DECISION! I'm staying in Canada for an [unexpected] second semester. I'm staying. I really am. I'm staying, regardless of 1) what Lindsey says, 2) what Chelsie says, 3) what my family says, and 4) what happens with Kyle--even if he thinks I'm a major dork, I'm staying.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"> I told him the big news. He didn't seem too excited, which threw me for a loop, because he'd made such a big deal out of wanting to know... The evening ended so awkwardly. I think my problem is that too many people are involved with this relationship. Like if I hear from people that he likes me, or his family likes me, then I have to try harder to keep up the good graces. </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />But it shouldn't be like that. If I start out being myself (as I make a point to do), then there's really no need to change...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">November 20, 2005</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">...He kissed me. </span>[By the way, this was the quickest meet-to-kiss I'd ever had with a guy. One month seemed way too quick, but when he went in for the kill, I found myself surprisingly untraumatised. I took that as a sign.] <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">For the first time in my dating life,</span> I didn't feel like the guy was slobbering all over me on our first kiss... And it was not drawn out. Just perfect, really. Not too short, not to long. And I absolutely knew it was going to be that way.</span>..<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Vs11DEb26ARokJkA1Rs6i2bpFaggAkO3k0R50czYkLGjHbr7DTR1H_qwRMefL7CryZNbUrvuYVYaN0PdR9lCZ8C9aVKtbAG74_2v5GIfF8n-nMWhxJ4-sKrlib93ZA6ZIp228Cb2QZMj/s1600-h/PICT0067.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Vs11DEb26ARokJkA1Rs6i2bpFaggAkO3k0R50czYkLGjHbr7DTR1H_qwRMefL7CryZNbUrvuYVYaN0PdR9lCZ8C9aVKtbAG74_2v5GIfF8n-nMWhxJ4-sKrlib93ZA6ZIp228Cb2QZMj/s320/PICT0067.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256901863205479970" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">A few weeks into our budding relationship.</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">December 16, 2005</span><br />[DTR!!!] <span style="font-style: italic;"> ...On the way home from [Mayberry] I FINALLY worked up the nerve to approach Kyle with my marriage woes. I honestly had no idea how he'd take it. I told him how all my life...my ideal marriage age had always been 25--six years away. Then I tried to explain that my theories were changing as of late, but he could only focus on the "25" issue... He said he was indeed heading down the marriage trail, and so it was good I shared my thoughts with him... Am I going to marry Kyle? It's a possiblity...<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">1 January, 2006</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />...It's just that, nice or not, I simply cannot allow myeslf to believe I'm in love with a boy I'd never heard of two months ago...<br /></span> <span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />9 January, 2006</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />...He is so totally ready to be married and I am so fully NOT. Why is my timing always SO FAR OFF? What will this year bring? What do I even WANT it to bring? Ach...<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">16 January, 2006</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />HUGE! MONUMENTAL! Today, for the first time in my life, I told a boy I loved him. Kyle, of course, and I should stop calling him a boy. Except if he's not a boy then he's a man, and if he's a man then I'm a WOMAN and that is frighful indeed.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">14 February, 2006</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />...Kyle hates me...<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">24 February, 2006</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />...Kyle is NOT my best friend. </span>[What am I, eight years old?] <span style="font-style: italic;"> I like him, and I love him, but at this point I could live without him. I don't think I can marry him...<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">20 March, 2006</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />...So when he said "I love you" I figured it was as good a time as any to say "Let's get married." I wasn't expecting what he said next. He told me he wasn't sure anymore if it was right! It was so insane because he'd been the one going crazy to know. SUCH a transformation... We didn't come to any conclusions.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn1KuYxKYG-3neSFB7GtapCmG6nkvlGCPsjHen-ihPI4Sfbt2ufmPa8DFLKHmkeMe_CmHRFXaSMzFv8sCfrmtLEnTtgFFGBcrOmzvg_x-QRZhFdDegV5ulLmeb7nHJ-I8iFaQrp5-D_4B4/s1600-h/PICT0011.JPG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn1KuYxKYG-3neSFB7GtapCmG6nkvlGCPsjHen-ihPI4Sfbt2ufmPa8DFLKHmkeMe_CmHRFXaSMzFv8sCfrmtLEnTtgFFGBcrOmzvg_x-QRZhFdDegV5ulLmeb7nHJ-I8iFaQrp5-D_4B4/s320/PICT0011.JPG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256902289809861554" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Snapped a few moments <span style="font-weight: bold;">before</span> he decided we shouldn't get married after all.</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">22 March, 2006</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">...I feel like we are in a relationship RUT...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">9 April, 2006</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />...I guess I can totally blame myself. But I really don't want to. I would much rather blame our troubles (not even married and we already have troubles!) on his poor communication skills.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">11 April, 2006</span><br />...<span style="font-style: italic;">I've come to the conclusion that Kyle doesn't know me at all. Or he knows me but he doesn't care about me. Oh, I know he says he loves me, but sometimes I wonder if he really does.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">27 April, 2006</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">...Perhaps Kyle and I should see other people this summer while I'm in AZ and he's in Canada...</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghoxGrMa5lnQHBjPXuB29CcB1GgvuZEscfO2VDp3V8-zGM3c1ewUViR92mT-Y7sg1s7JuEj_ppfnbFXJipcZNJKhGDiCMD_G1OMF5kLsG7OQY1Z3x0Rz95WZC-kN3OejLNVLqbf01Qa_VV/s1600-h/IMG_2234.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghoxGrMa5lnQHBjPXuB29CcB1GgvuZEscfO2VDp3V8-zGM3c1ewUViR92mT-Y7sg1s7JuEj_ppfnbFXJipcZNJKhGDiCMD_G1OMF5kLsG7OQY1Z3x0Rz95WZC-kN3OejLNVLqbf01Qa_VV/s320/IMG_2234.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256902692078648610" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">And then we stayed together...</span><br /><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;">28 April, 2006</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">...Okay, so I didn't EXACTLY move on the idea that we should see other people this summer. Instead, we decided not to decide anything right away. I'm back in Mesa, and when I'm here and with my family, it's easy for me to forget all about moving back to Canada. Like maybe this is where I'm supposed to be. But maybe not??</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">All Summer of 2006</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">CONFUSED. Keep dating? Stop dating? Get along. Disagree. Best friends. Hardly talk anymore. Back and forth. On and on. Meh. Decided not to move back to Canada in the fall.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">10 August, 2006</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">...Broke up with Kyle. I am not happy. In fact I can very much say that I am quite as miserable as I have ever been.</span>..<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">30 August, 2006</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">..Kyle came to visit. He loves me. I told him I'm still not 100% sure about us getting engaged. He doesn't like that I'll be open to dating other guys, but he says he'll wait for me to figure myself out...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">2 October, 2006</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I'm engaged! Haven't set a date. I'm thinking next fall. Kyle's thinking this week.</span>..<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">6 November, 2006</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">...We killed our dog today...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">13 November, 2006</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">...There have been some really neat developments with me <span style="font-weight: bold;">moving abroad to work as a nanny.</span> A few families from Belgium seem really nice, and I've already started emailing one. I <span style="font-weight: bold;">really want </span>to do this. It's something I'll be able to look back on when I'm married; an experience I'll never forget. I don't want to be old and bitter that I never got to see the world before I settled down. I'm trying to do everything I can to get it all going. My biggest fears of going are 1) That my unwell grandpa might die while I'm gone even though he promised he'd be at my wedding in October, 2) That things will be harder between Kyle and me, and 3) that I might get molested by a Frenchman.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />13 December, 2006</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Maybe I won't be a good wife. Maybe I shouldn't marry Kyle.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">10 January 2007</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">A lot of people ask me how I can move to EUROPE when I'm engaged to be married. I wonder if it means I'm not a good person, or if I shouldn't get married yet. I mean, I guess they're right. If I was totally hyped to get married, why would I take off to Europe for several months. It's not like I even had it planned before I got engaged!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">12 January 2007</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Four days from now I will move to Belgium. I don't know what posessed me to do this. I'm terrified. What if it's the most horrible experience of my life? What if I get molested and can't get to my pepper spray in time? What if it's the wrong thing to do??</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">18 January, 2007</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I am in Brussels, Belgium. It's amazing.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinv786NJfhWltvPgJhywmZjCrKIRUGXmr2D69IW3B7QQShu5I6VmASCft_mWR8uvANlYyMZCCjxIcf5M-bD24H3lXNCAbwb6jB2L-LTIhAd446ItLBebzZI374-tnwAatXDp-fVvRncvvd/s1600-h/PICT0033.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinv786NJfhWltvPgJhywmZjCrKIRUGXmr2D69IW3B7QQShu5I6VmASCft_mWR8uvANlYyMZCCjxIcf5M-bD24H3lXNCAbwb6jB2L-LTIhAd446ItLBebzZI374-tnwAatXDp-fVvRncvvd/s320/PICT0033.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256904473820068674" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">I can do kids, as long as Europe is involved. Though technically, this photo was taken in London. On the </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.londoneye.com/">Eye</a><span style="font-style: italic;">.</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">14 February, 2007</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Maybe it's taking me so long to be ready for marriage because before, I tuned out everything I heard on the subject. I hated the thought so much that now, the time has come for me to recognise my feelings, and I have no idea what I'm looking for! And I thought last V-day was bad. <span style="font-weight: bold;">This one really beats all.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">5 March, 2007</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I've just had some awful news. Grandpa is dying. I need to go home to be there for this. I'm not sure what to do, but I know I have to be there.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">8 March, 2007</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">My grandpa died tonight. I made it home just in time. I am so grateful I was here. I will never regret my decision. Kyle is coming tomorrow. I wish I had asked him to come sooner. I know he would have been here for me.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Summer 2007</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Went back to Belgium. Worried about marrying Kyle. Love Kyle. Scared of marriage. Too young for kids. Moved back to AZ to plan a wedding.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">2 September, 2007</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />For the first time since we got engaged, I've had a confirmation and a sure knowledge that marrying him is right. Of COURSE I will marry him. But I just realised I don't know his handwriting. All this time we've been apart, we only ever email and iChat. This is bad and must be remedied.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">5 September, 2007</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />I'm getting more excited to marry Kyle with every passing day.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">9 September, 2007</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />I have been so SAD lately. It might just be all the extra estrogen, OR it could be the fact that in 41 days I'm getting married, and moving away a week later. Don't misunderstand: I'm glad to get married--thrilled, really. The moving part is...harder to accept.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">4 October, 2007</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Kyle is the man I'm going to marry. I've learned so much about myself since meeting him--so much about LIFE. I am happy when I'm with him.<br /><br />I'm not the kind of girl who says sappy things like "I can't even picture myself without him." I can. I could, if I wanted to, picture myself single and alone in the world. Maybe in New York, maybe in Paris...a Yuppie, to be sure. But it's not what I want--at least, those dreams are not my priority anymore. Family is what's important. Life would have so little meaning without families.<br /><br />Kyle is my family.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivXDQszMuLJQEP4I3PJJVXLjzAHm9GNRSwM3bLKT2qvgVfMJpjkPuYII6hPff6qfCFaDGProo-dDZx8n6EyJNznZmJPRSV2uaHfWXPmrZ5erSD4wGQWyXJX4sGVAp_nEs_uRbehEY9qjfX/s1600-h/DSC_0152.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivXDQszMuLJQEP4I3PJJVXLjzAHm9GNRSwM3bLKT2qvgVfMJpjkPuYII6hPff6qfCFaDGProo-dDZx8n6EyJNznZmJPRSV2uaHfWXPmrZ5erSD4wGQWyXJX4sGVAp_nEs_uRbehEY9qjfX/s320/DSC_0152.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256906796550556322" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Success!</span><br /><br /></div>...And that was the last time I ever questioned getting married. It was touch-and-go for, oh, about two years there. But once I finally figured things out, we were golden.<br /><br />Anyway, there's a <span style="font-style: italic;">reason</span> I call Poor Kyle "Poor Kyle." And now you know exactly what it is. Happy Anniversary to Us.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154831275765419510noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3954000874241675879.post-87445635809827247352008-10-13T01:00:00.000-07:002008-10-13T01:50:06.556-07:00{Stuck on a Toilet with Nothing to Read}<div style="text-align: center;">Winter is upon us. I'm reminded of all the snow we got last year. One day in December, I decided to brave the frozen white and do my civic duty, but I was no good at shoveling. I may never get used to the feeling of perspiring outside while it's below freezing. Snotsicles make me so uncomfortable.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUG452wv_k2jE07ZiM_yIiFNB5rAeG66h4bUGGSNm5L67NjarAs76rcD4b1peJoZ8pS7Ou0MHxLKnO7x3E0Sj01-DWeaKNQ17X65KPAX4dUc-zSgpWrUd7M8frPoDaomlR5TMY3Dhhpdhc/s1600-h/PICT0032.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUG452wv_k2jE07ZiM_yIiFNB5rAeG66h4bUGGSNm5L67NjarAs76rcD4b1peJoZ8pS7Ou0MHxLKnO7x3E0Sj01-DWeaKNQ17X65KPAX4dUc-zSgpWrUd7M8frPoDaomlR5TMY3Dhhpdhc/s320/PICT0032.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256532512775693234" border="0" /></a>You know...<span style="font-style: italic;">uncomfortable</span>. Like sweating giant pit-stains in a dark satin dress on prom night.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCLxaO1GY500l8BRr_pu8a8KXoekVYdEIrEwjVaMBHO3S1PMYq8y2UDpkG8QBGmypoQutY-9NsRG6hSuHHguOBB8E_PQn7XrvFotAA_C6xW1wykhV-0VBeFBSkANoIfogf_sBxIbDWu39r/s1600-h/PICT0040.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCLxaO1GY500l8BRr_pu8a8KXoekVYdEIrEwjVaMBHO3S1PMYq8y2UDpkG8QBGmypoQutY-9NsRG6hSuHHguOBB8E_PQn7XrvFotAA_C6xW1wykhV-0VBeFBSkANoIfogf_sBxIbDWu39r/s320/PICT0040.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256532515766302322" border="0" /></a>Like being caught unawares in a room full of children who are not *<span style="font-style: italic;">quite</span>* potty trained.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2NhePdF6sSznUvofwsvhi6s8RjCAv3Hm6K3DYOlRH5Hzbf2D93nVEVqP3X0Z07BTz-YhfoaF2niZ_8PrIYj94MTUqaghlybdgCi7d5XCAGpE0kareko7aVUjiT9z-8uzfXW7Qpaclh6yo/s1600-h/PICT0009.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2NhePdF6sSznUvofwsvhi6s8RjCAv3Hm6K3DYOlRH5Hzbf2D93nVEVqP3X0Z07BTz-YhfoaF2niZ_8PrIYj94MTUqaghlybdgCi7d5XCAGpE0kareko7aVUjiT9z-8uzfXW7Qpaclh6yo/s320/PICT0009.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256532137667827122" border="0" /></a>Like having nightmares of being the wedding photographer who forgot to bring a camera.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcocBSmXN9YG90jTKXVzADi4fQPLFEct7L9cgsFnoh6k9q90BjFQ7ALyiSVoVU4gn0M05s-Png_7QqSVJ0jTAyRcCB6T3A1bZThyphenhyphenVWsyMkt1E0t_MaskdT1OZTwejpzwTvhNn9ClBzCASh/s1600-h/PICT0027.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcocBSmXN9YG90jTKXVzADi4fQPLFEct7L9cgsFnoh6k9q90BjFQ7ALyiSVoVU4gn0M05s-Png_7QqSVJ0jTAyRcCB6T3A1bZThyphenhyphenVWsyMkt1E0t_MaskdT1OZTwejpzwTvhNn9ClBzCASh/s320/PICT0027.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256532139652495378" border="0" /></a>It's like eating cinnamon rolls for breakfast every day all winter and wondering why last summer's swimsuit feels so...<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">snug</span>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHDycJb0jcTo0EMpWwjaTvYciflfGTCjo_-CvQI1y84xblrzBGOYxfyD4zTTPBKdcMdHEFmS_WTS-Z2xaYLXcqocme6-6zdUw1Gr3xPg_zmNH69sDktVVdxVWnXE78ClSRdeomVVNPexJK/s1600-h/PICT0030.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHDycJb0jcTo0EMpWwjaTvYciflfGTCjo_-CvQI1y84xblrzBGOYxfyD4zTTPBKdcMdHEFmS_WTS-Z2xaYLXcqocme6-6zdUw1Gr3xPg_zmNH69sDktVVdxVWnXE78ClSRdeomVVNPexJK/s320/PICT0030.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256532140123640610" border="0" /></a>Like running into a husband's <span style="font-weight: bold;">skinny</span> ex-girlfriend at the post office the day you didn't bother with concealer. <span style="font-style: italic;">Or mascara.</span><br /><br />It's like being stuck on a toilet with nothing to read.<br /></div>Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154831275765419510noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3954000874241675879.post-47594277059196799292008-10-11T07:17:00.000-07:002008-10-11T07:23:13.298-07:00We Interrupt This Program to Kill Ourselves...<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span>...figuratively speaking, of course.<br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span></div><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ9vRzPqTawGe9KgWCAXNWZsNzyuUl0kwMs9pPLD0ViLT0j7TxhCIbMbTvXXf3zdWfOM5fDkZm4XQX3zAelZxBO08y9ntaA3D2jDBKefYtIWsZb-uids0QFhQ7jtMfNhGaCqzy8AWVod2k/s1600-h/Photo+123.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ9vRzPqTawGe9KgWCAXNWZsNzyuUl0kwMs9pPLD0ViLT0j7TxhCIbMbTvXXf3zdWfOM5fDkZm4XQX3zAelZxBO08y9ntaA3D2jDBKefYtIWsZb-uids0QFhQ7jtMfNhGaCqzy8AWVod2k/s320/Photo+123.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255900491972517746" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">View outside my bedroom window. Photo taken less than five minutes ago.</span><br /><br />Have a happy weekend. Me? I'm off to dig a cave and hide in it until Spring. <br /><br />No more posts until then.<br /></div>Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154831275765419510noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3954000874241675879.post-57422656675960422122008-10-10T08:10:00.000-07:002008-10-10T08:10:00.064-07:00Just the Sort of Thing Strong Bad Would Love.There's something seriously wrong with me.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Just now you're figuring this out,"</span> you ask? Oh, be quiet, you. Yes, just now.<br /><br />It's a strange disease, the complexities of which I cannot fully comprehend. It's all in my head, I'm sure.<span style="font-weight: bold;"> I just can't make it stop.</span><br /><br />Here's my ailment:<br /><br />Every time the word "probably" comes up in my daily conversations, I secretly want to pronounce it "<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">poor</span>bably." Porbably. Porbably. <span style="font-style: italic;">Porbably porbably porbably.</span> Over and over in my head I reapeat the nonword. It sounds like a word that <a href="http://homestarrunner.com/sbemailtwohundred.html">Strong Bad</a> would use. What does it even mean? I only know that it has such an easy flow about it, and it <span style="font-weight: bold;">wants to be in my brain</span>. I never do say it aloud, because I'm so ashamed of myself for molesting the actual word.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkb6hxvg6BGcrcNQfANy9DtT0y6GreatfCCy7V6eBvm7H3H_cUWiFELZ1lfN2ea-31kh-T3CQ4-YNI8Gtq4772_JDls11CePFGeiGTPbgjVq8IDjVxmrHP04uAZVnm6boNh2CdcVDLI5b4/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkb6hxvg6BGcrcNQfANy9DtT0y6GreatfCCy7V6eBvm7H3H_cUWiFELZ1lfN2ea-31kh-T3CQ4-YNI8Gtq4772_JDls11CePFGeiGTPbgjVq8IDjVxmrHP04uAZVnm6boNh2CdcVDLI5b4/s320/Picture+1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255363841647290690" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Image from </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Strong_Bad">here</a><span style="font-style: italic;">.</span><br /></div><br />Aside from the fact that I make up twisted words in my head...what's the deal with my brain repeating it twenty times to myself? It's like I have OCD, and I can't rest until I've mispronounced the same word a certain number of times.<br /><br />It's not just <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">por</span>bably, either. It happens with "Connecticuit." See that second little "c?" The one that's supposed to be silent? Well, my brain doesn't want it to be silent, hidden away like it never existed; my brain wants it to be <span style="font-style: italic;">articulated</span>. So every time I talk about Connecticuit, even though I say it <span style="font-style: italic;">aloud</span> correctly, in my head I hear "<span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Connect</span>icuit. <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Connect</span>icuit. <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Connect</span>icuit."<br /><br />Is there a prognosis for this disease?<br /><br />Better yet...is there a <span style="font-style: italic;">cure</span>?<br /><br />Porbably not.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154831275765419510noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3954000874241675879.post-55487602550315711572008-10-09T06:39:00.000-07:002008-10-09T10:27:48.017-07:00A Few Announcements.It's Thursday. Which means it's a great day to answer somebody's question.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;">Q [from </span><a style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;" href="http://daveandaliking.blogspot.com/">Alicia</a><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;">]:</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;">I was going to hesitate to ask, but then the end of your post said "Don't hesitate to ask." So here's me not hesitating: For how long will you not be able to work or go to school or whatever in Canada? Also, what are their reasons for not letting you do so? Don't get me wrong--I think you should do whatever you please with your time, but it would be nice for you to have some options (I'd think).</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;">Also, on a related note, what do you think you will do once you are allowed to work and attend school?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;">That's all I got, but I'll keep thinking of questions for you. :)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A [from me]:</span><br /><br />Thank you Alicia, for your question(s). They are valid, and I will answer them.<br /><br />I can't work yet in Canada because I am not a Canadian citizen, nor have I completed my paperwork allowing me to work (similar to a Green Card in the United States). When I <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> get that paperwork finished, I will be considered a <span style="font-weight: bold;">resident of Canada.</span> Not a citizen. I will not be able to vote, but I will be allowed to work. And pay taxes. [And, if you are wondering, I am already allowed to be on the Canadian Healthcare plan, simply because I married a Canadian and live here. I think that's pretty nice of the government, though I haven't had to tap into it yet. Thankfully. And anyway, I don't think Alberta Healthcare offers laser treatment for volcanoes in right nostrils, which is<a href="http://archives-lives.blogspot.com/2008/09/i-turned-22-and-all-i-got-was-adult.html"> what I'd really like.</a>] For more information on how you can marry a Canadian and fill out paperwork, see <a href="http://alberta.ca/home/">The Government of Alberta</a>. It's fun. Really.<br /><br />I <span style="font-style: italic;">can</span> go to school here, but since I don't have my paperwork finished, I am technically considered an international student, which means my tuition would be $11,000/year. Which is more than twice what I'll pay as a <span style="font-weight: bold;">resident</span>. Initially my plan was to finish my paperwork by last December and get back into school by January, but the paperwork has taken a lot longer (about 10 months longer, actually) than I expected. It's still not finished, but I am anxious to finish school<span style="font-weight: bold;"> sometime in this decade</span>, if at all possible...<br /><br />...which leads me to announce that <span style="font-weight: bold;">I will be starting classes in January. </span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkWfrQQnAj3fbbgQUyQrQAnWyBdnnM2E7WXB7YZomMFMi7OtShYI4c33DNofQ8EslfOSkD6D4yrGc7qfa4ehmqRV8glcfoGeOrxsnReWQptCg0NejokvM7PoYzJK5zESrV3ccMHJj9xROu/s1600-h/MyPicture.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkWfrQQnAj3fbbgQUyQrQAnWyBdnnM2E7WXB7YZomMFMi7OtShYI4c33DNofQ8EslfOSkD6D4yrGc7qfa4ehmqRV8glcfoGeOrxsnReWQptCg0NejokvM7PoYzJK5zESrV3ccMHJj9xROu/s320/MyPicture.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255203463469468290" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">See? Me and my acceptance letter. Wahoo.</span><br /><br /></div>I have applied to the closest University and likely have another 1.5 to two years until I graduate. I never really considered myself a dropout. But I guess I have been, technically speaking. How depressing.<br /><br />On the bright side, last year when all my high school friends were graduating from college, I had done some brilliant things with my life that others might never have the opportunity to do. <span style="font-weight: bold;">As much as I'd like to already have my degree</span>, if it meant that I couldn't have taken off a year to move to Europe and get married to a certain Poor Canadian, I wouldn't choose any differently.<br /><br />And, to further answer your question, <a href="http://daveandaliking.blogspot.com/">Alicia</a> [i.e. <span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">"what do you think you will do when you are allowed to work and attend school"</span>], I intend to work and attend school. I have no job prospects, but I will be getting my degree in Museum Studies and Art History, with {maybe} a minor in...<span style="font-style: italic;">French</span>.<br /><br />That's right. French. <span style="font-style: italic;">Parlez-vous?</span> It's just an idea I've had kicking around in my brain, and I haven't told anyone about it yet. Not even Poor Kyle. {Hi, Poor Kyle! [He doesn't much care for French.]}<br /><br />Just remember, you heard it first on <a href="http://www.archives-lives.blogspot.com/">Archives of Our Lives.<br /></a><br />And, as always, I'm open for any more questions you may have. Don't hesitate. Really.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154831275765419510noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3954000874241675879.post-52980901662343957752008-10-08T06:28:00.001-07:002008-10-09T19:08:28.708-07:00Me and My Big Ideas.Thank you to everyone who piped in on my one (and hopefully only) political post yesterday. I have enjoyed reading people's opinions, and I looked up--and investigated--every single link I was given. I feel more educated on the subject now than ever, and I've decided my choice must come down to what I value most in life...financial responsibility, or family matters. It seems like neither candidate will let me choose both.<br /><br />Despite what many [or all] of you might think, I don't write posts like that just to stir up a little bit of <span style="font-style: italic;">loco</span> in people's lives.<br /><br />Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I do.<br /><br />But I can almost swear never to get political again, on account of every time my phone rang yesterday, I answered it with great trepidation. I was just sure somebody with access to my number was going to really chew me out for going postal and <span style="font-style: italic;">signing up to be a Democrat </span>(which I haven't,<span style="font-weight: bold;"> but I don't promise I won't make any rash decisions</span>).<br /><br />Which brings me to the topic of today. Rash decisions.<br /><br />The most <span style="font-style: italic;">monumental</span> rash decision I ever made was to move to Canada after my first year at <a href="http://asu.edu/">ASU </a>didn't go so well. It was monumental because it led me to meet Poor Kyle, and I can honestly say my life has never really been the same since. When I drove North to this country for the first time, and saw all the sights of <a href="http://www.discoveralberta.com/">Alberta</a>, I had no idea the role this place would play in my future.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCwMFqZN0k6q838hp0kCuTTcENrPEslUZ1kmDV1hchoK72bkO4rvNZt6WEFf0I_kuEKha0fRDBgtl35gvFdqVHL_criwtcHX0lkoS37E1uZYiAtKiPHlacGwnjSHHSE9kS53CkqehcTZ8U/s1600-h/053_53.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCwMFqZN0k6q838hp0kCuTTcENrPEslUZ1kmDV1hchoK72bkO4rvNZt6WEFf0I_kuEKha0fRDBgtl35gvFdqVHL_criwtcHX0lkoS37E1uZYiAtKiPHlacGwnjSHHSE9kS53CkqehcTZ8U/s320/053_53.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254780134822787362" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Here's me, not yet 19 years old, in the midst of said trip. So oblivious to the fact that the bridge I was admiring would soon become a feat of architecture I'd see almost daily.</span><br /></div><br />Another rash decision I made was to pack my bags and become a nanny in French-speaking Belgium. I thought I knew the language, but I knew nothing. It was one of my life's most profound experiences, and I would not have changed it for anything.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZxWV72rvcssCrI1Ihyk6o5vEUNyk9C6bppX-Osq8zPWdmmaQ3-sxfY7ThuhCpwwFrKgkXFsylMiTr5K3057zPtzvS6oWHWA4BSoUWOIeNQAUc4kFUnJTI0CYy80QxnOPdWo5C4gfnqTCr/s1600-h/PICT0010.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZxWV72rvcssCrI1Ihyk6o5vEUNyk9C6bppX-Osq8zPWdmmaQ3-sxfY7ThuhCpwwFrKgkXFsylMiTr5K3057zPtzvS6oWHWA4BSoUWOIeNQAUc4kFUnJTI0CYy80QxnOPdWo5C4gfnqTCr/s320/PICT0010.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254780841404884802" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">I lived in a tower, and to get to my tower I had to climb this itty bitty winding staircase [which I soon discovered to be slippery when wearing socks]. I climbed it at least 10 times a day. There were 16 steps. It was the highlight of...well...it was just a highlight. </span><br /><br /></div>It was that voyage that taught me how to truly travel lightly, how to communicate with people in their home country, how to be independent...how to make it on my own. I was in Paris for a week...all by myself. On a "family" trip to Amsterdam, I woke up early one morning to see the Ann Frank House, and wandered through the streets with a map until I eventually got there. I did it. I have a huge sense of confidence (not indestructibility, just confidence) in myself because of all the opportunities I've had to see the world.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgST7Ew0Ea8Szxs9YWXJzANqCLeHXcJ9WgkTeb_7KHewLbBLvUMqeLsDTZ_qN34nFXbnNxjNL0m7s93UtETHgRpRn8l5aeWMw0HSK3geSJZHekPpmrHSJzWPIhRVKaZn1ZzsCIHBOVVUVr/s1600-h/PICT0231.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgST7Ew0Ea8Szxs9YWXJzANqCLeHXcJ9WgkTeb_7KHewLbBLvUMqeLsDTZ_qN34nFXbnNxjNL0m7s93UtETHgRpRn8l5aeWMw0HSK3geSJZHekPpmrHSJzWPIhRVKaZn1ZzsCIHBOVVUVr/s320/PICT0231.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254781515273499266" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Oh, Paris. How I miss you.</span><br /></div><br />And <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> brings me to my next topic: what if I had a travel blog, documenting all the places I've been or would like to go? Would you read it? Would that be boring? Would you groan at the thought of yet another blog you feel obligated to follow?<br /><br />Hit me with your honest opinion--I can take it.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154831275765419510noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3954000874241675879.post-55204484497597157282008-10-06T21:33:00.000-07:002008-10-06T21:19:14.408-07:00Nobody Scream, But I Might Just Be a Democrat.<span>I listened to talk radio (</span><a href="http://www.cnn.com/">CNN</a><span> and </span><a href="http://www.npr.org/">NPR</a><span>, specifically) for the first </span><span style="font-style: italic;">real</span><span> time in my life last week.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">For over twelve hours.</span><br /><br />I won't go into the details of the mental breakdown that isnpired me to do this, but I <span style="font-style: italic;">will</span> say that it had something to do with a drive from Oregon to Canada, a Sirius satellite radio, and a husband who didn't like being ignored by a book-reading wife.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-N_rqyhKLODa6MIxB7nBDELgKQZsc3eCt2xUTwahlmw-sbFiZj7YVk3VCBy9QPdCW5cVJa3LpRqoBcdA21ObPF068lsWbMLIILWsRcfhIn1bFojsn9ZvqN69lhuw6HYlD4hYBJsG6wW8m/s1600-h/51REWr50hPL._SL500_AA240_.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-N_rqyhKLODa6MIxB7nBDELgKQZsc3eCt2xUTwahlmw-sbFiZj7YVk3VCBy9QPdCW5cVJa3LpRqoBcdA21ObPF068lsWbMLIILWsRcfhIn1bFojsn9ZvqN69lhuw6HYlD4hYBJsG6wW8m/s320/51REWr50hPL._SL500_AA240_.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254238823896204050" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Who's recommendation was this? Thanks, whoever tipped me off. It reminded me of a certain small town of barely 3,000 people. Quite endearing. Photo from </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.amazon.com/Theres-Slight-Chance-Might-Going/dp/0812975723">here</a><span style="font-style: italic;">.</span> </div><br />It was also the day that the Bailout Bill was being put back to The House for debate and a re-vote, and the highly anticipated (and only) vice presidential debate was scheduled to take place.<br /><br />And did you know? If you listen to CNN all day long, for twelve hours straight, you will hear the same news over and over. For twelve hours straight.<br /><br />I learned that all Sarah Palin had to do at the debate was not sound like a blubbering idiot, and she would have come out the victor. And Joe Biden's (can I call him "Joe?") only task was to refer to Palin as "Governor," not acknowledging in any way, shape, or form, the gender of his opponent, and it would be considered a tie. Fair and square.<br /><br />I also learned the terms Freddie and Fannie, the names Frank Raines and Barney Frank, and that $700,000,000,000 (that's seven hundred billion dollars...as in <span style="font-style: italic;">billion</span>) is supposed to save our economy [which, incidentally, is worse off than it <span style="font-style: italic;">ever</span> was in the Dirty Thirties, as Canadians know the Great Depression].<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj02o45YQ1AF-e4x0OJlVdfSsm-LUjnX1FIzEzEPM_qASlSArptFYiOT3x6wyO3BwB3Whm0qYCZwrcyvF4ppC9lNCapk8NIP5J4LxbKsB8YwngeLI0GH6fuPWpnUEy-oYyjF_NVzrUzYGsz/s1600-h/Corpus_06.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj02o45YQ1AF-e4x0OJlVdfSsm-LUjnX1FIzEzEPM_qASlSArptFYiOT3x6wyO3BwB3Whm0qYCZwrcyvF4ppC9lNCapk8NIP5J4LxbKsB8YwngeLI0GH6fuPWpnUEy-oYyjF_NVzrUzYGsz/s320/Corpus_06.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254246256393728002" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">It's <span style="font-weight: bold;">almost</span> like I got smart...or something.</span><br /></div><br />The most important thing I learned, however, is that I have no idea who I should vote for in the presidential election. I have already learned my lesson that it's silly to vote for a candidate based on what family is doing. I want proof. I want evidence.<span style="font-weight: bold;"> I want to know, for myself, for sure, that I am voting for the right person.</span> In my travels abroad, I have met a lot of people, and I've learned that, from outside our borders, <span style="font-style: italic;">many</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">people think </span><span style="font-style: italic;">America is a laughingstock. </span>I was shocked when I first realised that not everybody hails America as the greatest country on Earth. It opened my eyes, and I have been supremely interested in my world perspective ever since.<br /><br />I want to vote for the team that will make the rest of the world stop laughing at me.<br /><br />Only I can't figure out which team that is.<br /><br />I know that so many people would give their <span style="font-weight: bold;">organs</span> (not the vital ones, maybe just a kidney, but still...) to be able to vote in this election. People throughout history have fought for the right to vote. I do not take it lightly. In fact, I'm starting a poll of Canadians, asking who they would vote for if they had a choice. So far I'm 1-1 (it's a small poll--I don't have a lot of friends up here).<br /><br />So I'm asking you to weigh in. Not that I'm going to vote for whoever you vote for...but I'd like to hear people's pros and cons...why you've decided who you did, or if you are struggling to decide, like I am. And don't be shy [or do be...whatever works]. You don't have to answer. If you want to, you are welcome to hide behind anonymity, or you can leave your comment under a name that only I would know, like <span style="font-weight: bold;">"Your Manager From the Gallery in Scottsdale" </span>or <span style="font-weight: bold;">"The Person Who Accused You of Stealing my Graphing Calculator Freshman Year at ASU"</span> or <span style="font-weight: bold;">"Your Mother."</span> Or else you can just leave your name and buck up for the ensuing mud-slinging. I get it all the time--it's not so bad.<br /><br />I ask this so I can see the world from some different perspectives, not so I can raise you-know-what. <span style="font-weight: bold;"> I need help, is all.</span><br /><br />Ready? Go!Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04154831275765419510noreply@blogger.com35