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

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.]

I'm Havin' Fun. {So Sue Me.}

I haven't been neglecting you. On Monday morning I got a phone call from my mom.

"We're coming," she said. "Can you be ready for us?"

Absolutely. It only took 18 hours of spring cleaning that I never did back in the spring, but I got good and ready. They arrived on Tuesday at 5 a.m., with an extra three people I was thrilled to see--my sister, her baby, and dear dear Chelsie.

We're full to the brim in this house, I'm out of milk, and I don't know when I've been happier. {As a side note: anybody who as physically met me before and reads this blog is 100% welcome to come visit me and Poor Kyle in Canada--we're all friends here. Any time, any day. We're very accommodating. I cherish company.}

So please, blog, don't feel abandoned. I mean, when it comes right down to it, would you rather spend your days thinking of clever things to post on the internet, or do this: (see below) until the wee hours of the morning?



[Starring my dad as lead singer. I've never heard him rock like he rocked that day.]

I will return to regularly scheduled posting when I get around to it. Sometime this week. Or next.

He's Addicted to the Game of it All.

I come from a long line of teetotalers. One hundred percent, never-touched-their-lips-to-any-sort-of-alcohol, abstainers from the drink. On both sides of the family tree.

In keeping with family tradition, I, too, choose not to drink liquor. I've smelled beer, though, and to me it smells like fermented leaves. [Go figure.] Like a compost pit, if you will. Why would I pay to drink my compost pit when I could go outside and eat all the weeds I want for free?


(And trust me, there are a lot. If man could get drunk on weeds alone, I'd have a first-rate brewery in my own backyard! I'd make millions--but that's only if I knew how to make beer, which I don't. I don't even drink it.)

At any rate, though none of us drink alcohol, we all have a lot of different vices, each to our own. I could talk about all my vices today, but I'd rather talk about my brother-in-law's.

Flint* is a hefty sort of fellow--he's 6'4" if he's an inch, and I'd say he weighs 250-ish.

He pretty much looks exactly like this, except 27 years older. And with hair.

And mercy me, does that Flint ever love his Mountain Dew™. Keep in mind that he is married to a dainty little thing (my older sister) who cooks with whole grains and Splenda™ and hasn't eaten a bite of sugar in four years (except for one bite of wedding cake, which she claims to have spit out after the photo was taken). She's running a marathon in October. In other words, she's a healthy sort of person.

**Tangent: I am typing this in my creepy basement, and a huge spider just crawled my way. I sat up, looked around for a weapon and, finding nothing substantial enough, just watched the spider. After a few seconds he turned around and crawled away towards the T.V., perhaps seeking to get a better look at Cat Deeley, who, I must say, is lovely indeed. Hes' coming back. I threw an empty Dasani™ bottle at him. It missed. He scampered back to Cat Deeley. I will have strange nightmares about this tonight.**

So anyway, she's healthy and he's not and when he comes home from work to reach into the fridge for that can of Mountain Dew™, she cringes.

"Honey," she reminds in her sweetest voice, "remember how we're trying to eat more healthily? Remember our challenge? Whoever loses the most this week gets $100.00?"

"Oh, yeah," he replies coolly. "About that--"

"No!" she interrupts, her voice a bit more shrill than sweet this time. "You cannot give up! You gave up last time, and you were miserable. I won all the money, and you didn't get to buy the bio-diesel machine you wanted, and you still hadn't lost any weight! " She's very passionate about health, my sister is. That woman loves health. (I, too, love health. Only, I like the kind of health that comes from a long snooze in a hammock on a beach; not the kind of health that comes from eating tofu and running 26.7 miles...ever.)

Flint smiles and hugs her and continues drinking his soda, and as I observe the scene, it makes me wonder if this what it's like for couples who do drink alcohol. When the husband comes home and takes out a can of ice-cold Coors™ after a long day at the office, and the wife gets annoyed because he should be playing with the children instead of feeding his alcoholism, is this what it looks like? Of course I'll have no way of knowing because if anyone in my family ever starts nursing an alcoholic condition, it will mean that the earth has come to an end, and I won't be around to observe because I'll be dead--what with the earth ending and all.

But there's a twinkle in Flint's eye when he comes home from work and reaches into the fridge. It's the sort of twinkle that says, "This is gonna be good," and it's not talking about the can of soda. I secretly believe that he only does this to get on my sister's nerves, in the same way that Daniel Wilsford used to stomp on my sand castles at recess when I was eight--they do these things to make us mad, because making up is so much fun. He probably doesn't even like Mountain Dew™. He probably prefers Diet.

Poor, poor Flint. He has no idea.

*Names changed because I said so.*

The Big Day--Update #4

Poor Kyle met me in October of 2005. Two years later we fancied ourselves marrying types.

A recap, in photos:

We got married on a Saturday in October, along with a million other couples in the Mesa, Arizona LDS temple. I chose the 12:40 slot, which meant I only had to wake up at 7 in the morning [as opposed to that time my older sister got married at 10 a.m. which meant she awoke at 3 a.m. She's neurotic like that]. Poor Kyle was staying at my big sister's house and we all (me, Poor Kyle, big sister, and mother) carpooled to the temple a few hours early for photos. We forgot the bouquet. My brother in law brought it. It was too hot for October.

There was a great bit of drama about which photographer to choose. So many people had warned me that skimping on their wedding photography had been their biggest regret. I have mixed emotions about ours. She took a lot of photos from down below, pointing her camera up at us, which gave us all double chins the whole day...but she got some really poignant shots, too. I'm happy to have all the photos we did get.

We got into the temple and they almost didn't let me in on account of my recommend not being activated correctly. I was just about to call the whole thing off, thinking it was a terrible omen, and that my real purpose in life was to move to New York and get discovered in some fancy career that required me to own and wear shiny black stilettos, when the Temple President gave me the okay. [Still, though, there was such a long wait {probably only like 20 minutes, but it seemed like a lifetime} before we actually got married, I seriously did give it second, third, fourth and fifth thoughts. There were lots of short moments that I pretty much figured I'd never go through with it. Luckily I re-thought a sixth time, and by then the wedding had gotten under way, and here I am married.]

The actual ceremony was lovely, I'm sure. One of these days I need to get a recount of things that were said, because I certainly don't remember a word. I was having a major major overload.

It is both disrespectful and not allowed to take pictures inside the temple, but I like this one the photographer captured of us the moment we exited. Look at how timid we were...I really had no idea what to do with myself. I just couldn't get over the fact that I was married.

Here's most of the people at the wedding. Some were in the temple, and some were waiting for us outside. The big drama of the day was getting my grandpa to take off his baseball cap for the photos. He wouldn't. I didn't mind, not a bit--like I said, it was too hot for October. Can you find him?

All my aunts and uncles were there--I don't know why I only got photos with half of them. It was hectic, I suppose.

Most of my cousins were there, too (the older ones, anyway). It's funny--I never really thought my cousins liked me very much, but most of them showed up for the big day, even though it was so hot [for October]. I was touched. I should tell them sometime. Maybe at Christmas.


Some of my very dearest friends were there (with the exception of a few who were away at school, or off in Brazil on missions). Again: touched.


I never considered having flower girls on account of I don't like kids (and there weren't any aisles for them to walk down tossing petals), but Kyle's nieces were so excited to play the parts, I couldn't be the one to crush their dreams. I don't think these two girls know me very well, but they certainly are adorable. And they were passionate about flowers. More photos of them at the reception will follow.


This was the last picture taken of us at the Temple--afterwards, we were off to RigaTony's for lunch. But it's one of my favourites--it captures the real importance of the day: not baseball caps or soiled dress hems, but the fact we were able to get married in the temple. That means, should Poor Kyle have the strength to handle me for the rest of our lives, he'll be stuck with me throughout eternity, too. What's not to love about a promise like that?

Tell Me 'Bout the Good Old Days

My grandfather died a year ago yesterday. One of his favourite songs was "I Am a Happy Wanderer," so even though you may think it's a bit hokey, I'm playing it on my blog all day today, and maybe even tomorrow if I feel like it.

I remember it so clearly. I was nannying in Brussels, Belgium. My grandpa's health had taken a turn for the worse. Back in January, the day before I moved to Belgium, I went to visit him--to say my goodbyes. I remember crying almost uncontrollably; he'd become so feeble, and there was a very real possibility that I'd never see him alive again.

I was just barely adjusting to my life as a nanny in Europe when my sister signed on to an iChat on March 6th of 2007. It was morning in Phoenix, but nighttime in Brussels.

"Grandpa's doing really bad," she typed. "Everyone in the family has canceled their spring break plans. Hospice has come in. He's probably going to die soon. Even Grandma's not sounding very optimistic."

It was that last line that made my heart stop--if Grandma had lost hope, the situation was bleak.

"Can you come home," she asked. "We need you."

Whether or not my family really needed me remains to be seen. But I knew I would always regret not getting to see him again. I pulled some strings--many amazing strings. I broke the news to my employers: I had to go home, but if they still wanted me, I'd leave my belongings and come back soon. [They still wanted me.] I prayed so fervently to God--if I was meant to get home, to please give me the strength and the means to make it. I got a train ticket from Brussels to Paris--it should have cost $100.00 or so, but I got it for $15.00. I hopped on a standby flight from Paris to Phoenix--it was booked to capacity, and there were many other standbys. Some people got denied, but I was given the last seat on the plane.


After traveling for 24 solid hours, I got to Mesa on March 7th, and Grandpa died the next night. I spent all day (minus four hours) at his house. It was a time of reflection, and a time of unification. I don't know if I've ever felt so close to my family--aunts, uncles, everyone--as I did those few days.

My relationship with Poor Kyle was in a strange place--I debated whether I should ask him to come down. The night my grandpa died, Kyle was not with me. His presence--which he volunteered readily and willingly--was sorely missed. I called him sobbing that night [selfish, I know] and he drove 20 hours straight to be with me. It was a turning point in our engagement, which might have never progressed otherwise.

Grandpa's death also reminded my older sister how short life is. She'd planned on waiting a few more years to have children, but two months later she announced she was pregnant.

Grandpa inspired all of us, however differently we reflect that inspiration. He didn't care for travel. He didn't pine after fancy food or shiny cars. He valued hard, hard work and hard, hard workers. He valued his Savior, Jesus Christ. He valued his family--his sweet wife, his children and grand children and the few great-grands. He was mighty in body and spirit, but not known to the world beyond Arizona, Utah and Idaho...not really. He never won a Nobel Prize, a Grammy, or even a spot in the Guinness Book of World Records.

His legacy is us. I can't wait to see him again.

Blood is Thicker than Water

**Warning: This post may cause bile to rise in throats of less-sentimental readers. Immense tenderness ahead. Do not read if prone to illness or reactions against tenderness. This post may not be suited for adults who are not directly related to me. Read at your own risk**

Dear Immediate Blood Relatives [Mom, Dad, and Big Sis],

Over the past two years it seems I've been away from home more often than not. I wonder, if I'd realised my time with you was short-lived, I would've stopped leaving. Even though I've been to interesting places and accomplished some of my lifetime goals, I sometimes feel a twinge of remorse thinking about how I spent my last days as a Strate. Maybe instead of being so determined to learn French, I should have focused on bonding a little more. Perhaps rather than traveling the world and spending all those weekends in Canada with a guy who'd soon have me for the rest of his life, I could have embraced every spare minute I had with you.

I always have a clearer perspective of my experiences after I've already lived through them {and when I am thousands of miles away}.

Dad,
Do you remember the time Mom and Adell went to a conference in Tucson and I was so disappointed I didn't get to go? I'm pretty sure I was eight years old; you took me to the Compass Room restaurant at the Hyatt Regency in Phoenix. I'd always dreamed of going there. To this day, I don't think I've eaten at a fancier restaurant.


I remember I got some kind of bisque--I'd never had bisque before, but the waitress told me it was soup (and I like soup), so I ordered it. I was turned off when I found out it was cold--it reminded me of V8, and I don't like V8. But I ate it anyway--all of it, I think. I was so excited. That was the last father-daughter date we ever took, just you and me. Why don't we do that more often?

Mom,
My first year at ASU was so miserable. Almost all of my near-and-dear friends had gone away, and I was really in a funk (as you would say). I was so oblivious to the world around me that the day before classes started, I had a nervous breakdown--I didn't even know where my classrooms were, or where I could park. I hadn't even bought paper. You insisted on driving me around campus after church that Sunday--Dad and Allison came, too. You taught me how to get to the Institute building. "If you can get yourself here, you'll be okay," was your calm, seasoned assurance. There, I'd be able to park for free, store my lunch, and hide out in between classes. I drove the same way to campus every day--the way you taught--just me and Beulah (and sometimes Adell).



During the second semester, when Valentine's Day rolled around, I became so fed up with ASU and its lousy boys, that I declined all dates for the entire month. I left you a Valentine (on your pillow, maybe?) and I think it made your day--we were each others' valentines. Later on that year we had quite a few disagreements about my life, but you never stopped supporting me. The next Valentine's Day, I found a letter from you in my Canadian mailbox--you'd sent me a valentine. I felt so bad I'd forgotten to do the same for you. And the next year I was in Belgium, and never did get around to sending you one. Now I'm back in Canada and I don't have any stamps. I'm sorry.



Adell,
Remember how viciously we used to fight? Not argue or quarrel--we'd punch, bite, and pull hair. You were so much stronger than me, but if you backed me into a corner, I could kick really hard--my legs were longer than your arms. In a strange way, those fights brought us closer as sisters. They always ended in us laughing together, or trying to disguise the holes in the wall--together. That time you sat on our wobbly piano bench and it broke to pieces, I teased you endlessly. I think it made you feel bad--I'm so sorry. It was going to happen, no matter who sat on it. But I know if I'd been the one to break it, you would not have laughed at me. You have always been a better sister to me than I was to you.



Like how you were my strongest support system throughout my entire engagement and wedding...but I just moped all the way through yours. I was so sad to see you go--but that's no excuse.


I've just bawled through this entire post. If I wanted to make it extra sad and sappy, I would talk about Sampson. [Our poor dead dog--he was a Strate, too, even though he wasn't very obedient.] I won't do that, though.

To my family, still living in the place I can't stop calling "home..."

I love you all. Very much.

Just thought you should know.

Goin' Home...

I know, I know. I live in Canada now. It's my home. Well, "They" say that home is where the heart is, and so in my case, I have homes all over the world. I'm quite divided as to where "home" is for me. Torn, really. I mean, my heart is here in Canada, of course, but still...so very much in Mesa.

But let's not think about sad things like leaving home. Instead, let's think about this: I'm going to Arizona soon! I knew I would not get to be there for Christmas, and I was kind of hoping Gwidon wouldn't exit his mother's womb until after I got there. Little punk that he is, he squeezed out all early on me. And now I've missed his first growth spurt, and his mother doesn't know French, and I think she has plastic bottles in her house, which--aside from causing the child to have cancer--aren't green. So I gotta get down there. I mean...I just have to.

Aside from being Preston's new (and very temporary) nanny, there's lots of other things I plan on doing when I get home to Arizona. Namely...

-Dragging Broadway and reminiscing about all the good times we used to have breaking into this abandoned warehouse.
-Eating Super Burrito carnes (if I have to explain what these are, you don't deserve to know).
-Shopping at Target. Oh, Target.
-Hanging out at 5 E. Hillside.
-Visiting my grandparents. Maybe even the Texas ones...
-Going to the Scottsdale Fashion Mall, just for kicks.
-Buying 25 cent magazines at the Mesa Public Library.
-Renewing my Arizona tags on Tamra Camry.
-Going to Costco to look at the cheap cheese. And the cheap meat.
-Going to Costco for any reason at all, really.
-Spending a great deal of my time at the neighborhood QT. I really miss it there.
-Eating fresh, ripe, free (free!) citrus from my backyard. Okay, fine, it's not my backyard anymore...but I'm pretty sure my mom and dad won't mind.
-Going to church at the Westwood Ward.
-Staying up until 3 a.m. just so I can go shopping, and remind the Canadians how useful a 24-hour Wal-Mart really is (it's one of the selling points for my "America-is-Slightly-Superior-to-the-Rest-of-the-World" campaign).
-Roller blading on the blissfully bare (read: snow-less) sidewalks.

Can you tell? I'm pretty hyped about this. I'm only packing one sweater, too. Out of spite. I figure one good thing about living in this frosty country is that when I go home to Arizona I might never--ever--need to wear a sweater.

**P.S. Preston made Jenny Biggs' blog! Check him out here...he's quite handsome, and it will be worth your while.**

...Pre-Reception...Update #2

I haven't forgotten that I have a lot more wedding-ish stuff to blog. I will do it now.


Shortly after Kyle and I got engaged, we decided to have two wedding receptions; one in Canada and one in Arizona. It wasn't long before we had to settle on a date for the respective affairs to be held. Because I intended to marry a foreigner and we wanted to forgo any hassles with The Border People, we decided to hold the Canadian reception a week before our actual wedding date. (The reasons why are long and complicated, so just trust that it was a good idea.)


Five hours after the end of bridal shower #2, (without sleeping much) I caught a flight up to Calgary to meet my fiance.


Kyle picked me up and we proceeded to get various things ready for a houseful of people. The next day, my mom, dad, sister, brother-in-law, aunt Linda, and uncle Steve arrived in Calgary. They rented a couple vans and drove down to Lethbridge, dropping off Aunt Linda and Uncle Steve to stay at relatives' house in Lethbridge. Then my immediate family continued on to Raymond to set up camp in what was then Kyle's (now our) house. There are two extra rooms with beds at his house, so the married couples claimed them. Kyle kept his own bed, and I camped in the basement...all alone...until the three driving friends arrived--Allison, Derrick, and Lindsey.


*Can you believe I have six family members and three friends in the world who love me enough to fly and drive so far just to come to one of my wedding receptions?? Most people should be so blessed...*

So the Mesa constituency was accounted for. Kyle's parents hosted a smashing family dinner at The Dynasty's banquet room. All Kyle's family--aunts, uncles, grandmas, etc.--were there, along with my gang. Just to spice things up, we made our families intermingle and sit together at the different tables--to get to know one another. At first people seemed a little self-conscious, but I've since heard that everyone loved it.

The next day was a laid-back blend of friends, family, fun, and Hutterites.



That night, October 13 2007, we threw a soiree the likes of which the town of Raymond had never before seen. [Actually, maybe the town of Raymond had seen the likes of our reception before. I'm an immigrant--I don't know.] But I digress. The colors were red and black, and for our guest's gastronomic pleasure was a delicious medley of cupcakes and cream puffs, and ice cream to beat. Everyone who came did their part to help set up and get things ready, and many hands make light work, so everything went smoothly. (What do I know? I had nothing to do with it...) Kyle's Aunt LuAnne toiled endlessly on decorating and fooding and making our reception a delight. Lindsey did my hair (and spruced up Kyle's), and all "the girls" helped me into my dress. Allison held my dress and anything else I couldn't deal with, Adell continually reminded me to suck in, which was more helpful than one might think, while my mom provided encouraging words and smoothed over some rough nerves...



...There was a receiving line, once the party started. Kyle and I were the only ones receiving anyone, inasmuch as both our sets of parents opted to go Absent Without Leave, instead mingling around the various guest tables...

...It was fine though. Kyle introduced me to everyone. We had a lovely time talking with people, and even though it was exhausting to smile so much, I'm very glad we did it.

Two hours later, we all pitched in to provide the fastest clean up of any shindig I've ever witnessed.
Total success.