Archives of Our Lives

Why Are You Still Here?

2008-12-18T12:49:00.000-08:00

It has come to my attention that many of you have not changed your links from this blog to my new website:

www.archiveslives.com

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.

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.

Remember, that's:

www.archives lives.com

www.archiveslives.com

www.archiveslives.com

A simply copy-and-paste action oughtta do it.

Thank you and goodbye.

I'm Closing My Doors...

2008-11-11T14:46:00.000-08:00

...but opening all my windows. Or at least one window.

Guess what? This is the last time I will ever post on www.archives-lives.blogspot.com.

Sad? Me too, a little bit.

Don't worry, though. The future is bright and shiny, like a new quarter straight from the mint.

Because starting today, my website is self-hosted. 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 BlogHer™.

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 feel 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.

So, with no further ado, I give you...

www.archiveslives.com

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 SWITCH THEM NOW TO THE NEW ADDRESS! Please. It's annoying, I know, but it's just this once, and I'd really appreciate it.

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!

And goodbye, Blogspot.

The Miracle of the Elevens.

2008-11-11T08:36:00.000-08:00

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.

It's a Remembrance Day miracle.

Image from here.

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.

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.

Cemetery-Brussels, Belgium, 2007. I passed this site every day while I was living in Belgium, on my way to drop off my charge at school.

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 muffins...now that's another story.}

Well you're in luck--it looks like this. Image from here.

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:

That's some hard-core appreciation right there. Image from here.

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.

In Flanders Fields
By John McCrae (1915)

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Image from here.

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.

My Brain Thinks Funny.

2008-11-10T06:28:00.000-08:00

I have been having nightmares lately. It's weird.

The first one came right after watching The Dark Knight 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.

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.

It weighed 100 pounds.

Hi, creepy. Image from here.

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 once this weekend--it's the least of my concerns. So why would I dream about it?

If the themes of nightmares my nightmares were based on the issues in my life that are really causing me stress, my mind-movies would play out something like this:

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.

Then, since I can't decide between majoring in Art History {which makes me immensely happy} or English {which could actually be profitable}, 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.

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.

I die poverty-stricken, leaving Poor Kyle with nothing but huge debt and soiled clothes, so of course he would re-marry. And she would be skinny.

Those are the nightmares that race through my brain almost every waking hour of my days.

Happy Monday to you, too.

No New Post

2008-11-06T13:11:00.000-08:00

Sorry 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.

Be back tomorrow.

Hey Y'all, Watch This!

2008-11-05T02:00:00.000-08:00

Tonight I'm watching CNN.com for breaking news. I'm seeing a whole lot of this:

Image from cnn.com.

**Update**
**Which has, incidentally, changed to this since I started the post about 20 minutes ago. Poor McCain. Image from cnn.com.**

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: When do we find out who wins? I mean, if we don't already have a really good prediction, like CNN does.

***Update: Never mind. I got it sorted.***

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: The Follow Me Feature.

See there, to the left of this post, the group of 16 people who follow this blog?

Don't they look like they're having fun? That's because they are. They are having fun following this blog.

Here's how you, too, can have fun for the low low cost of nothing:

Step 1: 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.

Step 2: Return to www.archives-lives.blogspot.com. It should look something like this:

Or in other words, exactly where you are.

Step 3: 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."

Just a reminder--it looks like this.

Step 4: Click "Follow This Blog." It's the red link above the photos of all the other happy people who are already following this blog.

Step 5: 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...or maybe just me.

And a note to those 16 of you who've already signed up: Thanks guys. You're the best.

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.

Call Me a Convict-I've Got a Conviction.

2008-11-04T08:42:00.000-08:00

I have a conviction.

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.

Beginning this, the Fourth Day of November, 2008... I, Camille of Archives of Our Lives, will hereby never step foot into another Wal*Mart™. Ever.

I'm so passionate about my new conviction, I could probably go write for these guys.

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.

But back to the matter at hand: Wal*Mart™. I will no longer be using their "services," and calling it "service" is being generous.

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.

See, I was accompanying Chelsie, 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.

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).

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.

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." {Subliminal messages, anyone? Brainwashing? Lemmings? What?}

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™.}

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.

But not 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.

"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?

"I.D.," she repeated, almost menacing this time. Clearly she was annoyed by having her 3 a.m. chat interrupted.

"Oh," I explained, "well I'm not buying any spray paint."

"You're in the same party, though. I need your I.D."

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 her world. I was not happy.

"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.

She looked at me blankly.

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. always. 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.]

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...something.].

This time, though, when the cashier took my I.D., instead of just inspecting it for a birth date, she swiped it. She swiped it! 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.! SHE FREAKING SWIPED MY DRIVER'S LICENSE! {No amount of exclamation points could possibly express how furious I was.}

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?"

Go to hell, Wal*Mart™. I've never--never--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, not a number.

"Save money. Live better." is their newest slogan. More fitting would be "Save money. At a cost." Image from here.

Think about it...have you ever left Wal*Mart™ feeling better than when you arrived? Probably not.

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. No amount of blue light specials are worth my value as a human being. 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 fail. 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.

I feel free.

{Captivated by the Season}

2008-11-02T20:00:00.000-08:00

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. I was essentially going to change the world.

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...

Currently my iPhoto library looks like this:

Gorgeous.

Why? Because I went to Oregon. Why? To be with Poor Kyle. Why? Because I love him. Why? Good question. (Smiley face.)

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?].

I hope you are as captivated by the season as I have been. Enjoy.

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.

Don't you feel healed?

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?

I thrill at the sight of a long, straight bit of railroad track. There's so much hope in a railroad track.

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 Trash Ties™. Just thought you should know.

Leaves in the gutter--how lovely.

Again with the railroad tracks--I'm sensing a theme.

There. All better. Like chicken soup for the friggen soul.

{Happy Monday.}

Boo.

2008-10-31T06:00:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

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...

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.

Suddenly, as we took our last step to reach and turn the doorknob, we heard a heart-stopping wail.

“Waaaaaaaaaa…uhhhhhhhhh…waaaaaaaaa…uhhhhhhhh…”

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.

“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.}

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).

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.

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).

A practical joke had been played, and we were the butts. I’m always the butt.

And who was the major culprit, you ask? Who was to blame for the wail of fright (and “fright” is putting it mildly)?

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.

Adell and I have gone on to live {fairly} normal and well-adjusted lives, despite the turmoil of our youth.

Strangely enough, however, I’ve never felt the Halloween fervor since then. I’ll buy my own candy, thankyouverymuch.

Happy Halloween, from everyone (all two of us) here at Archives of Our Lives.

Boo.

I'd Rather Not.

2008-10-30T07:37:00.000-07:00

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?

A (from Me): Hi Aimee! Good question. The answer is...no. Emphatically. No, no, never, no. 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.)

Poor Kyle, he loves this rig. Sometimes I suspect he loves it more than me...sometimes he admits it.

Though if we're being honest (and we always are here at AoOL), 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.

{Good thing he has no front teeth to give, or I'd be in huge trouble.}

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.

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.

I do, however, make a fairly excellent passenger. Nobody works the seat-warmer like I work the seat-warmer. Nobody.

D@mn That Grass.

2008-10-28T05:45:00.000-07:00

It's always green somewhere in the world--only never where I am.

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}.

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 City of Mesa.

It doesn't just have to do with the weather, however. When I am living the life of a single wife, 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.

I would that everybody's trials could be so simple as deciding which loved ones to visit.

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 to 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 "be an item" forever, and not once have I regretted my choice to be his wife. *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. In case any of you noticed, I'm not exactly the easiest person with whom to live. And that's the understatement of infinity.

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, dearly love.

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 {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}: I regret that, too.

Maybe for Christmas...

Not That I'm Judging, or Anything...

2008-10-27T09:00:00.000-07:00

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, boobs, belly, butt. [Only we're not crude here at Archives of Our Lives. We're very ladylike, and we use words like "midriff."])

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.}

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.

Bikinis! 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.)

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 Cabo? What the...? Did YOU ever think it was okay to wear bikinis?"

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 {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.} 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.

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.

Image from Modbe Clothing. Other ideas include Shade, DownEast Basics, and that one about an apple.

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....

"Has a bikini ever been considered a modest choice in swimwear?"

And if we can all agree that indeed, bikinis are not a modest choice in swimwear, then why do so many women--who otherwise consider themselves modest to a T, and would never so much as think about wearing a tank top to the grocery store--wear them?

I suppose it sounds like I am standing on a self-righteous soapbox and think extremely highly of myself...

Think what you will of me. And wear bikinis if you want. Just don't think bikinis are modest.

I Have Completely Lost My Capacity for Making Decisions.

2008-10-23T07:30:00.000-07:00

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, "If it is really time to get out of bed I'll kill myself." The days are long and the nights are short, and my predominant feeling is one of constant pain.

I'm just...so...tired.

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.

Oh, I'll write; only I can't guarantee I'll be making any sense.

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.

Q (from Loralee Choate):

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.

What's the deal? Have they told you? Is it family that hates registering for things or something?

Finally (Because this would be how I feel):

Does this not drive you nutso? Have you considered turning the anonymous option off?

A (from me):

Oh, Loralee. Your query breeches the subject that is a constant issue among the inner echelon of Archives of Our Lives 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.

Me? I'm not so bugged. I mean, I like readers. I do. The fact that I seem to have a million who are sneaky and unwilling to own up to their true identity...well...I still like readers.

I don't know why I have so many. Maybe they're all one person; maybe they're 100 separate people.

I have considered removing the ability to allow anonymous comments--I consider it every day, and come to no conclusions.

So what's the skinny, everyone? I have completely lost my capacity to make decisions. I am numb from exhaustion this week, and I cannot--physically and mentally cannot--decide if I should do something about this, or leave it be.

You can leave your opinion in the comment section, or at the poll to the right.

I'd be much obliged.

{Ow to the Nth Degree}

2008-10-22T06:11:00.000-07:00

One-word Wednesday:

Ow.

No, that's not just a dirty thumbnail.

The pointer finger, on the other hand {ha! Get it? Other hand?} is dirty (dirty with seven hours' worth of spray paint); but the thumbnail is nothin' but a nice dark shade of "ow."

Okay, so I've never been great at one-word Wednesdays. In fact, one-word anything 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 absentminded or overrated.

So instead of simply posting a photo and one word 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 AoOL way.

Ow, My Opposable Digit.

1. Using the "space bar." Ow.

1.5. Flossing. No way, José. Ow.

2. Removing my contact lenses. Ow.

3. Writing with a pen. Ow.

4. Gripping. Anything. Ow.

5. Putting my hair into a ponytail. Ow.

6. Wiping (you guessed it). Ow.

7. Zipping zippers. [What is the correct verbage of the word "zipper?" Zipping? Zippering?] Ow.

8. Cracking knuckles. Ow.

9. Pulling ceiling fan chains. Ow.

Photo from here.

10. Thumb wars [though I can never win anyway {something about having rheumatoid arthritis at a young age}]. Ow ow.

Without the use of this thumb, I might as well be a monkey. Or a sloth.

What's hurting you today?

Hello? Kansas? Anybody?

2008-10-21T06:30:00.000-07:00

A recent map of visitors to Archives of Our Lives looks something like this:

And when I say "recent" I mean mere minutes ago. And when I say "something like this," I mean exactly.

I'm thinking Archives of Our Lives needs to branch out.

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 blog.

For that matter, tell anyone outside the North American continent, too.

I'm the next big thing. I'm taking over Dooce™.

Or didn't you hear?

Days are Long 'Round These Parts.

2008-10-20T08:30:00.000-07:00

Whoa, I am exhausted.

Not only because it's been a busy weekend, but wow--did you see that last post? 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.]

Still, I hope I got the message across--I'll say it one more time just to be sure: If you're reading this blog, you're helping me fulfill my purpose in life. Thanks.

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.

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.

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.

Let's just hope I wake up witty...

...

5:13 a.m.

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.

We all promptly fell back asleep.

6:59 a.m.

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.

7:45 a.m.

Hit snooze on my cell phone's alarm clock.

8:16 a.m.

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.

It's going to be a long day.

p.s. One year ago today, I was also very tired. Happy Anniversary, Poor Kyle. I would have loved to spend it with you!

Growing a Face of Leather {Thick and Tough}.

2008-10-18T02:20:00.000-07:00

**Update: Everybody's comments have been so sweet today, I decided to declare this "Official AoOL 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.}**

I have had this on my mind a lot lately; I would like to address a few topics here on this blog today.

Well, only one topic, really: me. That is, me in respect to Archives of Our Lives.

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, I haven't met many blogs I don't like. 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.

Each blog has a purpose...and the purpose of my blog is to entertain.

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.

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. I'm just me, plain and simple.

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 each and every 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.

In other words, I care what you think. 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 I write for you. Not for me. For you. If you are reading this post, whether you like me or not, you are fulfilling the purpose of my blog.

And because I care so much what my readers think, I put forth a great effort not to offend people.

But guess what? I am doing a lousy job of it. Despite the fact that I never--ever--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 I have considered hilarious 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. Only thick enough that these comments can't quite seep into my self-esteem.}

To solve this problem, I've been advised to close my blog to anonymous comments. I've been told to close all comments period. It's been suggested to make my blog private.

Many people think I should simply delete my blog and quit this aspect of my life completely.

But none of those ideas appeal to me: I don't really mind 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.

Instead, I've decided the best solution for my dilemma is to write a disclaimer:

This blog is not homework--reading is not mandatory. 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...by all means, tell me. If your feelings were hurt and you want to quit my blog, I will understand.

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.

I may not babysit your kids, but I will--with any luck--give you something new to laugh about nearly every day of the week {give or take some [or all]}.

Picture This: Your Face.

2008-10-15T20:32:00.000-07:00

Confession: I left the last post up for two days because I liked reading it every time I opened my laptop.

I have never met anyone so intrigued with their own life story as I am with mine. But that's another post for another day.

This day is Thursday! Time to answer a reader's question! Hooray! Enthusiasm!

I know one person in particular is going to be thrilled with my choice of the week.

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]:

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? Please, oh please, answer my question...I have only asked 100 times! Come on, Camille!

Answer, from Me:

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.

The answer is...

...it depends. There are two cameras in my life that I use on a regular basis. Both are cameras I have commandeered from Poor Kyle. (Poor 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.)

For everyday point-and-shoot pictures, I use this:

Image from here.

There it is in the mirror, being clutched by my rather fearsome-looking left hand [curse this rheumatoid arthritis].

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.

"Dear our customers..." Such a thoughtful way to end an era. Page from here.

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.

It took this photo...

...and this photo.

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.]

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...

...Which seems fine by him, since he upgraded to this:

The Canon EOS Digital How Long Can They Make This Name SLR:

An SLR is a digital camera that is better than other digital cameras, 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 here.

And I'll tell you the honest truth: I know nothing about photography. 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:

I used the fancier camera for this photo of my inquisitive nephew...

And for this image of my favourite new bedding.

And for these images of my backyard [those were happier days when the grass was green].

{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 knows how 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.}

For the photos that I do 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 Ree Drummond's easy tutorials, and I can usually come up with something that looks nice enough.

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.

Hello, My Name is Fickle.

2008-10-14T07:00:00.000-07:00

*Warning: Long Post. Worthwhile, but long.*

October 20th will be the first anniversary marking the marriage between Poor Kyle and Me.

Today is the third anniversary of the day we met. October 13, 2005. I remember it like yesterday...

...but instead of recalling the story in its entirety (yawn) for you today, I will sum it up like this:

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.

One year later, I wrote this post.

But the union wasn't all smooth-sailing. In fact, some of the roughest waters of my life, I forged during those three years.

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 little bit of detail. So this is what I'll do: Provide an ultra-condensed version, taken directly from excerpts from my journal (read: my life history). 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, this post is for you.

So with no further ado...

The True Saga of Poor Kyle and Camille

October 20, 2005
...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...

October 2005--the selfsame weekend I met Poor Kyle.

November 4, 2005
...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...

November 10, 2005
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. 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.

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...

November 20, 2005
...He kissed me. [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.] For the first time in my dating life, 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...

A few weeks into our budding relationship.

December 16, 2005
[DTR!!!] ...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...

1 January, 2006
...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...

9 January, 2006
...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...

16 January, 2006
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.

14 February, 2006
...Kyle hates me...

24 February, 2006
...Kyle is NOT my best friend. [What am I, eight years old?] I like him, and I love him, but at this point I could live without him. I don't think I can marry him...

20 March, 2006
...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.

Snapped a few moments before he decided we shouldn't get married after all.

22 March, 2006
...I feel like we are in a relationship RUT...

9 April, 2006
...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.

11 April, 2006
...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.

27 April, 2006
...Perhaps Kyle and I should see other people this summer while I'm in AZ and he's in Canada...

And then we stayed together...

28 April, 2006
...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??

All Summer of 2006
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.

10 August, 2006
...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...

30 August, 2006
..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...

2 October, 2006
I'm engaged! Haven't set a date. I'm thinking next fall. Kyle's thinking this week...

6 November, 2006
...We killed our dog today...

13 November, 2006
...There have been some really neat developments with me moving abroad to work as a nanny. A few families from Belgium seem really nice, and I've already started emailing one. I really want 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.

13 December, 2006
Maybe I won't be a good wife. Maybe I shouldn't marry Kyle.

10 January 2007
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!

12 January 2007
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??

18 January, 2007
I am in Brussels, Belgium. It's amazing.

I can do kids, as long as Europe is involved. Though technically, this photo was taken in London. On the Eye.

14 February, 2007
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. This one really beats all.

5 March, 2007
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.

8 March, 2007
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.

Summer 2007
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.

2 September, 2007
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.

5 September, 2007
I'm getting more excited to marry Kyle with every passing day.

9 September, 2007
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.

4 October, 2007
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.

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.

Kyle is my family.

Success!

...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.

Anyway, there's a reason I call Poor Kyle "Poor Kyle." And now you know exactly what it is. Happy Anniversary to Us.

{Stuck on a Toilet with Nothing to Read}

2008-10-13T01:00:00.000-07:00

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.

You know...uncomfortable. Like sweating giant pit-stains in a dark satin dress on prom night.

Like being caught unawares in a room full of children who are not *quite* potty trained.

Like having nightmares of being the wedding photographer who forgot to bring a camera.

It's like eating cinnamon rolls for breakfast every day all winter and wondering why last summer's swimsuit feels so...snug.

Like running into a husband's skinny ex-girlfriend at the post office the day you didn't bother with concealer. Or mascara.

It's like being stuck on a toilet with nothing to read.

We Interrupt This Program to Kill Ourselves...

2008-10-11T07:17:00.000-07:00

...figuratively speaking, of course.

View outside my bedroom window. Photo taken less than five minutes ago.

Have a happy weekend. Me? I'm off to dig a cave and hide in it until Spring.

No more posts until then.

Just the Sort of Thing Strong Bad Would Love.

2008-10-10T08:10:00.000-07:00

There's something seriously wrong with me.

"Just now you're figuring this out," you ask? Oh, be quiet, you. Yes, just now.

It's a strange disease, the complexities of which I cannot fully comprehend. It's all in my head, I'm sure. I just can't make it stop.

Here's my ailment:

Every time the word "probably" comes up in my daily conversations, I secretly want to pronounce it "poorbably." Porbably. Porbably. Porbably porbably porbably. Over and over in my head I reapeat the nonword. It sounds like a word that Strong Bad would use. What does it even mean? I only know that it has such an easy flow about it, and it wants to be in my brain. I never do say it aloud, because I'm so ashamed of myself for molesting the actual word.

Image from here.

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.

It's not just porbably, 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 articulated. So every time I talk about Connecticuit, even though I say it aloud correctly, in my head I hear "Connecticuit. Connecticuit. Connecticuit."

Is there a prognosis for this disease?

Better yet...is there a cure?

Porbably not.

A Few Announcements.

2008-10-09T06:39:00.000-07:00

It's Thursday. Which means it's a great day to answer somebody's question.

Q [from Alicia]:

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).

Also, on a related note, what do you think you will do once you are allowed to work and attend school?

That's all I got, but I'll keep thinking of questions for you. :)

A [from me]:

Thank you Alicia, for your question(s). They are valid, and I will answer them.

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 do get that paperwork finished, I will be considered a resident of Canada. 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 what I'd really like.] For more information on how you can marry a Canadian and fill out paperwork, see The Government of Alberta. It's fun. Really.

I can 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 resident. 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 sometime in this decade, if at all possible...

...which leads me to announce that I will be starting classes in January.

See? Me and my acceptance letter. Wahoo.

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.

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. As much as I'd like to already have my degree, 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.

And, to further answer your question, Alicia [i.e. "what do you think you will do when you are allowed to work and attend school"], 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...French.

That's right. French. Parlez-vous? 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.]}

Just remember, you heard it first on Archives of Our Lives.

And, as always, I'm open for any more questions you may have. Don't hesitate. Really.

Me and My Big Ideas.

2008-10-08T06:28:00.001-07:00

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.

Despite what many [or all] of you might think, I don't write posts like that just to stir up a little bit of loco in people's lives.

Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I do.

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 signing up to be a Democrat (which I haven't, but I don't promise I won't make any rash decisions).

Which brings me to the topic of today. Rash decisions.

The most monumental rash decision I ever made was to move to Canada after my first year at ASU 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 Alberta, I had no idea the role this place would play in my future.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Oh, Paris. How I miss you.

And that 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?

Hit me with your honest opinion--I can take it.

Nobody Scream, But I Might Just Be a Democrat.

2008-10-06T21:33:00.000-07:00

I listened to talk radio (CNN and NPR, specifically) for the first real time in my life last week.

For over twelve hours.

I won't go into the details of the mental breakdown that isnpired me to do this, but I will 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.

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 here.

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.

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.

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.

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 billion) is supposed to save our economy [which, incidentally, is worse off than it ever was in the Dirty Thirties, as Canadians know the Great Depression].

It's almost like I got smart...or something.

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. I want to know, for myself, for sure, that I am voting for the right person. In my travels abroad, I have met a lot of people, and I've learned that, from outside our borders, many people think America is a laughingstock. 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.

I want to vote for the team that will make the rest of the world stop laughing at me.

Only I can't figure out which team that is.

I know that so many people would give their organs (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).

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 "Your Manager From the Gallery in Scottsdale" or "The Person Who Accused You of Stealing my Graphing Calculator Freshman Year at ASU" or "Your Mother." 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.

I ask this so I can see the world from some different perspectives, not so I can raise you-know-what. I need help, is all.

Ready? Go!

Spotty...

2008-10-02T05:25:00.000-07:00

...no, not my face (though if we're being honest [and we always are] my right nostril could really use some sort of laser treatment).

I'm talking spotty internet.

I have a dream, though. Of reception...of service no matter where I go, or how far away my hotel room is from the front desk. I have a dream that I can always check my emails on the road. And I do mean on the road. Even in the middle of nowhere.

Image from here.

What's that, you say? Such technology already exists? Apple™? iPhone? 3G?

Fine. I dream of that, then.

Pick Apart {of Me}

2008-09-30T23:59:00.000-07:00

I know it's Wednesday only, but I felt like answering a Thursday question today.

Q [from Jennie]:

I have a question to be added to your Thursday posts' list.

Why do you put brackets around your titles? You don't do it all the time, but probably half of the time, so you must have a reason for it. So, why? What does it mean? (By brackets, I mean { }. I don't know what those are called.)

A [from me]:

Hi, Jennie! Who are you? There wasn't a link accompanying your name, so I don't have any idea who you are. Which is a lot like making you anonymous, only kind of worse, because I have a bit of a hint. If you are from Mesa and I have met you, you could be a few people. Jennie my neighbor, Jennie my aunt, Jennie who takes pictures, Jennie the mother of my best friend, Jennie from the block.

In regards to your question...WRONG! There is not really any rhyme or reason to my use of {these things}.

First off, let's figure out what they're called. According to the most reliable source on the internet, {these} may be referred to as 1} squiggly brackets, 2} squigglies, 3} curly brackets, or 4} braces. I feel silly using the term "squiggly" in my daily discourse, and braces make me think of how I need to see the dentist, so for our intents and purposes, let's call them "curly brackets."

Secondly, my inspiration: {Frolic!} A simple "if, then" statement should suffice. If someone does it... and I like it... then I do it. Queen of mimicry, that's me. Never had an original thought in my head.

You are right about one thing, though: I don't use curly brackets all the time in my titles. Only sometimes. I never know when I am going to use them. Sometimes my titles just look like they need a little...something extra. So I hug them with curly brackets, and go along my merry way. It's not something I give any major thought. If it happens, it happens. If not, fine. {I suppose that makes me sound very spontaneous and full-of-life. Actually, most days, the use of curly brackets in my titles is the most adventurous thing that happens to me. Everybody should move to a country where they're legally forced to be lazy.}

However, since you're probably looking for a little more closure in your life, and I don't take the challenge "ask-me-anything" lightly, I've broken it down for you.

Here is a list of recent posts that have been titled with the use of curly brackets:

{A Lesson in Self-Assertion}
{I Put the Ab in Abnormal}
{Flip My Flop}
{The Dog Ate My Blog Post}
{Communism at its Finest}
{Life Lessons and Muffin Tops}

Here is a list of recent posts that have been freely titled:

The Saga of Steve vs. Ned--This is Mostly Speculation
I Wonder How Many Angels Had to Die in the Making of This Bed?
There's no Such Thing as Edward and Bella
And Then I Was Faced With My Day of Reckoning
I Turned 22 And All I Got Was Adult Acne.

So maybe I use the brackets with shorter titles, or titles that are not quite long enough to be my life history.

I don't know.

But thank you, Mystery Jennie, whoever you are. For caring. For reading. I hope I answered you enough.

And if you have any more questions, anyone....please. Don't hesitate to ask.

I Turned 22 and all I Got Was Adult Acne.

2008-09-30T08:56:00.000-07:00

On the inside of my right nostril, over the course of one night, I have contracted either a pimple or a bug bite.

I don't know which is worse.

On one hand, I might have a pimple inside my nose.

On the other hand, I may have inhaled a bug in the middle of the night; a bug which then proceeded to bite my nose.

So really, is there any way this is going to be a good day?

In case your Tuesday is looking anything like mine, I'm posting some pictures of my birthday flowers. It might just cheer you up.

Poor Kyle brought them to me in a brown paper bag from the flower place, and I was so excited to be able to arrange them myself. If anybody's gonna get me flowers, getting them so I can arrange them myself is much better than buying them already fancied up. Not that I'm any Eddie Ross or Jami Parker Pitts, but I still like to try.

I got that white pitcher from Goodwill for $1.99 and like it more than most people I know. [Not you people, though. Different people.]

Here's the arrangement from a step back...

And from one more step back. This is for anyone who's been bugging me to show pictures of my house. Happy Tuesday. And normally, those black candlesticks aren't there--they belong on a lower surface, but I recently had a little terror at my house, and he was obsessed with destroying anything at his eye level. I still haven't quite recovered.

{He sure is a cute little tyrant, though.}

{Oh yeah. And don't mind that crazy person in the mirror. She may or may not have just barely gotten out of bed. She hasn't showered in a while. She has nothing to do with the person who runs Archives of Our Lives. Nothing at all.}

And now for a few steps closer...close-ups of flowers make me smile.

Pretty...

...pretty...

...and pretty.

Mums are quickly becoming my favourite flower (second only to snapdragons). Especially these fall-coloured ones. Poor Kyle said he got these ones because I had them in my bouquet at our wedding almost a year ago.

Svelte, PK. Very svelte.

Is There Anything More Tedious in all the World?

2008-09-29T09:24:00.000-07:00

I am an adult; twenty two years of age, officially. I pay taxes (when I have a job) and fill my own gas tank (when I can't get Poor Kyle to do it for me). I make my bed (almost always now), and cook dinner (such as it is). For all intents and purposes, I'm a grown-up.

Why, then, do I hate brushing my teeth? Why?

I'll tell you why:

1. It's so tedious. You want me to just...stand there? In front of the mirror? The two times during the day that I look my absolute worst? For how long? Three minutes? Please.

2. ...

Never mind. There's only that one reason.

It is, though. Tedious, I mean. Nevertheless, I do brush my teeth on a regular basis (once a week, like clockwork [just kidding!]). I just get so...bored. I always have. When I was a kid, and didn't understand about bad breath and social faux pas and what-not, I would go to school without brushing my teeth all the time. [I didn't have a lot of friends.] Then, the day before I had a dentist appointment, I would get all stressed out and try brushing my teeth every five minutes or so, and then ten times right before the dreaded hour. It never worked. I always came out with 20 more cavities than before.

The only thing that's changed since then is that, as an "adult," I'm fairly sure there's no way around brushing my teeth twice daily. (Although...I still don't have many friends. Maybe I'm on to something...)

Yet for some reason I really enjoy flossing. Tell me it's time to brush my teeth, and I'll procrastinate as long as I can. But flossing--it's the highlight of my day. With flossing, I actually get to see the fruits (or bread particles, or pepper) of my labor. It's like a treasure hunt in my mouth! Every evening before bed! [Being able to floss from the comfort of my lush bed might have something to do with my joy.]

I've decided I have to make a game out of brushing my teeth.

Maybe if my toothpaste was a little person with feet who jumped out of the drawer every time I went to the bathroom and sang cheerful songs while I brushed...then again, that might just make me need a therapist. Image from here.

But the only one I can think of is see-how-quickly-I-can-run-back-to-bed-and-catch-a-power-nap-while-brushing. And I tried it once, but the complications with my bed sheets were horrible. Not worth it.

So I'm turning to you. Do you get bored with brushing your teeth, too? What games do you play to make yourself do it?

No? Nothing?

Oh. How awkward.

How To Be Self-Taught at Anything.

2008-09-26T07:00:00.000-07:00

Thank you, everyone, for all the birthday wishes. Nothing like a birthday to make me feel like everybody loves me. On a birthday, I have no enemies. On a birthday, I'm everyone's favourite person. Updates of the day will be coming next week.

But until then, I'm trying to learn the ever-so-complicated art of Photoshop CS3. [What? They have a CS4 now? Shoot.] It's not an easy task. Poor Kyle taught me what a layer was and how to use one, and Ree Drummond taught me everything else.

I don't want to take any classes or any true tutorials, because I would very much like to go around smugly telling people that "I am a self-taught Photoshop extraordinaire." There's something about being self-taught [at anything!] that makes me feel really vain.

So far so good. I know I like how this one turned out. What a cute little tongue my nephew has. All the better to exploit him with--that's what I say.

But when it came to this photo, I couldn't decide if I liked Option #1 or Option #2 better...

On the one hand, in the above photo (Option #1), Inquisitive Baby's eyes are bright and crisp, and his face looks soft and fluffy.

But on the other hand, in Option #2, my Inquisitive Baby's background is dark, and there's just enough contrast to provide visual stimulation.

Visual stimulation? I don't even know what an aperture is--how can I possibly talk about visual stimulation and get away with it?

So it's up to you, e-friends. Should I like #1 or #2 better? The differences are subtle, but I feel like I should have an opinion either way. And you are going to form that opinion for me [please, that is]! You can vote in the poll to the right, or comment on this post if you'd like to expound your reasoning. Also, if there are any amazing photography sites that make your world go round, please let me know of them.

I'm in the market for some inspiration.

It's my party and I'll--oh, forget it.

2008-09-24T20:20:00.000-07:00

It's my birthday.

And on this, the 25th of September, I would like to declare that I'm tired of keeping it real.

What I want, for just one day, is a whole lot of fake.

In other words, instead of my [self-made] birthday cake looking like this:

I want it to look like this:

Image from here.

Yeah. Uh...not so much. My birthday cake's crack is showing.

[At least the cake stand is adorable.]

...And instead of my war-zone post-birthday cake kitchen looking like this:

I want it to look more like this:

Image from here.

Instead of my gallbladder looking like this:

Utterly revolting image from here.

I want it to look like this:

Sunshine and daisies. Photo by Jim-AR.

It's my birthday, and I'd like some fake, of the Martha Stewart persuasion.

Please and thank you.

He Calls Martha "Martha," and I Call Him Eddie Ross.

2008-09-23T21:25:00.000-07:00

Hello world. Meet my new best friend:

Photo from here.

He looks good in vests. His name is Eddie Ross. Oh, and I'm evidently the last person in the world to become one hundred percent enamoured of him. I found his blog during a quest for design tips, and have been nothing short of obsessed ever since.

Here is a man who is talented with all things gorgeous. He designs living spaces, flowers, and table settings. He's been a caterer, a Food Network honcho, and is currently one of Martha Stewart's right-hand men (only he's taking a hiatus to be involved with "Top Design," a television show in its second season on the Bravo Network). In other words, he's the kind of guy I always thought I should marry, but it's a dadgum good thing I didn't because then I would've harbored an inferiority complex all the way to my death bed. (And anyway, I'm glad I ended up with Poor Kyle. Things worked out just as they should have.)

Eddie's blog showcases delightful snippets of his personal design triumphs, including thrift store and flea market finds (i.e. "treasure hunting"), before-and-after success stories, and how to create professional flower arrangements from home. He proudly declares that it's not necessary to spend buckets of money to create an elegant style. He even understands the value of white dishes (a personal obsession I am always feeding).

I could look at his before-and-after photos all day long. Especially this set, in which he transformed his kitchen light fixture and effectively changed my life:

Photos from Eddie Ross.

But it doesn't end there.

Because this man is actually nice. As in...a kind and decent human. I commented on his blog (after finding it and devouring every post he'd ever written) and even went so far as to ask a design question of my own...

...and he wrote back. Personally. Within the hour.

Let's recap: A guy who calls Martha "Martha," and is actually allowed to do so...wrote me an email. With advice. Personalised design advice, just for me and my little house.

Photo from Eddie Ross.

So of course I blew it, as I do with all new friends {it's my lifelong curse}. Being completely starstruck (because I've never gotten mail from a famous person before [I would be so pathetic in Hollywood]), I wrote him back. Like an idiot.

And he wrote me back again. A brand new email, with words different from the first!

Yes, I know it was stalker of me to write twice. It's just that I couldn't stop the visions of me and Eddie Ross, arm in arm, scouring the streets of New York for deals on the cheap. "Oh, Eddie Ross, you're such a joker," I would laugh, smiling at my new best friend who would be coming over to redecorate my brownstone apartment from top to bottom later that evening, and he'd show up with a fresh floral arrangement he'd thrown together just for me.

I know. Pathetic. I won't be bothering him anymore, because enough is enough and I know it. In fact, as soon as I sent my googly-eyed second email, I regretted bothering him twice. With his fast-paced life in NYC, I'm sure he's beyond annoyed with me by now.

Photo from Eddie Ross. Naturally.

But he's my new best friend, and I won't rest until I get a personalised invite to one of his amazing dinner parties. (Teasing, Eddie Ross. Just teasting.)

Seriously, though...I will proudly link to his blog on my sidebar, and a little piece of me will be besotted with him until the day I die.

{Hypochondria and Me}

2008-09-23T08:09:00.000-07:00

This is turning out to be the worst birthday week ever.

First, my sister called yesterday and told me that she had been planning on buying me Heather Bailey's Trash Ties™ for months, but now, since I wrote about them on my blog, she's not going to. Because now I'll "never believe that she was going to buy them in the first place." I tried to convince her that yes, I would believe her, but to no avail. I blew it.

I hate when that happens.

Then last night, to drown my sorrows, I ate an entire bag of Peanut Butter M&Ms™, which was a very bad idea indeed. Because not only did I throw off my record of not eating sugar (I'd made it 12 hours!!!), but it gave me a Pain.

That's right. A Pain. I've got a Pain, and nothing I have done has helped. I've tried sleeping. And staying in bed. It was still there when I woke up this wretched morning.

I thought maybe it was just acid reflux, or maybe heartburn, but it isn't anywhere near my heart.

It's right there, under the maple leaf.

What is that, anyway? Did I break a rib? Or my sternum? It only hurts when I'm fully straightened out (i.e. standing up or stretching in bed). Hunching over, or curling into the fetal position, I feel just fine.

According to this diagram, it could be anything.

Photo from here.

Which means I'm going to die. Me and The Pain, in all our misery.

No Trash Ties™, and you're going to die at 22. Happy birthday.

{Flip My Flop}

2008-09-21T13:19:00.000-07:00

I got tagged by HeatherPride some time ago. I never follow all the rules of tags; I only ever write them, but rarely do I pass them on. I'm the kind of kid who ruined the chain letters for everyone else. Sorry everyone. Stop reading my blog if it bothers you that much.

Maybe you already knew...

...but just in case you didn't:

Six Things Which Flip My Flop:

1. I have brushed my teeth in the shower since high school. Saves water. Plus, I like that I can let the toothpastes suds run down my chin in minty rivulets. Kind of like I'm a heathen, except I'm taking a shower so not really.

2. Poor Kyle hates it when I do this. [Not that he's ever seen it happen, because this is a family-friendly blog, and for all intents and purposes, we sleep in two separate twin beds just like Lucy and Ricky did. In fact, he only knows about it because he's reading this post right now.]

3. I wear contact lenses. They are clear, not coloured. My eyesight is so poor, they can't even make coloured lenses that would also help me see. If contact lenses were glasses, mine would resemble those little flip-out dome things (they must have a name!) kids buy for five tickets at Pistol Pete's Pizza. Or a pair of plungers. I wouldn't be able to blink.

4. I find most nursery rhymes and children's songs depressing. "I don't know why she swallowed that fly; perhaps she'll die???" How awful! I had a kamikaze fly enter my ear canal once, and it was terrifying. I can only imagine swallowing one, plus the entire zoo that came afterwards.

5. I eat dill pickles. Daily. With cheese. Cheddar, mozzarella, neufchatel, camembert...any cheese will do. I even eat dill pickles with cheese-flavoured processed snacks, like reduced fat Cheeze-its™ and cheesy rice crackers. Tonight for dinner, Poor Kyle and I had whole dill pickles, chilled, sliced and covered with nacho cheese Doritos™.

Photo from here.

6. Poor Kyle says, "You're pretty sensitive about your travels. It breaks your heart to take any kind of road trip at all--business or pleasure--and not stop to tour every little tiny detail of the area." He's right--it's true. And really, can you blame me? I love places.

And as a bonus, because it's Monday and you probably need a little pick-me-up...

7. I once pepper sprayed myself. [It was not my proudest moment.]

{Call Me Greedy, But Say it Softly}

2008-09-18T20:51:00.000-07:00

***Preface: This post is about birthdays. Specifically mine. I was raised in a family where birthdays were celebrated. I have come to embrace the tradition of celebrating birthdays with loved ones. I like birthday presents. Call me greedy if you want, but say it softly so I can't hear. I don't think presents have to cost any money at all. If Poor Kyle were to simply write me a long, juicy love letter, I would consider myself gifted.

Since I know that would never happen, I wrote this post.***

Every year when my birthday rolls around, I set out to be close-lipped about it. I always want to see who will remember and who will forget. By not mentioning my birthday, I can assess who really loves me and who doesn't. I'm pretty big on martyrdom, in case you haven't noticed.

Unfortunately, I can never make it all the way to my birthday without blabbing to the world, so I never get to find out who my real friends are. I may never know.

This year is no different.

My birthday is coming up next week. I'll be turning 22. [I kind of chuckle to myself when I realise that I'm turning 22, because most people I associate with are significantly older than me. Even the kids I went to school with are all turning 23 this year. I kind of have it in my head that everyone who reads this blog is older than me, and wiser to boot. So when I come to conclusions about marriage and money and life in general, I always feel like I'm the last one to know.]

Anyway, despite all my efforts not to remind Poor Kyle of my upcoming day, I have a niggling doubt in the back of my mind: "What if he actually does forget? How will I respond? This is the first birthday he's ever been faced with as my husband--what if he totally embarrasses himself?"

Not wanting to answer any of those potentially dangerous questions, I decided I'd better make sure he remembers. So for the past few weeks, I've been mentioning it.

And I'm easy to please, for sure. In fact, I've gone so far as to flat-out tell him things I would like for my birthday. None of them are expensive or out of our budget, because--though I do think birthdays should be celebrated--it's not worth breaking the bank.

Any of the following items would make me a very happy birthday person indeed:

1. The best chapstick I've ever used. I've gone through three tubes and am due for another. Highly recommended (along with Burt's Bee's Pomegranate, my second-favourite).

Image from here.

2. Heather Bailey's Trash Ties. One set of long, one set of short. I've been intrigued by these since before they became available, but they're more costly than I would spend normally on hair dohickies. As far as birthday presents go, however, they're pretty cheap.

Image from here.

3. A self-hosted blog. What a nice gift from Poor Kyle this would be. It may or may not be in the works right now. Stay tuned for more [or no] details.

4. A stipend to paint my kitchen. The purple walls are cramping my style, and I think I've finally picked a colour I like. I've got the time, I've got the vision...now all I need is the cash flow. Maybe once it's decorated how I'd like, I can finally post photos of my house and put Jami's curious mind to rest.

Twenty-two is coming soon. Let's hope he doesn't blow it.

{Good Things Come in Reds.}

2008-09-17T15:26:00.001-07:00

A couple of weeks before I got married to Poor Kyle, I went to Canada for a little visit. You know, just to make sure that I really wanted to take the proverbial plunge.

While I was visiting, my husband-to-be took me to sign up for a cell phone on his account. [Some might call me a money-grubbing woman of the night. Others might say Poor Kyle was my sugar daddy. But the way I figured it, we were getting married in a few weeks, and I needed a Canadian cell phone number. It only made sense.]

It was a lovely new phone—all shiny and red, just like most everything else I buy...

...like these twins...

...and these twins.

[Owning a pair of Steve Maddens has always been a goal of mine. The fact that my first pair were shiny, red, and on sale...it was fate. But I digress.]

Right away, I took the phone home and sat down with the manual, determined to figure out what all the buttons and cords and icons meant. I turned it on, and to my delight, realized that Poor Kyle had already left me a voicemail. (Little did I know that once we got married, his voicemails would almost immediately turn from “Hello, gorgeous—I know I just saw you five minutes ago but I just wanted to hear your voice,” to “Cuhmeal, where are you? I called twice already. Listen, I need you to bring me something for lunch—I forgot it again. Also, could you put my black hoodie in the wash today? I know you already did seven loads yesterday, but it’s my favourite hoodie. Oh. And I’ll be late for dinner—don’t wait up.” Oh, to be young again…)

Hardly being able to contain my joy at finding a new message, I pressed and held “1” to retrieve it, assuming that—along with every other cell phone I'd ever owned—voicemail was pre-programmed into the phone as speed dial #1.

It rang once, but instead of connecting me straight to the Voicemail Lady, it continued to ring a few more times. Suddenly, I heard a voice.

“Hello?” it greeted. He sounded about my age, and with a Canadian accent. He was no recording.

“Umm…hello? Is this…is this my voicemail?” I was dumbfounded. Surely it was a joke. Were Canadian voicemail systems set up with actual humans? “Is this guy sitting in a call center somewhere taking messages for me?” I wondered.

“Uhhh…pardon me?” came his equally perplexed--though very polite--reply.

Finally coming to my senses and realizing I must have simply dialed incorrectly, I apologized and hung up. I was so flustered, I didn’t even wait for him to say goodbye.

I checked my “Sent Calls” menu, and found that I’d just made a call to a number I didn’t recognize [and not just because I'd gotten a new phone number myself]. “How odd,” I thought, “I’d better try that again.”

Sure enough, the second time I tried to call my voicemail, I was met with the same human guy. Luckily, though, I [sort of] had the presence of mind to explain myself.

“I’m really sorry to keep bothering you,” I apologized. “I’m not an idiot. It’s just…I got this new cell phone today, and I’m trying to check my voicemails, but for some reason my phone thinks its phone number is you.” Even to myself, I sounded like a fool.

“Oh, sure,” he replied understandingly, as if that sort of thing happened all the time. [And as if I actually made sense.] “Well…I hope you get it figured out.” And then, in parting, “Talk to you later.”

Hanging up, I decided two things: One, that I had just made a new friend whose name I forgot to catch, and two, that Poor Kyle would know what to do. So I called him next.

“Hey, babe,” he answered.

“Hi. Hey, so a few minutes ago I saw I’d gotten a new voicemail, so I went to check it, but instead of the Voicemail Lady answering, it was a guy. And at first I thought he was my own personal assistant, but then I just realized my phone thinks its phone number is his, and now I have a new friend. He’s the guy whose number my phone stole, and we’re friends. What should I do?”

He didn’t believe me of course, until he saw it for himself later.

We still haven’t gotten the problem fixed, and it’s been a nuisance the entire time I’ve had this phone. I can’t text Google™, for one. Rather, I can text Google™, but Google™ thinks my cell phone is the other guy’s number, so Google™ replies to him. It took me nine months to figure out why Google™ never texts me back; I can only imagine how strange it’s been for my friend to receive random texts from Google™ these past nine months. Things like “Definition of onomatopoeia,” and “Linens ‘N Things. 1235 S. Arizona Ave. Mesa, AZ 85679 (602) 898-1234.”

Sometimes when I’m in a hurry and try to check my messages quickly, I forget my broken speed dial. When that happens, and my friend answers, I always chuckle. “Oh, hi. It’s me again—that girl whose phone is struggling with an identity crisis. Sorry to bother you.”

“Oh, no bother,” he assures, the smile in his voice transmitting itself over the telephone signal. “Talk to you later.”

I really like my nice friend--it's almost like we're pen pals, but without the pens. Maybe someday I'll get to meet him.

And Then I Was Faced With My Day of Reckoning.

2008-09-15T19:12:00.000-07:00

We always knew this day would come.

It was inevitable, I suppose. Poor Kyle bought a house (our current little love shack) back in September of 2006. Now, two years later, the cable company has finally figured out that the past owners have moved.

And just like that, I’m cut off. Life, I tell ya…it can turn on a dime.

Was it dishonest of us? Well…it’s kind of a gray area along the Spectrum of Morality. The real dishonesty was that the previous owners didn’t call to have it disconnected. Scoundrels, all of them. The fact that neither Poor Kyle nor I ever had time in our busy lives to remedy a mistake we didn’t even make…that’s a sin of omission, at worst.

At any rate, there’s a difference between accepting blessings (free cable was undeniably a blessing [while it lasted, anyway.]), and actually pirating those blessings for oneself. And I’ve never made much of a pirate.

Obviously.

Someday, I will be rich enough to afford cable of my own accord. That will be a very joyful day indeed.

But until then… Goodbye Mike Holmes from Holmes on Homes. I almost loved you.

Photo from here.

Goodbye So You Think You Can Dance Canada—your first episode was a delight. If these Canadians know what's good for them, I'm sure you’ll be a big hit. Goodbye Divine Design with Candace Olsen, and Take This House and Sell It with Lisa LaPorter, and Design Inc. with that Sarah person. Sarah person, I wish I could see how your new house and baby’s nursery turns out. Goodbye Location, Location, Location, and Relocation, Relocation—two shows that each have the same delightful British hosts and are essentially exactly the same. I will never know the difference between you two, but I will always remember that we had a good thing going.

Photo from here.

And now, with our Wii out for “servicing,” I’m left to my own pathetic devices. Our DVD collection is rather scarce—well, maybe not scarce, but it’s scarcely decent. I can only take so much of Dumb and Dumber, Wayne’s World, and Tommy Boy before I decide a torture chamber is a better alternative.

(Sigh.) Anyone read any good books lately?

Birth Control and What I'd Do if it Ever Failed Me.

2008-09-11T21:42:00.000-07:00

I believe that children should come into this world being highly anticipated by their parents. Of course, accidents can happen, and who am I to judge? No one. I am, however, a girl who knows that she is not--in any way, shape or form--ready to be a mother. If I were to get pregnant unexpectedly right now, I would feel so sorry for my unborn fetus, because I do not think I could be joyful and excited to birth it. (To BIRTH it. BIRTH. Sounds wretched.)

Someday I will be ready to have children, and when that day comes, I will be as hopeful and expectant as any mother likely is. I will nest. I will read "What to Expect When You're Expecting" (a title which should be underlined but Blogger won't let me). I will go to LaMaze and La Leche League and LaMommy-and-Me prep classes. When I am ready.

But for now, I take very great care not to let any of my defenseless little eggs get fertlised. That's how we roll, the eggs and me.

So with no further ado...

Q [from Anonymous]: So what ARE your birth control plans?

A [from me]: I am taking a prescription birth control pill called Yasmin. I like it, second only to the prescription I was on back in the states [it was a similar pill called Yaz, but the "off" pills were only three in number. Which meant the "off" days were three or fewer. Which was a marvelous thing indeed]. But they don't make Yaz in Canada--just Yasmin. The only difference is that the white pills--or the "off" days--are an entire seven. Which is four more than three. Which is the kind of math that can get your head chewed off if you bring it up during The Week of the White Pills.

Poor Kyle--he knows to beware of the Week of the White Pills. Poor, poor Kyle.

I won't complain, though, because my meds up here cost me $10.00 for a three month supply, whereas in Arizona I was paying upwards of $50.00 each month. But that was my fault because I dropped out of college and could no longer qualify for student insurance. I'm a black sheep like that.

Anyway, Yasmin is a nice little drug that I gleefully pump into my body every night before bed. I did all the research my little brain could tolerate, and I decided the pill was the choice for me. I might have preferred the Depo Provera shot, if not for the fact that I would rather get pregnant than get shots--and that's saying a lot. And please...don't even get me started on those nasty things that stay up in people's bodies for months on end. I...cannot...fathom. Ever. Never ever ever.

But to each her own.

Q [from Camille Elise]: Hmm...If you ever have kids, how many do you want? And would you ever consider having them at home, in say, a bathtub?

A [from me]: Four. And if there is any way I can figure out to have one sets of quadruplets or two sets of twins, I would absolutely take it. The way I figure it, I can completely hole myself inside my house for four years until at least one of my kids started school--and every year following would just get better. Then again, what do I know? My older sister, a new parent herself, tells me that this is the stupidest idea she's ever heard. And she's pretty clever, so I am probably wrong.

I would never have my children in a bathtub. I might consider having one in an Aqua Doula™, though--it's a child birthing spa! Ooh, la la!

But I intend to have at least my first child (assuming I can't get all four at once, because I could never be so lucky) at the local hospital, such as it is. Because, as I believe with my contraceptives, if the drugs are there, I want them.

If, however, my first birthing (ugh. BIRTHING. Sounds right awful) experience is negative, I would consider trying a home birth. The smart way. The Cristin way [i.e., with a licensed, experienced midwife there as guidance and a life-preserver]. When I read her post about her experience with a home birth, I remember thinking, "Wow. That really does sound nice. Being able to sleep in my own bed just a little while after having a kid? Good deal."

But who wants to think about birth plans now? Not me. I'm only sayin' 'cause you asked.

{I Put the Ab in Abnormal.}

2008-09-10T23:25:00.000-07:00

This is the last day of my laying low-ness. Tomorrow I'll be back in the proverbial saddle, blogging five days a week again. Tomorrow my big sister--and all her entertaining distractions--will be gone, along with my sweet-face baby nephew.

Life will resume as normal.

Except I kind of forgot what "normal" is for me.

It seems this entire summer, the only thing that's stayed constant is that I haven't.

Take jogging. All winter, my excuse for not exercising was because of all the snow and ice outside my warm cozy house. Exercising in the winter gives me the whooping cough. But the coming of summer didn't really do anything for me. At all. I am no more in shape now than last year. Probably worse, actually.

I've been bouncing around the continent from week to week, never in the same place: Oregon, Washington, Utah, Idaho, Arizona, British Columbia. I think over 50% of this summer has been spent not here.

I even tried getting into the habit of making my bed every day, but there's nothing consistent there. Sometimes Poor Kyle stays in bed after a long run to Oregon and back, and by the time he's up, I'm ready to sleep again. My bed can go unmade for days at a time, despite my good intentions.

Even changing it from this...

...to this...

...didn't provide the motivation I need.

So how am I supposed to know my routine, if the constant in my life is change? I have no routine. My days are lived based on my current whims.

I guess it's back to that, then.

I know it's Thursday and I'm supposed to answer questions a question, but I'm going to do it tomorrow. Guaranteed it will be good [a nice discussion of birth control is in order, I believe], but it's September 11th today. I wanted to write something different.

On this day in 2001, I was a shiny new Sophomore in high school, and America seemed to be changing forever. Even though I did not have direct relatives or friends in New York, my almost-fifteen year-old self could sense that times were strange. Times did change, and have changed continually since that day. It seems for me, and all the world, the only constant anymore...is change.

What's in a Name? A Million Different Selves.

2008-09-07T11:00:00.000-07:00

I don't really have a nickname.

When I was in 6th grade (grade 6, Canadians!), I decided "Camille" was a nasty name, and I'd much prefer to be called "Cammie." I got my entire class in on it--teacher and all--and was quite sure that my future as "Cammie" was bright and empowering.

Me captured in my element, chopping down a Christmas tree when I was 12, during the height of my "Cammie" self.

Until I got to 7th grade and met a whole slew of Cammie/Cammy/Kami girls. Suddenly, my new personality--in its entirety--seemed less like me and more like everybody else. I had to go back to Camille.

But shortening "Camille" is a difficult task--"Cam" is rather masculine, and I'd already ruled out the "Cammie" bit. "Mi" sounded too much like something from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and "Mille" was out of the question.

But I can't help the fact that most everyone in my family calls me "Millie." Not just that; it's "Millie," "Millie Vanilli," and--in my sister's case--simply "Mill."

For aunts and uncles, my parents and grandparents, this is perfectly normal. But if anybody else--friends, in-laws, anonymous commenters--called me "Millie..." It is not pretty. The first boyfriend I ever had tried to call me "Millie" on more than one occasion, which effectively ruined his chance with me, because it made me feel like I was dating an uncle. And who wants to marry their uncle? (Okay, I did want to marry one uncle once upon a time, but I was really little then--I haven't wanted to marry him since I was 5 or 6.)

So don't call me "Millie," or any version of the name. I would have to then stop blogging so as not to ruin my relationship with any of you non-relatives.

Oh. And also? Evidently there is more than one way to pronounce my name. I've always called myself "Camille" as in "cuh*mill." It wasn't until I was 18 or 19 that I realised some people pronounce it "cuh*meal." Yeah. And I never knew, until I moved to Canada and people started asking me if I prefered Cuhmill or Cuhmeal, and I was like, "Oh, I have that option? Cool." I stuck with Cuhmill.

So if you ever meet me...whatever. Like anyone cares about this. I don't even care. Someone, please...give me something to write about. I'm grasping at straws here.

I Wonder How Many Readers I'll Estrange in Writing This Post?

2008-09-04T22:32:00.000-07:00

Sorry I've been on the down-low lately.

My sister is here to visit me. She's brought along her husband (good guy) and child (even better). We've been having more fun than any family should be allowed to have. I won't post pictures quite yet, because we haven't taken one, or any. But I will--I promise.

Suffice it to say that I may or may not be posting much for the next few days. But I'll be back--I always come back.

Oh, and I might as well answer a question, since I'm here and all...

Question, From RatalieNose [one of my most favourite blog readers]: Camille, if you were still living in the U.S. which presidential candidate would you be voting for?

Picture from here.

Answer, from Me: Barack Obama. And I am still voting, because I'm an American citizen even if I've moved far far away. I'm allowed.

[Now all of you can debate in the comment section as to whether or not I'm telling the truth. Remember I come from Mesa, Arizona and I also have a penchant for sh*t disturbing.]

Going House.

2008-09-01T23:12:00.000-07:00

I'm in Canada. That's where I live, you know. Even if it still doesn't quite feel like home.

When I go to Arizona, I am going to a place that has known, loved and embraced me since the day I was born. Where the proverbial everybody knows my name. In returning to ay-zee, I'm returning to a state of normalcy. A state of comfort. A state of mind. The 48th state. It has five Cs and cacti and my life history.

So when I head for Arizona, I head for home. Which means my trip back to Canada can only be going house. Going house-with-purple-walls-that-retain-a-funny-smell-from-the-last-guys-who-lived-here, if we're being technical.

But how can I call it going house, when my husband, Poor Kyle, lives here and waits patiently for me to return? It's not just house to him...it's his home. And They say that home is where the heart is, but my poor little heart is divided so many times, it feels like I only have one tiny ventricle to dedicate to Canada. I mean...Paris, London, Brussels, New York, San Fran...every place I've visited, I've left a piece of my heart behind.

All of this thinking is bad for the brain, so let's just move on.

The good news is: August is over and September has arrived in all its Autumn glory! And I do love September. I was born in September, and this month I'll be turning 22, which looks like such a small little number all typed up. Even though when I was a kid, 22 might as well've been 88, because who can possibly fathom life in their twenties as a 10 year-old? When I was 10, I thought my 22 year-old self would look something like this:

Good thing I have another 10 years before my face morphs*. Heaven help me when I'm 30 {tongue-in-cheek, people...tongue in cheek}.

Also, good thing I'm still just almost-22.

So I like September mostly because it's the month of my birth, but also for these fantastic reasons.

The bad news is, when I was growing up, September signified the oncoming months of sweater-weather, when I could finally stop wearing bras to school because who notices perkiness under oversized hoodies, anyway? But now that I've moved north of the 49th parallel, September signifies the oncoming months of THIS PLACE IS EFFING COLD.

Because as I type this, it is 36 degrees Faranheit outside, and we have our heater turned on. Our heater. Turned on. In September. {Actually, Poor Kyle wanted to fire it up a few days ago, but man-made heat in the month of August goes against everything I hold dear.}

Unreal.

*Photo courtesy of this place.

{A Lesson in Self-Assertion}

2008-08-28T00:59:00.000-07:00

Question, from Anonymous: "Though you often [don't you mean 'always,' Anonymous?] speak entertainingly, with typically appropriate grammar, almost always correctly spelled, sometimes you do speak unkindly. Likely the reason the Mayberry story was never reposted.
My question is this; did someone close to you ask for it's removal, or was it your own conscience..moment of clarity...some kind of personal improvement, that has never brought it back, in spite of the pleading voices of so many?"

Answer, from me: This is an interesting question, and obviously written by a long-time reader of AoOL. For anybody new here, I’ll give a brief history: I wrote a post earlier this year. It was an opinionated essay about a topic which was not directly related to me. Some people thought it was none of my business and that I had no right to write what I did. I made some people mad. And when I was confronted, I found myself wussing out like a child in trouble, rather than standing up for myself and my opinions (which were, incidentally, totally warranted and right [hey, it's my blog!]). After the minor confrontation, I was prevailed upon to delete the post known as "Mayberry." Hurt feelings and all that. Since I am such a passive-aggressive person when it comes to confrontation (hello! I write a blog! It's how I vent my frustrations with society with little chance of negative repercussions!), I removed the published post. [And also, I’m a coward.]

I instantly regretted taking it off my blog. Because I should have principles, and besides, I’m rarely wrong. I should have just said, "I'm sorry you have let your feelings become hurt. You misunderstood my words so badly, there is no way you could possibly understand what I actually meant by them. But I meant no ill, and I make a point of never apologising for things I write. Ciao." Good thing I have had months to re-think it, because if it ever happens again...well...

Anyway, not realizing that Blogger would fully delete the well-written and profoundly “me” (if I do say so myself) post, I mourned its loss immensely. But it was too late—Mayberry was gone forever.

So, Anonymous, you ask if there has been any huge personal improvement? The answer is no—I’m as good as I’ll ever be. To tell you the truth, if I had a backup of the controversial post in my email inbox, I would almost surely re-post it here for all the world to see. As the lyrics of a popular song go, "I’m not mean—people are just too sensitive." (But I would never say that to someone’s face, because hello! Chicken!)

{The Longest Post Ever Written About the Shortest Relationship Which Never Happened}

2008-08-27T01:00:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time in 2005, there was this guy I never dated.

We didn't date for about a month.

It went something like this: first I sort of thought liked him but then he grew a beard and started wooing me [or so I thought] and even though facial hair makes me think itchy thoughts, I was seduced against my will [and better judgment], but then as soon as I started liking him again, he realised he'd won the game and moved on with his life. All before I had a chance to fully pick apart my own feelings on the matter, so in other words...

...drama.

And he is the most exasperating guy I never dated. His name is Brad but don't expect to ever see it spelled that way; he much prefers "bRAD." And when he types, his sentences look something like this: "taking caRe of Aged granDparents" or "snoRings mAke noisy sounDs" or "dRinking root beer tAstes gooD." I suppose he thinks life's more rad that way...

Anyway, in most situations, I would never see such a person again. Unfortunately for me, I have a dear friend who lives in his same house, so avoiding Brad is completely out of the question. The good news is, we have both successfully blocked that month out of our conscious memories, so seeing him on occasion is much less awkward than one might think. [I actually like him as a human now more than I ever did when we weren't dating.]

The point of this post is not to dredge up old memories or make Poor Kyle feel jealous. [Making Poor Kyle feel jealous is nigh on impossible. He just doesn't have the jealous gene. It's kind of infuriating sometimes.] The point is...

...discussing people with multiple personality disorders. A problem from which, though not yet diagnosed, I am quite certain Brad suffers.

See, throughout the month when I wasn't dating Brad, I learned a lot about him--all of the different hims. There would be times--wake boarding or taking photos or speaking Hungarian or just being a decent kind of fellow--when he really was rad:

That's Rad Brad on the left, being normal and, well...rad-ish.

Other times, though, Rad Brad would be sullen and distant, deep immersed in thoughts I could only assume were morbidly over-analytical. Suddenly, the Rad Brad we all knew and admired turned into a very distressed Sad Brad:

The anguish in his eyes is as obvious as the weight I've gained since my wedding--there's absolutely no hiding it.

His personality could change at a moments' notice, for absolutely no reason I could see. One time I asked Rad Brad (who, in retrospect, was probably actually Sad Brad at that particular moment) a question about the relationship we didn't have, and he said coldly, "You have just reminded me of all the reasons I never wanted to date girls. Thank you." And that's when I realised there also existed a Mad Brad:

A very mad Brad indeed.

The good news is, all of the bad Brads have started to give way to the very best Brad--Glad Brad. He tries to fight it, but I--in my infinite wisdom--can see it peeking through more frequently these days. And I'm pretty sure he's not on drugs, which means he's getting better all by his own sheer determination. Good job, all you Brads! It used to be that Glad Brad only appeared when his nephew was around, but perhaps the Brads' hearts are being softened as of late. He has even commented (and with kind words! [even if he is just trying to be extra nice because he suspects I'll be blogging about him soon {which day of reckoning has finally come}]) on some of my most recent posts here at Archives of Our Lives. For whatever the reason, I'm happy he's becoming the best version of himself:

And that's the raddest news of all.

Except maybe the news that he takes good pictures and started his own website (before me, dang it all). Once I had a Brad Burnham original framed and sitting on my dresser, but I tossed it long ago [not because it wasn't lovely]. So when he becomes famous, I can tell people I threw away a million-dollar photograph. And that's saying something. But I digress. Do swing by and check it out [after all, lending him more traffic is the least I can do for writing this post about himselves]--he sells his work, and if I ever decide to purchase one of his pieces, it would be this: the one I like to call "Finding Faith Against a Yellow Wall."

*Photos courtsey of bradburnhamphotography.com. Thanks to all the Brads.

Save My Soul and I'll Throw In a Kitty.

2008-08-26T00:47:00.000-07:00

I do not like cats.

If you like cats, I may or may not still like you. I have several friends whose families own cats...and I love those friends dearly. But...show me too many pictures you've taken with your cats on Christmas, or send me too many emails about the "cute" things your cat does when she's in heat, and it is a serious possibility that we'll never be close friends at all.

Here are my reasons:

1. Every cat I have ever met has seemed so...sneaky. Let's get one thing straight: I do not act like I like cats when I am around them. I don't pretend to care about my friends' cats. No, I am not necessarily openly hostile to other people's pets [much as I would like to kick every little tigger I see to the next side of Timbuktu], but neither do I put on false airs of loving the creatures. I mostly ignore them when I see them. Why, then, do cats feel the need to sneak up behind me, uninvited, and slink between my ankles, tickling my legs with their fuzzy fuzzy hair? They make no noise (unlike dogs whose claws at least clickety-clack on tile floor), so I am always caught unaware. And I am always left feeling suspicious of these felines' motives. Sneaky.

2. Cats are takers; they will take as much as they can out of any relationship, and rarely give anything in return. Obviously, I realise that few animals have much to offer any person by way of material goods...but one would think a cat could at least show its owner an occasional inkling of gratitude. Heck, even the humblest of dogs can understand the importance of a simple tail-wag. Instead, though, I have observed that, after they have taken all they can, cats only retreat further into their self-absorbed little lives. Never openly willing to show affection, cats remind me of some of the worst dates of my life. Maybe that's why I can barely tolerate them.

3. Those pictures. They annoy me more than I could possibly express through the written word.

Image from here.

So if I am so vehement in my dislike of cats, why do I feel so sad for the poor little homeless wretch (read: kitten) that has taken up residence in my sister's backyard wood pile? [Oh yeah--I'm in Arizona. Good guesses, everyone!] I mean it when I say I do not care for cats. But this one...she has meowed and meowed at the back door for the past three nights, and even though it is a hideous, wretched sound, I kind of feel...sad for it.

This cat is free to a good home. Or a bad home. Heck, it can be a whorehouse for all I care.

"Meow...meow...MEOW!!!" she whines, and all I can think is how lonely it must be out there. She is, after all, just a kitten. Plus, she has a little belt-looking collar, so she belongs to someone, and I would probably appreciate it if I were in the owner's position.

Staring straight at me, as though there is something I can do for her.

I still haven't fed her, because I am entrenched in a deep internal battle between everything I stand for and everything that's right [and no, those two things don't always match up]. But honestly, I don't know how this cat is still alive after an entire week of this. I don't want it to die...I just want it out of my life.

I cannot make decisions like this. What should I do? Anybody lost a cat out there? Or...does anybody want to save this one's life? Because my sister is ready to put a little bowl of antifreeze out there for the dang thing, and try as I might, I cannot feel good about this.

Seriously though. Free kitty. Anyone? Anyone?

{Guess My Secret and Win a Prize}

2008-08-25T06:00:00.000-07:00

I have a secret.

It has to do with this...

and this...

It might have happened on this goodly day of the week...

Or perhaps sooner.

Any guesses?

{My Lifelong Problem with Kiosk Vultures at the Mall}

2008-08-22T00:09:00.001-07:00

I'm extremely non-confrontational by nature. Learning to stick up for myself is something I struggle with almost constantly, even now. As a child, getting in trouble was one of my biggest fears. When faced with confrontation, not only does my heart start pounding and my ears start ringing, but I break out into rash-y looking hives on my neck and cheeks.

That's why it is no surprise I hate the kiosks at the mall.

And really, I cannot fault people for trying to find meaningful work. Heck, it's more than I can boast for myself, and that's the truth.

But riddle me this: Why--why--must those dadgum kiosk workers at the mall be such vultures?

All I wanted was a salted pretzel from Auntie Anne's, but the route was heavily guarded by three different dreaded kiosks: one for Swarovski crystal-bejeweled hair clips, one peddling mineral face powders, and another--much more threatening than the others--vending cell phones.

Image from here.

"No, it isn't worth it," I decide. I could forgo food forever if it meant I never had to walk past another Kiosk Vulture.

There's always a slight chance of survival if shopping with another person, because at least then I have someone with whom to conspire, "Quick! Look right into my eyes and talk to me about something really important..."

But even that doesn't always work if the Kiosk Vultures catch my eye before "really important" conversation can begin.

photo courtesy of Chris Gregerson

cgstock.com Stock Photography

"Hey, ladies," I hear from ten feet to my left. I can't ignore it. Try as I might, I cannot walk by without acknowledging the person who I know was talking to me. But that look--that one tiny glance and slight little nod--is cause for certain capture. Every time I think I can smile and walk on by...

...and every time that same maddening voice in my head screams, "How can you be so rude? He was talking to you! You were raised better than this--you cannot treat this human being like dirt."

Of course, my one tiny glance and slight little nod are all the Kiosk Vultures need to ask more questions--questions I can hardly ignore: What cell phone service do I have? Do my hands feel dry? Do I like free things? Would I care for a sample?

Telus™; surprisingly; of course; yes, thanks. I have to answer--I don't know how I couldn't.

But why? Why are they shouting at me? Why do these people think it's okay to yell inconsequential questions at me from across the corridors of the mall? In what other situation is it acceptable to yell at a complete stranger, "HELLO! DO YOU HAVE STAINS ON YOUR LIVING ROOM CARPET?!" I fail to see how it's any of your business, fellow human being. Especially since there is no way I would ever purchase wares from a Kiosk Vulture--it goes against everything I stand for.

And in these difficult times, the problems is only getting worse. Now, with 20-minute teeth whitening and remote-control helicopters and hermit crabs and sarongs/scarfs/headwraps and 100% UVA/UVB sunglasses and vintage portraitry and Crocs™ and VitaChangeYourLifeForeverMineralJuiceOfTheUniverse and genuine leather luggage tags and *take a breath* Seaweed-Kelp Body Butter...

...is nothing sacred?

Time to Talk About Me Some More.

2008-08-21T09:05:00.000-07:00

Guess what? I have a secret. But I'm not going to tell anyone what it is until tomorrow. Chew on that for a while.

Meanwhile, I believe it's Thursday all over this hemisphere, and that means it's time for me to answer a question.

Here's one from Cristin:

Do people in your everyday life know you have a blog?

Cristin, this is a very applicable question. All of my family (immediate, in-laws, extended, way-extended, and beyond) know I have a blog, as well as anybody who is my friend on Facebook. I have inadvertently offended some of them on my blog—that is NEVER my intention, despite what people might think. Despite my efforts, however, my blog has become a source of contention between me and several people I love. I’ve learned how careful I ought to be.

As far as my town, Mayberry—I don’t think any Mayberrians knows about my blog. I don’t know any people closely enough for them to even suspect I have a blog.

If anybody in Mayberry DOES know about Archives of Our Lives, I am in big trouble. This is why, if I ever write an award-winning, best-selling novel, I will publish it under a fantastic pen name [which I have already created]. I will only ever reveal myself to Oprah, and even that is dependent upon whether she allows me as a guest on her “Winter Favourite Things” episode.

I suppose I should live my life--and write my blog--in such a manner that would never leave me looking over my shoulder, wondering who has read the latest post. That's probably safest, really...

Meh. Who am I kidding? That would never work for me.

What about you? Do you have a blog of your own? And if so, how do you feel about your friends, family, and acquaintances knowing?

I Wonder How Many Angels Had to Die in the Making of This Bed?

2008-08-18T17:42:00.000-07:00

I never knew how much I needed to have a beautiful bed in my life...

I never knew how big a difference existed between average sheets...and lovely sheets...

I never realised that seven pillows on a bed--ridiculous though they are--could soothe me to sleep...

A headboard never seemed all that necessary before--let alone a foot board to match...

Let's just say...

I've never lived until now.

Headboard/Footboard: $30.00 from Craigslist.

Extra brackets on bed frame so headboard would stop squeaking: Free labour.
Bed skirt, sheets, pillow cases, duvet, duvet cover, quilt, and one million pillows we'll never use: Gift from mother in law.

Sleeping like a queen for the rest of my life: About $250.00, all said and done.

*[Bet you thought I was going to say "Priceless," huh?]*

There's No Such Thing as Edward and Bella

2008-08-18T08:15:00.000-07:00

I just finished reading that book. My initial reaction--before being swayed by all the vicious reviews, was that it was clever and witty. [My favourite part was the titles of the 'Jacob' chapters, specifically, “What do I look Like? The Wizard of Oz? You need a brain? You need a heart? Go ahead. Take mine. Take everything I have.” I wish I’d thought of that.]

But I didn’t think of it, and I haven't written a best-selling series, and to make myself feel better about my own mediocrity, I criticised the main characters’ extreme implausibility. No, not their everlasting youth and beauty—I’m convinced that immortality really is possible, and beauty to boot. Rather, I found myself gagging at the bliss of it all—a ga-ga plot line which, in my opinion, was a bit far-fetched.

So the perfect Edward can't read Bella's steel-trap mind. Big deal.

Guess what? Poor Kyle can’t read my mind, either. Which is why we have conversations like this:

PK: That’s a nice sunset.

Me: Yeah, it's beautiful.

PK: …

Me: He's being so quiet. Maybe he’s remembering how much I love sunsets in Arizona. He probably doesn’t want to say anything about it because he thinks it will make me miss home—he doesn’t want to upset me. How sweet. Or maybe he’s not saying anything because he thinks I whine about home too much, and he can’t stomach another word about Arizona. What a jerk. I mean, I moved all the way to Canada just to be with this guy, and he can’t even call his lawyer to set up an appointment to get my immigration paperwork finished and sent off, so it’s not MY fault I can’t go to school yet, or get a job. And okay, I COULD be teaching piano lessons, but I just haven’t had time to print out a flyer for it yet, even though I actually do very little all day, as people seem to think. Nevermind that the house is not very clean—I’ve started making the bed, at least. And our printer’s out of ink anyway. Next time I go back to Arizona and people ask me, “How’s married life?” I’m going to tell them it’s totally overrated for a nag like me.

PK: Wouldn’t it be cool if we could stack eight flatbeds on top of one goose-neck trailer, tow it behind this big white Ford™, and hook up all the lights to work?
Me: I suppose you'd like me to get right on that, wouldn’t you? You’re a real piece of work, you know that?

PK: Huh?

Baffling, isn't it? The way my mind works, bouncing from one absurd conclusion to the next. By the end of our trip to North Dakota, I'd done two things: finished reading "Breaking Dawn" by Stephenie Meyer, and realised that Poor Kyle has never loved me at all.

{This Place Reminds Me of Somewhere I've Been Before.}

2008-08-14T07:20:00.000-07:00

I'm in Fargo.

Which is a fancy way of saying, "Meh."

Photo from here. And I drove past this historic theatre on my quest to find a place to lay my head.

Inasmuch as I've just been in a vehicle (albeit the plush leather passenger seat of the Ford F-[I-Forgot-The-Number]-50) for 17 hours, I'm kind of tired.

Hopefully I'll have time to explore this historic city, and then we'll see about writing a real question-answering post.

Also, today marks the 200th post I've written (201 if you count the deleted "Mayberry). Congratulate me if you will, but only because I've stuck with it this long--not because I've changed the world or even slightly altered it.

Someday...

{Communism at its Finest}

2008-08-13T07:12:00.000-07:00

How important is it that what we see on television--or in movies--is real and unaltered?

Me? I don't care too much. When I go to watch Lord of the Rings, I fully anticipate special effects, digital supplements, and all manner of enhancements to make the actual finished product more effective than it would have otherwise been.

We live in a digital age--a time when images we see on screen or in print are rarely left unadulterated. The mainstream population of the world seems to acknowledge this--even embrace it, rewarding designers and filmmakers for best visual effects.

Why, then, does this story seem to rub so many--myself included--the wrong way?

China's opening ceremony was beautiful, as I have already noted. Sure, there were some digital "tweaks," like those massive firework footprints racing throughout Beijing, but that's not what bothers me. What annoys me is that Chinese officials knowingly allowed this little girl, Yang Peiyi:

Photo from here.

to sing "Ode to the Motherland" into a microphone, probably hidden away behind some curtain backstage. Meanwhile, while her visual counterpart, Lin Miaoke:

Photo from here.

lip-synced the song for the world the night of the opening ceremonies.

I thought this sort of thing was over and done when Singin' in the Rain came out in 1952. I mean, are we that superficial a world? Honestly?

It's already bad enough for these poor little Chinese girls as it is: they are most likely the sole child in their family, since Chinese women are allowed, by law, to have one child only. And inasmuch as they are girls, they are already considered slightly unwanted by Chinese standards. Now, added to the pressure of making their parents' one shot worthwhile, the girls are being taught that they fall short of their country's standard of perfection.

I can see how it happened...

"Well, Yang Peiyi, there's no doubt about it: you've got a great set of lungs. Unfortunately for you, you're not much of a looker. Your haircut is rather square, isn't it? And those teeth have got to go. How about you give the government your best efforts--your voice--and we'll take care of the rest? That's right...you just stand right over there, behind the stereos and equipment all night. Make sure nobody sees you...Hu Jintao forbid."

And to Lin Miaoke...

"Lin, you sure are a pretty little thing, aren't you? Unfortunately for you, your singing resembles a pack of cats in heat, so here's what we're going to do: You just go put on this fancy new dress...that's right, dear. Remember to suck in, and make sure your mother puts your hair in pigtails--that's what the people want to see..."

In the end, I don't know which girl I feel worse for. On one hand, Yang Peiyi is learning that despite her very best efforts, she may never receive recognition for her successes. On the other hand, Lin Miaoke is being taught that, even with nothing to merit her, a pretty face is worth more than hard work or refining talents.

Sucking the best out of everyone's lives and giving it all towards the support of one's government... Call it Socialism, call it Communism...at the end of the day, it disgusts me. It's one thing to have a single lawnmower for an entire neighborhood, with every family using it only as needed. It's quite another to make one little girl give up her voice--and another one give up her face--in the pursuit of perfection for the onlooking world.

I'm so thankful that the red of my country's flag is also merged with white and blue.

And I Wonder Why I Can't Run a Marathon...

2008-08-12T08:24:00.000-07:00

Because if I would stop watching the Olympics and get off the couch, maybe I could win a gold medal, too. Even if it was in something silly, like women's air rifle or table tennis. But I'm not and I won't, and let's not get carried away with what-ifs. Instead, watch these commercials and see if some of them don't make you cry. [If you're reading this at work, I'm sorry, but probably you should wait until you get home for the day.]

The Top Ten Reasons You Should Watch the Olympics

10. This commercial, even though the mass of arms and bodies makes me feel uncomfortable in a "Little Mermaid" kind of way:

9. This commercial, which is surprisingly effective on a girl like me who will only ever buy foreign for the rest of my life:

8. This commercial, which kind of makes me wish I was an Aussie:

7. This commercial, even though most Americans won't receive it on their regular broadcasting network. It makes me proud my children will be half-Canadian:

6. This commercial, which makes Poor Kyle laugh every time, because I'm always sitting on the couch going, "Oh! This makes me want to be a better person!":

5. This commercial--another one that simply motivates me to go out and do:

4. This commercial, not only for the eye candy, but also because it's kind of funny:

3. This commercial, which Kayleen already commented on in my last post, and I knew exactly the one she was talking about because I've been known to watch the Olympics for 10 hours at a time, and with that kind of persistence, why shouldn't I know each commercial by name?:

2. This commercial, which makes me glad I'm a Diet Coke girl and not a Diet Pepsi (though if we're getting technical it's actually Diet Dr. Pepper that makes my world go 'round):

1. This commercial--it was the first one I saw during the Olympics, and I'm kind of attached to it. I've never owned a Samsung™, but obviously I should have:

And if you lived in Canada, you could see this one as a bonus. It has nothing to do with the Olympics, but I'm kind of addicted the entire feel of it...

There's Nothing Like Watching the Olympics to Make Me Remember My Failures.

2008-08-08T23:14:00.000-07:00

I am a devout follower of the Olympic Games. Always have been, since I was just a little girl.

Photo from here. Check it out--they're all even more spectacular up close.

I remember being six years old and my mom calling me in to watch the opening ceremonies for the summer Olympics in Spain. I remember being eight years old and my mom calling me in to watch those beautiful, graceful figure skaters glide around the ice in the 1994 winter Olympics, and witnessing the whole mess between Tonya Harding and Nancy Kerrigan. I can vividly recall cheering on the USA volleyball team from the locker room with my own Freshman volleyball team, thinking, "I will never have a desire to go that far with this horrendous sport, where girls slap each others' bums, and all my teammates are so vicious to me." But I still loved watching it. I cheered on the "Thorpedo" in Sydney, thinking that Australian men were amazingly intriguing. And oh, how I cheered on those Hamm twins [oh, mercy, those Hamm twins!] take the world by surprise. I watched that young little figure skater--what was her name? Oh yeah, Sasha Cohen--surpass like a million world records at the age of 14, and thinking, "If only I lived in a place that actually created ice, I too, could have been a figure skating prodigy."

So many dreams crushed, watching the Olympics throughout my lifetime. And yet, I really, really enjoy watching the Olympics. I find myself staying up later than normal, convincing myself to watch "just one more event." I don't want to sleep, because I don't want to miss a single life-changing moment in history (that's a value my mom instilled in me--she was always making me stay up late for the State of the Union address, or wake up early to watch the crumbling of the World Trade Center [and now I'm so glad she did]).

Photo, again, from here.

Poor Kyle thinks it's all ridiculous, of course. The beauty of this year's Opening Ceremony was totally lost on him. (He's virtually culture-less, but I sure love him.) He mocked all the red fireworks China ignited, noting that they're probably trying to brainwash the world into accepting Communism, sending all these red "subliminal messages."

All these amazing photos from here.

In his defense, he's stayed with me in the dungeon basement for four hours already, and with Kyle Shewfelt's events two hours away, it looks like we're in this for a bit longer yet.

Do you care about the games? What spectacular moments in Olympic history do you recall witnessing? I'm abnormally obsessed with knowing what people have seen in their lifetimes. Please, pipe in!

"Ow--My Most of Me"

2008-08-07T21:40:00.001-07:00

I'm a bit late in answering the first question of my new feature, "Ask Me Anything." And I'm sorry about that, but I've been busy. In fact, I can hardly move my fingers enough to type this out [and it doesn't help that Poor Kyle's keyboard is ridiculously difficult to use]. I'm sure you all want to know what it is I've been doing. Read on...

Q {anonymous}: What do you do all day if you don't work, go to school or care for children? Do you like this state of existence or are you going to do something different in the future? Does poor Kyle support what you do/don't do?

A: Whatever the heavens I want, actually.

It's quite nice. I "garden" [a term I use loosely]:

Make chocolates and eat chocolates:

I recycle truckloads of cans and bottles:

And without children to tote around and worry over, I am free to take each day as it comes. I fly by the seat of my pants. When I go to historic parks, I can take photos of myself in front of water mill wheels, without stressing that someone will steal my kids in their stroller while I'm not looking:

As far as Poor Kyle's support, I suppose my anonymous commenter would have to ask him. My perception is that he loves me no matter how diligently I do or don't decorate our house while he's at work. I, myself, am perfectly happy with my life right now.

Sometimes, though, when people ask me "What do you do all day, Camille? How do you fulfill your life's dreams without a job, or a degree, or snot-nosed kids waking you up at 6 in the a.m.?" I start to feel like I have to defend my existence. So for the past few days I've been doing this:

Mowing lawns. It's not a bad job, actually, when I'm not doing it for 12 hours at a time [which I attempted yesterday]. Because when I do try it for 12 hours at a time, my hands turn redder than a Hot Tamale™, and I get blisters on my feet the size of a few extra big toes:

Last night after coming home from my 9 to 9 work day, I was literally walking on my heels to get around. because walking any normal way was too painful. And then this morning, I had to wake up and do the entire thing over. So before heading off to my "job," I prepared my feet for the onslaught: I popped my four blisters (collecting over a tablespoon of puss from the combined poppage, and completely soaking three tissues in the process), bandaged each one, and donned three pairs of socks, in an attempt to soften the blow.

My mother-in-law cannot understand why I would want to do something like this.

"Because," I explain, "I want to feel productive."

"Why?" she wonders.

"So I can be a contributing member of society..."

"But...why?" she persists, clearly confused.

"So I can have money of my own...?"

"Well, I don't know why you'd want to do anything like that if you don't have to."

And you know what? She may be on to something. This whole job nonsense...it's exhausting.

The Sweet Life of a Single Wife

2008-08-05T20:49:00.001-07:00

I got married and became more single than ever before. I don't have kids, so I'm not a single mom...I suppose some would call me a single wife.

Poor Kyle had better know I love him.

He's on the road again [without me this time] and he took my laptop. Which he probably won't even have occasion to use, and how annoying is that? Very annoying. On top of which, if I'm going to update my blog at all, it means I have to type on a keyboard that is so stiff I might as well be chiseling each letter out of stone. And it's really hard stone, too--not that soft limestone garbage.

On his way out, I was moping because (fill in the blank. It's August, so it could have been anything). In an effort to cheer me up, he said, "Why don't you do something adventurous to pass the time while I'm gone? Live it up!"

In another life I would have taken that to mean, "Camille, take your credit card to New York City and live the Meg Ryan dream."

But in this life, I simply went grocery shopping.

However, I went grocery shopping and pretended I was a yuppie [becoming a yuppie is, incidentally, my lifelong dream] and took my own reusable grocery bags and bought fresh herbs (since the ones in my garden are unbelievably pathetic) and I purchased four things I would have never bought if I wasn't feeling so indulgent:

Excuse the awful photos--I didn't think to take pictures until it was too dark outside for good light.

Gerber daisies are almost as good to have around the house as a husband is...or so I rationalised.

Bossy told me that this mascara would change my life, so I bought it. It's amazing.

I lost my previous can of hairspray. Who loses an entire can of hairspray? Someone who needs this life-changing can in their arsenal, that's who.

And BioSilk Silk Therapy. Not much to say except that if you don't have it or have never used it, you might as well die an old, embittered spinster. Poor Kyle will be so shocked at how nice I look when he gets home--I might even put on a bra for the occasion.

And I would have bought that new Stephanie Meyer book, but I was too excited to go home and make pesto with my shiny new basil from Safeway™, so I'll have to save the reading extravaganza for Poor Kyle's next trip.

Come to think of it, this single-wife way of life might not be so bad.

{I Know Everything There is to Know}

2008-08-04T06:03:00.000-07:00

It's been fun reading everybody's questions. I've gotten several questions in the comment section, and a few more via email. No pill capsules in the mail, however. What a disappointment. I will hold out hope, however, because Canada is evidently a foreign country and as soon as mail reaches the 49th parallel, it mysteriously stops...for six days...and then is allowed to carry on to its final destination.

I do not know why this happens, exactly, but I think it has something to do with giving the mail time to really think about its choice to move to such a cold country. [Little do the post offices know, that mail is stubborn and will move to Canada come hell or high water. I mean, look at me--I had an entire two years to think about marrying Poor Kyle and moving north, and here I am.]

Anyway, remember that the questioning is open throughout each week. I think I'll make question-answering day on Thursdays, because Thursdays are such glorious days.

Have I ever regaled you with my theory on Thursdays? No? Well, you're in for a treat:

Thursdays are such hopeful days. Without them, life would be boring. Bland. Flavourless. Salt with no savour.

Bland, no?

They're really, truly, the best day of my week, every week. See, Mondays are bad [for obvious reasons]...

...and on Tuesday, the rest of the week still seems quite interminable.

Wednesdays have nothing to boast (unless you're an elementary school kid and have a half-day on Wednesdays, but usually that is a sure sign you've got piano lessons after school, so don't get to hasty, elementary kids).

Fridays would seem like the best days of the week, but I, myself, find them a bit depressing. On a Friday, I always think, "Oh, good...the weekend." But the thought that invariably follows is "Oh no--it's going to be gone so soon!" Talk about the glass being half empty, eh? I know.

Saturdays just lull me into a false state of tranquility [and that's only if I don't have chores to do]...

... and on Sundays, the impending doom of Monday is such that I can enjoy nothing else...

Which leaves Thursday...

On Thursday, the weekend is near enough to start planning and looking forward to, but not soon enough to actually start dreading its end. Friday has not yet come to start the worries, Saturday is far in the distance, and Sunday's dream-crushing reality seems a lifetime away.

Makes quite a difference, don't you think?

There's so much hope in a Thursday.

So there you have it: one more thing to make Thursday your best day of the week.

{Introducing the Best New Feature Since I Learned How to Post Photos}

2008-08-01T07:27:00.000-07:00

This blog is boring. Especially now that I'm too paranoid to have music playing.

In an effort to spice it up, I am opening my brilliant mind for anyone in the entire e-world to pick. Is there something you always wanted to know, but were too afraid to ask? Ask! I will answer any question (of course we're keeping things clean here at Archives of Our Lives, but that's just a given). Do you wonder about my birth control plan? Ask! Do you need help figuring out what makes your teenage daughter's world go 'round? Ask! Do you have a large green growth schlumping around on your underarm? See a doctor! And then ask!

And there are so many ways to ask me, too--in the comment section of any post, or on Twitter. If you have my phone number you can text me a question. You can write your queries in #2 pencil on a sheet of lined college-rule (recycled, naturally) looseleaf, fold them up tightly and shove them in a teeny tiny emptied gel caplet, send the caplet to me via United States Postal Service, and I will swallow the pill, wait for it to digest, poo it out, excavate your looseleaf question from the waste, unfold it, read it, and answer it right here on my blog. Or you can simply email me.

Every week I will answer a question. Ask me anything. Any time.

Here, I'll start:
Camille, what did you do yesterday? Sincerely, Camille.

That's a lovely question, Camille. Thanks for asking. Yesterday I did nine loads of laundry which had piled up as a result of who the heck knows.

This was made 100% more enjoyable by my twins.

Doing laundry is probably my favourite chore of the entire house. I would do nine loads of laundry every day if I never had to make the bed or clean Poor Kyle's whisker shavings out of the bathroom sink.

Camille & Poor Kyle Consummate the Marriage and Invite All Y'all to Have a Look-see

2008-07-30T21:33:00.000-07:00

Adam Shankman is a goofy sort of fellow. He's always saying deeply profound things that have no meaning whatsoever. In his role as a guest judge on So You Think You Can Dance tonight, he told Mark and Courtney that, though he loved each of them separately, he was even more moved by the pair of them as a couple.

"And that's the power of togetherness," he added for emphasis. Whatever, Adam. Where do you come up with garbage like that--Vorizon™ cell phone commercials?

Anyway, he's a nice guy, and he has absolutely nothing to do with what I am writing about tonight--aside from "the power of togetherness" line.

Poor Kyle and I, we have felt a lot of "power of togetherness," if "power of togetherness" means enjoying a Caribbean cruise for our honeymoon last October. Here's a run-down of the blessed event:

We got on this boat [I don't feel like adding a bright red arrow to the photo, so just trust me when I say it was the one on the right]:

And two days later, we got off the boat at this beach in St. Martin:

But even though we were prepared with our swimsuits, we didn't don them to bask in the water. Instead we took pictures of ourselves in front of it:

And then we took more pictures of ourselves at a cabana near the beach:

...because that's how we roll, PK & C.

Then we went back to the ship where we found this mysterious cake waiting in our suite:

Poor Kyle denied knowing anything about it, but I was convinced he secretly ordered it because he loved me, and, "Look! It says right on the frosting 'I Love You.' Who else on this ship loves either one of us?" Obviously he didn't love me--at least not enough to commission a cake in my honour--because shortly after we cut into it, some lady from Room Service called and told us it had been delivered in error, and had we already eaten it, because she needed it back. Oops.

The next day we boarded the pirate ship used in a small film known as "Pirates of the Caribbean." We started out looking dapper--better than our actual wedding day, truth be told:

But then it rained a cold and bitter rain, and our day became more or less miserable. Only by that time we were stuck on the pirate ship, surrounded by the ocean with nowhere to go. For eight hours: Did I mention it was cold?

And then we died. But we came back to life just in time to board our cruise ship again and hole away in our room, where we...(ahem)...snapped a million photos of each other. (Why, what did you think I was going to write, sicko?)

We took so many photos, I suppose, because we were so happy to be reveling in our newfound "power of togetherness." [Actually, we were just too...umm...shy...to do much of anything else. If you catch my drift.]

Here is me:

And me again [memememe!!!!]:

And here's PK, below. This picture of Poor Kyle captures some of his best characteristics: mild-mannered, calm, and always (well, more like 99% of the time) good-natured. Wouldn't you agree?

Handsome, I know:

Fast forward to the next day...the last island we visited on our cruise was St. Kitts, and we both agreed that, if given the choice, we would have spent all seven days right there on that island. It was the best day of the entire trip.

We rented a shiny red scooter built for 11⁄2:

Visited an amazing historic fortress called Brimstone Hill:

Bonded with each other in our "power of togetherness":

...and stopped to photographically intrude upon the monkeys alongside the road:

Oh! I forgot to add that Poor Kyle's parents were so happy to finally have him married off, they gave us our honeymoon as a wedding gift. Thanks, guys! (I have yet to post about the actual wedding reception, which was a fun and fancy night, [put on by my parents and loads of family--thanks to you guys, too!])

Anyway, I'll tell you one thing: marriage is not for the faint of heart, to be sure. But think I'd do it once a year if I could...

...if only for the honeymoons.

I'm a Glutton for Deprivation

2008-07-29T00:04:00.000-07:00

I'm sleep deprived right now. Being sleep deprived really is the best kind of deprivation--much better than carne asada burrito deprived or heavy summer rain deprived or even fat baby nephew deprived...

Does it mean that he's iron-deprived if he enjoys chomping on blankets?

But anyway, if I have to be deprived of something, I definitely choose sleep, because the funniest things happen to me when I'm running low on zees. For example...

Couches totally collapse...

Previously sane (well, moderately sane) people turn into pirates...

...the pirateage continues...

...and people get eaten by giant reptiles at the Phoenix Zoo...

So do yourself a favour and lose some sleep this summer. You'll thank me for the advice after the pictures have been taken.

Does This Playlist Make My Blog Look Fat?

2008-07-28T04:19:00.000-07:00

Oh, boy—have I ever got a problem.

See, I don’t like being poked fun of (whereas everyone else in the world enjoys it, I know). Unfortunately for me, I’ve been reading this blog and I have become mind-wrackingly paranoid that the author is making fun of me--me, personally. And so now, whether or not I actually fit into the group of people the blogger is writing about, I am painfully trying to decide what to do—if anything. See, I’m worried about the music playlist on Archives of Our Lives, because some of the songs I play are also featured on Seriously So Blessed.

And I don’t think it matters, either, that I change my music almost constantly to match my daily blog posts. I still feel like a total loser. This is almost worse than going to a movie by myself.

So come on—be honest: Does this playlist make my blog look fat?
Do you upload my blog, Archives of Our Lives, and automatically hit the “mute” button before you even start reading?

Because sometimes I do, and I'm not kidding. Sometimes it’s 100% distracting...yet other times I think the songs really do add an interesting element that I’d hate to lose.

But, impressionable as I am, I will get rid of my music playlist altogether if you all decide I should…

…so should I?

View the poll to the right, and help me decide. Please--I can't stand the humiliation.

I've Just Thought of an Excellent Plot for a Horror Film...

2008-07-24T06:55:00.000-07:00

Remember last August how my hand got sore from a case of blogger finger?

Well, apparently the disease has spread to the produce. I was washing vegetables for a lovely salad last night, when I came across a past-its-peak carrot that felt fleshy and bony and strangely like a human digit (Haunted houses, anyone? It's genius.). Inasmuch as there was no way I was eating a carrot that felt like a human finger, I tossed it on top of a pile of lettuce to go to the garbage.

And when I came back, it looked like this:

Gross. It matched my blogger finger perfectly.

I got to thinking later (this morning in the shower, if you must know), and realised I've come upon something genius--this is just the stuff that horror films are made of! I can see it now...

Carrot Man vs. Lettuce Lady in...Where Have all the Vegetables Gone??

Not only will your children never sleep again, but you can forget about them touching their salads at dinner.

{I've Never Felt so Lame in all My Life}

2008-07-22T20:39:00.000-07:00

Me: Babe, I think today's the day.

Poor Kyle: What day?

Me: The day I've been dreading all my life.

PK: Gosh, you're so dramatic. What are you talking about?

Me: I think I am going to see a movie all by myself today. In the theatre. Alone.

PK: Oh, good. Take that gift card on the dresser and get in free.

Me: Aren't you going to try and talk me out of it?

PK: Why would I do that? I don't care if you go...

Me: Oh, I don't know. It just means I'm depressed or something, and if I'm actually going to do this, then I'm probably only a step away from drinking a whole bottle of laxatives and defecating myself to death...

It's true. I've always known this day would come. I have put it off for years, but there was no avoiding it. Today I went to see a movie--in the theatre--all alone.

I don't know how it happened, really. I hadn't planned it in advance. But for some reason, when I woke up this morning (the second time, that is [first I woke up to water the garden and help Poor Kyle take apart our bed. Then I went back to sleep and woke up again at a more holy hour]) I just knew it was going to happen. I said to myself, "Self...today you have to see a movie all alone. In the theatre. Lonely. And it will be Mama Mia."

So I did it. I mean, when one's fate is written in the stars like that, there's absolutely no sense in fighting it.

But I did bring my camera along to document my bout with depression. Looking back, though, I've concluded that filming my experience was kind of cheating; I was never fully alone, since I had my camera to talk to. Nevertheless, it was a fear conquered (somewhat), and I'm crossing it off my list so I'll never have to do it again.

Have a look:
[It's long, so scroll to the middle if you just want to see the Mama Mia part.]

In the end, it wasn't as bad as I expected, but I suspect it would have been worse without my buddy the camera...

I hate being lonely.

Mike Holmes Might as Well be Superman...

2008-07-22T09:13:00.000-07:00

..if you ask me, that is.

Picture from here.

This is Mike Holmes. Do any of you know this man? I do--at least, I feel like I know him personally. I feel like we're best friends. Mike Holmes has a way of making people feel good about themselves.

Picture from here.

I know, I know--he looks a little bit like he could kill a man. And here's a secret...he probably could. He could, but he won't; he never will, because he's Holmes on Homes. He's a good man.

The Canadian contractor and television show host has made it his goal in life to rid Canada of shady contractors. His motto is, "Do it right," and if someone has already screwed that part up, his backup plan is to "Make it right."

It's a Discovery Channel show, but I watch it on HGTV. And from what I can tell, Mike Holmes is truly a caring individual. Some of the homes he fixes (all of which have been buggered up by previous contractors) are for people in wheelchairs--in which case Mike Holmes bends down to speak to them at their own height. Mike Holmes is gentle when helping sweet little ladies, and he explains all of his actions on an age-appropriate level. In other words, he cares.

He's also set up a scholarship program for higher-education in the trades, which he believes is a necessity if we're to handle the retirement of the baby boomers with any sort of grace at all. And to top it all off, he received an honorary doctorate from BCIT, on account of his exemplary craftsmanship and humanitarian efforts.

Picture from here.

I've always wanted an honorary Doctorate.

And so what if he has a seemingly never-ending supply of overalls and white tank tops? A trademark's a trademark--plus, he dresses up his overalls with long sleeve button-up shirts if he's going somewhere fancy...like the Ellen Degeneres show:

That's classy right there. I love a man who knows how to act in public.

Here's How I Lost my Faith in Humanity

2008-07-20T21:43:00.000-07:00

The Time: Friday night, 11:00.

The Place: Side door entrance to the Hilton Garden Inn. Layton, UT.

Photo from here.

The People: Me, loaded up with beach bags full of towels and sunscreen. Poor Kyle, holding a box of leftover pizza from Boston's. Sister, carrying everything nobody else could hold. Brother-in-Law, burdened with his fat little baby boy [who happened to be sleeping soundly under the warmth of a fuzzy green blanket].

There's no way around it--he's a fatty. And we love him.

The four of us [plus sleeping fat baby] were exhausted from our day at the water park--lazy river or not, it still takes a lot out of a person. We were sunburned and sore from our high-energy day, and parked as close to the hotel entrance as possible--which wasn't very close at all. Luckily, there was a side door entrance a bit nearer which, experience had taught, was also closer to the elevators. We walked as quickly as our aching bodies would allow, and soon reached the glass door at the side of the hotel.

Locked.

To go around front would have taken only a few minutes, but it seemed an impossible feat for any one of us--we must have looked a haggard lot.

Instead, I noticed through the glass walls of the building a man and woman coming our way, no doubt headed to the nearby elevators.

"Ooh, there are some people! Get their attention!" I urged my husband, who stood closest to the door.

He and Flint, my brother-in-law holding the fat baby boy, inched towards the windowed door and knocked ever so lightly, winning the attention of the fast-approaching couple.

The man inside--we'll call him Comb Over--was in his 30s, wearing a white polo shirt with khakis and penny loafers, and looking back, I'm pretty sure his comb over was hiding a bald patch on his shiny head. Which would have been fine with me {I, myself, am losing hair at an alarming rate}, had he not glanced our way, snarled, and flung his hand behind him, vaguely indicating we ought to go around to the front. When he could have pushed the bar-locked door open with nothing but an outstretched arm. He wouldn't have even needed to take an extra step. It could have been a walk-by opening.

He probably figured he'd get to the elevator while we trekked to the front entrance, and be in his warm cozy bed before we even got through the doors. He probably figured he'd never see us again.

Comb Over and Woman probably didn't count on the elevators being slow on account of some corporate something-or-other congestion. He probably didn't count on another, kinder gentleman opening the door for us just seconds later, letting us in right behind him. He probably never thought we'd get to the elevator while he was still standing there.

But we did.

And my sister and I married very large men. Who are wonderful except when angry. And our husbands were nothing if not angry with this jerk. (I, myself, have never had so strong an urge to label someone a jack@$$ in my life.) Mind you, Flint is a police officer who is two hundred and something pounds of sheer weight. And okay, he was holding a fat sleeping baby, which might have made him slightly less intimidating, but he still had the huevos to walk up to the guy and say, "Hey, buddy--thanks for opening the door for the sleeping baby."

To which Poor Kyle piped in, "Yeah, thanks a lot!"

Comb Over Polo Shirt said curtly, "You guys could have gone around to the front just like I did." As if he was so disillusioned with his lot in life of having to walk around, that he wanted to make every other human being suffer. Suffer like he had to suffer. Woe was him, I tell you what.

Just then, the elevator doors opened and the four of us whisked past Comb Over to claim it. Don't worry--there was plenty of room for the four of us and Comb Over plus Woman...only they weren't too keen on sharing with the likes of us.

I wonder if they were too insecure? Or maybe just too ashamed to face up to their actions...

Either way, if Comb Over ever comes across this blog at some point in his life--and he knows who he is--I just want to tell him this:

I hope you've come to terms with your baldness.

{I Get Depressed Very Easily}

2008-07-15T08:19:00.000-07:00

Did you know that I am tall? Indeed I am. I'm 6' 1" if I'm an inch.

It was a freak accident, if you ask me. My mother is 5' 8", and my dad is 6' 0", but my older sister didn't come out as tall as me--she's only 5' 8". And sure, there are tall cousins on both sides--two boys are well over six feet--but their parents are also all over six feet.

I don't know how or why, but they're my genes so I have learned to love them.

It hasn't always been this way, though. I used to wail and wallow in despair about how tall I was--no boys would ever like me, I was sure. I was as tall as an amazon, and as graceful as a duck. And I could never find pants long enough to fit my octopus legs. In my teenage head, I was doomed for a life of misery.

Eventually I learned that it didn't matter if boys never liked me--they were all jerks anyway. I came to embrace my duckish-demeanor, and try to laugh it off. But finding pants long enough has still been the curse of my existence.

It is a marvel to me that some people in the world can actually walk into Target™ and buy a pair of jeans off the rack for well under $50.00. The only place I have bought a pair of jeans since I was 16 has been the Buckle. Usually they range between $70.00 and $100.00 each [which, I know is a pittance compared to what some people spend on Sevens of the World or whatever those movie-star jeans are called. But alas. I am no movie star. And spending $50.00 a leg just to be decent in public is a lot of money for me].

So you can imagine how I feel when this sort of thing happens to me:

My Year in Review: Happy Birthday, Little Blog!

2008-07-14T10:11:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, July 12th, this blog turned one year old.

I debated holding another giveaway to celebrate, but I still don't make any money off this blog, (or as a human being in general) so I decided to limit my expenditures.

Instead, I dove into the Archives of my life, and picked out some of the most monumental (or just plain mental!) posts of the past 367 days.

For those of you who've been following faithfully since day one, this might get tedious. But I thought the newcomers may enjoy reading up on AOOL, how it came to be, and what-not.

And if nobody enjoys reading these archives, I suppose it will have been an exercise in humility for me. Humility--maybe that's something I can write about for next year's birthday?

-Day 1

-Back when Poor Kyle was simply "Kyle"

-Coming to terms with my sense of style

-The time I threatened to quit blogging unless more people started commenting

-How I feel about the OB/GYN

-Trying to plan a wedding and having a nervous breakdown

-Trying to plan a wedding and losing my mind

-When Kyle became Poor Kyle

-Wedding time

-How I feel about the MVD

-This podunk town's emergency room

-That mean old lady at church

So there ya have it. Read them all or don't read any.

But if you do read one or two, feel free to leave comments, even though they're old posts--I'll get them right in my inbox, and I'll cherish every one.

Thanks for a fantastic year!

{I Met Loralee and All I Got Was a Low Self-Esteem}

2008-07-10T22:31:00.000-07:00

I drove 13 hours to meet Loralee.

Okay, so I was going through Utah anyway, and I had three hours to go from there, so I needed to stop for dinner. But that doesn't mean I was any less excited for the rendezvous.

See, there was this time in my life that I lost my faith in humanity; Loralee renewed that faith. During the first few months of my blogging obsession, I stalked many a talented bloggers, and didn't quite understand why none of them stalked me in return. Loralee was the first professional blogger to acknowledge me, and even then it was only after I begged on my hands and knees for it. But however pathetic my reasons, I felt like a superstar the first day I read a comment from her, and every comment thereafter. I'm sure she was just trying to be nice, because she'd been in my position, but eventually I gathered the courage to email her and now we're sort of friends.

And we've met, so we're sort of better friends.

She's really very nice. For anyone wondering whether he or she should try and meet his or her blogging hero, my advice is to go for it.

For one thing, she buys cute shoes at good prices. Very likable indeed. (The blogger, not the shoes. [Though the shoes are nice, too.])

Probably all blogging heroes are as cool as Loralee, who asked the waiter to split our cheques right from the start [I am so paranoid about whether or not that is tacky, I would have paid for me, Loralee, and her displaced southern belle friend, if it meant I could avoid an awkward situation. I bet you wish you'd never spoken up, eh Loralee?].

Also, I got the scoop on a lot of juicy drama that Loralee is too tasteful to ever actually post on her blog--it was the real inside edition, and totally worth every moment of pre-meeting anxiety.

But really, our friendship was doomed from the beginning. Loralee and I can never become truly bosom buddies. Because when our dinner at Chili's was over, our pictures were taken and our goodbyes hugged, I unlocked the door to Tamra Camry, sank--relieved at my presence of mind through the meal--into the driver seat, and checked the visor mirror. Only about an hour too late...

Like I said--doomed. And it'll be a cold day in Mesa before I order lettuce wraps in public again.

*Really, though. Loralee is lots of fun. Go meet her and tell her that crazy girl sent you.*

{Of All the Goodly Things in Life, This Has to be the Best}

2008-07-09T21:38:00.000-07:00

I am whole again.

This is just like the time in 6th grade (grade 6, Canadians!) when I picked and tore and bit at the wart on my thumb so much it eventually fell off, but once it was gone, I missed it. I missed the entertainment my old friend Warty brought me while the rest of the class was learning about the prime meridian [a subject on which I was already an expert].

But before long, it returned--as warts are wont to do--and I was whole again. Warty and me, just like the old days.

Now, years later, the feeling has returned. Not in regards to the wart on my thumb, though...

...but Tastespotting.com. It's back. If Alias came back on T.V. for one last season [with Jennifer Garner and Michael Vartan both alive for the duration], I would not be as happy as I am today with the return of Tastespotting.com. If I could rewind to the time before I knew Wal-Mart™ existed, my joy would not even compare to today's. If I could believe in Santa Claus again, I would not trade that feeling for having Tastespotting.com back in my life.

It's like losing a $20.00 bill in last year's winter coat and mourning its loss, but then forgetting all about it until the first frost of autumn.

What once was lost...now is found.

{The Dog Ate My Blog Post}

2008-07-08T22:21:00.000-07:00

I've always wanted to use that excuse for something, but growing up, the only dog I ever had was Sampson, a black lab who was equally energetic and lazy. He would never eat anything besides the regular food and snacks, so even when I tried to feed him my past-due assignments, he'd turn up his opinionated nose at them.

He's dead now; we killed him.

It was so hard saying goodbye to a dog I didn't even really like that I swore I would never love again--love another dog, anyway. Which means, obviously, that no dog actually ate my blog posts. I've simply been taking my sweet time getting back into the groove of things since my trip to AZ. My family's (+Chelsie) visit last week was splendid, although when it came time for them to leave, I almost wished they'd never come--kind of like how I wish I'd never begged my parents for a puppy so I'd never have to kill Sampson.

But dead or alive, time goes on and I'm back in Canada. For Poor Kyle, the novelty of having his wife back has worn off. I think he remembers how testy I can be--I don't like children, I rarely make the bed, and hosting dinner parties gets me grouchy. I think he wishes I was back in Arizona where he could miss me from a distance, and all my faults would be blurred by fourteen hundred mile markers.

And me? Well, it's not that I don't like marriage--I just hate being wrong all the time. Before we got married, I heard from at least 50 people that "marriage requires a lot of compromising." That was fine with me--Poor Kyle was going to have a lot of compromising to do, naturally. Because I never imagined that he could be twice as stubborn as I am, and I would, in fact, be the one to back down in the name of peace [and not becoming another statistic of divorce].

Then again, he probably feels like nobody ever warned him just how often he would have to give up and give in to keep the peace. I read a lot of blogs about marital and parental bliss, and I'm not buying it. Yes, I'm happily married. Yes, I intend to remain so [and to Poor Kyle] all the days of my existence. And yes, I will probably be wrong--and hate being wrong--for the entire duration.

There's two sides to every story, even [especially] in marriage.

I suppose Poor Kyle should start his own blog if he wants equal representation.

p.s. Happy Birthday, big sis! Good thing you have two birthdays and I'll be seeing you on your second one, or else I would be the All-Time-World's-Worst-Sister. Lucky me. Lucky you.

Archives of Our Lives

Why Are You Still Here?

I'm Closing My Doors...

The Miracle of the Elevens.

In Flanders FieldsBy John McCrae (1915)

My Brain Thinks Funny.

No New Post

Hey Y'all, Watch This!

Call Me a Convict-I've Got a Conviction.

{Captivated by the Season}

Boo.

I'd Rather Not.

D@mn That Grass.

Not That I'm Judging, or Anything...

I Have Completely Lost My Capacity for Making Decisions.

{Ow to the Nth Degree}

Hello? Kansas? Anybody?

Days are Long 'Round These Parts.

Growing a Face of Leather {Thick and Tough}.

Picture This: Your Face.

Hello, My Name is Fickle.

{Stuck on a Toilet with Nothing to Read}

We Interrupt This Program to Kill Ourselves...

Just the Sort of Thing Strong Bad Would Love.

A Few Announcements.

Me and My Big Ideas.

Nobody Scream, But I Might Just Be a Democrat.

Spotty...

Pick Apart {of Me}

I Turned 22 and all I Got Was Adult Acne.

Is There Anything More Tedious in all the World?

How To Be Self-Taught at Anything.

It's my party and I'll--oh, forget it.

He Calls Martha "Martha," and I Call Him Eddie Ross.

{Hypochondria and Me}

{Flip My Flop}

{Call Me Greedy, But Say it Softly}

{Good Things Come in Reds.}

And Then I Was Faced With My Day of Reckoning.

Birth Control and What I'd Do if it Ever Failed Me.

{I Put the Ab in Abnormal.}

What's in a Name? A Million Different Selves.

I Wonder How Many Readers I'll Estrange in Writing This Post?

Going House.

{A Lesson in Self-Assertion}

{The Longest Post Ever Written About the Shortest Relationship Which Never Happened}

Save My Soul and I'll Throw In a Kitty.

{Guess My Secret and Win a Prize}

{My Lifelong Problem with Kiosk Vultures at the Mall}

Time to Talk About Me Some More.

I Wonder How Many Angels Had to Die in the Making of This Bed?

There's No Such Thing as Edward and Bella

{This Place Reminds Me of Somewhere I've Been Before.}

{Communism at its Finest}

And I Wonder Why I Can't Run a Marathon...

There's Nothing Like Watching the Olympics to Make Me Remember My Failures.

"Ow--My Most of Me"

The Sweet Life of a Single Wife

{I Know Everything There is to Know}

{Introducing the Best New Feature Since I Learned How to Post Photos}

Camille & Poor Kyle Consummate the Marriage and Invite All Y'all to Have a Look-see

I'm a Glutton for Deprivation

Does This Playlist Make My Blog Look Fat?

I've Just Thought of an Excellent Plot for a Horror Film...

{I've Never Felt so Lame in all My Life}

Mike Holmes Might as Well be Superman...

Here's How I Lost my Faith in Humanity

{I Get Depressed Very Easily}

My Year in Review: Happy Birthday, Little Blog!

{I Met Loralee and All I Got Was a Low Self-Esteem}

{Of All the Goodly Things in Life, This Has to be the Best}

{The Dog Ate My Blog Post}

In Flanders Fields
By John McCrae (1915)