The Miracle of the Elevens.

Last night, after watching a movie on my laptop with Poor Kyle, I glanced up at the toolbar in the right hand corner and noticed the battery read 11% charged. I plugged in the laptop to let it build up juice, and went to lay my tired little head on the memory foam pillow awaiting it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the red numbers of the alarm clock glaring out at me: 11:11 p.m. On the eve of November 11. 11/11. 11%. 11:11 p.m.

It's a Remembrance Day miracle.

Image from here.

Where I grew up, this holiday was called Veteran's day, and it meant absolutely nothing to me. That sounds cold and heartless, but it's true. To me, it was a day off school. The end. While I'm sure my teachers put forth a noble effort to help me appreciate the significance of the day, I'm also sure I blocked those attempts out of my memory--I didn't care why we had a holiday, but I was glad.

Well, I've changed. Maybe it's the fact I've moved to Canada where I'm inundated with poppies and flags and war stories and memorials, or maybe I've just grown up [the former, most likely]. But whatever the reason, I find my thoughts drawn ever-increasingly to the veterans of old these days.

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

If you are American, you may or may not have ever heard of the significance behind poppies at this time of year. You may not even know what a poppy is--I know I didn't, until a few years ago. {Poppy seed muffins...now that's another story.}

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

In Canada and England, the poppy is hailed as a symbol of the sacrifice veterans made for peace back in World War One (and all wars thereafter). Based on a poem written by Major John McCrae published in 1915, the poppy has come to signify all the lives given during time of war. The poem is very moving; Canadians have rather adopted it as their own, and even have it printed in itty bitty writing (both English and French, of course) on their ten-dollar bill:

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

Don't worry--you needn't strain your eyes to read the teeny words. I've reprinted them here. Normally I'm not much of a poet, but it's an important day. I have a huge amount of love, respect, and appreciation for our veterans. One of my grandpas made the military his career, and sacrificed much to do so; my other grandpa was drafted into the Korean war, but went willingly. Both are heroes to me, along with everyone else who fought--or is fighting--in some way for these countries.

In Flanders Fields
By John McCrae (1915)

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

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

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

Image from here.

I wouldn't have gotten all sappy on you, except for the Remembrance Day Miracle I was given last night--it was a sign, for sure. Happy Veteran's day, and please take a moment or two to remember and give appreciation to those who deserve it.

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...

Growing a Face of Leather {Thick and Tough}.

**Update: Everybody's comments have been so sweet today, I decided to declare this "Official AoOL Reader Appreciation Weekend." Every comment I get, I will be responding to. I will read all the blogs of any new person who introduces his or her self, so if you left a comment (or are planning on it still), there is {or will be} a reply comment waiting for you. Boy, if that isn't a treat, I don't know what is. {Yes, I do. Something that starts with "Golden" and ends with "Spoon" comes to mind. I'd way rather have ice cream than a personal message from me, but it's the best I can do.}**

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

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

A lot of people say that blogging is their "journal;" their creative outlet; the place they go to vent and feel all of their feelings. I say, good for them. I read lots of those blogs, and faithfully so. I follow several blogs written by stay-at-home moms who mostly write so their friends and family can be updated on their lives. That's fine, too. In fact, I haven't met many blogs I don't like. There's something intriguing to me about peeking into the lives of others, whether they be career people, family people, homeless people, or all of the above.

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

I have never aspired to anything more. I don't expect to change the world, nor do I anticipate anything monumental ever happening here. I blog because I hope to brighten people's day--to give each and every one of you something to look forward to.

Here I am--just me and the ice cream truck driver. I like waffle cones and the colour pink, and I never mean to make people mad. I'm just me, plain and simple.

A well-known theme of blogging is that many of us "live for comments." I subscribe to that school of thought, one hundred percent. I read each and every comment made on my blog--most comments I read more than once. Every piece of advice I receive, I contemplate. Every time a new person de-lurks, I immediately swing by his or her blog to check it out [though it takes a few comments from a new person for me to feel a true bond, so if you feel like I don't give your blog enough attention, just say so {by commenting}]. And I notice when otherwise-regular commenters go missing.

In other words, I care what you think. I care very much, and it's not necessarily because I want you to like me (though that's always nice). Rather, I care because I write for you. Not for me. For you. If you are reading this post, whether you like me or not, you are fulfilling the purpose of my blog.

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

But guess what? I am doing a lousy job of it. Despite the fact that I never--ever--publish a post without carefully considering ways my words might be misconstrued, I have learned that I am quite often unsuccessful. I have estranged people who are dear to me, along with people I've never met. Posts I have considered hilarious have driven many people to the point of boycotting my blog altogether. I've been called a b**ch. I've been cordially invited to eff off. I have been told I'm immature, inconsiderate, inappropriate, disappointing, disrespectful, ignorant, rude, thoughtless, careless, mean, selfish, cruel, bitter, vicious, a button-pusher, and starved for attention. {I've had to grow some pretty thick skin, but not so thick that I ignore people altogether. Only thick enough that these comments can't quite seep into my self-esteem.}

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

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

But none of those ideas appeal to me: I don't really mind anonymous commenters; forbidding all comments completely would defeat the purpose of my blog, as would going private; and I don't relish the idea of quitting altogether.

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

This blog is not homework--reading is not mandatory. It is never my intent to hurt people's feelings. Inasmuch as I cannot forsee what everybody is experiencing in their lives, I cannot predict which phrases to avoid, which words to gloss over, or which parts of my brain to keep to myself. If your feelings were hurt and you want to tell me...by all means, tell me. If your feelings were hurt and you want to quit my blog, I will understand.

But if your feelings were hurt and you can find the time to step back, realise I didn't mean any offense, and you still sort of agree with or enjoy some of the things I write...then please know that you are welcome here.

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

{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.

If Only There Were "Apple Z" For My Life

Every time I make snickerdoodles, I misread the recipe and mix 2 tablespoons of sugar with 2 tablespoons of cinnamon (when, in fact, I should only add two teaspoons of cinnamon to the sugar). This I do without fail. And every time, I look at my mixture and think, "This looks awfully dark for cinnamon-sugar. Did I use too much cinnamon?" Then I re-read the recipe, silently berate myself for making the same mistake as the last time I made snickerdoodles, and debate whether I should add more sugar (which would be wasteful because I'd end up with excess cinnamon sugar), or dump it out and start over (which would be wasteful because I'd be dumping it out and starting over).

Wouldn't it be nice to have an "Apple Z" ["Control Z" for PC typers {or "Edit-Undo," if you want to get technical}] command for the program of our lives?


There are so many moments throughout my days when I wish I could just type "Apple Z" and undo a thoughtless error. An error like using a dish cloth to dry my dishes before sniffing it for foul odors (because there's nothing I hate more than a stinky dish cloth). Or like starting the front-loading washing machine (which locks and stays locked until the cycle is finished) before checking all the hoodie pockets for loose change. Or leaving the house to run errands before checking that I have my cell phone with me. All of these things would be easily remedied, if only I had "Apple Z" programmed into my life.

It would be handy in more than just menial daily tasks, though. Social encounters, for example.

I'm so dumb in social situations. I think my problem is that I try too hard to act like I'm not trying very hard. It's exhausting, maintaining this blasé outlook on life. I never knew it would take so much effort to seem effortless.

Case in point: Aside from my very dear friends and family, I don't make phone calls. When I was in high school, I decided that talking on the phone was so immensely awkward, I would only make calls if I had a purpose for doing so. In other words, I'd never call someone just to chat. Unfortunately, I also had a few boys I liked very much, and so I was always coming up with reasons to call them. Usually they were very legitimate reasons ("We need to work on our Physics project," or "We're kidnapping Tessa for her birthday breakfast at Denny's"), but if the phone calls ever morphed into casual chats, I would cease and desist immediately. Because chatting can lead to running out of things to chat about...and that always leads to awkward pauses.

And I will do absolutely anything in my power to avoid awkward pauses.

Having an "Apple Z" feature to help me undo sticking my foot in my mouth--that would be nifty. I wish I'd had "Apple Z" the time I found out my manager at work was pregnant, and I said, "Really? I've been working with you for six months, and I had no idea you were pregnant!" Which, evidently, to a pregnant woman, means I just thought for six months that she was fat.

Am I alone in this principle? (I know I'm not totally alone, because it was my sister's idea in the first place [I give credit where credit is due.].) And even though I think it's a splendid idea to be able to instantly right any wrong with a simple press of a button, I can also see the argument that we learn from our mistakes, etc. So what do you think? Are there times you wish you could just "Apple Z" it? If I ever start a world of my own, should I add the "Apple Z" feature, or make my worlds' citizens suffer through the pain of making mistakes? It's important to think these things through, you know, so as to avoid any regrets later.

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.

It's "Cheer Up, Charlie" Time...

Oh boy, am I ever in a good mood today! Look at what the forecast is**:



Can't see? I'll zoom in on it:


See that, there at the end, under the bright yellow sun under the word "SUN?" Seventy-one degrees! I know, it predicts snow tomorrow--but don't worry. It won't happen. I know it won't. It's the power of positive thinking, see? I learned about it yesterday [actually, I've known it since grade school, but sometimes I don't utilise my positive thoughts to their fullest potential. But yesterday I re-learned how to do so]. I can decide how cheerful my life will be, regardless of the lousy white stuff that might be sprinkling from the sky--which won't...be sprinkling, that is.

It all started when I bought a new pair of tennis shoes (or "running shoes," as Poor Kyle would like to point out they should be called, when their purpose is to run. Not to play tennis. Because I don't play tennis. {But old habits die hard and I've always called them tennis shoes, so leave me alone, PK! At least I don't say SOAR-EE when I try to say "sorry".}).

Anyway, I went on the inaugural run sporting my new cross trainers yesterday. Oh, look, here they are:



And since it was such an exhilarating workout (after which workout I even remembered to stretch [not that it did me a lick of good, since I'm sore like a granny today,]), I decided to further my sportiness for the day. Poor Kyle invited me to go golfing with him, and so I did.

I've never golfed before. But with the power of my amazing new tennis shoes (and after one hour on Mayberry's own driving range and two hours on the nearby course), I was almost passable as a beginner. See?

I know, the girl in that photo could be anyone, but trust me: if I could claim anyone else's body, I might--but we're all about honesty here at Archives of Our Lives. It's me.

Anyway, after all my hard work yesterday, and what with my bad case of The Whooping Cough, I decided to forgo the run today, and walk briskly instead. It was nice outside; there blew a lovely breeze [isn't it funny how, when I'm walking, the wind is "a lovely breeze," but when I'm running, it suddenly becomes tornado-scale gales? I know.], the sun was peeking through the crisp white clouds, and I was listening to this song [currently playing].

So despite recent setbacks in my Canadian residency paperwork, and despite the fact that I may never become an employed member of society, and despite children running amok in the neighborhood, and despite The Whooping Cough that is (ahem) going around...

...well, it's just not worth it not to be happy.

**I just realised it's kind of a personal thing to post one's Mac dashboard on the internet for all the world to see. I bet you're all wondering just what possessed me to look up the exact definition of the word "bequeath," or perhaps why I felt the need to have a French-English translator so close at hand. Well, you'll just have to ask God when you die, because I'll never tell.

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.

{Farce}

Something's going on between China and Tibet--I don't know what, exactly, but the Dalai Lama is involved, so I'm guessing it's big salami [do they have salami in Asia?].

Watching all of this political turbulence on the news (combined with the tumultuous and heart-wrenching music of The Beatles on American Idol) has moved me to the realisation of something very grave indeed:

I don't have a cause.

Oh, sure, I'm going green and all that, but really all I do is recycle, use fluorescent light bulbs and buy new appliances. I don't picket billion-dollar enterprises or attend conferences or raise my own free-range chickens. I don't take my own grocery bags to the market, buy organic anything, or store leftovers in glass containers.

In other words, I'm a farce.

I want to be passionate about something. Not anything annoying like timeshares or geneology (I hate getting accosted by timeshare people and genealogists), but...something. I want to wake up and hop out of bed ready to lobby--go to war, so to speak. I want to work hard and endlessly for a purpose, whether it be saving the seals and eels, liberalizing women of the third world, or protecting our rain forests. I need a cause.

Know what I crave? Upheaval. If I'd been born in the '60s or '70s, I'm sure I would have attended sit-ins, protests, marches and the like--I thrive on that kind of drama. I'd have likely been arrested...more than once. I wouldn't have done drugs, of course, but I would have surely acted high--high on the action.

The only problem is...there are so many problems--so many good causes. Which one is noblest? Which one is likely to be resolved? Onto which bandwagon can I hop?

And, most importantly...what will enrage me enough to keep up the motivation?

Freshman Year in Review: Timing and Perspective

I had good grades in high school. Good enough to land myself a full-ride [+ some] scholarship to Arizona State University. I had good grades there, too.

Until...

...I took CIS 180 (Computer Information Systems or some blather). It was basically an introduction to computers. I tried to work through it on a PC, even though it was written for both PCs and Macs, and I was raised Mac.

"PCs are taking over the world," I reasoned archaically, "so I might as well jump on the bandwagon." [I have since learned the errors of my ways. Tenfold. I will never again turn away from the glory that is Mac--at least as long as Steve Jobs is alive and out of federal penitentiary.]

But besides that, my life was nevertheless askew. I was going through a very...shall we say...defining time. In other words, I was totally out of it. My life, that is. I was dating a guy who I knew was all wrong for me. I should say, though, that despite my life in limbo, I still made some wonderful memories that semester. Like skydiving. And wing nights at Native New Yorker. And playing Make Me Laugh for hours on end.

But I digress.

I took a class learning on different computers than I was used to, during the stupidest time in my life. Needless to say, I failed CIS 180--failed so badly they didn't even give me an "F." I got an "E" for whatever "E" stood for [it slips my mind]. I lost my scholarship. Lost it, and lost it good. I was going to quit college altogether. I loathed ASU, I'd distanced myself from my parents, and I really needed to gain perspective.

Someday I'll delve deeper into the perspective I eventually found. For now, I want to show you what I did do in my CIS 180 class, (when I decided to show up) since I clearly was determined not to learn anything:


Inspired by the girl doodling next to me, I took it upon myself to fill in the entire back cover of my steno notebook completely...with tiny circles. You have no idea how long and tedious a process this actually is; in time, my quest morphed into something different...something much more profound. Instead of filling in the entire back cover, I let my eyes glaze over, my mind wander off, and my hand toil away. Class after class I drew tiny circles, and before long I'd created the form of a being--a being that has been a cause of deep introspection in years since.

My steno person took on a life of its own. Soon, I jotted down a few choice words to spice up the doodle: "laugh," "golf," "becaSUE." Whether because I heard those words during class lectures, I thought they would add meaning to my creation, or I just figured they would be fun to write, I cannot recall.

Some more details:




I gave my creature eyes, but no mouth--maybe it was my outward depiction of how I was taking a spectator's stance on my own life (i.e. observing, but never speaking my mind). Or maybe I just liked the squiggle the "h" served for said purpose.


Why did I spell "because" incorrectly? Did I secretly wish I'd been named "Sue?" Was it merely an oversight? Is it actually an anagram for something else? Some secret code I've since forgotten? I might never know.

Whatever the reason for it and its nuances, I've come to view this doodle as a sort of abstract version of myself--my unreserved, "let-it-all-hang-out" self. I have long since tossed away the accompanying notes from CIS 180 [what sparse notes I took]. That class meant nothing to me. But I cannot bring myself to discard this doodle.

What should I do with it?

*p.s. I retook CIS 180 few semesters later, and scored a 99%, receiving the highest grade on the final exam out of the entire class. It was all a matter of timing, I suppose. Timing and perspective.

The Unarguable Truths of Road Trips in the Company of Poor Kyle and Camille

In the two and a half years of our relationship, Poor Kyle and I have taken more road trips together than I can feasibly count. And since the new duty of “trailer fetcher” at the shop has fallen upon him, the number of our road trips together is increasing exponentially. Even as I type this on the stark white MacBook ™ my parents gave me for Christmas last year, we are trekking our way through the plains and grains of northern Nebraska.

We’ve nearly talked about everything there is to talk about (lasting an eternity together beyond this point will take a miracle [or a lot more birth control]), and consequently I’ve had a lot of quiet, contemplative time on my hands. Of course any time I have any time at all, I can’t seem to help but write a blog in my head. It gets annoying, but at least it’s something to do—I’d rather read my own words than some of those trashy tabloids they sell at the Flying J for two dollars apiece.

Here’s what I’ve decided while driving through Nebraska:

The Unarguable Truths of Road Trips in the Company of Poor Kyle and Camille
(in no particular order)

-I can be right in the middle of recounting a fascinating tale to Poor Kyle, but if he sees an interesting truck or trailer on the same road we’re traveling, he will—without fail—whip his head around and gawk as it rolls by, completely losing focus on my story. I have come to accept this as fact. Usually I react by continuing the story (in turn forcing Poor Kyle to pretend he’d been listening all along).

-If Poor Kyle is writing in his logbook, keeping track of mileage or even simply fiddling with the GPS, he will not listen to a word I say, should I attempt to snare his attention. It is physically impossible for him to multi-task. I’ve never seen it done; he has never done it.

-Poor Kyle is a faithful—faithful—keeper of the windshield:

Case in point.

-I have, on occasion, been known to suggest interesting topics of conversation on our road trips together. Rather, I consider them to be interesting topics of conversation. Poor Kyle, on the other hand, views this as “picking fights.” He may be correct in this assessment, but in my defense...he is lugging me all about the country in a baby-poop coloured Carhartt ™ hoodie. And he didn’t necessarily set out any ground rules ahead of time.

-Poor Kyle and I will never agree on what constitutes “good music.”

-Poor Kyle will always trust the GPS (he calls her “Tips”) more than he will trust me. Sometimes I hate that little British snob.

-There are nineteen white reflector poles in between each green mile marker on the highway (give or take a few on account of drunk drivers running them over). I can count miles with my eyes closed, shutting them right after seeing “MILE 258” flash by, and opening them precisely as we approach “MILE 259.” Sometimes I do this for so long that I cannot stop unless the vehicle does; it makes my head hurt.

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.

The Midst of Mediocrity

We're home from Idaho--just for tonight and tomorrow--and on Friday we'll be heading down to The Great State of AZ. All the time I've spent on the road lately has lent room in my head for Seriously Deep Thoughts. Thoughts like, "How many white reflector posts are between each mile marker sign?" and "Why don't 2008 Ford Super Duty tucks have 'objects in the mirror are closer than they appear' written in the mirrors?" and "What is my purpose in life?"

It's that last question I want to address here on my blog.

The first thing Poor Kyle and I did when we returned was watch last night's episode of American Idol. [Actually, the first thing we did was deal with a broken deep freezer--the second thing we did was watch A.I.] I've never watched a season--nary an episode--of American Idol before this month. And actually, I am quite impressed. Of course if I was the kind of person to actually vote, I would text in my choice for Little David. The 17 year old from Utah reminds me of the kind of guy I dreamed about in high school. He's cute in all the right ways, and my only fear is that if he wins, the world might corrupt him. Then again, if he doesn't win, he might become bitter and disillusioned, and then where would we be?


But I digress. Whether or not our Likeable David Archuleta wins the competition is beside the point. The point is, he knows what he's doing with his life--he's winning American Idol.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a mineral scientist. Nothing else would do. I was fascinated by caves and caverns, stalagmites and stalactites, obsidian and diamonds. I was mildly obsessed with rocks. I had a whole slew of them--a rock collection, if you will. In a way they were my buddies. I kept them on my closet shelf in a cardboard tomato flat, and pulled them out every day after school, just to look at them. I'm pretty sure I even had names for them--I played with rocks like some kids play with Barbies (or Bratz, since I'm keeping up with the times [I never said I was cool from birth, okay? It's only been a recent character development]). Anyway, I wanted to go to science camp and intern at archaeological digs--it was my passion.

Somewhere during my education, though, I decided I hated science. And that was the end of it.

It makes me wonder what I'm supposed to be achieving. You know...in life. I don't want to live my entire 100 years in the midst of mediocrity. When all is said and done, when I'm dead and in Heaven (or Hell, depending on who you're commenting as!), I want to have passed some milestones--made my proverbial mark on the world. I don't want to die obscure.

The problem is...there's so much that needs changing; how am I supposed to do it all? Where does one even start? I wonder what David Archuleta would say about all this vagueness in my life.