{Ow to the Nth Degree}

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?

{Good Things Come in Reds.}

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.

{Communism at its Finest}

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.

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

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.*

{Kamikaze Insects}

Girls' Camp was delightful--a lot of hard work, but delightful.

My duties (jointly shared with "L" of "CL," who just so happens to be a dear friend of mine) were mainly to entertain the girls. Every night on stage, we dressed up as Kim and Aggie from "How Clean is Your House," and regaled the audience with tales of atrocious bedding, stolen cabin windows (ours was missing when we arrived at camp, which proved to be great ammunition later on), and kamikaze insects.

I'm sure you would appreciate hearing the account of everything that happened at camp, but probably most things wouldn't be as funny, since you don't know who I'm talking about when I write, for example, "Vonda is so sneaky--she stole our window right from its frame!"

But there is one story universal enough to share on my blog:

The Time a Kamikaze Fly Became a Squatter in My Ear Canal
a.k.a.
"The Scariest Thing of My Life"

I was on my top bunk in our window-less cabin, trying to enjoy what bit of free time I had. A fly was buzzing around my head, annoying me to the point of anger. I wanted to finish reading my book, and That Fly wanted to frolic around my face, making reading impossible for me.

"Cut it out, you stupid fly," I muttered. But the fly only inched closer to my head. I swatted and swatted, to no avail: the insect seemed determined that its goal was my head.

Just as I was going to abandon my book and head for the hills (or at least to the mess hall for lunch), I heard a final "buzz," felt a tickling on my right ear, and then I died.

Or at least, I wished I'd died. Because That Kamikaze Fly was in my ear, buzzing and tapping on my eardrum for all he was worth.

According to medicinenet.com, "insects can...fly or crawl into the [ear] canal. Usually this happens while sleeping on the floor or camping. This is often a frightening and dramatic event as the insect's buzzing and movement is very loud and sometimes painful."

*Picture from here.*

Okay. To describe the experience of having the Kamikaze Fly in my ear canal as "frightening and dramatic" does not even come close. It was paralysing. And then, after I stopped being paralysed, it was vomit-worthy. And then it became immensely stressful. The witnesses to the occasion said I was quite amusing, smacking my head with all my might like that. And when smacking the right side of my head did not work, I tipped it sideways and smacked the other ear.

But still That Fly would not leave. He loved being in my ear where it was nice and warm, (if not a bit violent). He loved it so much that he did a little jig on my ear drum, and it sounded something like this:

"Tap-a tap-a tap tap tap tap TAP TAP TAP TAP TICKA-TAP TICKA-TAP TICKA TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP THUNK TICKA TAP THUNK TICKA TAPITTY TAPITTY TAP!!!!!!!!"

That bastard.

(I'm sorry for the foul language, Poor Kyle, but I tried lots of other words to describe That Fly, and none fit quite as well. Please forgive me. And think how I feel. I had a fly in my ear.)

Finally I gathered my wits enough to scream "B!!!" (another name for "L" of "CL"), which, directly translated means, "I hate to bother you, but this insolent kamikaze fly will not exit my ear canal, which causes me great strife and his little jig is not helping, and for the love of Pete get over here I need you!!"

She came to me, good friend that she is, and made me stop flailing about like a crazy person (which I totally was by that point). She pulled my ear back, and watched as That Fly creepity-crawled sheepishly out of my ear (and the mental image of a fly creeping out of my ear still makes me want to kill myself a little bit).

She said that as the little bugger surfaced the light of day, he paused, looked at her with all his eyes and said, "Whoa. I'm sorry, lady, but your friend is nuts." And then he took off for greener pastures. Or less angry humans.

Afterwards, I discovered I'd hit my ear so hard and violently that it was bleeding inside. Blood, of course, makes me pass out. My whole face was swollen the rest of the day, but the camp infirmary supplied me with a capful of rubbing alcohol to ease my worries.

It is an experience I hope none of you ever have to suffer.

A Winner Announced (Plus a Story for the Weekend)

I was supposed to announce the winner of this week's contest yesterday. As it turns out, all blogging duties get put on the proverbial back burner when one is preparing for Girls' Camp.

That "one" would be me and L. We're doing a spoof on the BBC television programme "How Clean is Your House", which is ironic, because...well...you figure out the irony.

So I will take a moment to announce the winner now:

I liked that Joel wrote, "Men in Need of Camille's Honest Everyday Ramblings," but it didn't make me laugh hard enough. Honourable Mention, Joel.

I also liked SparklieSunshine's clever and extended definition of "Mincher," but alas, I needed more of a laugh. Honourable Mention, and nice to meet you, SparklieSunshine.

The real winner of the contest would have been my anonymous friend--who could have won by sheer volume of votes alone--but the contest did require a blog link. So though I appreciate your input, I'm sorry to say that you didn't win. [Same goes for you, RatalieNose!]

And so, partly by default and partly by sheer humour, the winner of the word verification contest is...

...Loralee! Her comment was just the sort of absurdity I needed this week. Check it out in Tuesday's comment list. Loralee, send me an email with your address [and don't forget to include the retailer of your choice], and I'll get the $25.00 gift card in the mail next week.

As soon as I get back from Girls' Camp. If I get back from camp, that is.

Thank you to everyone for your entries, and welcome to anyone new who's stopping by. I wish I could give you a better welcoming, but I'm heading out of town this weekend (to Girls' Camp, in case you didn't pick up on that already). I'll be back by Tuesday, posting updates on the hilarity of my weekend, to be sure.

But before I leave, here's a story for the weekend:

I pulled into my local QT to fuel up Tamra Camry before tomorrow's long drive to Girls' Camp. Lindsey, my partner in Girls' Camp Crime, was sitting shotgun, and thank heavens. Just as I was about to open my car door, Lindsey shouted, "Camille! Is that Leroy* and Ken*?"

I looked, and it was indeed Leroy and Ken. They were parked in front of the doors to QT, leaning against the vehicle that Lindsey had so shrewdly identified. Leroy was my summertime boy a few years ago, and Ken is his partner in crime. Things with Leroy ended rather abruptly that summer when I packed up my belongings and moved to Canada. And we haven't really talked since.

This is because I avoid Leroy at all costs. I have a deeply entrenched fear of all things awkward, you see, and I just have a feeling that any conversation I could possibly have with Leroy would be immensely awkward.

On account of me being married now [to a Canadian I met the summer after I left Leroy to move to Canada].

On top of which, it's no secret that since getting married, I've really let myself go:


And while it's fine and dandy to hear the advice, "Camille, you should really exercise. And get your hair fixed," there's not really anything I could do about it right there in the QT parking lot.

So instead, without a second thought, I started Tamra Camry, threw her into drive, and--as inconspicuously as possible--squealed out to the next closest QT.

And Lindsey didn't even question my decision--we're one like that.

*Names changed for privacy (and prideful) purposes.

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.

Thanks. For Nothing.

This is madness.

I cannot believe my own readers (of which there are 100 or so, as far as I can tell [not much, but hey--they're mine]) do not support me in not supporting Poor Kyle's remarriage.

Whose side are you all on, anyway? Poor Kyle is not the one who writes faithfully here every day (or night), laboring endlessly thinking of clever new topics to keep you entertained. You want to know a secret? He doesn't even care about you much. Oh, sure, he reads your comments (which are becoming fewer and fewer lately. [Don't think I haven't noticed.]), but does he ever leave any of his own? No. It's like he doesn't even want to be connected with my blog, or any of you; as though we're some strange distant relatives he only sees at family reunions every other year, and even then he doesn't sit with us at lunch.

So how can you all be siding with him? Traitors.

The only one of you who has been loyal throughout my time of serious travail has been Anonymous #2 and #3, who I secretly suspect are the same person. So that is it; one person out of 100 agrees that I should be Poor Kyle's one-and-only, and that I am right in my decision to haunt Poor Kyle if he ever remarries after I die young. And he or she won't even leave his or her name.

If this doesn't beat all.

The only thing you can do to make up for your mistreatment of me is to participate in the new survey I'm posting on the right sidebar. All you have to do is answer the following question:

If Camille took a page out of Bossy's book and tried to go on an excellent road trip next summer, would you be interested in giving her a place to sleep at night?

That's it. I was going to write a thrilling post complete with before-and-after photos, tense controversies, and personal life scandals...but now all you get is a lousy survey.

And it's all you deserve, after yesterday's abandonment. I hope you're sorry.

How Not to Teach a Lesson on The Immaculate Conception

Poor Kyle and I attend church meetings every Sunday from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. Almost everyone in our congregation (we call them "wards" [as in "mental ward," only most of us aren't insane. I am, of course...but that's totally beside the point]) has a job to do at church, or for church throughout the week.

Guess what job they saw fit to assign me?

Kids.

Yessirree. Kids.

Poor Kyle and I teach the six-turning-seven-year-olds in primary (which is Sunday School) every Sabbath morn. To say that this assignment is trying my faith...well, that would be putting it lightly. We have ten kids in our class, and they're a high-spirited bunch, at best. At worst, they are disobedient and irreverent and spending two hours with them is as much fun as spending two hours on the stair master (not that I have ever experienced two hours on a stair master...but it seems pretty wretched).

Anyway, they're good kids, and I will admit they are quite responsive to my "looks." Which I'm rather proud to divulge, myself. I mean, I've always wanted to have those kind of "looks" (by "looks" I mean withering glares, not physical beauty [though, who knows? Maybe my physical beauty has something to do with it too?]).


A few weeks ago it was my turn to give the lesson (we were talking about the birth of Jesus Christ) and our kids were behaving (!!!). We came to the part of the story where Joseph could either break off his engagement to Mary, or have her stoned, or stay with her. I decided to really sink my teeth in--I mean, so many teachers tend to skim over that bit of history, and I, being a forward-thinker [or so I imagine], wanted to make sure my students were well-informed. I explained that Joseph and Mary were not even married yet, but Mary had become pregnant, and Joseph didn't understand that the baby was Heavenly Father's. He was angry and hurt, but he still loved Mary and didn't want her to die from being stoned. So instead, he broke off the engagement. That would have been the end of it, if not for the angel who came to Joseph in the night and told him to lighten up--the baby was a child of God [literally]. Then we moved on. The entire subject of the immaculate conception took...maybe five minutes of the lesson.

After we finished the material, I wanted to see how much of it they had retained, and so I asked one girl--we'll call her "Hallie"--what she had learned.

"Ummm...." she said, wracking her six year-old brain, "ummm... I learned that... It's okay to have a baby even if you're not married?"

How nice of you to retain that bit of information, Hallie, but no. Not exactly. I mean, women can have babies even when they're not married, and it happens to some of the greatest people I know...but I don't think our church exactly promotes such activities.

Then again...what if sweet little Hallie grows up and conceives immaculately herself?? I mean...it happened once. I don't profess to know the entirety of God's plan for this world...what if I tell Hallie it's not okay to have a baby out of wedlock, and then she grows up to be like Mary, Mother of Christ, and conceives immaculately? She'll be so confused! And depressed, and maybe she'll remember that day in class when I told her such-and-such, and now she feels like a sinner when what she really needs is to be comforted in her time of travail--

I hope I don't have to answer for this when I get to my final judgment. What am I going to say?

"Well, Heavenly Father...did you have to make it so confusing to explain to kids?"

It's hard to know. And it's exactly why I'm not having children of my own [anytime soon]. I am a terrible teacher; but they deserve the best.

{Strange and Random Neighbor Kids}

I am mildly obsessed with doors; I am always on the lookout for doors with character--doors with soul. I like to decorate with doors, or even with photos of doors. I have photographed doors in Paris, London, Amsterdam, and a smattering of other equally interesting (though less-known) locations.

The front door of the house where I lived in Brussels, Belgium.

The door of the bedroom where I stayed in Normandy, France.

Probably my interest in doors dates back to when we were remodeling our house, and I would go on long family drives with my parents and sister--we were on the quest for the perfect door to copycat.

Anyway, I like doors a lot, and I am the type of person who always feels compelled to answer the door when someone knocks (unlike my mother-in-law, who ignores it anytime she doesn't feel like dealing with people). I just thought it was normal to do so--plus, it bothers me when I don't know who's trying to get in contact with me. But I'm kind of starting to reconsider my previous notions that just because there's a knock at the door, I must answer like some sort of glassy-eyed zombie. Maybe I don't have to answer...maybe it's better if I don't, because...

...people have stopped asking me to babysit. Instead, when they fancy some "mommy time," they're just sending their kids over to my house unannounced.

Today, two random neighbor girls (whose parents I have never even spoken to, by the way,) stopped by my house just as I was sitting down to a nice turkey sandwich (complete with Jarlsberg cheese, butter lettuce, roma tomatoes, and fresh mustard) and a glass of skim milk.

I was perturbed. I knew one of the girls a little bit, because she'd been in Poor Kyle's primary class last year. But I'd never met her little friend, and I was quite shocked to see them at my front door.

In fact, when I went to answer the knock at the door, I saw it was these strange little girls and said, "Hi...umm...what do you want? Why are you here?"

They just stood there, looking at me.

I stood there, looking right back at them. Finally I could stand the awkward silence no more (because I so despise awkward silences), and, though my mind was screaming, "Shut the door! Shut the door! Shut the door!," all I said was, "Did you want to come in?"

They needed no further invitation. Like a flash, they were in my house, shoes discarded at the door, exploring our creepy basement (where I secretly hoped a boogey man really would pop out and scare them, so they wouldn't think our house was "fun" anymore). Anyway, all kids like Poor Kyle better than me, and since he wasn't home, the girls lost interest fairly quickly and left me to my sandwich.

But it makes me wonder about their parents. I know I live in Mayberry and all...but haven't these people ever seen American Beauty? (Okay, probably not, since it's rated "R" and the population here is predominantly Mormon [and, okay, I haven't seen it either, but I know what it's about...]) The whole point is that bad things can happen even in seemingly perfect environments. I could be a child molester. I could be a drug dealer. I could harbor fugitives in my (exceedingly) creepy basement. The adults in question have never even spoken to me, yet they're trusting their precious children in my care? Trusting me in my carelessness would be more like it. Because I don't care about these strange and random neighbor kids...not really...

So what are these parents thinking?

Do Not Pronounce It "Orry-Gawn"

We went on a trip [business related]. A recap, in photos:

Destination: Oregon

Mode of Transportation: The FWhatever50. Naturally.

With a G.P.S. [thank heavens]:


and heated seats...

...which might have been a bit superfluous, since the weather was lovely:


We jammed (jammed?) to this mystery album (any guesses?):


...all the while marveling at the magnificent bridges and tunnels built by the CCC just after the Great Depression. I really appreciate the New Deal. And FDR. Those were the days...

We also marveled at the scrubby trees on the banks of the Columbia River:

Everything was going swell. We picked up trailers at the appointed hour:

And started back on our way (after grabbing a bite to eat):


But then, about midnight, something went terribly wrong. Turns out, our load was four feet over the legal limit in Oregon. And we got in big-time trouble for it:



Not only did PK get a ticket, but we had to leave the trailer at a scale in Washington and go stay in a hotel for the night while we waited for our rescuers (in the form of my in-laws, whom I, like an idiot, forgot to photograph).

It was a most inconvenient detour.

Then the next day we had troubles loading and unloading said offending trailer (which troubles I also failed to photograph because...well...it just wasn't a good time to be taking pictures).

And then we almost didn't make it to the fuel station, which almost didn't have ultra low sulfur diesel, which turns out to be really important stuff.

But everything worked out in...

...The End.

You Mean I'm Not Perfect??

As old as I keep getting, I never really seem to learn anything.

Why do I spout off hurtful vendettas without thinking things through first? I don't know, really. There are two sides to every story (sometimes three or four, if you're CSI: Miami), but I am the tunnel vision kind of girl who only sees my own misfortunes. Quite the victim, aren't I?

Tunnel vision kind of girl. That's the point, really. I'm still quite a little girl. It's true--I don't feel like a grown up at all, most days. I go on and on about how disappointed I am in people--in the state of the world these days. Yet sometimes, when I step back and look at my own life, I realise I'm quite the biggest disappointment of all.

It's all very distressing. I mean, think of it: imagine if you lived your life all day every day, thinking you knew exactly what people are going through and what they should do to fix themselves, and the whole world has major problems, and people just need to get over it. Then imagine that one evening as you're flossing your teeth (which everyone ought to be doing), it is called to your attention that maybe--just maybe--you might have some issues of your own. Maybe you're a big jerk when all is said and done...maybe you're all talk. Maybe you're 21 years old and still acting like a child.

Maybe you're too harsh on the seemingly incompetent clerks at the homogenise-the-world chain stores who wear blue vests with yellow smiley-faced pins; maybe they have lives and hate their jobs and don't really care whether or not you can't find strike-anywhere matches (which are not by the barbecue supplies, just for the record). Maybe people with children aren't the enemy, and they aren't judging you for not wanting any of your own. Maybe old ladies at church don't think they're being crotchety at all, and Becca Flunt* truly did think you stole her graphing calculator. Maybe the sky isn't intentionally pouring down powdery white stuff just to get even with you.

Maybe all the mean comments "anonymous" makes on your blog is exactly right: Maybe "anonymous" is much more clever than yourself.

And think what a shock it is to the system--to go from so right to totally, undeniably wrong.

I don't know quite what to make of it, actually.

Hairway to Hell (Hairdos on Trial)

I've always had issues with my hair. From a very young age, my mother forced toxic chemicals on my otherwise-straight hair, with the hopes it my curl and bounce like Shirley Temples. It did neither, instead forging its way down a lonely lifelong path I like to call "Hairway to Hell."

Exhibit A--Two Years Old:


When we finally realised that perming my hair wasn't working for my disobedient locks, it became an uphill struggle to find a hairstyle that could handle my daily escapades without turning stringy (as stick-straight hair is wont to do). My mother was of the "Let's-Brush-it--and-Fluff-it-and-Tie-it-Back-Conservatively" school of thought.

Exhibit B--Neighborhood Preschool Class Photo:

During this period in my life, I was not the cutest girl in class--but I was at least presentable.

Exhibit C--1st Grade:

Then something terrible happened: I learned about independence. Somewhere along the lines, some teacher planted seeds of revolution into my already-impressionable mind. I grew, I learned, and I became sure that I knew better than everyone else--my mother included. Every outfit I wore had to be my own creation. Every extracurricular she signed me up for that didn't sound fun turned into a war zone. And you'd better believe that every school year on picture day, my hair became a battle of wills between my mother and me. Now, anyone who knows my mother can see that she is strong-willed. Probably the most strong-willed person I know. But she also knew to choose her battles. My guess is that she became so exhausted from forcing me to continue piano lessons and singing classes and dance and softball, she decided to let the hair issues...slide. I was that kind of kid. I give you...

Exhibit D--"The Scraggle-Haired Girl," or "How I thought I Could Do it Better:"


Exhibit E--"Seriously?" or "Seriously??" or "I Even Fought to Wear a Christmas Dress When School Pictures Were in the September:"

Finally, about the fifth grade (grade five, Canadians), I decided that brushing my hair might be a worthwhile activity. I got myself some bangs cut, found a can of hairspray, and got with it.

Exhibit F--Still-Not-as-Cute-as-Some-but-at-Least-Maintained:


Unfortunately, within a few months, those bangs grew out. Instead of getting them trimmed like any normal person would do, I took a page out of the oh-so popular Rebecca Donaldson-Katsopolis from the after school sitcom "Full House."

Exhibit G--My Hairdo Hero (circa 1996):

Unfortunately I could not find a photo from this tragic phase of my life. I know some exist, but I have an inkling they're back in Arizona with my family. Not to fear, though! My bangs are just long enough now to capture the general idea of my fifth grade hairstyle:

Exhibit F--How My Hair Looked [an Approximate Re-creation]:




And while the above photos are horrific (for I'd only just woken up [despite the fact I'm wearing pearls]), trust me when I say: my actual fifth-grade hair was much worse. The bangs were higher, my hair was swoopier, and it was truly a bad phase of my life.

Please...don't try this at home.

I Called Him a Cutie on the Internet...

...because of his bad behaviour.

Did I forget to mention I am in Oregon this week? I'm in Oregon. Actually, our trip is almost over—it was just a short run down to Oregon to pick up trailers as part of Poor Kyle’s job. We left Monday at 4:30 a.m. and we’ll be back tomorrow night. This time, though, Poor Kyle’s parents wanted to come along (to get out of the winter, I presume [or else just to make sure Poor Kyle’s doing his job correctly?]). I was looking forward to having extra company.

I’ve often heard it said that a road trip has the potential to make or break a relationship. Many times in my family (at least when I was growing up), road trips were sources of great strife. Please don’t misunderstand me: I was blessed with parents who saw the value of giving their kids experiences, and we took family vacations at least once a year, if not more. I knew I loved to travel, and I enjoyed every bit of our trips…but, in a time before GPSs, cell phones, and On-Star, just trust me when I say: road trips were often a great source of strife.

But I digress. So readily did I believe the adage of road trips making or breaking relationships, that before I could ever consider marrying Poor Kyle, I insisted on taking at least one road trip with him [though when all was said and done, we took more like 10 before we were married]. Poor Kyle pulled out all the stops on these road trips, and I was fully impressed—he passed the test, and here we are married.

And let me just say that if Poor Kyle had, on any of those 10 trips, acted like he has this go-around, we would have never progressed past dinner and a movie. Never. Perhaps extended-length road trips with Poor Kyle and Camille and his parents are just too much to handle. Maybe he likes his peace and quiet. Or maybe, being the youngest child, road trips with his parents cause him to regress back to his inner three year-old. I don’t know. But whatever the reason for his bad behaviour, this toothless cutie...

...suddenly turned into the grouchiest mean old thing I’ve ever known. And I’m pretty sure it’s uncalled for.

He’d better be thankful he waited until after the wedding to let it all hang out like this…

{Great Many Sufferings}

*Preface: Inasmuch as Poor Kyle and I are married (i.e. legally lawfully husband and wife), we have, on occasion, been known to take our morning showers together. Might I add that this is not so much a sexual ritual, as it is economical. In fact, it's neither comfortable nor relaxing--as showers should be--because Poor Kyle likes his water warm, whereas I prefer mine nigh upon scalding. Also, this house's water pressure is moderate to poor, so there's really not even enough to go around. Only one of us can stand in the stream at any given time. Alas...such are the sacrifices we make to save the planet's dwindling fresh water reserves...

*Face: Sunday morning. Our church services begin at 11:00 a.m., so this would have been around 10. In the shower (which is a bathtub/shower combination) fully clothed (just trying to keep this G-rated). I was the lucky one under the spray of water. With my back to the faucet, I crouched down to scrub in between my toes. While there, I went ahead and scrubbed Poor Kyle's toes too (all in the name of efficiency, you see).

Upon returning to my full upright and standing position, I managed to catch my lower back on the bathtub's protruding faucet. Hard. Letting out a yelp of pain (okay, I screamed, and I might have even cursed), I swung my face around to see what sort of damage I'd done (to my body, not the !&#@^* faucet). It was bad. I couldn't see it very well, on account of not having a neck that rotates 180 degrees like that of an owl, but I saw red. I knew instantly that I'd drawn blood, and though the wound wasn't in an easy-to-diagnose location, I was sure there was a massive chunk of flesh--my flesh--careening through the sewage system beneath our house.

Meanwhile, Poor Kyle was asking, "Are you okay?" over and over, with no solid response from me. I couldn't answer questions, you see, because there was blood. I couldn't see it, but I knew it was there. Coming out of my body. Washing down the drain. I started to feel very dizzy, and told him so. How did Poor Kyle respond? He laughed. He didn't believe me, even though he knows how I handle blood [poorly].

No matter. I passed out anyway, to the sound of my husband's giggles, and when I came to, I was nearly on the floor of the tub, in the arms of my now-anxious Poor Kyle. The water was still streaming out of the shower head, and I was very disoriented, you see, because imagine how strange it would be to wake from a seemingly days-long slumber, naked--er...fully clothed--in the running shower. It was disorienting indeed. When finally I realised I'd fainted, I wanted nothing more than to remove myself from the scene of the crime. But Poor Kyle seemed to think it would be more effective for me to rinse the conditioner from my hair and then exit the shower.

Having done so, and growing tired of Poor Kyle's recount--amidst peals of laughter--of my pass-outage, I shakily announced I was getting out. Poor Kyle escorted me from the shower to the bedroom, where finally it hit me: I was bleeding from my back, I'd passed out like a wuss, Poor Kyle had to catch me, and he was laughing about it still, five minutes later.

I must have looked like an idiot. So to make it better, I started to cry. As if I really thought that would help.

It didn't.

"Stop laughing at me!" I whined through my crumpled face and streaming tears. "Stop it!" This was bad. I knew I'd looked foolish when I passed out, because Poor Kyle had reenacted the scene, and really: I looked foolish. But to be crying on top of that...I was so embarrassed of myself, that all I could do was cry harder.

My pleas fell on deaf ears, because, of course, I must have really looked a sight.

After ensuring that I was secure and safe, Poor Kyle meandered back down the hallway to finish his shower. Meanwhile I, having endured more than any person should have to suffer on a Sunday morning, put on my underwear and crawled mournfully back into bed...

...where I stayed for three minutes until Poor Kyle finished his shower and apologised (still giggling) for laughing at me in my time of travail.

I only forgave him because he'd shaved his face for me [actually he'd shaved his face because it was the Sabbath, but he told me it was for me].

*Post face: Upon recounting the sordid tale to Poor Kyle's parents, my father-in-law said curiously, "Camille, I know a lot of people who pass out at the sight of blood, but you're the only person I've ever met who passes out at the thought of the sight of blood."

Yes. That's my claim to fame.

{A Stench So Horrid}

When I was in the sixth grade (Grade 6 if you're Canadian,) my teacher, Mrs. Lewis, had us do a science experiment. We were divided into teams, and each of us needed to bring something different to make slides of, so we could then look at them under the microscope. On the list of items to choose from, there were all kinds of things like apples, leaves, and stool samples. [Just kidding about the stool samples.] I chose to bring an onion, because it was on the list and I knew we had a 20 lb. bag of yellow onions at home.

I was so excited. (Remember: back in the ol' elementary school days, I thought my calling in life was to be a scientist. Anything science was, for me, quite a thrill.) The night before experiment day, I sat at the counter and watched as my mom made my lunch--I'm pretty sure I got a Lunchable and a Capri Sun in my brown paper bag, which was, you know, the coolest. I was jittery and giddy to boot--I even placed my offering (the onion) in my backpack that evening, ready and waiting for all the scientific fun the next day.

I threw up (vomited) three or four times that night, and when the fortuitous morning arrived, my mom forced me to stay home from school. I was too sick to go. No amount of begging or pleading would change her mind, and I tried both. I was convinced she was ruining my life. [I really hope I am not given the responsibility to raise girls when--and if--I have children. There's just so much drama involved.]

I spent a semi-miserable day home from school {I say "semi-," because really--who can be fully miserable when skipping school?} and the next day was a weekend, so there were two more days off school before I got to go back. When I finally did return, all the talk of slides and science and everything I missed made me very sad indeed, but I got over it eventually.

A month or so later, I continued to wake up and go to school, donning my sloppy, unkempt black generic-brand backpack as any good middle class student should do. I noticed, though, that something about me sort of smelled, well, odd. Thinking little of the smell, I carried on through the day and the week, but soon, I became really worried: the smell was getting worse. I showered [almost] daily, and I could tell it wasn't my self that stank. I thought that maybe my mom had gotten a different brand of laundry detergent, but some minor research disproved that theory. One day in class, I could bear the stench no longer. Sniffing all up and down my clothes, my desk and my chair, I noticed the stench becoming more pronounced as I moved closer to my backpack. Unzipping the offending knapsack, the stench grew overwhelming. I dug through my disheveled mess of homework, report cards, and long-forgotten unsigned permission slips, all the while holding my breath for fear of vomiting from the smell.

And then, I caught a glimpse of a thin orangish flake that looked suspiciously familiar. Suddenly I had a flashback--almost in slow motion--to that day, so many weeks ago, when I missed the science experiment.

"Nooooo," my mind screamed in protest, silently pleading with the Powers That Be, "say it isn't truuuuuuueeeeeee...."

How humiliating a discovery to make right there at my desk, during the middle of class time. There, at the bottom of my backpack, rotting away as it had been for the past many weeks, lay a giant black decayed...onion.

Sometimes even today, when I go without showering for a very long time, I catch a whiff of stench...a stench so horrid, it instantly transports me back to that time: the time when a stringy-haired little girl sat at her desk, trying...trying in vain...to pretend it wasn't she who smelled like rotten onion.

{Disastrous}

I can't eat. [Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I can eat--I can always eat.] What I mean to say is, I can't enjoy what I eat. I am unable to relax. Food has lost its flavour; salt has lost its savour.

I can't sleep, either. [Okay, I can sleep. I can always sleep.] But my sleep is not peaceful and deep like usual. It is constantly being interrupted by nightmares and hideous hallucination-like episodes. I wake up in cold sweats. Not even the thick luxurious bedding of our Holiday Inn Suites in Great Falls, Montana can keep me sedated.

I'm in a bad way.


I've been married almost five months to the day, and I haven't written a single thank-you note. Not one.


I haven't even gotten them printed.

Lucky for the World

It's lucky for the world that I am such a good person.

Because I have been met with many injustices--by a number of horrid people--throughout the course of my 21 years.

Like the time in my freshman year at ASU that Becca Flunt* accused me of stealing her TI-80something graphing calculator. I didn't do it, of course--I had a TI80something of my own, and simply borrowed hers for 30 seconds at the institute building the day I'd forgotten mine. The next day, though, when hers turned up missing, she confronted me about it in a most accusing manner.

I went home spewing mad that day. I wanted to call "Five on Your Side," the news station that confronts bad companies about shady deals they'd done. But Becca Flunt--though she was bad business indeed--was neither a company, franchise, nor corporation. Five on Your Side could do nothing for me. Then I wanted to slash all her tires and scrawl "WENCH!" along her car doors with a black Sharpie (TM). I wanted to punch out her living daylights, and I'm not even a violent person.

Instead, I drove down to the Super Wal-Mart at 3 a.m. and bought her a new, $95.00 TI-80whatever. I didn't have enough money to fuel my car and feed myself, but I bought her a new calculator.

Now, lest your opinion of me lower because of what a pushover I was...check that thought. I am not a pushover. I never have been and I doubt I ever will be. But my name is not mud, and I'm not one to let my reputation be soiled by petty so-and-sos. I handed over my life savings (in the form of that dad-gum calculator), along with a rather spiteful letter which, I hope made her feel guilty for being so accusatory. I stood up to her but still cleared my good name. I've always wondered if she ever found her original calculator.

Yesterday it happened again. Another cruel person; another injustice; another juicy post for my blog:

Kyle and I arrived at church early, which meant we got to sit on the padded pews rather than the hard metal chairs in the back row. More importantly, we were out of cheerio-chucking range of all the little hoodlums whose parents have the decency to sit in the back. I was thrilled. We settled in on a shorter side pew, right in front of the three widow ladies who take up permanent residence on the sixth row--it's the same row we always occupy when we get to church early enough (which has only happened once in four months). I turned around and smiled at Aunt Bea* (she's not my aunt but all of Mayberry calls her "Aunt Bea," so I do too), making casual small talk while we waited for church to start. I looked up and smiled as Old Widow #2 wriggled her way into the customary row next to Aunt Bea.

She gave me a stern look and said, jokingly, "Now, I don't want you two to be scratching each other's back like last time!"

"I'm getting sick of these corny newlywed witticisms," I thought, chuckling slightly so Old Widow #2 thought I enjoyed her joke.

Then she continued, still unsmiling, "It's inappropriate to be rubbing each others' shoulders they way you young kids carry on. There's enough time for that at home."

"Oh my gosh. She's not being witty. She's dead serious."

And she kept going...

"I come to church every week, and I like to pay attention. How can I focus on anything when you kids sit in front of me and scratch each others' back like you do? It aggravates me."

Finally, I overcame the shock and found my voice, meager though it was.

"Thank you for your opinion," I said, wishing it sounded more grown up than it actually did.

I turned to Poor Kyle, shocked and appalled, and he whispered smugly, "Don't you wish we'd sat in the back?"

No. I wish all the old hags in the world would die already so as to stop muddling the pool of sweet, grandmotherly figures whose company I usually enjoy. I am going to continue going to church, of course--it didn't shake my faith or offend me to the point of no return. But what if we were a young couple who were just visiting for the day, wanting to learn what the church was like? I'm pretty sure I wouldn't sing praises.

I've waited long and hard to finally be married so I could sit in church and get me back scratched by someone other than my mom or older sister. Getting one's back scratched during church--at least where I come from--is a status symbol. And it's nice. I can think of a hundred things more distracting than a quiet back scratch--they range between the ages of 1 to 12, and I'm never having any.

Because if I do, they'll grow up to be crotchety old crones with nothing better to do than criticise perfectly nice churchgoers.

*Names have been changed because it seemed like the right thing to do