Why Are You Still Here?

It has come to my attention that many of you have not changed your links from this blog to my new website:

www.archiveslives.com

I know it's annoying, but I will never ask you to do it again. So you might as well do it--one time, and it's finished.

As further incentive, I am warning you that I will be deleting this blog before the week is through. If you don't switch your links, you won't have any way to remember my new website address, and then you'll be sorry, won't you? Yes, you will.

Remember, that's:

www.archives lives.com

www.archiveslives.com

www.archiveslives.com

A simply copy-and-paste action oughtta do it.

Thank you and goodbye.

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.

{Ow to the Nth Degree}

One-word Wednesday:

Ow.

No, that's not just a dirty thumbnail.

The pointer finger, on the other hand {ha! Get it? Other hand?} is dirty (dirty with seven hours' worth of spray paint); but the thumbnail is nothin' but a nice dark shade of "ow."

Okay, so I've never been great at one-word Wednesdays. In fact, one-word anything is a challenging concept for me to grasp. I'm a person of many many words. If you were to ask me to describe myself in one word, I'd surely use something double, like absentminded or overrated.

So instead of simply posting a photo and one word about the thumb I smashed with all my might into a piece of wood tonight, I am going to write a list. A list of things that become increasingly difficult without the use of my right-hand thumb. And I will include the same "one word" in each item of my list. One-word Wednesdays, the AoOL way.

Ow, My Opposable Digit.

1. Using the "space bar." Ow.

1.5. Flossing. No way, José. Ow.

2. Removing my contact lenses. Ow.

3. Writing with a pen. Ow.

4. Gripping. Anything. Ow.

5. Putting my hair into a ponytail. Ow.

6. Wiping (you guessed it). Ow.

7. Zipping zippers. [What is the correct verbage of the word "zipper?" Zipping? Zippering?] Ow.

8. Cracking knuckles. Ow.

9. Pulling ceiling fan chains. Ow.

Photo from here.

10. Thumb wars [though I can never win anyway {something about having rheumatoid arthritis at a young age}]. Ow ow.

Without the use of this thumb, I might as well be a monkey. Or a sloth.

What's hurting you today?

I Turned 22 and all I Got Was Adult Acne.

On the inside of my right nostril, over the course of one night, I have contracted either a pimple or a bug bite.

I don't know which is worse.

On one hand, I might have a pimple inside my nose.

On the other hand, I may have inhaled a bug in the middle of the night; a bug which then proceeded to bite my nose.

So really, is there any way this is going to be a good day?

In case your Tuesday is looking anything like mine, I'm posting some pictures of my birthday flowers. It might just cheer you up.

Poor Kyle brought them to me in a brown paper bag from the flower place, and I was so excited to be able to arrange them myself. If anybody's gonna get me flowers, getting them so I can arrange them myself is much better than buying them already fancied up. Not that I'm any Eddie Ross or Jami Parker Pitts, but I still like to try.

I got that white pitcher from Goodwill for $1.99 and like it more than most people I know. [Not you people, though. Different people.]

Here's the arrangement from a step back...

And from one more step back. This is for anyone who's been bugging me to show pictures of my house. Happy Tuesday. And normally, those black candlesticks aren't there--they belong on a lower surface, but I recently had a little terror at my house, and he was obsessed with destroying anything at his eye level. I still haven't quite recovered.

{He sure is a cute little tyrant, though.}

{Oh yeah. And don't mind that crazy person in the mirror. She may or may not have just barely gotten out of bed. She hasn't showered in a while. She has nothing to do with the person who runs Archives of Our Lives. Nothing at all.}

And now for a few steps closer...close-ups of flowers make me smile.

Pretty...

...pretty...

...and pretty.

Mums are quickly becoming my favourite flower (second only to snapdragons). Especially these fall-coloured ones. Poor Kyle said he got these ones because I had them in my bouquet at our wedding almost a year ago.

Svelte, PK. Very svelte.

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.

And Then I Was Faced With My Day of Reckoning.

We always knew this day would come.

It was inevitable, I suppose. Poor Kyle bought a house (our current little love shack) back in September of 2006. Now, two years later, the cable company has finally figured out that the past owners have moved.

And just like that, I’m cut off. Life, I tell ya…it can turn on a dime.

Was it dishonest of us? Well…it’s kind of a gray area along the Spectrum of Morality. The real dishonesty was that the previous owners didn’t call to have it disconnected. Scoundrels, all of them. The fact that neither Poor Kyle nor I ever had time in our busy lives to remedy a mistake we didn’t even make…that’s a sin of omission, at worst.

At any rate, there’s a difference between accepting blessings (free cable was undeniably a blessing [while it lasted, anyway.]), and actually pirating those blessings for oneself. And I’ve never made much of a pirate.

Obviously.

Someday, I will be rich enough to afford cable of my own accord. That will be a very joyful day indeed.

But until then… Goodbye Mike Holmes from Holmes on Homes. I almost loved you.

Photo from here.

Goodbye So You Think You Can Dance Canada—your first episode was a delight. If these Canadians know what's good for them, I'm sure you’ll be a big hit. Goodbye Divine Design with Candace Olsen, and Take This House and Sell It with Lisa LaPorter, and Design Inc. with that Sarah person. Sarah person, I wish I could see how your new house and baby’s nursery turns out. Goodbye Location, Location, Location, and Relocation, Relocation—two shows that each have the same delightful British hosts and are essentially exactly the same. I will never know the difference between you two, but I will always remember that we had a good thing going.

Photo from here.

And now, with our Wii out for “servicing,” I’m left to my own pathetic devices. Our DVD collection is rather scarce—well, maybe not scarce, but it’s scarcely decent. I can only take so much of Dumb and Dumber, Wayne’s World, and Tommy Boy before I decide a torture chamber is a better alternative.

(Sigh.) Anyone read any good books lately?

{A Lesson in Self-Assertion}

Question, from Anonymous: "Though you often [don't you mean 'always,' Anonymous?] speak entertainingly, with typically appropriate grammar, almost always correctly spelled, sometimes you do speak unkindly. Likely the reason the Mayberry story was never reposted.
My question is this; did someone close to you ask for it's removal, or was it your own conscience..moment of clarity...some kind of personal improvement, that has never brought it back, in spite of the pleading voices of so many?"

Answer, from me: This is an interesting question, and obviously written by a long-time reader of AoOL. For anybody new here, I’ll give a brief history: I wrote a post earlier this year. It was an opinionated essay about a topic which was not directly related to me. Some people thought it was none of my business and that I had no right to write what I did. I made some people mad. And when I was confronted, I found myself wussing out like a child in trouble, rather than standing up for myself and my opinions (which were, incidentally, totally warranted and right [hey, it's my blog!]). After the minor confrontation, I was prevailed upon to delete the post known as "Mayberry." Hurt feelings and all that. Since I am such a passive-aggressive person when it comes to confrontation (hello! I write a blog! It's how I vent my frustrations with society with little chance of negative repercussions!), I removed the published post. [And also, I’m a coward.]

I instantly regretted taking it off my blog. Because I should have principles, and besides, I’m rarely wrong. I should have just said, "I'm sorry you have let your feelings become hurt. You misunderstood my words so badly, there is no way you could possibly understand what I actually meant by them. But I meant no ill, and I make a point of never apologising for things I write. Ciao." Good thing I have had months to re-think it, because if it ever happens again...well...

Anyway, not realizing that Blogger would fully delete the well-written and profoundly “me” (if I do say so myself) post, I mourned its loss immensely. But it was too late—Mayberry was gone forever.

So, Anonymous, you ask if there has been any huge personal improvement? The answer is no—I’m as good as I’ll ever be. To tell you the truth, if I had a backup of the controversial post in my email inbox, I would almost surely re-post it here for all the world to see. As the lyrics of a popular song go, "I’m not mean—people are just too sensitive." (But I would never say that to someone’s face, because hello! Chicken!)

Save My Soul and I'll Throw In a Kitty.

I do not like cats.

If you like cats, I may or may not still like you. I have several friends whose families own cats...and I love those friends dearly. But...show me too many pictures you've taken with your cats on Christmas, or send me too many emails about the "cute" things your cat does when she's in heat, and it is a serious possibility that we'll never be close friends at all.

Here are my reasons:

1. Every cat I have ever met has seemed so...sneaky. Let's get one thing straight: I do not act like I like cats when I am around them. I don't pretend to care about my friends' cats. No, I am not necessarily openly hostile to other people's pets [much as I would like to kick every little tigger I see to the next side of Timbuktu], but neither do I put on false airs of loving the creatures. I mostly ignore them when I see them. Why, then, do cats feel the need to sneak up behind me, uninvited, and slink between my ankles, tickling my legs with their fuzzy fuzzy hair? They make no noise (unlike dogs whose claws at least clickety-clack on tile floor), so I am always caught unaware. And I am always left feeling suspicious of these felines' motives. Sneaky.

2. Cats are takers; they will take as much as they can out of any relationship, and rarely give anything in return. Obviously, I realise that few animals have much to offer any person by way of material goods...but one would think a cat could at least show its owner an occasional inkling of gratitude. Heck, even the humblest of dogs can understand the importance of a simple tail-wag. Instead, though, I have observed that, after they have taken all they can, cats only retreat further into their self-absorbed little lives. Never openly willing to show affection, cats remind me of some of the worst dates of my life. Maybe that's why I can barely tolerate them.

3. Those pictures. They annoy me more than I could possibly express through the written word.

Image from here.

So if I am so vehement in my dislike of cats, why do I feel so sad for the poor little homeless wretch (read: kitten) that has taken up residence in my sister's backyard wood pile? [Oh yeah--I'm in Arizona. Good guesses, everyone!] I mean it when I say I do not care for cats. But this one...she has meowed and meowed at the back door for the past three nights, and even though it is a hideous, wretched sound, I kind of feel...sad for it.

This cat is free to a good home. Or a bad home. Heck, it can be a whorehouse for all I care.

"Meow...meow...MEOW!!!" she whines, and all I can think is how lonely it must be out there. She is, after all, just a kitten. Plus, she has a little belt-looking collar, so she belongs to someone, and I would probably appreciate it if I were in the owner's position.

Staring straight at me, as though there is something I can do for her.

I still haven't fed her, because I am entrenched in a deep internal battle between everything I stand for and everything that's right [and no, those two things don't always match up]. But honestly, I don't know how this cat is still alive after an entire week of this. I don't want it to die...I just want it out of my life.

I cannot make decisions like this. What should I do? Anybody lost a cat out there? Or...does anybody want to save this one's life? Because my sister is ready to put a little bowl of antifreeze out there for the dang thing, and try as I might, I cannot feel good about this.



Seriously though. Free kitty. Anyone? Anyone?

{My Lifelong Problem with Kiosk Vultures at the Mall}

I'm extremely non-confrontational by nature. Learning to stick up for myself is something I struggle with almost constantly, even now. As a child, getting in trouble was one of my biggest fears. When faced with confrontation, not only does my heart start pounding and my ears start ringing, but I break out into rash-y looking hives on my neck and cheeks.

That's why it is no surprise I hate the kiosks at the mall.

And really, I cannot fault people for trying to find meaningful work. Heck, it's more than I can boast for myself, and that's the truth.

But riddle me this: Why--why--must those dadgum kiosk workers at the mall be such vultures?

All I wanted was a salted pretzel from Auntie Anne's, but the route was heavily guarded by three different dreaded kiosks: one for Swarovski crystal-bejeweled hair clips, one peddling mineral face powders, and another--much more threatening than the others--vending cell phones.

Image from here.

"No, it isn't worth it," I decide. I could forgo food forever if it meant I never had to walk past another Kiosk Vulture.

There's always a slight chance of survival if shopping with another person, because at least then I have someone with whom to conspire, "Quick! Look right into my eyes and talk to me about something really important..."

But even that doesn't always work if the Kiosk Vultures catch my eye before "really important" conversation can begin.

photo courtesy of Chris Gregerson

cgstock.com Stock Photography

"Hey, ladies," I hear from ten feet to my left. I can't ignore it. Try as I might, I cannot walk by without acknowledging the person who I know was talking to me. But that look--that one tiny glance and slight little nod--is cause for certain capture. Every time I think I can smile and walk on by...

...and every time that same maddening voice in my head screams, "How can you be so rude? He was talking to you! You were raised better than this--you cannot treat this human being like dirt."

Of course, my one tiny glance and slight little nod are all the Kiosk Vultures need to ask more questions--questions I can hardly ignore: What cell phone service do I have? Do my hands feel dry? Do I like free things? Would I care for a sample?

Telus™; surprisingly; of course; yes, thanks. I have to answer--I don't know how I couldn't.

But why? Why are they shouting at me? Why do these people think it's okay to yell inconsequential questions at me from across the corridors of the mall? In what other situation is it acceptable to yell at a complete stranger, "HELLO! DO YOU HAVE STAINS ON YOUR LIVING ROOM CARPET?!" I fail to see how it's any of your business, fellow human being. Especially since there is no way I would ever purchase wares from a Kiosk Vulture--it goes against everything I stand for.

And in these difficult times, the problems is only getting worse. Now, with 20-minute teeth whitening and remote-control helicopters and hermit crabs and sarongs/scarfs/headwraps and 100% UVA/UVB sunglasses and vintage portraitry and Crocs™ and VitaChangeYourLifeForeverMineralJuiceOfTheUniverse and genuine leather luggage tags and *take a breath* Seaweed-Kelp Body Butter...

...is nothing sacred?

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.

{Communism at its Finest}

How important is it that what we see on television--or in movies--is real and unaltered?

Me? I don't care too much. When I go to watch Lord of the Rings, I fully anticipate special effects, digital supplements, and all manner of enhancements to make the actual finished product more effective than it would have otherwise been.

We live in a digital age--a time when images we see on screen or in print are rarely left unadulterated. The mainstream population of the world seems to acknowledge this--even embrace it, rewarding designers and filmmakers for best visual effects.

Why, then, does this story seem to rub so many--myself included--the wrong way?

China's opening ceremony was beautiful, as I have already noted. Sure, there were some digital "tweaks," like those massive firework footprints racing throughout Beijing, but that's not what bothers me. What annoys me is that Chinese officials knowingly allowed this little girl, Yang Peiyi:

Photo from here.

to sing "Ode to the Motherland" into a microphone, probably hidden away behind some curtain backstage. Meanwhile, while her visual counterpart, Lin Miaoke:

Photo from here.

lip-synced the song for the world the night of the opening ceremonies.

I thought this sort of thing was over and done when Singin' in the Rain came out in 1952. I mean, are we that superficial a world? Honestly?

It's already bad enough for these poor little Chinese girls as it is: they are most likely the sole child in their family, since Chinese women are allowed, by law, to have one child only. And inasmuch as they are girls, they are already considered slightly unwanted by Chinese standards. Now, added to the pressure of making their parents' one shot worthwhile, the girls are being taught that they fall short of their country's standard of perfection.

I can see how it happened...

"Well, Yang Peiyi, there's no doubt about it: you've got a great set of lungs. Unfortunately for you, you're not much of a looker. Your haircut is rather square, isn't it? And those teeth have got to go. How about you give the government your best efforts--your voice--and we'll take care of the rest? That's right...you just stand right over there, behind the stereos and equipment all night. Make sure nobody sees you...Hu Jintao forbid."

And to Lin Miaoke...

"Lin, you sure are a pretty little thing, aren't you? Unfortunately for you, your singing resembles a pack of cats in heat, so here's what we're going to do: You just go put on this fancy new dress...that's right, dear. Remember to suck in, and make sure your mother puts your hair in pigtails--that's what the people want to see..."

In the end, I don't know which girl I feel worse for. On one hand, Yang Peiyi is learning that despite her very best efforts, she may never receive recognition for her successes. On the other hand, Lin Miaoke is being taught that, even with nothing to merit her, a pretty face is worth more than hard work or refining talents.

Sucking the best out of everyone's lives and giving it all towards the support of one's government... Call it Socialism, call it Communism...at the end of the day, it disgusts me. It's one thing to have a single lawnmower for an entire neighborhood, with every family using it only as needed. It's quite another to make one little girl give up her voice--and another one give up her face--in the pursuit of perfection for the onlooking world.

I'm so thankful that the red of my country's flag is also merged with white and blue.

I've Just Thought of an Excellent Plot for a Horror Film...

Remember last August how my hand got sore from a case of blogger finger?


Well, apparently the disease has spread to the produce. I was washing vegetables for a lovely salad last night, when I came across a past-its-peak carrot that felt fleshy and bony and strangely like a human digit (Haunted houses, anyone? It's genius.). Inasmuch as there was no way I was eating a carrot that felt like a human finger, I tossed it on top of a pile of lettuce to go to the garbage.

And when I came back, it looked like this:


Gross. It matched my blogger finger perfectly.

I got to thinking later (this morning in the shower, if you must know), and realised I've come upon something genius--this is just the stuff that horror films are made of! I can see it now...

Carrot Man vs. Lettuce Lady in...Where Have all the Vegetables Gone??

Not only will your children never sleep again, but you can forget about them touching their salads at dinner.

{I've Never Felt so Lame in all My Life}

Me: Babe, I think today's the day.

Poor Kyle: What day?

Me: The day I've been dreading all my life.

PK: Gosh, you're so dramatic. What are you talking about?

Me: I think I am going to see a movie all by myself today. In the theatre. Alone.

PK: Oh, good. Take that gift card on the dresser and get in free.

Me: Aren't you going to try and talk me out of it?

PK: Why would I do that? I don't care if you go...

Me: Oh, I don't know. It just means I'm depressed or something, and if I'm actually going to do this, then I'm probably only a step away from drinking a whole bottle of laxatives and defecating myself to death...

It's true. I've always known this day would come. I have put it off for years, but there was no avoiding it. Today I went to see a movie--in the theatre--all alone.

I don't know how it happened, really. I hadn't planned it in advance. But for some reason, when I woke up this morning (the second time, that is [first I woke up to water the garden and help Poor Kyle take apart our bed. Then I went back to sleep and woke up again at a more holy hour]) I just knew it was going to happen. I said to myself, "Self...today you have to see a movie all alone. In the theatre. Lonely. And it will be Mama Mia."

So I did it. I mean, when one's fate is written in the stars like that, there's absolutely no sense in fighting it.

But I did bring my camera along to document my bout with depression. Looking back, though, I've concluded that filming my experience was kind of cheating; I was never fully alone, since I had my camera to talk to. Nevertheless, it was a fear conquered (somewhat), and I'm crossing it off my list so I'll never have to do it again.

Have a look:
[It's long, so scroll to the middle if you just want to see the Mama Mia part.]

In the end, it wasn't as bad as I expected, but I suspect it would have been worse without my buddy the camera...

I hate being lonely.

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.

I Should Have Gotten a Degree in Marriage.

At BYU, students can earn a degree in Marriage, Family and Human Development.

To me this seems like an incredible cop-out.

"What did you go to college for?"

"Oh, I got my degree in Marriage."

"Really? So what was your final exam--snagging a husband/wife?"

"Actually Miss Snooty Pants, I consider marriage to be my life's eternal final exam."

"...Oh. Sorry."

I mean, what could a college possibly teach that would prepare young newlyweds for marriage?

Nothing. They could tell their students that marriage will be a big transition, but those pre-marriage scholars would still enter into their nuptials with a starry-eyed outlook and marshmallows in their brains. The marriage professors could assign projects involving bags of flour dressed as babies, but really--there's no comparison between a bag of Robin Hood Fast Rise™ and a slobbery baby. None.

Furthermore, I firmly believe that some of life's best lessons are learned outside of the classroom. Like how I took communication classes and still suck at communicating; I took computer classes and still hate technology. Heck , I even took Introduction to Sexuality and Human Psychology and...well...never you mind about the Sexuality class. [When I signed up for it, I was under the impression it was more of a study in women's rights and development across the globe. I was totally misled. I promise.]

At any rate, even though I believe in the value of a degree as far as getting an honest-to-goodness job goes, I have a hard time with any school handing out a degree in marriage. I mean, if a person's sole purpose in attending college is to learn how to be a proper stay-at-home-spouse (I'm being gender-equal, notice), then why go to college at all?

On their website, BYU notes that graduates of the marriage program often go on to pursue volunteer work. Most likely when their little darling children are at neighborhood preschool. But really, if someone wanted to pursue a career in volunteerism, shouldn't he or she seek a degree in Nonprofit Organizations or something?

But what do I know? I myself am on the 10-year plan for my degree in Art History and Museum Studies. (A degree which I thoroughly enjoy pursuing, but let's face it: there's not much future for my career in museums, now that I live in a town that's smaller than my high school student population.)

I'm so smug, when actually I know nothing. Who knows? Maybe if I'd gotten my degree in Marriage, Family and Human Development, I would know how to cook chicken enchiladas that my husband would actually eat. I would not have sewn crooked valances and hung them up in my living room anyway. I would not plant a garden in my backyard, just to leave for a month in Arizona the next week. If I'd gotten a degree in Marriage, then I would have known that leaving Poor Kyle for a whole month was a bad idea, and he wouldn't have felt it necessary to fly down from Canada for a surprise visit during my stay here.

Which I am thrilled about, by the way. And which I could have totally anticipated if I'd graduated from BYU with a degree in Marriage.

{Kamikaze Insects}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Picture from here.*

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

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

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

That bastard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Winner Announced (Plus a Story for the Weekend)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

*Names changed for privacy (and prideful) purposes.

Let Me Tell You About the Time I Faced Death in a Pristine Bathroom

Ah, yes. I'm back.

I'm happy to say that my meeting with "The Yates Family" went splendidly. I met Joel, Aimee, and their two sweet kids--and not one of them tried to kill me!

Getting to the meeting was a bit of a trial, though. I almost died of my own accord. Here's what happened:

I was just sitting around at my sister's house, contemplating how that might be my last day on Earth, and out of nowhere, I got a bloody nose. Now, I've had bloody noses before, and I know they don't usually start "out of nowhere." Usually, they start out of "I was just sitting there picking my nose like my life depended on it," but this time, I really wasn't picking my nose. (I would admit it if I was.)

So anyway...there I was, minding my own business, when suddenly I feel a trickle of liquid inching its way down my left nostril toward my lip. Assuming it was snot, I reached up to wipe it with my bare hand (because I'm so dignified like that), and saw immediately that it was...the dreaded "B" word: blood.

And if my bloody nose was trickling at first, by the time I had a strip of toilet paper ready to shove up there (to curb the flow), it was a torrential downpour. I couldn't prepare wads of TP fast enough. I've never seen blood like that. It was coming so fast that it had time to drip all the way down my chin before I could get a new wad of paper in its place.

Of course, you know my history with blood: my history with blood is bad. Very, very bad. And seeing it in this...free-flowing state...it was pretty scary. I positioned myself in front of the bathroom mirror, because somehow, despite my aversion to blood, I can't resist an occasional bit of gore and macabre. And since I knew I was going to die, I figured I might as well watch my own undoing. How many people can say they get to do that?

Before long, the gush started on down my throat, where I promptly spit it out into the bathroom sink. But evidently if you're bending over to spit out mouthfuls of blood, you aren't in a good position to be stopping the problem...because a few moments later, my right nostril also started bleeding. I have had my fair share of bloody noses in my life...but never out of both nostrils at the same time.

It was at this point that I realised I could do nothing to save myself. Crying out in despair (amidst spitting up entire mouthfuls of blood [into Adell's once-pristine bathroom sink {which was at this point virtually covered in my blood}]), I stood there shaking, waiting to die. Because I was dying--I had already lost more than enough blood for a hundred blood work tests, and I was dying from the loss.

My first thought in the face of the trial was, "I have Alberta Health Care, but I don't think I have travel insurance down here. Only USAA, and that's just for Tamra Camry. So if, after I die, Adell finds me and calls 911 and they try and revive me at the hospital, it will cost Poor Kyle thousands."

My second thought was, "And then he'll remarry, that uncaring man. How dare he remind me of such a thing, on my deathbed??"

And my third thought was, "I made such a fuss about 'Joel and Aimee Yates' that they'll think I've chickened out when I don't show up. My final day alive, and I can't even go out looking like a brave sort of girl."

And then the black--the dark, unanswered black that had been lingering in the periphery of my mind through the whole ordeal--closed in and overtook.

...Okay, not really. I didn't pass out or die, thanks to some quick thinking by my sister who normally would have freaked out more than me in such a situation. I did, however, cough up a few clots the size of egg yolks (I know. Go throw up now, at the thought) and ruin a couple of towels. But in the end, it stopped.

And I made lunch with the Yates family, who, by allowing me to live, earned the right to have the quotation marks dropped. They're legit. And very nice.

I didn't take pictures, though. I brought my camera, even took it into the restaurant, but I was too chicken. I thought if I suggested it they'd think I was weird...

...too much loss of blood, I guess.

{Tsk, Tsk. Some Childrens Parents...}

I am an excellent traveller. Plane rides, train rides, boat rides or float rides--it is a skill I have.

In some ways I feel I was born with this skill (like how naturally level-headed I am...ahem), but in other ways, I'm sure it's a practised quality. My parents worked very hard to provide our family with experiences. We were taught to value moments over...stuff.

In the end, my parents might be regretting that code of ethics, though...on account of the fact that my travels took me hundreds of miles away, across international borders and right into the arms of the love of my life:


But it's too late, in any event, because now I love to travel. And I'm good at it.

I once navigated myself from Brussels, Belgium on the RER-B train to the metro station which took me to a bus stop where I caught a ride to the Paris Charles de Gaulle airport with little knowledge of the language, three large suitcases, a duffel bag, a laptop tote, a carry on, and a four-foot umbrella wrapped in cardboard (my dad worked for an airline and I was allowed unlimited luggage space, you see) and 100 Euros to my name. I did it all by myself, and I was not seduced by any Europeans in the process [despite the warnings to the contrary from my Aunt Linda].

Is keeping track of a kid really that much more difficult? I wouldn't think so, but I must be wrong, at least according to one frazzled family emigrating to Canada from the Philippines.

Imagine if you were a two year-old kid stuck--lost and alone--in Vancouver. Vancouver! I've heard of kids getting lost in Disneyland, where the fun and churros never end, but Vancouver? In the Vancouver airport, no less. It absolutely baffles me. A mother, a father, and two grandparents were evidently so busy getting themselves onto a connecting flight from Vancouver to Winnipeg, that they up and left their two year-old somewhere after getting through security. They each assumed one of the others had the child.

Can you believe that? These four adults (two of whom were grandparents and may have been elderly, in which case I forgive them) handed in their boarding passes, walked down the ramp, onto the plane and down the aisles to their seats. They then settled themselves in, possibly even asking a fellow passenger to trade for the window seat (as bartering is wont to happen on commercial plane rides), cozied up with a nice book or maybe a copy of SkyMall™, and prepared for takeoff. The plane departed, the passengers were served complimentary drinks and peanuts, and still these four adults noticed nothing amiss.

Back in Vancouver, AirCanada™ employees had stumbled upon the abandoned child (who had no identification, since his parents were holding onto it for safe keeping, no doubt). Children his age do not require a boarding pass for flights, so AirCanada™ had no way of knowing what flight he'd missed, or what imbeciles could have left him behind. Finally, with the help of a Tagalog translator and some in-depth searching of the passenger listings, Vancouver employees tracked down the child's family, who were by then halfway to Winnipeg.

Can you imagine being the airline stewardess chosen to break that news to the parents?

"Umm...excuse me, sir? Ma'am? Are you...forgetting anything? A kid, maybe? Would you like another ginger-ale to calm your nerves while you wait out this flight, and another one back to where you left him? Or maybe this month's edition of Parenting Magazine? Idiot."

I suppose it's a good thing I'm not working for the airlines. I'd be fired on charges of customer mocking.

In the end, Air Canada™ paid for the kid's father to be flown back to Vancouver and then on to Winnipeg...together, the second time.

The father told a reporter, "The staff at Air Canada™ took good care of him."

Uh...yeah. Which is more than you can say of yourself, buddy.