Hey Y'all, Watch This!

Tonight I'm watching CNN.com for breaking news. I'm seeing a whole lot of this:

Image from cnn.com.

**Update**
**Which has, incidentally, changed to this since I started the post about 20 minutes ago. Poor McCain. Image from cnn.com.**

This being only the second election of my adult life, and the first one I've ever really paid attention to, I'm wondering just one thing: When do we find out who wins? I mean, if we don't already have a really good prediction, like CNN does.

***Update: Never mind. I got it sorted.***

If you're heartbroken about this {or if you're jumping for joy, this could be a good celebration}, I would like to introduce you to a brand-old feature of Archives of Our Lives that should cheer you up: The Follow Me Feature.

See there, to the left of this post, the group of 16 people who follow this blog?

Don't they look like they're having fun? That's because they are. They are having fun following this blog.

Here's how you, too, can have fun for the low low cost of nothing:

Step 1: Sign in to your Blogger™ account. Don't have one? Start one up at blogger.com. Don't want to? Fine, then. Forget about it.

Step 2: Return to www.archives-lives.blogspot.com. It should look something like this:

Or in other words, exactly where you are.

Step 3: Direct your gaze (and your mouse) to the "Follow This Blog" feature. It will be easy to find, because it's at the top left-hand corner of the blog, and it's titled "Maybe I Can't Lead, But You Can Surely Follow."

Just a reminder--it looks like this.

Step 4: Click "Follow This Blog." It's the red link above the photos of all the other happy people who are already following this blog.

Step 5: Enjoy fresh updates right in your Blogger™ Dashboard every time you sign in--and ever time I've updated. It's like Google Reader™, but for people who don't understand how to use Google Reader™. People like you and me...or maybe just me.

And a note to those 16 of you who've already signed up: Thanks guys. You're the best.

Anyway, join in the fun--I'll make it worth your while, with a special giveaway only for people who are signed up to follow this blog. When? Soon, I promise. I just have to go to Oregon and come back, and we'll be golden.

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.

{Captivated by the Season}

My original plan for today's post was to write something very profound. I was going to write something deep, perhaps even wise, and make you all stop to reflect on your lives. I was essentially going to change the world.

Then I sat down with my laptop and I could not bear the thought of all the effort it would take to change the world. Since it's Monday and I never really got to enjoy the weekend, I'm making today an extension of yesterday. Today it's gonna be all about the fluff of my life. Lots of pictures, not many words. It's my Monday gift to you...

Currently my iPhoto library looks like this:

Gorgeous.

Why? Because I went to Oregon. Why? To be with Poor Kyle. Why? Because I love him. Why? Good question. (Smiley face.)

Anyway, I was glad to go on the three-day road trip even though I had just returned from Mesa the day before. After taking all these photos of fall leaves and anything that struck me as beautiful, I'm even gladder [more glad?].

I hope you are as captivated by the season as I have been. Enjoy.

Everyone should take a long drive through fall foliage at least once in their life. It's really very healing. I wasn't even sick, but I feel healed.

Don't you feel healed?

If I could tear out the trees in front of our house and replant them with these beauties (above), I would. Only I don't know what they're called. Any ideas?




I thrill at the sight of a long, straight bit of railroad track. There's so much hope in a railroad track.







Oh, and also...I don't brush my hair anymore. Not worth it. I threw away every brush I own, so any hairstyling I do from now on will be with fingertips, bobby pins and Trash Ties™. Just thought you should know.

Leaves in the gutter--how lovely.

Again with the railroad tracks--I'm sensing a theme.

There. All better. Like chicken soup for the friggen soul.

{Happy Monday.}

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...

Not That I'm Judging, or Anything...

I was raised with the understanding that I was to dress modestly. In our family, "modest" was very specific: cover my shoulders, cover my bosom, cover my midriff, cover my buttocks. (In other words, boobs, belly, butt. [Only we're not crude here at Archives of Our Lives. We're very ladylike, and we use words like "midriff."])

My parents were firm in laying down this family law, and I never thought to question it--it was not negotiable, so I didn't even bother trying. {Later on in life, I realised my physique was not conducive to showing all that skin anyway, and skanky clothing never appealed to me; I knew it would only showcase my chubby imperfections, and I wanted no part of it.}

But for some reason, a lot of girls in my acquaintance--who were raised the same way as I--have taken a liking to wearing bikinis.

Bikinis! I'm floored. Me, I'm a fatty, so I have never been tempted to wear one (except for maybe when I was a young little thing--seven or eight--and thought a bikini would make me beautiful. But I got over that.)

I've been asking around a lot lately--people in my family, people I knew growing up, people who knew me growing up. The question of my poll was this: "Was it ever a gray area? Bikinis, I mean. Was there something I missed, wherein our standards mentioned dressing modestly except at Cabo? What the...? Did YOU ever think it was okay to wear bikinis?"

And it wasn't just me. I didn't miss something. It has never been a gray area. The answer is so simple: if one believes in dressing modestly in every other situation of one's life {and notice I said "if," because this doesn't apply to anyone who was never raised this way, neither does it apply to anyone who simply doesn't embrace these values {to you: go for it. I'm not judging. It's not hypocritical if you never said one thing and acted differently. Please. Wear all the bikinis you want. You don't even need my permission--nor my approval.} there is no reason to wear a bikini on vacation. Or at the pool. Or to the prom. Or at the mall. Or snorkeling. Or anywhere.

If a person (specifically a female, but hey--I'm not judging) considers themselves a follower of the modest movement, then said person might also look into finding a swimsuit which will cover their stomachs. It can be done.

Image from Modbe Clothing. Other ideas include Shade, DownEast Basics, and that one about an apple.

The question is not "Should people wear a bikini?" or "Should Camille wear a bikini?" or "Does Camille hate bikinis?" or "Would Camille make a good movie star?" or "Are bikini wearers bad people?" No. The question is none of these. Quite simply, what I want to know is....

"Has a bikini ever been considered a modest choice in swimwear?"

And if we can all agree that indeed, bikinis are not a modest choice in swimwear, then why do so many women--who otherwise consider themselves modest to a T, and would never so much as think about wearing a tank top to the grocery store--wear them?

I suppose it sounds like I am standing on a self-righteous soapbox and think extremely highly of myself...

Think what you will of me. And wear bikinis if you want. Just don't think bikinis are modest.

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?

Growing a Face of Leather {Thick and Tough}.

**Update: Everybody's comments have been so sweet today, I decided to declare this "Official AoOL Reader Appreciation Weekend." Every comment I get, I will be responding to. I will read all the blogs of any new person who introduces his or her self, so if you left a comment (or are planning on it still), there is {or will be} a reply comment waiting for you. Boy, if that isn't a treat, I don't know what is. {Yes, I do. Something that starts with "Golden" and ends with "Spoon" comes to mind. I'd way rather have ice cream than a personal message from me, but it's the best I can do.}**

I have had this on my mind a lot lately; I would like to address a few topics here on this blog today.

Well, only one topic, really: me. That is, me in respect to Archives of Our Lives.

A lot of people say that blogging is their "journal;" their creative outlet; the place they go to vent and feel all of their feelings. I say, good for them. I read lots of those blogs, and faithfully so. I follow several blogs written by stay-at-home moms who mostly write so their friends and family can be updated on their lives. That's fine, too. In fact, I haven't met many blogs I don't like. There's something intriguing to me about peeking into the lives of others, whether they be career people, family people, homeless people, or all of the above.

Each blog has a purpose...and the purpose of my blog is to entertain.

I have never aspired to anything more. I don't expect to change the world, nor do I anticipate anything monumental ever happening here. I blog because I hope to brighten people's day--to give each and every one of you something to look forward to.

Here I am--just me and the ice cream truck driver. I like waffle cones and the colour pink, and I never mean to make people mad. I'm just me, plain and simple.

A well-known theme of blogging is that many of us "live for comments." I subscribe to that school of thought, one hundred percent. I read each and every comment made on my blog--most comments I read more than once. Every piece of advice I receive, I contemplate. Every time a new person de-lurks, I immediately swing by his or her blog to check it out [though it takes a few comments from a new person for me to feel a true bond, so if you feel like I don't give your blog enough attention, just say so {by commenting}]. And I notice when otherwise-regular commenters go missing.

In other words, I care what you think. I care very much, and it's not necessarily because I want you to like me (though that's always nice). Rather, I care because I write for you. Not for me. For you. If you are reading this post, whether you like me or not, you are fulfilling the purpose of my blog.

And because I care so much what my readers think, I put forth a great effort not to offend people.

But guess what? I am doing a lousy job of it. Despite the fact that I never--ever--publish a post without carefully considering ways my words might be misconstrued, I have learned that I am quite often unsuccessful. I have estranged people who are dear to me, along with people I've never met. Posts I have considered hilarious have driven many people to the point of boycotting my blog altogether. I've been called a b**ch. I've been cordially invited to eff off. I have been told I'm immature, inconsiderate, inappropriate, disappointing, disrespectful, ignorant, rude, thoughtless, careless, mean, selfish, cruel, bitter, vicious, a button-pusher, and starved for attention. {I've had to grow some pretty thick skin, but not so thick that I ignore people altogether. Only thick enough that these comments can't quite seep into my self-esteem.}

To solve this problem, I've been advised to close my blog to anonymous comments. I've been told to close all comments period. It's been suggested to make my blog private.

Many people think I should simply delete my blog and quit this aspect of my life completely.

But none of those ideas appeal to me: I don't really mind anonymous commenters; forbidding all comments completely would defeat the purpose of my blog, as would going private; and I don't relish the idea of quitting altogether.

Instead, I've decided the best solution for my dilemma is to write a disclaimer:

This blog is not homework--reading is not mandatory. It is never my intent to hurt people's feelings. Inasmuch as I cannot forsee what everybody is experiencing in their lives, I cannot predict which phrases to avoid, which words to gloss over, or which parts of my brain to keep to myself. If your feelings were hurt and you want to tell me...by all means, tell me. If your feelings were hurt and you want to quit my blog, I will understand.

But if your feelings were hurt and you can find the time to step back, realise I didn't mean any offense, and you still sort of agree with or enjoy some of the things I write...then please know that you are welcome here.

I may not babysit your kids, but I will--with any luck--give you something new to laugh about nearly every day of the week {give or take some [or all]}.

Hello, My Name is Fickle.

*Warning: Long Post. Worthwhile, but long.*

October 20th will be the first anniversary marking the marriage between Poor Kyle and Me.

Today is the third anniversary of the day we met. October 13, 2005. I remember it like yesterday...

...but instead of recalling the story in its entirety (yawn) for you today, I will sum it up like this:

I moved to Canada, where there was a boy with a big head. He introduced me to a boy who spoke French. Frenchie introduced me to Poor Kyle. I moved back to Arizona. Two years later (almost to the day) we got married. I moved back to Canada again.

One year later, I wrote this post.

But the union wasn't all smooth-sailing. In fact, some of the roughest waters of my life, I forged during those three years.

You know, come to think of it, there's really no way you could understand how we got to this point, without going into at least a little bit of detail. So this is what I'll do: Provide an ultra-condensed version, taken directly from excerpts from my journal (read: my life history). Except for name changes and present-day perspectives, which will be indicated by [brackets]. You can skip to just the pictures and captions, if you'd like--I mean, it's not like you don't know how it ended. But if some of you think you might enjoy this peek into my helter-skelter mind, this post is for you.

So with no further ado...

The True Saga of Poor Kyle and Camille

October 20, 2005
...So Friday night [Frenchie] showed up, with his friend Kyle, to our chips and salsa night. It was lots of fun getting to know [Frenchie] more, and the initial meeting of Kyle (who is so funny, and I like a lot). The next night we had an odd array of people over for more Mexican food. [Frenchie] and Kyle came back, along with [Boy 1] and several girls I didn't know. Needless to say, it was a pretty awkward night. Eventually, though, the crowd dispersed and I was again left in peace...

October 2005--the selfsame weekend I met Poor Kyle.

November 4, 2005
...Well so much for [Frenchie]! The verdict is...I have a lot to thank [Boy 1] for because he introduced me to [Frenchie], who in turn caused me to meet Kyle, who is a splendid--truly splendid--chap...

November 10, 2005
MONUMENTAL DECISION! I'm staying in Canada for an [unexpected] second semester. I'm staying. I really am. I'm staying, regardless of 1) what Lindsey says, 2) what Chelsie says, 3) what my family says, and 4) what happens with Kyle--even if he thinks I'm a major dork, I'm staying. I told him the big news. He didn't seem too excited, which threw me for a loop, because he'd made such a big deal out of wanting to know... The evening ended so awkwardly. I think my problem is that too many people are involved with this relationship. Like if I hear from people that he likes me, or his family likes me, then I have to try harder to keep up the good graces.

But it shouldn't be like that. If I start out being myself (as I make a point to do), then there's really no need to change...

November 20, 2005
...He kissed me. [By the way, this was the quickest meet-to-kiss I'd ever had with a guy. One month seemed way too quick, but when he went in for the kill, I found myself surprisingly untraumatised. I took that as a sign.] For the first time in my dating life, I didn't feel like the guy was slobbering all over me on our first kiss... And it was not drawn out. Just perfect, really. Not too short, not to long. And I absolutely knew it was going to be that way...

A few weeks into our budding relationship.

December 16, 2005
[DTR!!!] ...On the way home from [Mayberry] I FINALLY worked up the nerve to approach Kyle with my marriage woes. I honestly had no idea how he'd take it. I told him how all my life...my ideal marriage age had always been 25--six years away. Then I tried to explain that my theories were changing as of late, but he could only focus on the "25" issue... He said he was indeed heading down the marriage trail, and so it was good I shared my thoughts with him... Am I going to marry Kyle? It's a possiblity...

1 January, 2006
...It's just that, nice or not, I simply cannot allow myeslf to believe I'm in love with a boy I'd never heard of two months ago...

9 January, 2006
...He is so totally ready to be married and I am so fully NOT. Why is my timing always SO FAR OFF? What will this year bring? What do I even WANT it to bring? Ach...

16 January, 2006
HUGE! MONUMENTAL! Today, for the first time in my life, I told a boy I loved him. Kyle, of course, and I should stop calling him a boy. Except if he's not a boy then he's a man, and if he's a man then I'm a WOMAN and that is frighful indeed.

14 February, 2006
...Kyle hates me...

24 February, 2006
...Kyle is NOT my best friend. [What am I, eight years old?] I like him, and I love him, but at this point I could live without him. I don't think I can marry him...

20 March, 2006
...So when he said "I love you" I figured it was as good a time as any to say "Let's get married." I wasn't expecting what he said next. He told me he wasn't sure anymore if it was right! It was so insane because he'd been the one going crazy to know. SUCH a transformation... We didn't come to any conclusions.

Snapped a few moments before he decided we shouldn't get married after all.

22 March, 2006
...I feel like we are in a relationship RUT...

9 April, 2006
...I guess I can totally blame myself. But I really don't want to. I would much rather blame our troubles (not even married and we already have troubles!) on his poor communication skills.

11 April, 2006
...I've come to the conclusion that Kyle doesn't know me at all. Or he knows me but he doesn't care about me. Oh, I know he says he loves me, but sometimes I wonder if he really does.

27 April, 2006
...Perhaps Kyle and I should see other people this summer while I'm in AZ and he's in Canada...

And then we stayed together...

28 April, 2006
...Okay, so I didn't EXACTLY move on the idea that we should see other people this summer. Instead, we decided not to decide anything right away. I'm back in Mesa, and when I'm here and with my family, it's easy for me to forget all about moving back to Canada. Like maybe this is where I'm supposed to be. But maybe not??

All Summer of 2006
CONFUSED. Keep dating? Stop dating? Get along. Disagree. Best friends. Hardly talk anymore. Back and forth. On and on. Meh. Decided not to move back to Canada in the fall.

10 August, 2006
...Broke up with Kyle. I am not happy. In fact I can very much say that I am quite as miserable as I have ever been...

30 August, 2006
..Kyle came to visit. He loves me. I told him I'm still not 100% sure about us getting engaged. He doesn't like that I'll be open to dating other guys, but he says he'll wait for me to figure myself out...

2 October, 2006
I'm engaged! Haven't set a date. I'm thinking next fall. Kyle's thinking this week...

6 November, 2006
...We killed our dog today...

13 November, 2006
...There have been some really neat developments with me moving abroad to work as a nanny. A few families from Belgium seem really nice, and I've already started emailing one. I really want to do this. It's something I'll be able to look back on when I'm married; an experience I'll never forget. I don't want to be old and bitter that I never got to see the world before I settled down. I'm trying to do everything I can to get it all going. My biggest fears of going are 1) That my unwell grandpa might die while I'm gone even though he promised he'd be at my wedding in October, 2) That things will be harder between Kyle and me, and 3) that I might get molested by a Frenchman.

13 December, 2006
Maybe I won't be a good wife. Maybe I shouldn't marry Kyle.

10 January 2007
A lot of people ask me how I can move to EUROPE when I'm engaged to be married. I wonder if it means I'm not a good person, or if I shouldn't get married yet. I mean, I guess they're right. If I was totally hyped to get married, why would I take off to Europe for several months. It's not like I even had it planned before I got engaged!

12 January 2007
Four days from now I will move to Belgium. I don't know what posessed me to do this. I'm terrified. What if it's the most horrible experience of my life? What if I get molested and can't get to my pepper spray in time? What if it's the wrong thing to do??

18 January, 2007
I am in Brussels, Belgium. It's amazing.

I can do kids, as long as Europe is involved. Though technically, this photo was taken in London. On the Eye.

14 February, 2007
Maybe it's taking me so long to be ready for marriage because before, I tuned out everything I heard on the subject. I hated the thought so much that now, the time has come for me to recognise my feelings, and I have no idea what I'm looking for! And I thought last V-day was bad. This one really beats all.

5 March, 2007
I've just had some awful news. Grandpa is dying. I need to go home to be there for this. I'm not sure what to do, but I know I have to be there.

8 March, 2007
My grandpa died tonight. I made it home just in time. I am so grateful I was here. I will never regret my decision. Kyle is coming tomorrow. I wish I had asked him to come sooner. I know he would have been here for me.

Summer 2007
Went back to Belgium. Worried about marrying Kyle. Love Kyle. Scared of marriage. Too young for kids. Moved back to AZ to plan a wedding.

2 September, 2007
For the first time since we got engaged, I've had a confirmation and a sure knowledge that marrying him is right. Of COURSE I will marry him. But I just realised I don't know his handwriting. All this time we've been apart, we only ever email and iChat. This is bad and must be remedied.

5 September, 2007
I'm getting more excited to marry Kyle with every passing day.

9 September, 2007
I have been so SAD lately. It might just be all the extra estrogen, OR it could be the fact that in 41 days I'm getting married, and moving away a week later. Don't misunderstand: I'm glad to get married--thrilled, really. The moving part is...harder to accept.

4 October, 2007
Kyle is the man I'm going to marry. I've learned so much about myself since meeting him--so much about LIFE. I am happy when I'm with him.

I'm not the kind of girl who says sappy things like "I can't even picture myself without him." I can. I could, if I wanted to, picture myself single and alone in the world. Maybe in New York, maybe in Paris...a Yuppie, to be sure. But it's not what I want--at least, those dreams are not my priority anymore. Family is what's important. Life would have so little meaning without families.

Kyle is my family.

Success!

...And that was the last time I ever questioned getting married. It was touch-and-go for, oh, about two years there. But once I finally figured things out, we were golden.

Anyway, there's a reason I call Poor Kyle "Poor Kyle." And now you know exactly what it is. Happy Anniversary to Us.

Me and My Big Ideas.

Thank you to everyone who piped in on my one (and hopefully only) political post yesterday. I have enjoyed reading people's opinions, and I looked up--and investigated--every single link I was given. I feel more educated on the subject now than ever, and I've decided my choice must come down to what I value most in life...financial responsibility, or family matters. It seems like neither candidate will let me choose both.

Despite what many [or all] of you might think, I don't write posts like that just to stir up a little bit of loco in people's lives.

Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I do.

But I can almost swear never to get political again, on account of every time my phone rang yesterday, I answered it with great trepidation. I was just sure somebody with access to my number was going to really chew me out for going postal and signing up to be a Democrat (which I haven't, but I don't promise I won't make any rash decisions).

Which brings me to the topic of today. Rash decisions.

The most monumental rash decision I ever made was to move to Canada after my first year at ASU didn't go so well. It was monumental because it led me to meet Poor Kyle, and I can honestly say my life has never really been the same since. When I drove North to this country for the first time, and saw all the sights of Alberta, I had no idea the role this place would play in my future.

Here's me, not yet 19 years old, in the midst of said trip. So oblivious to the fact that the bridge I was admiring would soon become a feat of architecture I'd see almost daily.

Another rash decision I made was to pack my bags and become a nanny in French-speaking Belgium. I thought I knew the language, but I knew nothing. It was one of my life's most profound experiences, and I would not have changed it for anything.

I lived in a tower, and to get to my tower I had to climb this itty bitty winding staircase [which I soon discovered to be slippery when wearing socks]. I climbed it at least 10 times a day. There were 16 steps. It was the highlight of...well...it was just a highlight.

It was that voyage that taught me how to truly travel lightly, how to communicate with people in their home country, how to be independent...how to make it on my own. I was in Paris for a week...all by myself. On a "family" trip to Amsterdam, I woke up early one morning to see the Ann Frank House, and wandered through the streets with a map until I eventually got there. I did it. I have a huge sense of confidence (not indestructibility, just confidence) in myself because of all the opportunities I've had to see the world.

Oh, Paris. How I miss you.

And that brings me to my next topic: what if I had a travel blog, documenting all the places I've been or would like to go? Would you read it? Would that be boring? Would you groan at the thought of yet another blog you feel obligated to follow?

Hit me with your honest opinion--I can take it.

Nobody Scream, But I Might Just Be a Democrat.

I listened to talk radio (CNN and NPR, specifically) for the first real time in my life last week.

For over twelve hours.

I won't go into the details of the mental breakdown that isnpired me to do this, but I will say that it had something to do with a drive from Oregon to Canada, a Sirius satellite radio, and a husband who didn't like being ignored by a book-reading wife.

Who's recommendation was this? Thanks, whoever tipped me off. It reminded me of a certain small town of barely 3,000 people. Quite endearing. Photo from here.

It was also the day that the Bailout Bill was being put back to The House for debate and a re-vote, and the highly anticipated (and only) vice presidential debate was scheduled to take place.

And did you know? If you listen to CNN all day long, for twelve hours straight, you will hear the same news over and over. For twelve hours straight.

I learned that all Sarah Palin had to do at the debate was not sound like a blubbering idiot, and she would have come out the victor. And Joe Biden's (can I call him "Joe?") only task was to refer to Palin as "Governor," not acknowledging in any way, shape, or form, the gender of his opponent, and it would be considered a tie. Fair and square.

I also learned the terms Freddie and Fannie, the names Frank Raines and Barney Frank, and that $700,000,000,000 (that's seven hundred billion dollars...as in billion) is supposed to save our economy [which, incidentally, is worse off than it ever was in the Dirty Thirties, as Canadians know the Great Depression].

It's almost like I got smart...or something.

The most important thing I learned, however, is that I have no idea who I should vote for in the presidential election. I have already learned my lesson that it's silly to vote for a candidate based on what family is doing. I want proof. I want evidence. I want to know, for myself, for sure, that I am voting for the right person. In my travels abroad, I have met a lot of people, and I've learned that, from outside our borders, many people think America is a laughingstock. I was shocked when I first realised that not everybody hails America as the greatest country on Earth. It opened my eyes, and I have been supremely interested in my world perspective ever since.

I want to vote for the team that will make the rest of the world stop laughing at me.

Only I can't figure out which team that is.

I know that so many people would give their organs (not the vital ones, maybe just a kidney, but still...) to be able to vote in this election. People throughout history have fought for the right to vote. I do not take it lightly. In fact, I'm starting a poll of Canadians, asking who they would vote for if they had a choice. So far I'm 1-1 (it's a small poll--I don't have a lot of friends up here).

So I'm asking you to weigh in. Not that I'm going to vote for whoever you vote for...but I'd like to hear people's pros and cons...why you've decided who you did, or if you are struggling to decide, like I am. And don't be shy [or do be...whatever works]. You don't have to answer. If you want to, you are welcome to hide behind anonymity, or you can leave your comment under a name that only I would know, like "Your Manager From the Gallery in Scottsdale" or "The Person Who Accused You of Stealing my Graphing Calculator Freshman Year at ASU" or "Your Mother." Or else you can just leave your name and buck up for the ensuing mud-slinging. I get it all the time--it's not so bad.

I ask this so I can see the world from some different perspectives, not so I can raise you-know-what. I need help, is all.

Ready? Go!

Spotty...

...no, not my face (though if we're being honest [and we always are] my right nostril could really use some sort of laser treatment).

I'm talking spotty internet.

I have a dream, though. Of reception...of service no matter where I go, or how far away my hotel room is from the front desk. I have a dream that I can always check my emails on the road. And I do mean on the road. Even in the middle of nowhere.

Image from here.

What's that, you say? Such technology already exists? Apple™? iPhone? 3G?

Fine. I dream of that, then.

Pick Apart {of Me}

I know it's Wednesday only, but I felt like answering a Thursday question today.

Q [from Jennie]:

I have a question to be added to your Thursday posts' list.

Why do you put brackets around your titles? You don't do it all the time, but probably half of the time, so you must have a reason for it. So, why? What does it mean? (By brackets, I mean { }. I don't know what those are called.)

A [from me]:

Hi, Jennie! Who are you? There wasn't a link accompanying your name, so I don't have any idea who you are. Which is a lot like making you anonymous, only kind of worse, because I have a bit of a hint. If you are from Mesa and I have met you, you could be a few people. Jennie my neighbor, Jennie my aunt, Jennie who takes pictures, Jennie the mother of my best friend, Jennie from the block.

In regards to your question...WRONG! There is not really any rhyme or reason to my use of {these things}.

First off, let's figure out what they're called. According to the most reliable source on the internet, {these} may be referred to as 1} squiggly brackets, 2} squigglies, 3} curly brackets, or 4} braces. I feel silly using the term "squiggly" in my daily discourse, and braces make me think of how I need to see the dentist, so for our intents and purposes, let's call them "curly brackets."

Secondly, my inspiration: {Frolic!} A simple "if, then" statement should suffice. If someone does it... and I like it... then I do it. Queen of mimicry, that's me. Never had an original thought in my head.

You are right about one thing, though: I don't use curly brackets all the time in my titles. Only sometimes. I never know when I am going to use them. Sometimes my titles just look like they need a little...something extra. So I hug them with curly brackets, and go along my merry way. It's not something I give any major thought. If it happens, it happens. If not, fine. {I suppose that makes me sound very spontaneous and full-of-life. Actually, most days, the use of curly brackets in my titles is the most adventurous thing that happens to me. Everybody should move to a country where they're legally forced to be lazy.}

However, since you're probably looking for a little more closure in your life, and I don't take the challenge "ask-me-anything" lightly, I've broken it down for you.

Here is a list of recent posts that have been titled with the use of curly brackets:

{A Lesson in Self-Assertion}
{I Put the Ab in Abnormal}
{Flip My Flop}
{The Dog Ate My Blog Post}
{Communism at its Finest}
{Life Lessons and Muffin Tops}

Here is a list of recent posts that have been freely titled:

The Saga of Steve vs. Ned--This is Mostly Speculation
I Wonder How Many Angels Had to Die in the Making of This Bed?
There's no Such Thing as Edward and Bella
And Then I Was Faced With My Day of Reckoning
I Turned 22 And All I Got Was Adult Acne.

So maybe I use the brackets with shorter titles, or titles that are not quite long enough to be my life history.

I don't know.

But thank you, Mystery Jennie, whoever you are. For caring. For reading. I hope I answered you enough.

And if you have any more questions, anyone....please. Don't hesitate to ask.

Is There Anything More Tedious in all the World?

I am an adult; twenty two years of age, officially. I pay taxes (when I have a job) and fill my own gas tank (when I can't get Poor Kyle to do it for me). I make my bed (almost always now), and cook dinner (such as it is). For all intents and purposes, I'm a grown-up.

Why, then, do I hate brushing my teeth? Why?

I'll tell you why:

1. It's so tedious. You want me to just...stand there? In front of the mirror? The two times during the day that I look my absolute worst? For how long? Three minutes? Please.

2. ...

Never mind. There's only that one reason.

It is, though. Tedious, I mean. Nevertheless, I do brush my teeth on a regular basis (once a week, like clockwork [just kidding!]). I just get so...bored. I always have. When I was a kid, and didn't understand about bad breath and social faux pas and what-not, I would go to school without brushing my teeth all the time. [I didn't have a lot of friends.] Then, the day before I had a dentist appointment, I would get all stressed out and try brushing my teeth every five minutes or so, and then ten times right before the dreaded hour. It never worked. I always came out with 20 more cavities than before.

The only thing that's changed since then is that, as an "adult," I'm fairly sure there's no way around brushing my teeth twice daily. (Although...I still don't have many friends. Maybe I'm on to something...)

Yet for some reason I really enjoy flossing. Tell me it's time to brush my teeth, and I'll procrastinate as long as I can. But flossing--it's the highlight of my day. With flossing, I actually get to see the fruits (or bread particles, or pepper) of my labor. It's like a treasure hunt in my mouth! Every evening before bed! [Being able to floss from the comfort of my lush bed might have something to do with my joy.]

I've decided I have to make a game out of brushing my teeth.

Maybe if my toothpaste was a little person with feet who jumped out of the drawer every time I went to the bathroom and sang cheerful songs while I brushed...then again, that might just make me need a therapist. Image from here.

But the only one I can think of is see-how-quickly-I-can-run-back-to-bed-and-catch-a-power-nap-while-brushing. And I tried it once, but the complications with my bed sheets were horrible. Not worth it.

So I'm turning to you. Do you get bored with brushing your teeth, too? What games do you play to make yourself do it?

No? Nothing?

Oh. How awkward.

{Flip My Flop}

I got tagged by HeatherPride some time ago. I never follow all the rules of tags; I only ever write them, but rarely do I pass them on. I'm the kind of kid who ruined the chain letters for everyone else. Sorry everyone. Stop reading my blog if it bothers you that much.

Maybe you already knew...

...but just in case you didn't:

Six Things Which Flip My Flop:

1. I have brushed my teeth in the shower since high school. Saves water. Plus, I like that I can let the toothpastes suds run down my chin in minty rivulets. Kind of like I'm a heathen, except I'm taking a shower so not really.

2. Poor Kyle hates it when I do this. [Not that he's ever seen it happen, because this is a family-friendly blog, and for all intents and purposes, we sleep in two separate twin beds just like Lucy and Ricky did. In fact, he only knows about it because he's reading this post right now.]

3. I wear contact lenses. They are clear, not coloured. My eyesight is so poor, they can't even make coloured lenses that would also help me see. If contact lenses were glasses, mine would resemble those little flip-out dome things (they must have a name!) kids buy for five tickets at Pistol Pete's Pizza. Or a pair of plungers. I wouldn't be able to blink.

4. I find most nursery rhymes and children's songs depressing. "I don't know why she swallowed that fly; perhaps she'll die???" How awful! I had a kamikaze fly enter my ear canal once, and it was terrifying. I can only imagine swallowing one, plus the entire zoo that came afterwards.

5. I eat dill pickles. Daily. With cheese. Cheddar, mozzarella, neufchatel, camembert...any cheese will do. I even eat dill pickles with cheese-flavoured processed snacks, like reduced fat Cheeze-its™ and cheesy rice crackers. Tonight for dinner, Poor Kyle and I had whole dill pickles, chilled, sliced and covered with nacho cheese Doritos™.

Photo from here.

6. Poor Kyle says, "You're pretty sensitive about your travels. It breaks your heart to take any kind of road trip at all--business or pleasure--and not stop to tour every little tiny detail of the area." He's right--it's true. And really, can you blame me? I love places.

And as a bonus, because it's Monday and you probably need a little pick-me-up...

7. I once pepper sprayed myself. [It was not my proudest moment.]