Hello? Kansas? Anybody?

A recent map of visitors to Archives of Our Lives looks something like this:

And when I say "recent" I mean mere minutes ago. And when I say "something like this," I mean exactly.

I'm thinking Archives of Our Lives needs to branch out.

Quick, tell all your friends in the mid-west (why do they call it the "mid-west" when it's really just the "mid?") to read my blog.

For that matter, tell anyone outside the North American continent, too.

I'm the next big thing. I'm taking over Dooce™.

Or didn't you hear?

Days are Long 'Round These Parts.

Whoa, I am exhausted.

Not only because it's been a busy weekend, but wow--did you see that last post? I impulsively decided to make it a "Reader Appreciation" weekend, and responded to every comment I received. No wonder Pioneer Woman™ and Dooce™ don't do that--I had 31 comments, and it was all I could do to keep up with them. Think of what it must be like to have 12,000 comments daily! Mind-blowing. [I'd be in hog heaven, yes...but it's mind-blowing.]

Still, I hope I got the message across--I'll say it one more time just to be sure: If you're reading this blog, you're helping me fulfill my purpose in life. Thanks.

If you commented on that last post, be sure and check back in the comment section to see what I said back to you. It might be the last time I ever do it, so you won't want to miss it.

Now, enough housekeeping. As I am typing this, it's 4:06 in the morning. Why am I awake? I have an entire pageful of reasons. I'll tell you about them later. Like tomorrow. For now, what I am going to do is sleep.

But do not despair--I've got my alarm set for 7:45 a.m. When it rings, I will promptly turn it off, sit up in bed, open my laptop, and type--in this post box--the first thing that comes to mind [most likely it will be what I was just dreaming]. It seems like a good way to start off my Monday.

Let's just hope I wake up witty...

...

5:13 a.m.

Nephew whimpering in the next room over. Debated whether my sister would rather I pick him up and play with him, or let her get him and try to feed him back to sleep. Pondered the fact that babies often fall asleep while nursing. Thought it would be odd if I ever fell asleep in the middle of the drive through at Taco Bell™. Spent so much time thinking about this that sister got up and fetched the child herself.

We all promptly fell back asleep.

6:59 a.m.

Woke up to the gritty sound of the garbage truck. Felt like I was a kid again, since my hometown has had the same garbage trucks...well...since I was a kid. Heard the garbage truck set off the same car alarm twice. Wondered why that had never happened when I was a kid. Concluded that car alarms never came standard when I was a kid. Life was so simple when I was a kid. Fell asleep.

7:45 a.m.

Hit snooze on my cell phone's alarm clock.

8:16 a.m.

Received text from Gus, my partner-in-crime in all things regarding this wedding I'm here for, informing me of a last-minute change of plans. Realised she was probably more tired than I, and not making any sense. Called to clarify. Decided I might as well stay up. Peed. Remembered I was supposed to write this post. Couldn't recall what I'd dreamed about, except that it involved Taco Bell™ and the garbage man. Calculated my total sleep for the evening to be aproximately three hours.

It's going to be a long day.

p.s. One year ago today, I was also very tired. Happy Anniversary, Poor Kyle. I would have loved to spend it with you!

Just the Sort of Thing Strong Bad Would Love.

There's something seriously wrong with me.

"Just now you're figuring this out," you ask? Oh, be quiet, you. Yes, just now.

It's a strange disease, the complexities of which I cannot fully comprehend. It's all in my head, I'm sure. I just can't make it stop.

Here's my ailment:

Every time the word "probably" comes up in my daily conversations, I secretly want to pronounce it "poorbably." Porbably. Porbably. Porbably porbably porbably. Over and over in my head I reapeat the nonword. It sounds like a word that Strong Bad would use. What does it even mean? I only know that it has such an easy flow about it, and it wants to be in my brain. I never do say it aloud, because I'm so ashamed of myself for molesting the actual word.

Image from here.

Aside from the fact that I make up twisted words in my head...what's the deal with my brain repeating it twenty times to myself? It's like I have OCD, and I can't rest until I've mispronounced the same word a certain number of times.

It's not just porbably, either. It happens with "Connecticuit." See that second little "c?" The one that's supposed to be silent? Well, my brain doesn't want it to be silent, hidden away like it never existed; my brain wants it to be articulated. So every time I talk about Connecticuit, even though I say it aloud correctly, in my head I hear "Connecticuit. Connecticuit. Connecticuit."

Is there a prognosis for this disease?

Better yet...is there a cure?

Porbably not.

{Good Things Come in Reds.}

A couple of weeks before I got married to Poor Kyle, I went to Canada for a little visit. You know, just to make sure that I really wanted to take the proverbial plunge.

While I was visiting, my husband-to-be took me to sign up for a cell phone on his account. [Some might call me a money-grubbing woman of the night. Others might say Poor Kyle was my sugar daddy. But the way I figured it, we were getting married in a few weeks, and I needed a Canadian cell phone number. It only made sense.]

It was a lovely new phone—all shiny and red, just like most everything else I buy...

...like these twins...

...and these twins.

[Owning a pair of Steve Maddens has always been a goal of mine. The fact that my first pair were shiny, red, and on sale...it was fate. But I digress.]

Right away, I took the phone home and sat down with the manual, determined to figure out what all the buttons and cords and icons meant. I turned it on, and to my delight, realized that Poor Kyle had already left me a voicemail. (Little did I know that once we got married, his voicemails would almost immediately turn from “Hello, gorgeous—I know I just saw you five minutes ago but I just wanted to hear your voice,” to “Cuhmeal, where are you? I called twice already. Listen, I need you to bring me something for lunch—I forgot it again. Also, could you put my black hoodie in the wash today? I know you already did seven loads yesterday, but it’s my favourite hoodie. Oh. And I’ll be late for dinner—don’t wait up.” Oh, to be young again…)

Hardly being able to contain my joy at finding a new message, I pressed and held “1” to retrieve it, assuming that—along with every other cell phone I'd ever owned—voicemail was pre-programmed into the phone as speed dial #1.

It rang once, but instead of connecting me straight to the Voicemail Lady, it continued to ring a few more times. Suddenly, I heard a voice.

“Hello?” it greeted. He sounded about my age, and with a Canadian accent. He was no recording.

“Umm…hello? Is this…is this my voicemail?” I was dumbfounded. Surely it was a joke. Were Canadian voicemail systems set up with actual humans? “Is this guy sitting in a call center somewhere taking messages for me?” I wondered.

“Uhhh…pardon me?” came his equally perplexed--though very polite--reply.

Finally coming to my senses and realizing I must have simply dialed incorrectly, I apologized and hung up. I was so flustered, I didn’t even wait for him to say goodbye.

I checked my “Sent Calls” menu, and found that I’d just made a call to a number I didn’t recognize [and not just because I'd gotten a new phone number myself]. “How odd,” I thought, “I’d better try that again.”

Sure enough, the second time I tried to call my voicemail, I was met with the same human guy. Luckily, though, I [sort of] had the presence of mind to explain myself.

“I’m really sorry to keep bothering you,” I apologized. “I’m not an idiot. It’s just…I got this new cell phone today, and I’m trying to check my voicemails, but for some reason my phone thinks its phone number is you.” Even to myself, I sounded like a fool.

“Oh, sure,” he replied understandingly, as if that sort of thing happened all the time. [And as if I actually made sense.] “Well…I hope you get it figured out.” And then, in parting, “Talk to you later.”

Hanging up, I decided two things: One, that I had just made a new friend whose name I forgot to catch, and two, that Poor Kyle would know what to do. So I called him next.

“Hey, babe,” he answered.

“Hi. Hey, so a few minutes ago I saw I’d gotten a new voicemail, so I went to check it, but instead of the Voicemail Lady answering, it was a guy. And at first I thought he was my own personal assistant, but then I just realized my phone thinks its phone number is his, and now I have a new friend. He’s the guy whose number my phone stole, and we’re friends. What should I do?”

He didn’t believe me of course, until he saw it for himself later.

We still haven’t gotten the problem fixed, and it’s been a nuisance the entire time I’ve had this phone. I can’t text Google™, for one. Rather, I can text Google™, but Google™ thinks my cell phone is the other guy’s number, so Google™ replies to him. It took me nine months to figure out why Google™ never texts me back; I can only imagine how strange it’s been for my friend to receive random texts from Google™ these past nine months. Things like “Definition of onomatopoeia,” and “Linens ‘N Things. 1235 S. Arizona Ave. Mesa, AZ 85679 (602) 898-1234.”

Sometimes when I’m in a hurry and try to check my messages quickly, I forget my broken speed dial. When that happens, and my friend answers, I always chuckle. “Oh, hi. It’s me again—that girl whose phone is struggling with an identity crisis. Sorry to bother you.”

“Oh, no bother,” he assures, the smile in his voice transmitting itself over the telephone signal. “Talk to you later.”

I really like my nice friend--it's almost like we're pen pals, but without the pens. Maybe someday I'll get to meet him.

I Wonder How Many Angels Had to Die in the Making of This Bed?

I never knew how much I needed to have a beautiful bed in my life...

I never knew how big a difference existed between average sheets...and lovely sheets...

I never realised that seven pillows on a bed--ridiculous though they are--could soothe me to sleep...

A headboard never seemed all that necessary before--let alone a foot board to match...

Let's just say...

I've never lived until now.

Headboard/Footboard: $30.00 from Craigslist.

Extra brackets on bed frame so headboard would stop squeaking: Free labour.
Bed skirt, sheets, pillow cases, duvet, duvet cover, quilt, and one million pillows we'll never use: Gift from mother in law.

Sleeping like a queen for the rest of my life: About $250.00, all said and done.

*[Bet you thought I was going to say "Priceless," huh?]*

{I Know Everything There is to Know}

It's been fun reading everybody's questions. I've gotten several questions in the comment section, and a few more via email. No pill capsules in the mail, however. What a disappointment. I will hold out hope, however, because Canada is evidently a foreign country and as soon as mail reaches the 49th parallel, it mysteriously stops...for six days...and then is allowed to carry on to its final destination.

I do not know why this happens, exactly, but I think it has something to do with giving the mail time to really think about its choice to move to such a cold country. [Little do the post offices know, that mail is stubborn and will move to Canada come hell or high water. I mean, look at me--I had an entire two years to think about marrying Poor Kyle and moving north, and here I am.]

Anyway, remember that the questioning is open throughout each week. I think I'll make question-answering day on Thursdays, because Thursdays are such glorious days.

Have I ever regaled you with my theory on Thursdays? No? Well, you're in for a treat:

Thursdays are such hopeful days. Without them, life would be boring. Bland. Flavourless. Salt with no savour.

Bland, no?

They're really, truly, the best day of my week, every week. See, Mondays are bad [for obvious reasons]...


...and on Tuesday, the rest of the week still seems quite interminable.

Wednesdays have nothing to boast (unless you're an elementary school kid and have a half-day on Wednesdays, but usually that is a sure sign you've got piano lessons after school, so don't get to hasty, elementary kids).


Fridays would seem like the best days of the week, but I, myself, find them a bit depressing. On a Friday, I always think, "Oh, good...the weekend." But the thought that invariably follows is "Oh no--it's going to be gone so soon!" Talk about the glass being half empty, eh? I know.


Saturdays just lull me into a false state of tranquility [and that's only if I don't have chores to do]...

... and on Sundays, the impending doom of Monday is such that I can enjoy nothing else...


Which leaves Thursday...

On Thursday, the weekend is near enough to start planning and looking forward to, but not soon enough to actually start dreading its end. Friday has not yet come to start the worries, Saturday is far in the distance, and Sunday's dream-crushing reality seems a lifetime away.

Makes quite a difference, don't you think?

There's so much hope in a Thursday.

So there you have it: one more thing to make Thursday your best day of the week.

I'm a Glutton for Deprivation

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

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

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

Couches totally collapse...

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

...the pirateage continues...



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

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

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 JUST WON £1,000,000!!!!!!***

If I had a million British pounds (£) for every time I get emails telling me I won a million British pounds (£), I would be eating crumpets in one of the 20 sitting rooms of my very own castle near the Cotswalds right this minute, instead of updating this blog.


I would take morning walks along streets like this:

*Photo from here.*

And I would star in movies like this:

I would take holidays--not vacations--and store my trunks (luggage) in the boot (trunk) of my auto (car).

If I had £1,000,000 for every time those sneaky Brits tell me I've won £1,000,000, I would hire someone technologically-inclined to spruce up my blog--maybe even help me become self-hosted. I would give away $500.00 gift cards like Pioneer Woman does, and I would put all my leftovers in glass--not plastic--containers.

With my daily average income at two or three million pounds (£), I would have extra money for stuff like that. I might even take up horseback riding (the fancy kind, with helmets instead of Stetsons™, and jodhpurs instead of Wranglers™ [Anyone know how to pronounce "jodhpurs?"]).

I would hire someone else to get kamikaze insects stuck in their ears. I would pay to have my hair professionally styled every day. I would holiday in Fiji and drink from their artesian wells:

*Photo from here.*

And I would hire someone to create a Mini Cooper Hybrid that would be less taxing on the environment, and then I would buy that new-and-improved Mini Cooper, along with my own peace of mind that I'm reducing my carbon footprint.

Then, I would begin a campaign to increase Nutella's™ popularity in these United States. Because I think the creator of Nutella™ should be given all the breaks that life can afford.


And with his improved wealth, I would encourage him to formulate sugar-free Nutella™ (which would also be beneficial to my peace of mind).

And then I would petition Her Majesty the Queen to abdicate her throne, since who gave her the right to all those British pounds (£) anyway, and she doesn't even have much of a say, so what gives?

*Photo from here.*

And when she would invariably tell me to get lost, I would petition for one more thing before being thrown out of Her Royal Highness' presence: that she put an end to scammers generating false hope by sending out fraudulent emails to poverty-stricken bloggers. Because telling a poor person that they've just won £1,000,000 only to let them down day after day...

..that's cruel.

{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.

{What I Really Need Is a Chicken Wing and a Good Hair Cut}

In most cases, I jump on any bandwagon that looks like fun; in today's case (i.e. The Case of Typing "(Your Name) Needs" Into the Google Search Bar and Hitting Enter), I'm really glad I did. Because evidently...

-Camille needs bodyguards because too many people hate her.
-Camille needs men.
-Camille needs issues addressed on the level of feelings.
-Camille needs to change her horizons.
-Camille needs to negotiate with the manager to get an EDIFACT order process.
-Camille needs to get a backbone.

{How about a chicken bone and a good cut 'n colour?? That's what I say.}

-Camille needs a duck to keep her company.
-Camille needs an experienced dog owner that is willing to work with her and train her with consistency.
-Camille needs to watch his words ("Camille" can be a man's name in French, you know--it's pronounced "Camee").
-Camille needs a little more Prozac™, and...
-Camille needs an ice water enema administered with a 3" fire hose fitted with a wide-angle nozzle [goodness gracious--Poor Other Camille!].

Try it--it's fun. It's like cracking open a whole bunch of fortune cookies all at once.

Also, you have until 10 p.m. tonight to enter yesterday's contest. Winners of the $25.00 gift card will be announced Thursday morning.

If Only There Were "Apple Z" For My Life

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

{Current Me}

**In lieu of recent Archives of Our Lives happenings [i.e. bearing my heart and soul to this here blog and its 100 daily readers], I have decided to write yet another deep, heart-wrenching, Camille-tells-all kind of post. Just as a warning.**

I’ve noticed a trend in some of my previous "Random Facts About Me” kind of posts: I usually talk about things I used to do, beliefs I used to uphold, or accents I used to embrace. In other words, when people ask me to divulge little-known facts about myself, I often revert to Childhood Camille for said random tidbits. I don’t know why—perhaps I don’t find the current me interesting enough. At any rate, I am taking this opportunity to change that. I give you:

Eight Things About Me Now Which Only Family or B Might Know:

1. I have a penchant for hats. Any and almost every kind of hat is thrilling to me. When I’m shopping and see hats for sale, I invariably try on one or two, just to see how much one of those hats could change who I am. (I have even been known to make an unfortunate hat purchase or two.) I like baseball caps, cowboy hats, gardening hats, sombreros, toques (beanines in American), and flower-woven crowns with flowing ribbon like you can buy at the Renaissance Festival. Any number of hats can make me feel sporty, or chic, trendy, elegant, or free-spirited. The only problem is…hats look awful on me. It has been one of my lifelong sorrows, and, I suspect, why I never got very far in my acting career—any girl who cannot look fittingly enough in hats could never be a movie star. Audrey Hepburn would never have been cast as Eliza Doolittle if she’d not looked so striking in that Ascot hat. And that’s a fact.

2. I have mastered the art of eating Lunchables. Yes, Lunchables. Are those still a highly sought-after choice of lunch for kids around suburban America? Because I know it was a great day for me when I opened up my brown lunch sack and found a treasured Lunchable waiting patiently to be consumed (but this is supposed to be about current me, not childhood me). Since I’m on the road a lot, I’ve found them to be the most healthful nourishment a gas station’s convenience store has to offer. And I’m good at eating them, too. I could eat them in the dark; I could eat them in the park. But that’s another post entirely…

3. I have recently (as in, within the past three or four years) become converted to the “Cover the Toilet Seat” school of thought—so much so that even if the covers aren’t supplied, I always take the time to toilet paper myself.


I’d always been taught this way, but until recently, I never felt compelled to actually use those flimsy tissue-paper coverings sometimes found in public restrooms. I don’t know exactly when I changed, but I know it was a complete conversion. And so help me, if I someday die of AIDS, the world and I will know exactly why. The stupidity and irresponsibility of my wayward days will haunt me forever.

4. I have myself so convinced that I’m going green, I even feel guilty for using tap water to refill my water bottles—and that’s the greenest way to drink water! When I need to boil eggs or cook potatoes, I have nagging thoughts that won’t leave me alone—thoughts like, “I’d better save this potato water to make dinner rolls tonight, or else it will be wasteful,” and, “I could cook these eggs another way, like in a frying pan—using this water really isn’t necessary.” I have yet to decide if this is a bad thing, or simply environmentally responsible.

5. After a long and mournful inner debate, I have come to the conclusion that green is indeed my favourite colour. It was hard to say for a while, because my favourite colour seems to change depending on what I’m observing. My favourite colour of furniture, for example, would be red. But as far as clothing goes, I am quite fond of wearing pink, and sometimes brown. However my favourite colour of house tends to be white, with black trim (a little something I learned about in Belgium). Finally, though, I could not deny it any longer: green is the colour, overall, that makes me happiest. So now you know.

6. Asking me to make a speedy decision is like politely requesting that my four month-old nephew stop screaming when he’s hungry: you can dream all you want, but it’ll never happen. Which is why 70% of our house’s interior walls are still painted the lavender colour its previous owners seemed so fond of (or else bought in the clearance aisle of Home Depot: You Can Do It. We Can Help.). I will decide what colour to paint when, and only when, I am ready to decide.

7. I don’t know the proper way to fold an American flag. I know there’s a trick to it (just like with fitted sheets), but I never learned. And every time I see Old Glory waving proudly in the wind, I feel a little bit of guilt knowing that if our flag fell down, I couldn't walk over, pick it up, and fold it correctly. I should have been a Boy Scout.

8. I feel a perverse satisfaction when I can tear ketchup packets open right along the quarter-circle dotted line. It happens rarely, but when it does...it's magic.

{Food Room}

I live in Canada. Up here, pretty much everyone who has a house also has a basement.

Basements are more rare in Arizona. In fact, growing up, I always dreamed of living in a house with stairs. That was my fondest wish (second only to an older brother for my sister and I [but imagine my despair when I discovered that no matter how many more children my mother bore, none of them—brother or sister—would ever be older than me]). Basements were so exotic…

…only now that I live in a house with one, I find them more than a little terrifying. Ours has a finished living room, bedroom, and bathroom, along with an unfinished other bedroom, laundry room, and food room.


It’s the food room I want to talk about today. When walking through the basement’s damp and musty hallway, one (well, probably only I) feel instantly unsettled. The cold tile flooring is uneven on account of whoever built our house was a crook who should have had his license revoked. The walls are lined with narrow wooden strips that could be cute…if they weren’t there. The basement is dark, chilly, and smells like produce and cardboard.

So it’s already creepy as it is, but somewhere along the line, the homeowners decided to up the creepy anti by, like, a thousand. With this door to the food room:


That’s right. Somewhere in the world, some hotel’s room #26 is missing a door. Can you imagine? I wish I could hunt down whoever built our house and force the story of this door out of them. Where did they swipe it? What is its history? And I know it was a hotel room door, because look at the plaque on the opposite side:


Anyway, I’m glad to have a food room at all. Inasmuch as I hoard food, it’s convenient to have it all in one place, organized in perfectly-faced rows just like in Safeway. See?




I have a canned vegetables section, canned soup section, a whole stockpile of canned mushrooms (we thank you, Aunt Linda!), a Mexican food area (because I don’t want to live in a world without El Pato Sauce [otherwise known as the stuff dreams are made of].


I also have a designated space for pasta and sauce, in which I include Kraft Dinner (Mac & Cheese for all you USA residents) and Ramen noodles. Because we’re cultured like that.




My food supply is not impressive by most people’s standards, but it’s nevertheless thrilling to me. Every time I go grocery shopping, I buy whatever stockpile-able food is on sale, as much as our budget allows—and it’s growing. Slowly, but definitely growing.