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

by Camille Posted on August 27, 2008

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 “F
inding Faith Against a Yellow Wall.”

*Photos courtsey of bradburnhamphotography.com. Thanks to all the Brads.
Posted in change, looking back, photos, watch out or I'll blog about you | 11 Comments

Save My Soul and I’ll Throw In a Kitty.

by Camille Posted on August 26, 2008

I do not like cats.

If you like cats, I may or may not still like you. I have several friends whose families own cats…and I love those friends dearly. But…show me too many pictures you’ve taken with your cats on Christmas, or send me too many emails about the “cute” things your cat does when she’s in heat, and it is a serious possibility that we’ll never be close friends at all.

Here are my reasons:

1. Every cat I have ever met has seemed so…sneaky. Let’s get one thing straight: I do not act like I like cats when I am around them. I don’t pretend to care about my friends’ cats. No, I am not necessarily openly hostile to other people’s pets [much as I would like to kick every little tigger I see to the next side of Timbuktu], but neither do I put on false airs of loving the creatures. I mostly ignore them when I see them. Why, then, do cats feel the need to sneak up behind me, uninvited, and slink between my ankles, tickling my legs with their fuzzy fuzzy hair? They make no noise (unlike dogs whose claws at least clickety-clack on tile floor), so I am always caught unaware. And I am always left feeling suspicious of these felines’ motives. Sneaky.

2. Cats are takers; they will take as much as they can out of any relationship, and rarely give anything in return. Obviously, I realise that few animals have much to offer any person by way of material goods…but one would think a cat could at least show its owner an occasional inkling of gratitude. Heck, even the humblest of dogs can understand the importance of a simple tail-wag. Instead, though, I have observed that, after they have taken all they can, cats only retreat further into their self-absorbed little lives. Never openly willing to show affection, cats remind me of some of the worst dates of my life. Maybe that’s why I can barely tolerate them.

3. Those pictures. They annoy me more than I could possibly express through the written word.

Image from here.

So if I am so vehement in my dislike of cats, why do I feel so sad for the poor little homeless wretch (read: kitten) that has taken up residence in my sister’s backyard wood pile? [Oh yeah–I’m in Arizona. Good guesses, everyone!] I mean it when I say I do not care for cats. But this one…she has meowed and meowed at the back door for the past three nights, and even though it is a hideous, wretched sound, I kind of feel…sad for it.

This cat is free to a good home. Or a bad home. Heck, it can be a whorehouse for all I care.

“Meow…meow…MEOW!!!” she whines, and all I can think is how lonely it must be out there. She is, after all, just a kitten. Plus, she has a little belt-looking collar, so she belongs to someone, and I would probably appreciate it if I were in the owner’s position.

Staring straight at me, as though there is something I can do for her.

I still haven’t fed her, because I am entrenched in a deep internal battle between everything I stand for and everything that’s right [and no, those two things don’t always match up]. But honestly, I don’t know how this cat is still alive after an entire week of this. I don’t want it to die…I just want it out of my life.

I cannot make decisions like this. What should I do? Anybody lost a cat out there? Or…does anybody want to save this one’s life? Because my sister is ready to put a little bowl of antifreeze out there for the dang thing, and try as I might, I cannot feel good about this.

Seriously though. Free kitty. Anyone? Anyone?

Posted in oh brother what next, what I'm about | 17 Comments

{My Lifelong Problem with Kiosk Vultures at the Mall}

by Camille Posted on August 22, 2008

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?

Posted in oh brother what next, watch out or I'll blog about you | 14 Comments

Time to Talk About Me Some More.

by Camille Posted on August 21, 2008

Guess what? I have a secret. But I’m not going to tell anyone what it is until tomorrow. Chew on that for a while.

Meanwhile, I believe it’s Thursday all over this hemisphere, and that means it’s time for me to answer a question.

Here’s one from Cristin:

Do people in your everyday life know you have a blog?

Cristin, this is a very applicable question. All of my family (immediate, in-laws, extended, way-extended, and beyond) know I have a blog, as well as anybody who is my friend on Facebook. I have inadvertently offended some of them on my blog—that is NEVER my intention, despite what people might think. Despite my efforts, however, my blog has become a source of contention between me and several people I love. I’ve learned how careful I ought to be.

As far as my town, Mayberry—I don’t think any Mayberrians knows about my blog. I don’t know any people closely enough for them to even suspect I have a blog.

If anybody in Mayberry DOES know about Archives of Our Lives, I am in big trouble. This is why, if I ever write an award-winning, best-selling novel, I will publish it under a fantastic pen name [which I have already created]. I will only ever reveal myself to Oprah, and even that is dependent upon whether she allows me as a guest on her “Winter Favourite Things” episode.

I suppose I should live my life–and write my blog–in such a manner that would never leave me looking over my shoulder, wondering who has read the latest post. That’s probably safest, really…

Meh. Who am I kidding? That would never work for me.

What about you? Do you have a blog of your own? And if so, how do you feel about your friends, family, and acquaintances knowing?

Posted in ask me anything, blogger finger | 7 Comments

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

by Camille Posted on August 19, 2008
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?]*

Posted in Overall Good Things, photos, thisandthat, what I'm about | 18 Comments

There’s No Such Thing as Edward and Bella

by Camille Posted on August 18, 2008

I just finished reading that book. My initial reaction–before being swayed by all the vicious reviews, was that it was clever and witty. [My favourite part was the titles of the ‘Jacob’ chapters, specifically, “What do I look Like? The Wizard of Oz? You need a brain? You need a heart? Go ahead. Take mine. Take everything I have.” I wish I’d thought of that.]


But I didn’t think of it, and I haven’t written a best-selling series, and to make myself feel better about my own mediocrity, I criticised the main characters’ extreme implausibility. No, not their everlasting youth and beauty—I’m convinced that immortality really is possible, and beauty to boot. Rather, I found myself gagging at the bliss of it all—a ga-ga plot line which, in my opinion, was a bit far-fetched.


So the perfect Edward can’t read Bella’s steel-trap mind. Big deal.

Guess what? Poor Kyle can’t read my mind, either. Which is why we have conversations like this:

PK: That’s a nice sunset.

Me: Yeah, it’s beautiful.

PK: …

Me: He’s being so quiet. Maybe he’s remembering how much I love sunsets in Arizona. He probably doesn’t want to say anything about it because he thinks it will make me miss home—he doesn’t want to upset me. How sweet. Or maybe he’s not saying anything because he thinks I whine about home too much, and he can’t stomach another word about Arizona. What a jerk. I mean, I moved all the way to Canada just to be with this guy, and he can’t even call his lawyer to set up an appointment to get my immigration paperwork finished and sent off, so it’s not MY fault I can’t go to school yet, or get a job. And okay, I COULD be teaching piano lessons, but I just haven’t had time to print out a flyer for it yet, even though I actually do very little all day, as people seem to think. Nevermind that the house is not very clean—I’ve started making the bed, at least. And our printer’s out of ink anyway. Next time I go back to Arizona and people ask me, “How’s married life?” I’m going to tell them it’s totally overrated for a nag like me.

PK: Wouldn’t it be cool if we could stack eight flatbeds on top of one goose-neck trailer, tow it behind this big white Ford™, and hook up all the lights to work?
Me: I suppose you’d like me to get right on that, wouldn’t you? You’re a real piece of work, you know that?

PK: Huh?

Baffling, isn’t it? The way my mind works, bouncing from one absurd conclusion to the next. By the end of our trip to North Dakota, I’d done two things: finished reading “Breaking Dawn” by Stephenie Meyer, and realised that Poor Kyle has never loved me at all.

Posted in Married Life, mediocrity, oh brother what next | 12 Comments