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.

It's my party and I'll--oh, forget it.

It's my birthday.

And on this, the 25th of September, I would like to declare that I'm tired of keeping it real.

What I want, for just one day, is a whole lot of fake.

In other words, instead of my [self-made] birthday cake looking like this:



I want it to look like this:

Image from here.

Yeah. Uh...not so much. My birthday cake's crack is showing.

[At least the cake stand is adorable.]

...And instead of my war-zone post-birthday cake kitchen looking like this:


I want it to look more like this:

Image from here.

Instead of my gallbladder looking like this:

Utterly revolting image from here.

I want it to look like this:

Sunshine and daisies. Photo by Jim-AR.

It's my birthday, and I'd like some fake, of the Martha Stewart persuasion.

Please and thank you.

There's No Such Thing as Edward and Bella

I just finished reading that book. My initial reaction--before being swayed by all the vicious reviews, was that it was clever and witty. [My favourite part was the titles of the 'Jacob' chapters, specifically, “What do I look Like? The Wizard of Oz? You need a brain? You need a heart? Go ahead. Take mine. Take everything I have.” I wish I’d thought of that.]


But I didn’t think of it, and I haven't written a best-selling series, and to make myself feel better about my own mediocrity, I criticised the main characters’ extreme implausibility. No, not their everlasting youth and beauty—I’m convinced that immortality really is possible, and beauty to boot. Rather, I found myself gagging at the bliss of it all—a ga-ga plot line which, in my opinion, was a bit far-fetched.


So the perfect Edward can't read Bella's steel-trap mind. Big deal.

Guess what? Poor Kyle can’t read my mind, either. Which is why we have conversations like this:

PK: That’s a nice sunset.

Me: Yeah, it's beautiful.

PK: …

Me: He's being so quiet. Maybe he’s remembering how much I love sunsets in Arizona. He probably doesn’t want to say anything about it because he thinks it will make me miss home—he doesn’t want to upset me. How sweet. Or maybe he’s not saying anything because he thinks I whine about home too much, and he can’t stomach another word about Arizona. What a jerk. I mean, I moved all the way to Canada just to be with this guy, and he can’t even call his lawyer to set up an appointment to get my immigration paperwork finished and sent off, so it’s not MY fault I can’t go to school yet, or get a job. And okay, I COULD be teaching piano lessons, but I just haven’t had time to print out a flyer for it yet, even though I actually do very little all day, as people seem to think. Nevermind that the house is not very clean—I’ve started making the bed, at least. And our printer’s out of ink anyway. Next time I go back to Arizona and people ask me, “How’s married life?” I’m going to tell them it’s totally overrated for a nag like me.

PK: Wouldn’t it be cool if we could stack eight flatbeds on top of one goose-neck trailer, tow it behind this big white Ford™, and hook up all the lights to work?
Me: I suppose you'd like me to get right on that, wouldn’t you? You’re a real piece of work, you know that?

PK: Huh?

Baffling, isn't it? The way my mind works, bouncing from one absurd conclusion to the next. By the end of our trip to North Dakota, I'd done two things: finished reading "Breaking Dawn" by Stephenie Meyer, and realised that Poor Kyle has never loved me at all.

If My Backyard Could Talk, it Would Sue Me for Negligence

Children are like gardens, and in this analogy, I am totally unfit.

Which is why I will never be a parent--because evidently, when one is responsible for more beyond one's own self, one cannot frolic about the continent for months on end, completely ignoring one's offspring (even if one's offspring happens to be a 20 square-foot plot of land in one's backyard). I suppose while I was gone my husband would take an active role in the nurturing of our garden. Which was foolish, really. Aside from the initial tilling, he's done nothing to help the garden flourish (doesn't that sound an awful lot like pregnancy?).

I don't know why I expected my husband to care for our baby--he never wanted kids [vegetables] in the first place. The only reason he even tilled a month ago is because he likes things that go "vroom" and I promised he'd be rewarded. He even told me when I left, "Don't expect me to sit around here watching your garden all day watching the dirt--I have work to do. I probably won't even get around to watering it."

So I don't know why I was so shocked when I got home and peeked in the backyard. Indeed, my children have taken my negligence as a personal affront, and are acting out to get more attention from me. In my absence, they've taken to hanging with the wrong crowd--real seedy, weedy sorts of characters. And by "weedy" I do mean weeds.


Six foot tall weeds, in particular.

Gone are my perfectly straight rows--they've become overrun with weeds and grass and ants, and a particularly ugle neon green sort of caterpillar. Seriously. Try--just try--to spot the tomato plant underneath all this foliage:


I spent four hours weeding this morning, and it's only a drop in the dadgum proverbial bucket of what's left to do. And I used to find gardening so...fulfilling.

Which is perhaps why I'm so overwhelmed. I mean, to go from this:

To this:

And back to this:

Well, that's just depressing.

{Life Lessons and Muffin Tops}

I've learned a lot in my life.

I've learned that if I wash my jeans and then stick them in the dryer, I will regret it the next time I go to put them on. They will shrink just enough to make me miserable all day, no matter how many lunges I do to stretch them out again.

I've also learned that if I take my jeans out of the washer and toss them in a damp heap on the floor, I will regret it the next time I go to put them on. They will have more wrinkles than the little old ladies on the back pew at church.

But this last lesson is most important:

If I go on vacation to Arizona and eat 90% of my meals at fast-food joints, stuffing my face with food all day, eating Dippin' Dots™ and Red Brick Oven™ pizza and Chic-fil-A™ sandwiches and Arby's™ Beef n' Cheddars and QT™ Taquitos and Carne Asada Burritos like nothing else matters, then, invariably...



My favourite Canada t-shirt will no longer fit. I will have a muffin top (or spare tire, [call it what you will--it's a thing of Satan either way]) big enough to feed a third world country. And my arms will be very, very flabby.

Life lessons, people. It's all about the life lessons.

{I Self-Medicate With Cardboard Pizza}

When one's husband accuses one of being addicted to one's laptop, there is nothing to do but eat really cheap pizza.

I don't know what it is about being in a bad mood that makes me crave crappy food, but it's as real a symptom of my life as periods are a symptom of not being pregnant (and thank heavens). At any rate, I have a bag of 5 flavourless pepperoni pizzas that I bought at Wal-Mart Superstore™ for, like, $3.00, on hand for just such an occasion.

Ooh, individually wrapped!! Unnecessary packaging. And I call myself "green."

So when I woke up from my Sunday nap at 9 p.m. (bad idea, taking a nap so late), and went straight to check my email, only to be told that I am addicted to the computer [an accusation which hurt, if you want to know the truth], it was in the kitchen that I sought my solace. I even put some extra shredded mozza on top of the "pizza" before baking, as if I honestly expected that to make it any better; it didn't.

It barely even resembles food.

But that's the joy of it, I think. Imagine: food so deliciously lousy that not even an extra inch of the world's simplest and most delicious cheese can make it more palatable--well, to me that is comfort food at its finest. No pretenses. No putting on airs. No making me feel inadequate with fancy French words like blanché or soufflé or tartelette. And that's what this pizza is all about--making people like me feel better about ourselves by sheer comparison.

Yes, I might be addicted to checking my email to see if anyone commented on my latest post, but at least I don't taste like dirty socks. Perhaps it's true that I care too much about my online life--but at least nobody bought me at Wal-Mart for $3.00 plus GST. And so what if I open my laptop every morning before I even get out of bed? Eating this sorry excuse for food makes me feel so much better about it.

Buy a bag. You won't be sorry. Another bonus? Cardboard pizza therapy is so much cheaper than other kinds of retail therapy (i.e. shoes).

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.

Ford™ Has Something Stuck in Its Teeth and I'm Not Breaking the News

Ford™ is claiming their vehicles are now equal to the quality of Toyota™.

Really?


I heard them say so in three of their own commercials tonight during intermissions of American Idol™. I'm no marketing executive or anything, but if I were, I certainly wouldn't be equating my product's quality with my toughest competitors'. After all, the point of paying for a commercial on national television is to influence consumers to buy a specific product--namely, your own product, if you're happen to be the one creating the commercial. The point is not, I daresay, to confuse your target audience by telling them that your product is every bit as good as the other guy's. All that does is make the brands blur together, when what Ford™ should be doing is making their cars stand out.

If I were creating these commercials, I would be telling the world that my crossover-hybrid-blah-blah-blah is not as good as Toyota's™--it's superior.


And what's the deal with Ford™ claiming that their cars are now as good as Toyota's™--you mean, Ford™, that they weren't so great last year? You mean that only now are you getting your act in gear (excuse the pun)? You're telling us that the past few years were a struggle for you, but in these "times of economic difficulty" [as George Dubbleya would say], you've finally made a comeback and are now--only now--starting to match the quality of your competitors? I'm pretty sure that's a weakness I wouldn't want to be proclaiming in commercials between segments of American Idol™.

Instead, I would highlight my company's newest technology, thrilling innovations, five-star safety ratings, and extra cup holders. I would use our sleekest-looking vehicle driving down the street in the chicest of cities, and an unseen mystery narrator with a mesmerizing voice.

Then again, that's what all the car commercials are looking like these days. Maybe Ford™ just wanted to do something different? Humble themselves? Sheepishly admit their past flaws, and convince us those days are long gone? I don't know.

But I do know that I am more a Toyota™ fan now than ever before, because they are the company who doesn't make excuses. They don't acknowledge their flaws or failures, and that means I--as a modern-day consumer--don't know of any. In my mind, Toyotas™ are an ideal choice of a mid-range vehicle: affordable, attainable, reliable, safe, fuel-conscious, and now are produced locally.

Poor Ford™; someone should really tell them.

*Photos from acfk.net and 4driversonly.com.

I've Just Had an Epiphany.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. So this is what my parents meant.

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

{The Dreaded Inevitable}

**To Whom it May Concern:

Yes, my blog is (temporarily) white. No, I'm not racist--actually, it has come to my attention that on some computer monitors (ahem--PCs), my red blog with cream letters actually looks like a red blog with vaguely green letters and for some reason this makes it difficult to read. I, the proud owner of a Mac [thanks Mom and Dad!], hadn't realised that not all monitors are created equally. Rather than sending you all out to have your eyes checked (which can be costly, and in my opinion, a complete waste of time), I have decided to keep it black and white until I can figure out how to have the sidebars coloured. As in this blog. And this blog. And this blog. Ahh...my heroes.

Unfortunately I hate technology and it hates me back and I don't know how to do it yet, so you'll have to bear with my boring black and white blog for the time being, until I get a bit smarter (or pay someone to do it for me...any takers?).**

Now, let's talk about exercise. Growing up I was active enough. I climbed trees, participated in summer league softball (faithfully for 10 years), and jumped on the trampoline. I also fought viciously with my older sister, ran wild through the neighborhood, and took my high-spirited dog Sampson for walks while wearing rollerblades. Then in high school I played on the basketball, volleyball, track, and even marching band teams (during various years). I got my fair share of exercise.

So I don't know where I went wrong. Somewhere along the timeline of my life, I developed a loathing for strenuous activity that I can't seem to shake. Because it hurts to run. It's not nice; it's not natural--not to me. I've never understood the kind of people who say their "days don't go well if they don't get out there and run and blah blah blah." You know the type--exercise people. Me? Not so much. Any day of mine wherein I do not feel compelled to put myself through utter pain and misery...well, that's a pretty good day.

Nevertheless, I've put on weight (and lots of it) in the five months since I've been married, and I am just vain enough to dread going home to Arizona in May looking like this:


Moreover, I don't fancy the idea of buying new jeans just because my expanding thighs can no longer fit into the ones I've got.

So, after putting off the dreaded inevitable for...oh, three months or so...I finally ran out of excuses. I ran. Not far, mind you. But far enough to remind me why I hate it so. To make matters worse, there is a {seemingly} continuous wind blowing here in Mayberry, and every time I attempt to exercise in it, I contract a new case of The Whooping Cough. That's right--The Whooping Cough. I've been hacking and wheezing all day since my "workout," and all I did was exercise for 20 minutes (only five of which minutes were rigorous). But what can I do? I can't stop the wind from a-blowin', so I just have to toil on. Indeed, my plight is mournful.

It has given me some insight, though--I do understand why people in serious emotional turmoil might turn to running as an escape: when I'm running, I'm so intensely miserable each step I take, there is absolutely no room for any other kind of misery. Got depression? Go running--I promise you'll forget everything you once thought was bad in your life. Got a toothache? Go run somewhere--it'll be like your tooth never ached at all. Dog die? Throw on some tennis shoes and run your living daylights out--by the time you get back, you will be so consumed in your own unfortunate existence, you'll forget you ever even had a dog, let alone remember that it's dead.

That's how I feel about running.

Small Talk

They finally phoned. They phoned, and I was less-than-thrilled.

Meeting two new people, inviting them into my "not-quite-decorated-even-though-I'm-unemployed" house, letting them sit on my red sofa (whilst banishing myself to the wooden Amish chair which is less of a chair and more of a tree stump [inasmuch as we don't have all the seating we need {inasmuch as we're newlyweds}])...well, it didn't sound like fun.

Not to mention the small talk.

But I try to do what's right, and they were just trying to do the same, so I figured I wouldn't make it harder than necessary for them.



So they came. They came, and they sat on my red couch (which you can see in the above photos, barely), and I fidgeted around on the tree stump chair. They asked me how I was doing and then proceeded to compare notes on their kids' kindergarten teachers for 15 minutes, while I sat silently squirming. They brought me an apple pie, which was nice (though I promptly bequeathed it to my mother-in-law on account of I don't like pie).

Then they remembered I was there, and shared with me a message, which was also nice, but by the time they got around to it, my bottom (bottom!) was growing numb and all I wanted was for them to vacate the premises so I could get rid of the apple pie and get on with my life.

But they wanted to chat more, asking me when we're having kids, and then why we are waiting so long to have kids (to which I sincerely wanted to respond, "because I don't want to end up like you," but that might have only estranged them). I explained I want to get my degree before I have kids, so in the (un?)likely event of Poor Kyle divorcing me for being such a nasty people-person, I would have an education to put on a resumé. And then I explained I can't go to school just yet because it costs $7,000/semester now, instead of much less once I get my Canadian paperwork completed. And no, I can't work either (unless I want to get deported [which I kind of do, but still...]), so I am basically an S.A.H.W.: Stay at Home Wife. And yes, since they asked, it does go against everything I stand/sit for, and I know Anne of Green Gables would be disappointed in me. I do bake, though.

"But I don't babysit," I added (since I've learned to set ladies straight on that subject as soon as they find out my lack of daily responsibilities).

And then they left, hopefully for another five months until they feel so immensely guilty for neglecting their duties that they phone me once again.

I know I'm flippant; I know it's my fault I don't like the idea--not theirs. But I'm not even going to try to rationalise away my bad behaviour. Perhaps someday, but not now...

...and I wonder why I don't have many friends up here.

{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.

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.

Local News

Poor Kyle had to fly down from Canada to drive me back there. I guess he thought I wouldn't actually come back.

What dear? Tomorrow's high is supposed to be freezing? Oh, that's nice. Mesa got rain today, and hail, too. It was very exciting. What's that? You had to shovel yourself out of the driveway to get to work? You were 20 minutes late? Your truck never did heat up on the thirty-minute drive? That's too bad...

I guess his suspicions were warranted. But he's here now, and we're headed to Texas to visit the far-away grandparents tomorrow. The whole lot of us--me, Poor Kyle, Adell, Clint, The Baby, and my parents. Should be a real adventure.

Since I'll be signing off for the weekend, I thought it best to leave you all with something to mull over. I do not subscribe to Google Reader (which is an application that people know when someone's blog has been updated). I find it rather thrilling to click on all the links of all the people I know (and some people I don't know).

I do not find it thrilling, however, to clickity-click on the links of boring bloggers who rarely update. It hurts my heart. In fact, there are some links I don't even bother clicking anymore, since I know I'll only be met with the painful sting of rejection. So when I come back on Monday, I am going to load up my Firefox, open my blog, and go through all of the links in both of my link-lists on the right hand side of the page. Any blogs that have not been updated in over a month are getting the kibosh. That's right. The Big Kibosh.

[Back when I was at ASU, I got so frustrated with all the "local news" guys--who would exchange phone numbers with me but never call--that I did this same thing. I went through my cell phone contact list, phoned all the contacts I'd not heard from in a while {if ever} and informed them I'd be taking them off my contact list to leave room for more with-it guys. I got quite a few lovely dates out of this tactic, but in the end, I became so disillusioned with ASU and its pitiful excuse for a meaningful student body, that I just moved to Canada. **Sorry if you went to ASU. No, truly. I am sorry. From the bottom of my heart. And if you're going there now, my advice to you is get the heck out of that hellhole, before it's too late.**]

But I digress.

To Whom it May Concern:

The following bloggers are in peril of no longer being my friend (my gosh, I feel like I'm in 4th grade all over again! I suppose I should un-invite all of you to my birthday party, too), and run the risk of being exterminated from the link list on the right-hand side of this blog. This is getting out of hand. You're becoming local news:

-Lindsey Burnham (I know you're working on one)
-Afton Willis (my gosh, Afton, give me a break!)
-Allison Pierce
-Emily Lewis
-Kim Fontes--(tsk tsk tsk)
-Tessa Burt

I know all of you are probably spectacularly busy, but come on...just one measly post. Everybody's doing it! And if you don't care whether or not I keep your link on my blog...just keep right on not posting.

Also, I have noticed a few new people saying hello to me, and I am tickled pink to know of you! I've been reading most of your blogs, and if you comment on this post, I'll make sure to add you to my links--I need to have something to put on my list of people who I actually know, since I have a feeling many of the aforementioned bloggers will shun my call to action.

Out with the old, and in with the new! I think that's how it goes.

We're So Stupid...

Kyle has the shingles...

...I once had the shingles.

Do you know how rare it is to contract a case of shingles while under the age of 50? Very rare indeed. The odds that both Kyle and I would have them (I got them when I was just 18) are unreal. They're not contagious, either, so it's not like I gave them to him. He just woke up one day and bam! Shingles!

As soon as his doctor diagnosed the problem, he immediately put orange drops of something in Kyle's right eye, to make sure the virus wasn't spreading (which could cause blindness). It hadn't spread. Good news.

Last night, however, Kyle felt a swelling and stinging on his right temple, and his eyes looked really bloodshot (like pink eye, which is a symptom of the shingles), and I was sure he was going more blind by the minute. He straightaway phoned his mom, who is our resident pre-doctor contact. She tells us if what we have is serious enough to warrant calling the doctor. (She qualifies for this role by--aside from raising four healthy children--having attended one year of nursing school back when she was 19. She may as well be our primary caretaker.)

The doctor wasn't home. We phoned Kyle's mom again. She said to go to the Emergency Room.

Now, going to the Emergency Room where I grew up (in America) is a big deal. If it's the weekend and the doctor's office is closed, we go to the Urgent Care (which is similar to the Emergency Room, but different). If the Urgent Care is closed, we bust out the Doctor's Book of Home Remedies and try every--every--suggestion. But we don't go to the Emergency Room. The Emergency Room costs a lot of money. You have to be almost dead to make it worth your while--in America. In Canada, though? Free.

So though I hesitated agreeing to the Emergency Room because of the "big huge deal" implications, I also didn't want my husband to go blind.

We went.

I gotta say, I was not expecting it to be so...pokey. I know I live in a thriving town of 2,500 people, but I always assumed that since we are big enough for a hospital, there would be...I dunno...people there. The doors to the ER were locked, first of all. We had to ring a buzzer once, twice, three times, before the one and only nurse roused herself enough to let us in. Here Kyle was becoming more blind every second, and the one and only nurse would not let us in! I was just grateful it wasn't a heart attack or something. He'd have died, freezing on the hospital steps. There's irony for ya.

Next, Miss One and Only asked Kyle for his Alberta Health Card, which he'd misplaced years ago. I suppose free health care does come with its costs. In Canada, it's not just a matter of copying an insurance card or looking him up in their system. Never mind that he was born in that very building. Never mind that health care is free in Canada--to all Canadians. She was bound and determined that Kyle needed to have his card.

"You wouldn't go to the bank without your bank card, would you," she asked smugly, as if she'd been waiting all night to use that line.

"Well, actually," he replied, matching her smugness tone-for-tone, "I would if I didn't have my card. They would just look up my account...in their system." [Later I reminded Kyle that one can catch more bees with honey, and it would serve him well to be a bit...sweeter...when he's asking favours of people.]

"One and Only" finally found Kyle in the system: "Sure enough! You are a Canadian! And you really were born in this hospital..."

About that time, doctor meandered around the counter from the break room, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, and sipping a steaming cup of something.

"This had better be good," he mumbled, "because I'm on my way home." My goodness. The doctor's leaving?? What's the point of an Emergency Room if there's not always going to be someone to fix your emergency?

The good doctor was a bit annoyed that we came in *just* for the shingles--when we'd already seen a doctor about them. Evidently if the shingles are going to attack one's ocular nerves and make that person go blind, it will happen straightaway. No dilly-dallying.

"Well," I told him, "we aren't really hypochondriacs. I tried my best to research this before we came here [to this joke of a hospital], but Wikipedia told me that pink eyes could be the first sign of vision loss..."

He muttered something about how computers and their accompanying technology are making every person an expert, and why did he even bother with medical school if people just used Wikipedia to diagnose their various "emergencies."

I had no idea we would be so unwelcome at the ER. And the part that really gets me? There wasn't even anyone else there to be helped! Why were we such a bother?

I don't know, but let this be a lesson to you all...

{dadgummit}

I have been eyeing up this amazing blog for more than just a little while.

Here is a photo of the good baker's chocolate cupcakes with salted caramel frosting:



*Photo courtesy of cupcakeblog.com*

Here's mine:



The recipe even called for homemade caramel, which I failed once and quasi-failed the second time.

Bah.

{Marth-Mallows}

It was about a year ago when my inclination toward homemade marshmallows began. I was lucky enough to experience these ones in hot cocoa at a rich friend's house last winter.

A few months later I moved to Belgium and was introduced to these little pretties. {Pierre Marcolini, by the way, is the Belgian chocolatier of the very rich.} Unfortunately, despite my ghastly high wages as a Belgian au pair to the very rich, I never could seem to save enough euros to try Monsieur Marcolini's mallows.

Then, I moved home, started Archives of our Lives, and meandered upon this blog [look down two posts] which inspired me to take matters into my own hands. I had to have the homemade mallows again; I became obsessed.

So bought the ingredients as specified in Martha's recipe here and invested four hours of my life into these mallows, and what follows are the results. Of my Friday night. {This is me married.}

See this?

Those are Martha's up there.

And these:

These are mine.

See any resemblance? Me either.

Then I remembered what my long-ago young womens advisor used to tell me in our cooking classes, "Never forget, Camille, about presentation. Presentation can make or break a meal." So then I remembered that everything looks better in an apothecary jar....


Still no resemblance?

I have been faced with a dreadful failure in the kitchen, and I am going to sleep sad and forlorn at 12:48 a.m. Rachel Ray never would have given me false hopes like Martha's recipe did. That's because Rachel Ray has never been a convicted felon...

I am changing my loyalties.