My Brain Thinks Funny.

I have been having nightmares lately. It's weird.

The first one came right after watching The Dark Knight and then promptly falling asleep--I dreamed that I had Martha Stewart over for dinner, but my house was messy and I served macaroni & cheese with hot dogs sliced up and mixed in. It was awful.

Last night I had another nightmare. Poor Kyle had gotten me pregnant, but instead of growing a human child, I gave birth to a pile of dirty laundry.

It weighed 100 pounds.

Hi, creepy. Image from here.

I don't know why this is happening to me. I suppose I have been more stressed lately than usual, but if that was the reason for my nightmares, wouldn't they be somewhat themed on my stress factors? I haven't thought about laundry once this weekend--it's the least of my concerns. So why would I dream about it?

If the themes of nightmares my nightmares were based on the issues in my life that are really causing me stress, my mind-movies would play out something like this:

I re-start University in Canada this January. On my first day of school, I arrive dressed like a {fairly} normal student, wearing what I would have worn back at Arizona State University: jeans and a t-shirt. I park my car, walk into a building, and realise everyone else is wearing parkas and flannel. I look like a fool.

Then, since I can't decide between majoring in Art History {which makes me immensely happy} or English {which could actually be profitable}, I end up taking Engineering classes. But since I so dislike mathematics, I end up being the worst engineer ever to walk to earth, and thousands of people die trying to cross my bridges.

Moreover...because it took me so long to declare a major and get through school, and also since I never completed my immigration papers, I had to pay double tuition (that's a real-life nightmare, by the way) and Poor Kyle and I never could claw our way out of debt. Financing my education, on top of paying the medical bills to give birth to my worthless pile of dirty laundry, made it so we could never get ahead.

I die poverty-stricken, leaving Poor Kyle with nothing but huge debt and soiled clothes, so of course he would re-marry. And she would be skinny.

Those are the nightmares that race through my brain almost every waking hour of my days.

Happy Monday to you, too.

Boo.

Halloween used to be my favourite holiday. It was my one chance to dress up like a beautiful and sparkly (insert over-clichéd childish dream); the one time out of the year I could beg—and eat—all the candy I wanted with no thought of negative consequences. Halloween was almost better than Christmas for me. I truly looked forward to it every year.

Then one year…all of that changed. It was a tradition in our extended family to do our separate trick-or-treating, then head over to the neighborhood Halloween party, and eventually meet up with all our cousins at my grandma’s house down the street. My Grandpa would have prepared a pot of beans (why he chose beans I may never know, but man…were they ever good) for everyone to eat, and that was only if we had room leftover after hoarding Grandma’s stash intended for the neighbor kids.

This time, though, as my sister and I approached the front door of Grandma’s house, something seemed different. Where the door would normally be swung wide open, inviting all to enter, it was unwelcomingly closed. Usually we would be able to hear the raucous laughter of my uncles telling the latest jokes, or my granddad joining in the chaos with his booming, trademark voice—but this year, the lights were off in the house, and all was quiet. Even the jack-o-lanterns, who were glowing with the customary light of candles, seemed to droop and frown. All was not well at Grandma’s house.

Here I am around the time of the dreaded day--in the foreground {my favourite place to be, evidently}. Adell is squished in the back, wearing the gray T-shirt. Don't we look innocent and unassuming? Totally unaware of any bad in the world...

Nevertheless, we two girls approached the entry, foolishly—as two young girls are wont to be—assuming the best. Never considering foul play. Naïve along with the best of ‘em, that’s how we were.

Suddenly, as we took our last step to reach and turn the doorknob, we heard a heart-stopping wail.

“Waaaaaaaaaa…uhhhhhhhhh…waaaaaaaaa…uhhhhhhhh…”

The pitch was piercing, oscillating between two notes of an interval I never knew existed. It sent shivers through my spine, and I knew it was the last noise I would ever hear, for I would soon be dead—murdered by the boogeyman before I ever got to tell Daniel Wilsford of my true love for him, and that was that.

“Run, Adell!” I screamed, for—though I was the younger sister—I always worried for her presence of mind during frightful situations. If one of us should die, I was the best for the job. {I’ve always made a very good martyr, you see. It’s my gift.}

We ran. Both she and I screamed blood-clotting screams of terror, our eyes squeezed shut, as if it would make the horror disappear (though running with our eyes closed did substantially hinder our progress of escaping immediate danger).

Tripping over our fairy princess shoelaces, we didn’t make it far before we collapsed in the grass of Grandma’s front yard, damp from our own sweat along with the early-evening dew that was just beginning to form. We panted our pathetic breaths, having skipped out of P.E. often enough to know we were--neither of us--cut out for such exertion. We were doomed.

The pause gave us time to breathe, and during the break we realized the noise of terror emitting from the portico had faded into that of…humour? Humour indeed. Looking back from whence we’d shortly escaped with our lives, we saw the lights had been turned on, the front door opened, and all our long-lost relatives laughing from the entry. Jubilantly. They’d gotten us—the snot-nosed little girls who were always reading books (in Adell’s case) and beheading chickens (in my own).

A practical joke had been played, and we were the butts. I’m always the butt.

And who was the major culprit, you ask? Who was to blame for the wail of fright (and “fright” is putting it mildly)?

A battery-operated ghost hanging from the eaves of Grandma’s front porch. Of course. She’d unearthed them from the bottom of a bin at Pick ‘n Save™ the year before, at the after-Halloween markdown sale for what was no doubt “a steal.” It had a sensor—a sensor!—which detected the movement of any innocent passerby, at which signal it would flatly freak people out. This technology was ahead of its time during the mid-90s, and I had never imagined anything so horrifying. I can hear the wails to this day—probably because they are still common decorations among my relatives—and they frighten me…to…this…day.

Adell and I have gone on to live {fairly} normal and well-adjusted lives, despite the turmoil of our youth.

Strangely enough, however, I’ve never felt the Halloween fervor since then. I’ll buy my own candy, thankyouverymuch.

Happy Halloween, from everyone (all two of us) here at Archives of Our Lives.

Boo.

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...

{Stuck on a Toilet with Nothing to Read}

Winter is upon us. I'm reminded of all the snow we got last year. One day in December, I decided to brave the frozen white and do my civic duty, but I was no good at shoveling. I may never get used to the feeling of perspiring outside while it's below freezing. Snotsicles make me so uncomfortable.

You know...uncomfortable. Like sweating giant pit-stains in a dark satin dress on prom night.

Like being caught unawares in a room full of children who are not *quite* potty trained.

Like having nightmares of being the wedding photographer who forgot to bring a camera.

It's like eating cinnamon rolls for breakfast every day all winter and wondering why last summer's swimsuit feels so...snug.

Like running into a husband's skinny ex-girlfriend at the post office the day you didn't bother with concealer. Or mascara.

It's like being stuck on a toilet with nothing to read.

We Interrupt This Program to Kill Ourselves...

...figuratively speaking, of course.

View outside my bedroom window. Photo taken less than five minutes ago.

Have a happy weekend. Me? I'm off to dig a cave and hide in it until Spring.

No more posts until then.

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.

{Hypochondria and Me}

This is turning out to be the worst birthday week ever.

First, my sister called yesterday and told me that she had been planning on buying me Heather Bailey's Trash Ties™ for months, but now, since I wrote about them on my blog, she's not going to. Because now I'll "never believe that she was going to buy them in the first place." I tried to convince her that yes, I would believe her, but to no avail. I blew it.

I hate when that happens.

Then last night, to drown my sorrows, I ate an entire bag of Peanut Butter M&Ms™, which was a very bad idea indeed. Because not only did I throw off my record of not eating sugar (I'd made it 12 hours!!!), but it gave me a Pain.

That's right. A Pain. I've got a Pain, and nothing I have done has helped. I've tried sleeping. And staying in bed. It was still there when I woke up this wretched morning.

I thought maybe it was just acid reflux, or maybe heartburn, but it isn't anywhere near my heart.

It's right there, under the maple leaf.

What is that, anyway? Did I break a rib? Or my sternum? It only hurts when I'm fully straightened out (i.e. standing up or stretching in bed). Hunching over, or curling into the fetal position, I feel just fine.

According to this diagram, it could be anything.

Photo from here.

Which means I'm going to die. Me and The Pain, in all our misery.

No Trash Ties™, and you're going to die at 22. Happy birthday.

And Then I Was Faced With My Day of Reckoning.

We always knew this day would come.

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

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

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

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

Obviously.

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

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

Photo from here.

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

Photo from here.

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

(Sigh.) Anyone read any good books lately?

Does This Playlist Make My Blog Look Fat?

Oh, boy—have I ever got a problem.

See, I don’t like being poked fun of (whereas everyone else in the world enjoys it, I know). Unfortunately for me, I’ve been reading this blog and I have become mind-wrackingly paranoid that the author is making fun of me--me, personally. And so now, whether or not I actually fit into the group of people the blogger is writing about, I am painfully trying to decide what to do—if anything. See, I’m worried about the music playlist on Archives of Our Lives, because some of the songs I play are also featured on Seriously So Blessed.

And I don’t think it matters, either, that I change my music almost constantly to match my daily blog posts. I still feel like a total loser. This is almost worse than going to a movie by myself.

So come on—be honest: Does this playlist make my blog look fat?
Do you upload my blog, Archives of Our Lives, and automatically hit the “mute” button before you even start reading?


Because sometimes I do, and I'm not kidding. Sometimes it’s 100% distracting...yet other times I think the songs really do add an interesting element that I’d hate to lose.

But, impressionable as I am, I will get rid of my music playlist altogether if you all decide I should…

…so should I?

View the poll to the right, and help me decide. Please--I can't stand the humiliation.