Call Me a Convict-I've Got a Conviction.

I have a conviction.

Nobody freak out--it's weird, I know. But I've found something to take a stand for, and now there's no going back. You should be proud.

Beginning this, the Fourth Day of November, 2008... I, Camille of Archives of Our Lives, will hereby never step foot into another Wal*Mart™. Ever.

I'm so passionate about my new conviction, I could probably go write for these guys.

How's that for conviction? Oh, what? You thought I was going to write something political, given the fact that this is a very big day for America? Nah...I got over that. No more politics on this blog.

But back to the matter at hand: Wal*Mart™. I will no longer be using their "services," and calling it "service" is being generous.

How did I come to this amazing conclusion, you ask? Simple. Last month, during the most stressful week of my life, I walked through the doors of a Wal*Mart™ at 3:30 a.m. I walked out an hour later, and my faith in humanity was gone.

See, I was accompanying Chelsie, who needed to buy spray paint for--well, it's a long story. Of course there were no available associates within a 10-aisle proximity to the paint department, and of course the spray paint is kept locked away, so we were forced to scour the aisles for 10 minutes before finally finding any life form whatsoever.

It was another 10 minutes before we actually found any useful life form (i.e. someone with a bloody key to the spray paint case).

If that had been the end of the trauma, I would probably be fine. However, as we approached the one and only check-out line, the dense air of change hovered thickly over my head. I should have known.

There they were, two middle-aged ladies standing behind one checkout counter, chatting away as if they were getting mani-pedis together, instead of what they were actually doing [working for, in my opinion, the world's most hateful and monopolising enterprise]. Though we approached the conveyor belt of doom with our items (I'd detoured to find my favourite lotion ever made) in the same cart, we put them on the black-top seperately, and divided them clearly with a plastic bar reading "Wal*Mart™...Always low prices. Always." {Subliminal messages, anyone? Brainwashing? Lemmings? What?}

Chelsie's spray paint was first. The woman in charge of scanning (she wasn't wearing a name tag, or I surely would have remembered what to call her) turned towards us and began lethargically scanning each can of paint. Upon completing that task, she asked to see Chelsie's identification (as buying spray paint is illegal for minors in the state of Arizona). No problem. Chelsie's 23 if she's a day. {Though, may I point out, this was at least our fourth trip to Wal*Mart™ for spray paint within the week, and she'd been carded once, and been taken on good faith twice. Not exactly the most stringent standards, Wal*Mart™.}

Chelsie produces her I.D. with no incident, and the lady looked at it--with only her eyes--and returned it to Chelsie. End of story.

But not the end of story. Instead of proceeding to swipe Chelsie's debit card--as all the other cashiers had done during the past week--she turned to me and asked for my I.D.

"Excuse me?" I asked, thinking I'd heard her incorrectly. Surely she wasn't carding me, too! I wasn't buying any paint--there was a divider between my lotion and Chelsie's paint. What more did she want?

"I.D.," she repeated, almost menacing this time. Clearly she was annoyed by having her 3 a.m. chat interrupted.

"Oh," I explained, "well I'm not buying any spray paint."

"You're in the same party, though. I need your I.D."

Seriously? Seriously. This had never happened to me before, and I was mad. Of course I had an I.D., and of course I'm over 18, and of course I could produce it at will. But this woman seemed to go about it so bitterly, as though this--this harassment of me--was going to make everything right in her world. I was not happy.

"Well," I said, "I'm not in her party, then. We just met up back there on aisle one hundred fifty, and she let me put my lotion in her cart. I don't even know her." I knew there was no way this blatant lie would get me anything, but I wanted to make it as miserable an experience for that woman as she'd made mine.

She looked at me blankly.

Oh, was I ticked. If poor Chelsie didn't need the spray paint so much, I would have simply walked away. [But therein lies the power of Wal*Mart™. They stay open later than any other store in the universe (i.e. always. There's that word again.), so that fools like me can plan on procrastinating, and then I'm forced to accept their mistreatment of me, simply because there's no alternative.]

Finally I handed her my driver's license--it took me all of one second--along with the sentiment that this was the stupidest thing I've ever heard [immature, I know. But I needed some shred of...dignity...or...something.].

This time, though, when the cashier took my I.D., instead of just inspecting it for a birth date, she swiped it. She swiped it! Through her credit card machine! As if it would give access to the Arizona State I.D. records, and she would be able to see if I had a history of sniffing spray paint at 3 a.m.! SHE FREAKING SWIPED MY DRIVER'S LICENSE! {No amount of exclamation points could possibly express how furious I was.}

Upon seeing nothing--absolutely nothing--appear on her screen after swiping my card, she handed it back to me with a huff. I paid my total, took my own bag, and walked away with Chelsie, fuming for hours afterwards (That's right. hours. 3:30 a.m., and our day was still hours away from being finished. It was a really long week.). So is Wal*Mart™ telling me that if I was a mom of four kids who needed me to buy spray paint for their community theatre backdrop, I would have to hire a sitter so that I could legally buy the cans of paint without a minor "in my party?"

Go to hell, Wal*Mart™. I've never--never--had a positive experience there. And yes, I do believe that a certain amount of retail therapy can make one have a more positive outlook on life. But with Wal*Mart™, I leave feeling like my soul is sucked right out of my body. I really, really loathe Wal*Mart™. Their customer service is sub-par on every level and at every department I've ever braved. I will pay a little more to shop somewhere I'm treated like a person, not a number.

"Save money. Live better." is their newest slogan. More fitting would be "Save money. At a cost." Image from here.

Think about it...have you ever left Wal*Mart™ feeling better than when you arrived? Probably not.

Good deals be d*mned. I will cut coupons and watch deals as much as I have to, so I won't even notice a dent in the budget from the sudden change in grocery stores. No amount of blue light specials are worth my value as a human being. I'll plan ahead so I can shop at a store that closes at 10 p.m., and if I fail to do so, I will simply fail. No more last-minute run-ins to buy poster board for the assignment due tomorrow. And since making this commitment, since finding the conviction never to step foot in a Wal*Mart™ again, I have noticed a little spring in my step. A bounce to my spring. I'm like a dadgum Tigger.

I feel free.

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

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

We didn't date for about a month.

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

...drama.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A very mad Brad indeed.

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

And that's the raddest news of all.

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

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

{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?

{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.

Here's How I Lost my Faith in Humanity

The Time: Friday night, 11:00.

The Place: Side door entrance to the Hilton Garden Inn. Layton, UT.

Photo from here.

The People: Me, loaded up with beach bags full of towels and sunscreen. Poor Kyle, holding a box of leftover pizza from Boston's. Sister, carrying everything nobody else could hold. Brother-in-Law, burdened with his fat little baby boy [who happened to be sleeping soundly under the warmth of a fuzzy green blanket].

There's no way around it--he's a fatty. And we love him.

The four of us [plus sleeping fat baby] were exhausted from our day at the water park--lazy river or not, it still takes a lot out of a person. We were sunburned and sore from our high-energy day, and parked as close to the hotel entrance as possible--which wasn't very close at all. Luckily, there was a side door entrance a bit nearer which, experience had taught, was also closer to the elevators. We walked as quickly as our aching bodies would allow, and soon reached the glass door at the side of the hotel.

Locked.

To go around front would have taken only a few minutes, but it seemed an impossible feat for any one of us--we must have looked a haggard lot.

Instead, I noticed through the glass walls of the building a man and woman coming our way, no doubt headed to the nearby elevators.

"Ooh, there are some people! Get their attention!" I urged my husband, who stood closest to the door.

He and Flint, my brother-in-law holding the fat baby boy, inched towards the windowed door and knocked ever so lightly, winning the attention of the fast-approaching couple.

The man inside--we'll call him Comb Over--was in his 30s, wearing a white polo shirt with khakis and penny loafers, and looking back, I'm pretty sure his comb over was hiding a bald patch on his shiny head. Which would have been fine with me {I, myself, am losing hair at an alarming rate}, had he not glanced our way, snarled, and flung his hand behind him, vaguely indicating we ought to go around to the front. When he could have pushed the bar-locked door open with nothing but an outstretched arm. He wouldn't have even needed to take an extra step. It could have been a walk-by opening.

He probably figured he'd get to the elevator while we trekked to the front entrance, and be in his warm cozy bed before we even got through the doors. He probably figured he'd never see us again.

Comb Over and Woman probably didn't count on the elevators being slow on account of some corporate something-or-other congestion. He probably didn't count on another, kinder gentleman opening the door for us just seconds later, letting us in right behind him. He probably never thought we'd get to the elevator while he was still standing there.

But we did.

And my sister and I married very large men. Who are wonderful except when angry. And our husbands were nothing if not angry with this jerk. (I, myself, have never had so strong an urge to label someone a jack@$$ in my life.) Mind you, Flint is a police officer who is two hundred and something pounds of sheer weight. And okay, he was holding a fat sleeping baby, which might have made him slightly less intimidating, but he still had the huevos to walk up to the guy and say, "Hey, buddy--thanks for opening the door for the sleeping baby."

To which Poor Kyle piped in, "Yeah, thanks a lot!"

Comb Over Polo Shirt said curtly, "You guys could have gone around to the front just like I did." As if he was so disillusioned with his lot in life of having to walk around, that he wanted to make every other human being suffer. Suffer like he had to suffer. Woe was him, I tell you what.

Just then, the elevator doors opened and the four of us whisked past Comb Over to claim it. Don't worry--there was plenty of room for the four of us and Comb Over plus Woman...only they weren't too keen on sharing with the likes of us.

I wonder if they were too insecure? Or maybe just too ashamed to face up to their actions...

Either way, if Comb Over ever comes across this blog at some point in his life--and he knows who he is--I just want to tell him this:

I hope you've come to terms with your baldness.