I'm Closing My Doors...

...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.

D@mn That Grass.

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...

Hello, My Name is Fickle.

*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.

And Then I Was Faced With My Day of Reckoning.

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?

{I Put the Ab in Abnormal.}

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.

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.

Going House.

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.

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

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.

Does This Playlist Make My Blog Look Fat?

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 Never Felt so Lame in all My Life}

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.

My Year in Review: Happy Birthday, Little Blog!

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!

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

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}

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.

The Saga of Steve vs. Ned--This is Mostly Speculation

A phone conversation between Poor Kyle and me a few weeks ago went something like this:

PK: So what did you do down in AZ today, while I was up here in Canada being responsible and tending your garden?
Me: Oh, Lindsey and I went to Krazy Sub for lunch.
PK: Oh, Krazy Sub? Steve's or Ned's?

Part of me was disappointed that he even had to ask, but the other part was thrilled that he, a native of Mayberry, Canada, even knew there was a difference.

The answer to his question was "Steve's"--naturally. Because there are three kind of sub-lovers in Mesa, AZ: Steve's, Ned's, and Subway [and Subway doesn't count]. That's what I always say.

And I am a Steve's.

Which is odd, really. I mean, there are far softer breads in the world (hello, Port of Subs!), and far riper tomatoes than the ones served at Steve's. His sandwiches are tasty enough, but not the best I've ever had. What is it about Steve's that makes me such a loyal customer? It's certainly not Steve's quality treatment of us--the paying masses--because he does, after all, charge extra for pickles and drink refills (25 cents, to be exact):

There's no such thing as a free lunch, especially when you're eating at Steve's.

In many ways, actually, Steve is quite the crook. He pays his high school employees a pittance, and (I know for a fact) he strictly enforces the "no extra meat, even for family" rule.

Perhaps it's not so much that Steve's establishment is good, but more that Steve's establishment is better than the alternative; a lesser of two evils, per se. Perhaps the virtue of Steve's Krazy Sub lies in its competition: Ned, arch rival and nemesis to Steve, has his own Krazy Sub shop not far from Steve's. It is rumoured that once upon a time (30 years ago) Steve and Ned were business partners, nay--brothers. Business was good, and all was well in Mesa. But one day--perhaps amidst a business deal turned sour [no doubt Steve was trying to get more than his fair share of the profits, the crooked scoundrel]--the two split, creating new and separate shops; new and separate families; new and separate Krazy Subs. [Neither of them, unfortunately, enforced new and separate spellings of the word "Krazy." Or new wall decor. Or shop-front lettering.]

Steve's walls.

Ned's walls.

Steve did, however, decide his was The Krazy Sub, while Ned, the vain man that he is, kept his name and added his face on the window:


Ned: Not that I would eat your subs anyway, but that giant head of yours on the window isn't helping your cause. Really.

Ned moved east, targeting the customer base near Mountain View High School, while Steve stayed near home--Westwood High and area. The two schools, being lifelong rivals (along with Mesa High [who don't really have a Krazy Sub to call their own, so we won't talk about those guys much]), found the separate Krazy Subs to be excellent fuel for the "My-school-is-better-than-your-school" fire. Students began sneaking into each others' Krazy Subs, leaving graffiti under the tables with black Sharpie™ markers that read things like, "Die, Ned!" and "Steve's will rise again" and "Shea has big boodie [sic]!!" and "Jenny--will you go to prom with me?". If I were going to graffiti on the underside of Ned's tables, I would scrawl, "MOVING TO MOUNTAIN VIEW HAS TURNED NED VAIN!!!" in block letters--the man has his face plastered all over the place, including the door to his sub shop, and the website for said sub shop!

Image from Ned's website.

But I digress: the point is, life in Mesa has never been the same since the Big Split of '77.

It should be noted, though, that I am loyal to Steve's for more than the Montague/Capulet reasons. Steve and his Krazy Subs have been a part of some very important days in my life. He got me through countless wait-outs at the Mesa Lutheran Hospital (which is now dead and gone, just like some of my relatives who spent weeks there). Those Krazy Subs taught me about finances--if I can't afford to eat at Krazy Sub and pay for the extra pickles and large Diet Pepsi, then I can't afford to eat anywhere. Steve's subs cheered me up when I lost the Student Body President election in 9th grade, and they were there when I celebrated winning some other position that same year by default. I commiserated not getting asked to prom there. I ate many "last meals" there with friends I haven't seen since. I have a table there. When one of my friends worked there in high school, she gave me free pickles and the phrase "I Steal From Steve" was coined there.

And all I know is, when I walked into Ned's to take a photo for this post, and saw all the photos of those itsy-bitsy Mountain View kids on the walls, I felt like a total fraud.

There, to the left of the mermaid's fin, hang a slew of Mountain View photos. Ugh.

I don't belong there--I belong at Steve's.

...I would that everybody could know their place in life with such clarity.

Marriage Warning: Side Effects May Occur

No, I don't mean anything to do with eggs being fertilised.

I've already talked a lot about the lies married people feed soon-to-be-married people: That marriage is hard [when it's actually impossible], the wedding night is magical [depends on who you are, I guess], and resolving arguments before bed is the only way to make a marriage last [there are lots of other ways], just to name a few.

I am now going to expound on my previous sentiments by shedding the light on another batch of lies. Well I suppose they can't actually be called lies, per say...more like concealments of the truth. See, I heard a lot of garbage before I got married...garbage about being married [see above]. But there were a lot of things I didn't hear--things I've had to learn the hard way, since nobody thought to clue me in.


Take my newfound sappiness, for example. Nobody told me that after I got married, my brain would become an emotional minefield, daring thoughts to cross, only to set off a land mine--no, a mind mine--with the slightest unpleasant notion. And the consequences are grave: I can explode into hysterical bouts of...feeling...at any given moment, now that I'm married.

It takes very little to set off one of my mind mines--very little. Suddenly now that I am married, the thought of going skydiving (which I have done pre-maritally) fills me with terror beyond reason; I can't fathom jumping out of a plane anymore--not when I have so much to live for.

Nobody told me that watching movies--even [especially] immensely cheesy movies like P.S. I Love You--would send me into a dangerously depressing spiral of "What if that happens to me?" and "We've only been married six months but already I know that if Poor Kyle dies young, I will never be the same," and "How can life be so hard?? Things are just...so...sad." Nobody warned me that getting married would cause me to value life--my life, Poor Kyle's life, our nonexistent children's lives, my immediate family's lives, even the little-one-legged-bird-at-Sonic's life--more than I ever thought I could.

I lived 21 years sleeping in a lovely double bed all alone, but now that I've been married (for six months, only), the thought of Poor Kyle leaving me for a two-day road trip to Oregon gives me chills. He left this week (alone this time, so I could stay home and volunteer at the museum), and I stayed up 'till 4 a.m. every night he was gone, just so I could sleep in the next day and make the time go faster.

Pathetic. Not to mention the fact that I gave myself an ulcer worrying that he would die alone, young (dying young seems to be my latest obsessive fear these days), while he was on the road, leaving me to live my life in solitude. So consumed was I with the fear of my husband dying on his way to Oregon, that I could not even carry on a phone conversation without professing to him my infinite love, just in case it turned out to be our last conversation. Again...pathetic.

And now I'm mad (just another emotional mind mine blowing up...pay no attention), because I never agreed to be so sensitive. I didn't sign up for this kind of co-dependent psycho-babble "I love you I love you I love you" nonsense. I never wanted to care this much.

But I do and it's done and of course I can't even bring myself to regret any of it, because that would mean I regret being married, which I do not. And the thought that Poor Kyle might be under the false impression that I regret my life how it is...well, it's a thought that I cannot bear, in lieu of my recent uncontrollable sappiness.

All I Really Need to Know I Learned From "Saved by the Bell"

Dadgummit. They got the ducks again.

Any child of the '80s will recall that episode of Saved by the Bell--the episode that impacted young minds more powerfully than any other [save perhaps the one wherein Jessie had a drug-induced nervous breakdown]. It was the the time when Bayside struck oil and decided to hire an oil company to drill on the football field; the plan was to make Bayside High a first-rate prep school with the oil profits. Unfortunately, there was an oil spill that caused the deaths of the entire student population's science projects: Becky the Duck, in particular.

*Photos from x-entertainment.com*

Even before I found these photos online, I could clearly envision the sight of that poor dead duck, black and slick with spilled oil that had invaded her home--the nearby pond. She was dead--dead...and all because of the greediness of humanity. I must have only been six or seven when I first saw that episode, yet the images were so real and urgent that I have remembered them vividly after 15 years.

And now it's happened again, only in real life. Only this time it wasn't an oil spill that was to blame--it was an oil wasteland. These wastelands are toxic ponds, which are the dump sites for Syncrude™, a northern Alberta oil sand company (there's sand up there that is saturated with oil and people dedicate their lives to the extraction of this finite resource [hence "oil sands"]). In other words, there are specific designated areas for Syncrude™ to dump their toxic sludge. That's all fine and well, except for the 500 migrating ducks which landed in the toxic waste on Monday, all but five of which became oil-logged and sank almost immediately. These designated toxic areas that are not new; they've been a part of the company since its beginnings. In fact, Syncrude™ spokespeople claim this is the first time the birds have landed in 30 years. They seem to consider this a positive point--I think they should be embarrassed. Shouldn't they know by now that this is not okay?

It also begs the question, "If Syncrude™ has been dealing with migrating fowl for at least 30 years, what was the major oversight this season, that wiped out entire flocks of living animals?"

See, normally the oil company places sonic-wave noisemakers [pictured above, from aquaticeco.com] in the vicinity of the hazardous areas, which serve to deter flying animals from landing thereabouts. This season, it was snowing. Snowing. Evidently it was snowing a great deal--it would have to be, since that is Syncrude's™ only excuse for their oversight. On the other hand, the ducks were still flying around up there; how bad a snowfall could it have been? And if it was, in fact, snowing too heavily for the ducks to fly, it has since stopped; surely there was enough time to prepare for the annual migration.

Anyway, I think it's all a load of nonsense, and I hope Syncrude™ learns from their mistake (hopefully a lesson in the form of a mega-fine, which could amount to $1,000,000, according to the New York Times). It should not be happening. There is absolutely no excuse for such ignorance. A lot of people (my older sister, for sure) will be inclined to think, "Oh, Camille, it's just 500 ducks. Canada has lots more where those came from. You're overreacting." But that is exactly the mentality we need to fight:

If you're going to take a passive stand, you may as well just lay back down.

The future of our planet is at stake. Our ecosystem is fragile enough without these monstrous companies killing off hundreds of animals...even if it is only every 30 years.

I've Just Had an Epiphany.

Our television is on the fritz [where did that phrase even come from?]**, and I am aghast at how...aware...I am of its absence.

When I was young, my parents strictly monitored our T.V. time--at least until my sister and I got sneaky and started watching cartoons while my parents were out, when we were supposed to be practising the piano. We even made pacts of silence with each other, vowing never to tell our parents (though I'm sure they caught on all by themselves soon enough). Nevertheless, because I was raised to view T.V. as a treat rather than a necessity, I must have figured those notions would carry over into my adulthood.

And they did...or so I thought, until the Asian repairman representing Hatachi came to take away the big 44" box of entertainment.

"So long," I thought as I waved them off, "I'll see you when your volume works again."

Turning to go inside, I decided to make myself a deluxe turkey sandwich on homemade bread for lunch. After ten minutes in the kitchen, I carefully balanced my plate on my glass of ice-cold milk, and slowly made my way down the thirteen stairs that lead to the creepy basement.

There's a picture of the room--even though it's blurry, you can make out the T.V. in the right hand corner. So there I was, sitting down on the green leather hand-me-down sofa, and I reached for the remote. Imagine my surprise when it was nowhere to be found! Suddenly, I remembered the Hitachi man had taken the clicker...and the T.V.

Only ten minutes into the drought, and I was already parched.

See, I like to eat lunch and watch HGTV at the same time--it makes me feel like my time eating is not being wasted, if I can multi-task (not that watching HGTV is really "getting anything done," but at least it's sometimes educational. [Did you know that black dishwashers can easily be re-configured into stainless steel ones? All it takes is a sheet of metal for under $30 from any hardware store, and power tools]). Plus, I'm alone all day (just me and my shotgun, stalkers!) and I'd rather watch home renovations while I eat than listen to myself crunch lettuce. Even though lettuce does make a nice crunch.

Anyway, the T.V. is gone, and tonight is American Idol and I don't fancy missing it. I also don't fancy missing the new episodes of The Office, or CSI: Miami/New York/Las Vegas, or Holmes on Homes, or reruns of Seinfeld, or Mythbusters, or--

Oh. So this is what my parents meant.

**They don't know. Nobody knows. That's depressing.