Boo.

Halloween used to be my favourite holiday. It was my one chance to dress up like a beautiful and sparkly (insert over-clichéd childish dream); the one time out of the year I could beg—and eat—all the candy I wanted with no thought of negative consequences. Halloween was almost better than Christmas for me. I truly looked forward to it every year.

Then one year…all of that changed. It was a tradition in our extended family to do our separate trick-or-treating, then head over to the neighborhood Halloween party, and eventually meet up with all our cousins at my grandma’s house down the street. My Grandpa would have prepared a pot of beans (why he chose beans I may never know, but man…were they ever good) for everyone to eat, and that was only if we had room leftover after hoarding Grandma’s stash intended for the neighbor kids.

This time, though, as my sister and I approached the front door of Grandma’s house, something seemed different. Where the door would normally be swung wide open, inviting all to enter, it was unwelcomingly closed. Usually we would be able to hear the raucous laughter of my uncles telling the latest jokes, or my granddad joining in the chaos with his booming, trademark voice—but this year, the lights were off in the house, and all was quiet. Even the jack-o-lanterns, who were glowing with the customary light of candles, seemed to droop and frown. All was not well at Grandma’s house.

Here I am around the time of the dreaded day--in the foreground {my favourite place to be, evidently}. Adell is squished in the back, wearing the gray T-shirt. Don't we look innocent and unassuming? Totally unaware of any bad in the world...

Nevertheless, we two girls approached the entry, foolishly—as two young girls are wont to be—assuming the best. Never considering foul play. Naïve along with the best of ‘em, that’s how we were.

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

“Waaaaaaaaaa…uhhhhhhhhh…waaaaaaaaa…uhhhhhhhh…”

The pitch was piercing, oscillating between two notes of an interval I never knew existed. It sent shivers through my spine, and I knew it was the last noise I would ever hear, for I would soon be dead—murdered by the boogeyman before I ever got to tell Daniel Wilsford of my true love for him, and that was that.

“Run, Adell!” I screamed, for—though I was the younger sister—I always worried for her presence of mind during frightful situations. If one of us should die, I was the best for the job. {I’ve always made a very good martyr, you see. It’s my gift.}

We ran. Both she and I screamed blood-clotting screams of terror, our eyes squeezed shut, as if it would make the horror disappear (though running with our eyes closed did substantially hinder our progress of escaping immediate danger).

Tripping over our fairy princess shoelaces, we didn’t make it far before we collapsed in the grass of Grandma’s front yard, damp from our own sweat along with the early-evening dew that was just beginning to form. We panted our pathetic breaths, having skipped out of P.E. often enough to know we were--neither of us--cut out for such exertion. We were doomed.

The pause gave us time to breathe, and during the break we realized the noise of terror emitting from the portico had faded into that of…humour? Humour indeed. Looking back from whence we’d shortly escaped with our lives, we saw the lights had been turned on, the front door opened, and all our long-lost relatives laughing from the entry. Jubilantly. They’d gotten us—the snot-nosed little girls who were always reading books (in Adell’s case) and beheading chickens (in my own).

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

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

A battery-operated ghost hanging from the eaves of Grandma’s front porch. Of course. She’d unearthed them from the bottom of a bin at Pick ‘n Save™ the year before, at the after-Halloween markdown sale for what was no doubt “a steal.” It had a sensor—a sensor!—which detected the movement of any innocent passerby, at which signal it would flatly freak people out. This technology was ahead of its time during the mid-90s, and I had never imagined anything so horrifying. I can hear the wails to this day—probably because they are still common decorations among my relatives—and they frighten me…to…this…day.

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

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

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

Boo.

Is There Anything More Tedious in all the World?

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

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

I'll tell you why:

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

2. ...

Never mind. There's only that one reason.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No? Nothing?

Oh. How awkward.

{I Put the Ab in Abnormal.}

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


Life will resume as normal.

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

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

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

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


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

Even changing it from this...

...to this...

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

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

I guess it's back to that, then.

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

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

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

I don't really have a nickname.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We didn't date for about a month.

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

...drama.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A very mad Brad indeed.

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

And that's the raddest news of all.

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

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

I'm a Glutton for Deprivation

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

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

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

Couches totally collapse...

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

...the pirateage continues...



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

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

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

I am whole again.

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

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

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

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

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

What once was lost...now is found.

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

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

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

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

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

And I am a Steve's.

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

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

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

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

Steve's walls.

Ned's walls.

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


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

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

Image from Ned's website.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

{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.

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.

You Wanna Read a Story?

Preface: Just for the record, I don't really feel like I've been married long enough to "look back" on this stuff--it wasn't that long ago. But in the name of tagging, I will rise to the clarion call. It's long. And detailed. Because that's how I roll.


1. Where did you meet?

Where we met is not nearly as exciting as how we met. We met in front of Flaude's* house. Flaude was the fellow I was thinking about perhaps liking at the time. {He spoke French. Need I say more, really?} Flaude--on a previous "hang out" had told me how he'd considered becoming a truck driver because he had a friend--Kyle--who was driving truck and making much money doing it. Since I am haughty and snotty, I strongly urged Flaude not to go truck driving, because, in my opinion, no amount of money could possibly be worth the crusty, greasy, dirty (or so I thought) nature of truck drivers. Flaude didn't go truck driving, but in the end, he still lost out on me. Because he introduced me to Kyle on a cold October night in 2005. Kyle drove a 2005 diesel Jetta that got 1,000 miles to the gallon. Kyle was wearing a black leather jacket that looked a lot classier than it sounds. And Kyle had this laugh--he made me never want to stop being funny, just so I could always hear that laugh. Flaude who...?

2. What was the first thing to you said to him?

I ran up to him and gave him a massive hug, exclaiming, "Oh my gosh! Kyle, right? Hi! It's so nice to meet you finally!" Pretty bold, even for me. But we'd just talked on the phone an hour earlier, and he sounded so nice... Plus, I was trying to convince him and Flaude to come save me from an awkward house party--I had to pull out all the stops, and it worked. Amazingly.

3. Where was your first date?

Without Flaude, you mean? I had to bust out the ol' 2005 journal for this one:

November 3, 2005
Went to [Mayberry]* tonight and spent several hours with Kyle. Met his parents, grandma, boss/friend's family, and had a nice time talking with all of them. Paper due tomorrow (not started yet,) and still need to read scriptures. Update later.

I guess I was busy or something. Things I remember about that first date, despite not recording it in my journal like a good Young Single Adult, were meeting his parents--his mom was so nice and friendly, but his dad was sitting on the couch watching the news, and only grunted a hello to me, without looking up [I'd heard his dad had disliked some of Kyle's previous girlfriends, so I was certain I'd made the black list]; we went to his grandma's house and she asked Kyle why he needed to go deer hunting, when he had all the "dear" he needed right next to him; I'd driven myself thirty minutes to Mayberry* even though I was so poor and could hardly afford the gas, but I didn't really care.


4. Where was your first kiss?

The same place that Kyle probably kissed all his flavours of the week--his parents' green leather couches, sadly to say. But I will give him this--he kept his mouth closed on our first several kisses, which none of my previous boys-who-were-friends had the dignity to do. It was pretty much an answer to prayers (not really, but you'd better believe I noticed the amazingness of it all).

5. How long did you date?

It was two years--almost exactly--from the day we met to the day we married. October 13th 2005, to October 20th, 2007. I really didn't fancy the idea of getting married during an odd year, and I actually wanted to wait until October 20th of 2008 [so every number of the date would be even, you see,] but Kyle was getting pretty pouty about it. So '07 it was.

6. Where did you get engaged?

In the middle of freaking nowhere, Canada. A few days after my 20th birthday (I was dead set against getting engaged while I was still 19). I had no idea it was coming--in fact, I was kind of looking into dating my high school boy-who-was-a-friend, who'd recently returned from his mission. Things were really complicated that fall, and I went to Canada to see if I should continue to court Kyle, or...what. And he was getting anxious about little RM down there in Mesa, so he went out and bought a house and a ring, and drove me--on the back of his quad--out to a clearing in Southern Alberta. He parked under an outcropping of trees, and behind the trees was a pasture of cows, who promptly meandered their way over to us. It was kind of awkward, having an audience of cattle watching while we kissed an hugged and all that blather.

7. When were you married?

October 20th, 2007. Four months ago.

8. How did your reception go?

You know, it was fantastic. We spent a lot of our budget on these two amazing wedding decorators--and it was truly lovely. It was in my grandparents' large backyard, and my favourite part about it was how the decorators rigged up those big circular white party lights all across the entire yard--just like on Big Fish. It was fancy. We had a baked potato bar, Cesar salad, a chocolate fountain, and caramel apples. I don't think there was a member of my family who wasn't involved majorly in making the night a success. The only thing I wish we'd done differently is not having the line go for the entire two hours. But people just kept coming, and I kept wanting to see them...it was fun, and I hear the food was good.

9. How was your honeymoon?

Traumatizing. Well, just that first night. [And the ensuing 10 nights.] Luckily we stayed at a fancy schmancy hotel in Scottsdale, and the satin sheets were un*real. I mean--if bedding were heaven, that room was celestial. The next day we hopped on a plane to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida and stayed in another fancy-pants hotel. The day after that we hopped on a giant ship and cruised ourselves to the Caribbean. We stopped on three islands and came away from the experience having learned a lot about marriage. Again, luckily, we were in a room with a balcony and luxurious bedding, which made a world of difference. It was fantastic. I even shaved my legs. Someday I'll post pictures.

10. I'd like to hear other people's stories, so I will go ahead and continue the tag, despite feeling like a bit of a nuisance. Aimee and Joel, Kathryn, and Lindsay.

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

Blood is Thicker than Water

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

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

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

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

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


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

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



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



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



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


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

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

I love you all. Very much.

Just thought you should know.