D@mn That Grass.

It's always green somewhere in the world--only never where I am.

I have lived my life holding strong to the mantra "the grass is always greener on the other side of the hill." I don't mean to do this; I know it's totally fickle of me, and nobody likes a fickle woman {though some in my acquaintance would profess that "fickle woman" is totally redundant}.

Only in my case, the grass is always greener on the other side of the border. Any border. I always want to be wherever I'm not--it's a wretched affliction, truly. During July, outside of Arizona the grass will surely be greener. But amidst the frigid Canadian winters, there's no place I long to be more than my lush green City of Mesa.

It doesn't just have to do with the weather, however. When I am living the life of a single wife, visiting friends and family in Arizona, I miss Poor Kyle terribly and can hardly wait to see him again. But inevitably, as I re-pack my bags the night before I'm scheduled to return to his country, I once again mourn the loss of my family. I have two families, you know, and both of them love me so very much.

I would that everybody's trials could be so simple as deciding which loved ones to visit.

Of course there's really no question: I married Poor Kyle and now I'm stuck with him (hello dear!). I am stuck with him, but the phrase "stuck with" implies that it's against my will. I should say I'm stuck to him [but actually, that sounds a little less G-rated than I normally try to keep this blog. Dang]. Well at any rate, he and I will "be an item" forever, and not once have I regretted my choice to be his wife. *Mushy alert: I love him more with nearly every day that passes. I never even knew that having an understanding, calm and patient disposition would be a requirement of the man I married--it just happened that way, and I can see now it was absolutely necessary. In case any of you noticed, I'm not exactly the easiest person with whom to live. And that's the understatement of infinity.

I only wish that "cleaving unto my husband" as is preached in the Bible, didn't require to take me so far away from everyone else I dearly, dearly love.

I'm lucky I've been able to come down and visit so frequently this past year. To everyone I was able to bond with for the last two weeks: Thank you. I love you. I'll miss you. To those of you who I wanted to spend more time with, but was forced--for one reason or another--to neglect: I'm sorry. I love you. I'll miss you. And to anyone else who had hoped to meet/see/visit me and was totally shafted by how busy I was {I really don't know any person more vain than myself, to think of a whole city full of people who are sad they didn't get to see me this month}: I regret that, too.

Maybe for Christmas...

{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 Get Depressed Very Easily}

Did you know that I am tall? Indeed I am. I'm 6' 1" if I'm an inch.

It was a freak accident, if you ask me. My mother is 5' 8", and my dad is 6' 0", but my older sister didn't come out as tall as me--she's only 5' 8". And sure, there are tall cousins on both sides--two boys are well over six feet--but their parents are also all over six feet.

I don't know how or why, but they're my genes so I have learned to love them.

It hasn't always been this way, though. I used to wail and wallow in despair about how tall I was--no boys would ever like me, I was sure. I was as tall as an amazon, and as graceful as a duck. And I could never find pants long enough to fit my octopus legs. In my teenage head, I was doomed for a life of misery.

Eventually I learned that it didn't matter if boys never liked me--they were all jerks anyway. I came to embrace my duckish-demeanor, and try to laugh it off. But finding pants long enough has still been the curse of my existence.

It is a marvel to me that some people in the world can actually walk into Target™ and buy a pair of jeans off the rack for well under $50.00. The only place I have bought a pair of jeans since I was 16 has been the Buckle. Usually they range between $70.00 and $100.00 each [which, I know is a pittance compared to what some people spend on Sevens of the World or whatever those movie-star jeans are called. But alas. I am no movie star. And spending $50.00 a leg just to be decent in public is a lot of money for me].

So you can imagine how I feel when this sort of thing happens to me:

{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.

Why Not Just Rip My Heart Out and Blend it Into a Nice Pureé?

Sometimes the proverbial rug gets pulled right out from under my feet. When it happens, I am never less affected than the time before.

Do you know what I mean? When the delicate balance of my life's routine is upset, I feel so dejected. Like nothing will ever be the same.

It's happened to me before. First with the hospital of my childhood, and again with the only Mexican food joint whose salsa I actually considered selling my soul for.

And now again. Tastespotting.com. Go ahead, click the link, and see what happens. Actually, never mind the link. I'll just paste a picture of it here:

*Photo courtesy of the now nonexistent Tastespotting.com.*

When what I should have seen was something like this:

*Photo from these traitors.*

Life can really turn on a dime, you know? Just yesterday I was checking up on Tastespotting.com, since I'd been out of town and had gotten behind on my recipes. Then today I opened the page again, and was kind of startled to realise it hadn't been updated since the day before. Figuring the Tastespotting.com crew were experiencing technical difficulties, I carried on along my merry way. And just now, at 10:40 p.m., I opened the website again, only to be met with a little handwritten note from some person named Jean with lovely penmanship who is now my least favourite individual on the planet.

Come on, Jean with nice penmanship! Couldn't you have given me some warning? Some sort of explanation, even? Let me prepare myself? I didn't even bookmark all those recipes I discovered yesterday--I thought I had all the time in the world. I thought Tastespotting.com would always be with me--or at least that if it left, I would have the chance to say goodbye. But this? This lack of closure? This is not okay with me.

I have issues with closure, and Tastespotting.com's hasty exit from my life is almost cause for me to find a good therapist. What if all the websites I read just...up and leave me some day? Decide they have some legal problems they can't work out...tell me they still love me, just not their web servers; that it's nothing I did or didn't do...these things just happen sometimes. Why even bother becoming attached? How can I ever open my heart to love again?

I'm going to get an ulcer worrying about whether I could have done something to prevent this. Maybe I could have posted my own recipes to Tastespotting.com. Maybe I could have written fan mail to Jean with the good penmanship...let her know how much I care. Maybe I could have given Tastespotting.com more publicity--more hits.

If Jean from Tastespotting.com thinks she has legal complications now, just wait until she gets a bill from my new therapist and acupuncture-for-ulcers doctor.

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.

{For the Sake of Progress}

Well, it is finished. I have taken off two of my blogger friends' blogs. I feel kind of sick inside; I'm generally a nice kind of person, and I don't fancy kiboshing people I know and love. Alas...Emily and Tessa must have been too busy to post, so off they came.

Still, I am a forgiving person, and any blogs that get deleted from mine can easily get put back on--just let me know when you've posted again!

Anyway...everything is changing around here. I almost can't take it anymore. First there was Matta's. That alone was almost enough to send me over the edge, but I am slowly getting over it.

Then, last night, the president of my church died. Gordon Bitner Hinckley. He was aged--97, to be exact--so it wasn't really a shock. But it was certainly a sad day. Have you ever known someone so innately good...someone who seems never to disappoint you--never let you down? He was that kind of guy [a person would have to be, with all those responsibilities]. And it's not like he was some unknown, mysterious celebrity who would never talk reporters or stay hidden behind dark sunglasses. The man spoke to me--to all the members of the church within satellite range--multiple times a year. I have no less than 10 eloquent (and meaningful) quotes of his memorized, right at the tip of my head. How many people in the world are equally worth memorizing? The world is a less-optimistic place without him.

So Matta's is gone; the prophet is dead.

But here's what really seals the deal, making this week a sad one:

They painted Golf Land/SunSplash. If you don't live in Mesa, or have never been to Arizona, then this shouldn't matter to you. Not one bit. But to anyone who has ever made childhood memories at the legendary water park and game world, this will probably come as a tragic blow.

{photo courtesy of about.com}

And even though it actually looks pretty good, and I can't really remember what colour it used to be (blue? white? grey?), it nevertheless makes me sad to see the changes. Gone are the old-school days of "my" Golfland. The Golfland where I went on my first wretched, wretched date. The Golfland where Chelsie and I flat-out spied on one of Lindsey's most thrilling dates. Gone.

Everything is changing around here, and I'm not so sure I like it.

Progress for the sake of progress? Come, now--is this really necessary?

{Not Forgotten}

A part of me has died. A rather large part of me.

Matta's. Gone. Closed. This is an outrage. How could they do this to me? How could they knowingly shut down the institution that made my life worth living? How could they close their doors and shut me off--cut me off--from the only chips and salsa I have ever actually tasted in my dreams? How does the Matta family sleep at night?

You can read the story--what meager explanation it might give--here.

I've made some really special memories there, and now...they're all I have. Oh, sure, the Matta family says they're relocating somewhere else in Mesa. Only they don't know where. And they don't know when. And really, would I even enjoy it anymore without the old-town, been-here-since-before-I-was-born, my-mom-ate-there-after-her-first-time-through-the-temple ambiance? I sincerely doubt it. They haven't even promised that their salsa will be the same at this alleged "new location," nor were they willing to sell the recipe. Not for my car. Not for a million dollars. Not even for my soul [I offered]. They tried tossing me a bone with the whole, "There's still a Matta's Grill open somewhere out in the boondocks" line. But when questioned, the despondent-looking veteran-waitress of 21 years could not guarantee me it would be the same Matta's I've always loved...so I'm not buying it.

To more accurately express my deep sense of loss, I have put together a short film [it's not really seven minutes long...more like five and a half. I had trouble cutting down the song in iMovie, so as soon as the music ends, let it be a sign that the movie is over]:

"The End of Life as We've Heretofore Known It"

To anyone who has ever chosen to have dinner at El Charro over Matta's: shame on you. Shame on all of you. And shame on me, for marrying out of the Arizonan Covenant, moving to Canada, and letting it come to this.

The worst part of the whole tragic tale? Matta's was the only Mexican food that Poor Kyle has ever enjoyed, and ever considered eating a second time.

And...my life will never be the same.

The Ending of an Era...

I feel so discontented when life changes on me and I'm not prepared.

Today, the Banner Mesa Medical Center (formerly known as the Mesa Lutheran Hospital) closed. I was born there. My sister was born there. Most of my extended family was born there. It was in that hospital that I have participated in countless--countless--waiting-room vigils for loved ones. {Evidently convening in waiting rooms while a family member has a baby or undergoes surgery is not a common occurrence. In the Leavitt Family, it's a given. If someone is at the hospital, we are all there--not necessarily in the hospital room, but definitely in the waiting area. Steve's Krazy Sub is always involved in these wakes, and they are times that the family comes together...for strength, for socialization (if the situation is not life-or-death), or sometimes just to annoy the people at the nurse's station. I was 19 years old by the time I realised that not every family does this.} I've held the hand of many sick family members at "my hospital;" spent numberless nights on ridiculously hard and endlessly squeaky cots.

Here's the "old" sign on the Brown Road Curve. It looks awfully bare. Forlorn, even.

The management had been planning on closing the hospital for a long time, but I don't think any amount of time could prepare me for the sense of loss I feel now, at it's closure. I didn't even get to go to the 9th floor one last time. And it was not a big deal to them! I feel cheated. I feel like the hospital has been abandoned, used for its purposes and now left lonely since it 's grown too old to be considered "cost-efficient." [Vile phrase, that.]

Poor Kyle--if I feel this downtrodden from a 44 year-old building closing its doors, how will I be when I move out of the country I've called home for 20 of my 21 years? Poor, poor Kyle...