Archives of Our Lives

If Only There Were “Apple Z” For My Life

by Camille Posted on May 20, 2008

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Posted in introspection, thisandthat, what I'm about | 8 Comments

{Tsk, Tsk. Some Childrens Parents…}

by Camille Posted on May 19, 2008

I am an excellent traveler. Plane rides, train rides, boat rides or float rides–it is a skill I have.

In some ways I feel I was born with this skill (like how naturally level-headed I am…ahem), but in other ways, I’m sure it’s a practised quality. My parents worked very hard to provide our family with experiences. We were taught to value moments over…stuff.

In the end, my parents might be regretting that code of ethics, though…on account of the fact that my travels took me hundreds of miles away, across international borders and right into the arms of the love of my life:

But it’s too late, in any event, because now I love to travel. And I’m good at it.

I once navigated myself from Brussels, Belgium on a train to the metro station which took me to the RER-B train which led to a bus stop where I caught a ride to the Paris Charles de Gaulle airport with little knowledge of the language, three large suitcases, a duffel bag, a laptop tote, a carry on, and a four-foot umbrella wrapped in cardboard (my dad worked for an airline and I was allowed unlimited luggage space, you see) and 100 Euros to my name. I did it all by myself, and I was not seduced by any Europeans in the process [despite the warnings to the contrary from my Aunt Linda].

Is keeping track of a kid really that much more difficult? I wouldn’t think so, but I must be wrong, at least according to one frazzled family emigrating to Canada from the Philippines.

Imagine if you were a two year-old kid stuck–lost and alone–in Vancouver. Vancouver! I’ve heard of kids getting lost in Disneyland, where the fun and churros never end, but Vancouver? In the Vancouver airport, no less. It absolutely baffles me. A mother, a father, and two grandparents were evidently so busy getting themselves onto a connecting flight from Vancouver to Winnipeg, that they up and left their two year-old somewhere after getting through security. They each assumed one of the others had the child.

Can you believe that? These four adults (two of whom were grandparents and may have been elderly, in which case I forgive them) handed in their boarding passes, walked down the ramp, onto the plane and down the aisles to their seats. They then settled themselves in, possibly even asking a fellow passenger to trade for the window seat (as bartering is wont to happen on commercial plane rides), cozied up with a nice book or maybe a copy of SkyMall™, and prepared for takeoff. The plane departed, the passengers were served complimentary drinks and peanuts, and still these four adults noticed nothing amiss.

Back in Vancouver, AirCanada™ employees had stumbled upon the abandoned child (who had no identification, since his parents were holding onto it for safe keeping, no doubt). Children his age do not require a boarding pass for flights, so AirCanada™ had no way of knowing what flight he’d missed, or what imbeciles could have left him behind. Finally, with the help of a Tagalog translator and some in-depth searching of the passenger listings, Vancouver employees tracked down the child’s family, who were by then halfway to Winnipeg.

Can you imagine being the airline stewardess chosen to break that news to the parents?

“Umm…excuse me, sir? Ma’am? Are you…forgetting anything? A kid, maybe? Would you like another ginger-ale to calm your nerves while you wait out this flight, and another one back to where you left him? Or maybe this month’s edition of Parenting Magazine? Idiot.”

I suppose it’s a good thing I’m not working for the airlines. I’d be fired on charges of customer mocking.

In the end, Air Canada™ paid for the kid’s father to be flown back to Vancouver and then on to Winnipeg…together, the second time.

The father told a reporter, “The staff at Air Canada™ took good care of him.”

Uh…yeah. Which is more than you can say of yourself, buddy.

Posted in oh brother what next | 8 Comments

This is the Kind of Day That Engaged Couples Dream Married Life Will Be Like…

by Camille Posted on May 15, 2008

Poor Kyle got to sleep in. I had my errands to run. And when we got back together, we had a cookout.

One day, over a year ago, I stood next to Poor Kyle on the back deck of his newly purchased home in Mayberry. It was Autumn, we’d just gotten engaged, the weather was nice, and we had great expectations of all the bonfires we’d host in our fire pit…once we were married.

Who’d have thought we’d actually arrive at this point? The point where we’re starting fires of our own free will, and not just to collect homeowners’ insurance. But because we’re so inclined. To look at them. And cook with them. And burn our trash.

And I feel sorry for you, since none of you were invited to our impromptu dinner. So I’ll give you a recap, in photos:

The Day We Envisioned We’d Have as Married People, Back When We Were Not Married:

Poor Kyle was there (looking not unlike Napoleon Dynamite, in my opinion). My husband is a stud…

…see any resemblances?

Poor Kyle wasn’t happy when I pointed out the uncanny coincidence. I don’t suppose I can blame him.

The fire pit–well on its way to becoming our favourite place to cook.

The Log. The Log is for food preparation and extra seating. The Log is not for burning, despite common thought processes.

These may look like wieners, but in fact they are pepperoni sticks. Just a little appetizer while the coals got hot. Because when we cook out, we do it in style. Appetizers, cocktails, palate cleansers…the whole shebang.

Of course I should take a photo of my husband’s bottom. I like it.

I was there, too, of course. But the only evidence you’ll get are the photos of my garden. Which, given all the blood, sweat and tears that have gone into my garden lately, it might as well be me.

But just in case you wanted solid proof, there I am. (I’m skinnier in my shadow, which is a blessing, given all the chocolate-covered strawberries I ate for breakfast. And lunch.) My skinny-ish shadow is covering the corn. Only you can’t see anything but dirt because I only planted a few days ago. And evidently, it takes longer than two days for corn to grow. What a rip-off.

If you look closely, you can see the word “CORN” etched laboriously into this copper marker. That’s where I planted corn. Clever, I know.

And this can is what I use to water my tender little transplants. Not that it’s doing any good at all, since I think I already killed the basil:

It’s looking a little peakish.

Then again, that could be because of my weeds. They’re pretty monstrous. I’ve gotten a lot, though. A quad trailer full, anyway:

See?

Die, monster weeds!

But I’ve digressed haven’t I? The point of this post is that…

…today, being married was fun. We have a fire pit. We have a garden. And we’re going camping this weekend, because that’s what ambitious newlyweds do with their first long weekend of Spring.

Posted in Married Life, Overall Good Things, photos, what I'm about | 12 Comments

{My Worst Nightmare: Permanently Dilated to a 10}

by Camille Posted on May 14, 2008

Pardon me for the tardy post. While Poor Kyle is gone (having commandeered my laptop for use on the open road), I have been forced to do my daily computions (computations?) on his desktop iMac. Which is a lovely machine, only the office chair isn’t very comfortable. And his keyboard is stiff and consequently an un-inspiring piece of equipment; I have to push really firmly on e-a-c-h a-n-d e-v-e-r-y k-e-y to get the letters up on the screen. It’s hard.

On top of which, I have dedicated 15 of the past 30 hours to planting a garden. Sowing the seeds of summertime savours. [The 15 hours of solitary labour have left me waxing rather poetic, no?] At any rate, I was far too sore to sit at a desk for any extended period of time this morning–the only place I could have typed was from the comfort of my own bed. But without my laptop, that would have proven rather difficult. So I didn’t post.

But I have had a lot of time to think about today’s topic, and I’m pretty sure I’m right on the mark with this one.

The Duggar Family. Who here has heard of these 19 people, 17 of whom have exited one (read: 1) solitary woman’s body (with baby #18 on the way)? Anyone? I watched a two-hour special about them on Discovery Channel a few months ago one midnight when Poor Kyle was grinding his teeth so loudly I couldn’t sleep. I don’t know what I was trying to accomplish, though, because when the program was finished, I really couldn’t sleep. Kept waking up with horrible nightmares of myself being permanently dilated to a 10.

*Photo from here.

Fast forward to yesterday, when I saw recaps of this same family giving an interview on TODAY. I was reminded of my permanently-dilated nightmares, and after 15 hours of stewing over the Duggars, they’ve very nearly become a full-blown fascination.

There’s so much I would delightfully criticise about this family. Like the husband, Jim Bob, who goes by Jim Bob. Seriously. Why not scratch the “Bob?” Or heck, go crazy and lose the “Jim?” Of course, Jim Bob couldn’t drop the “Jim,” because then his name wouldn’t match all 17 of his childrens’ names: Joshua, Jana & John-David (twins), Jill, Jessa, Jinger, Joseph, Josiah, Joy-Anna, Jedidiah & Jeremiah (twins), Jason, James, Justin, Jackson, Johannah, and Jennifer.

The sad thing (well, one of many, I suppose), is that the mother’s name is…brace yourselves…Michelle. Michelle! I don’t know about you, but for me, being the only “M” in a sea of “Js” would be bothersome. Call me obsessive, but that dadgum “M” really gets on my nerves. If I were her, I’d probably need major Prozac™, for one. And also, I would go ahead and change my name to “Jichelle.” I mean, since they’re already taking so many other liberties. After all, they changed a “T” to a “J” to make up Jessa’s name, and a “G” to a “J” for poor Jinger, who must be awfully confused right about now.

Jichelle got married when she was 16 or 17 (I forget which, but one’s as bad as the other), and has been pregnant an estimated 135 months since then. One hundred thirty-five months. I cannot even imagine. They are a very spiritual bunch of people, praising God for his 17 blessings. That’s respectable, of course–it’s certainly not what I would be saying to the Good Lord if He saw fit to “bless” me so generously. But that’s beside the point.

I could have a field day with all of this. I could. I would like to say all these mean things about the Duggar family, but it’s difficult, because they seem like truly good people. They seem to value family matters and proper manners. They seem too decent to be criticised for their vast existence. They seem so…on national television, anyway, and we know how easily T.V. can be digitally remastered and formatted to fit your screen…

…but I’m intrigued. Here’s what I think: I think the Duggars need someone unbiased in their house (what’s one more human being, right?) for a few weeks–maybe even a month–to properly assess the situation. No film crew, just a single outsider to live like a Duggar, and then report to the rest of the world what it’s really like in there. And I think I’m just the person to do it. I am a spiritual person and would respect their beliefs, dig in and carry my weight around the house, befriend Jichelle (though I would have to schedule my one-on-one time with her, just like everybody else), and write about it. That way, the minds of Americans all across the country can be put to rest. People can decide, once and for all, if the Jim Bob, Jichelle, and their 17+ children are stalwart enough to make up for their astronomical carbon footprint.

Any newspapers looking for an ace field reporter to join the ranks? I’m ready for action, as long as the Duggars allow laptops into their barracks.

Posted in what I'm about | 15 Comments

Faking it for the Whole Wide World

by Camille Posted on May 12, 2008

What do you do when your hair, which–once upon a time–looked like this…

…suddenly morphs into a swamp-thing version of its past life (like this:)?

I’ll tell you what I do. First, I realise that the reason my hair looks so awful is because in my Junior year of high school (Grade 11, Canadians!), I decided to turn my mousy, undescriptive hair into a luscious blond, and have never looked back.

Second, I come to terms with the fact that I am now married and someone in the world (read: Poor Kyle) actually notices where my (read: his) money goes.

Thirdly, I realise that perhaps the reason I was so poor as a single gal was because I spent so much money on the upkeep of my hair.

Fourthly, I scratch the “thirdly,” because I realise that for the past five years, I have only spent money to have my hair done twice. All the other times, my dear friends Raygon or Lindsey have done it. For free.

Fifthly, I curl up in a writhing ball at the thought of where all my money actually did go all those years. Carne Asada burritos and QT Taquitos, that’s where…

And sixthly, I invest in a whole lot of these…

[And, okay…I didn’t actually buy them recently. I collected them when I was single and friv-o-less. But it’s handy to have them now that I’m too cheap to get my hair done again…]

…And cross my fingers that the rest of the world won’t realise how I’m trying to pull the wool over their eyes.

p.s. See my window treatments in the background? I made them all by myself:

Posted in Married Life, photos, what I'm about | 13 Comments

His Actions Speak Very, Very Loudly.

by Camille Posted on May 9, 2008

I wake with a start.

“What day is it?”

Tuesday? Wednesday? Wednesday, I think.

“I am forgetting something….what is it? Think, think, think. Wednesday…”

…

“Oh, shoot–Wednesday! This is the day Chelsie can use the internet, and I haven’t written her an email for the week. Crap. Wait, what time is it?”

Time…time…what time is it? Of course, I have to reach for my glasses, because even though our clock projects the current time on our ceiling with bright red digital numbers, I nevertheless cannot see what time it is without some form of optical aid. [Nobody should ever lie on the eye exam as a kid. Not that I did, or anything…] And anyway, it’s morning now–bright enough that the vibrant red digits probably wouldn’t be visible on the popcorn ceiling.

Glasses located, I reach for my cell phone. It’s 7:45 a.m. (Who am I kidding? It’s totally 9:30. But leave me alone–I don’t have kids or a job. [Or a life, I guess.])

“Nine-thirty. I bet I still have time to write Chelsie a quick email and send it to Brazil.”

Ten minutes later, I close my laptop and lay back down–I still have 20 minutes before ten a.m., and why get up before ten? I mean…really…and I’m so tired…

…so…

…tired…

…I start awake again, sitting up in my bed immediately. I’m still forgetting something.
“What day is it again? Oh, Wednesday–I remember now. Wednesdays are miserable. What’s with that silent ‘N,’ anyway? I guess it isn’t really silent–it’s just that everybody pronounces it before the ‘D.’ We should change the spelling of Wednesday. I’ve always thought so. Either that, or start pronouncing it ‘wed–nez–day.’ But wait–I was trying to remember something else. What was that? Let’s see…it’s Wednesday. I already wrote Chelsie… Wednesday… Wednesday… Wed…nez…day…”

Trash day. That was what woke me–I’ve heard the truck on our street.

“Nooooooooooooooooo,” I cried mournfully, my voice low as though in slow motion. But I’m not in slow motion–I’m in…fast motion. I leap out of bed wearing only my unmentionables, and quickly–lightning quick, even–throw on a hoodie and sweatpants.

“The truck can’t be far. It’s getting closer. I swear, if I miss trash day again, I will rub my nose our growing pile. That’s what we did to Sampson whenever he relieved himself on the new carpet. Dadgum dog.”

As I swing open the bedroom door, I have a prime view through the hall and out the front window. I can see our neighbor’s house. The neighbor to the right of us. And the trash man is already there.

I’m too late. Again.

I really hate Wed-nez-days.

Dejected. Defeated. Disheartened.

I trudged (To trudge: the slow, weary, depressing yet determined walk of a man who has nothing left in life except the impulse to simply soldier on–Geoffrey Chaucer [thank you, A Knight’s Tale, and may you rest in peace, Heath Ledger. You were very attractive. Not that I noticed…because I’m married. But before I got married–when I was still in high school and that movie was released–I may have noticed.]) into the kitchen, forlorn.

Walking past the barstools towards the fridge–where I hopefully find some orange juice to nurse my aching heart–I catch a glimpse of brown from the corner of my eye.

“Brown…brown…our trash can is brown. But our liners are…green! Then why did I see only brown?”

Taking a careful step backward, I cautiously peer down…

…at the empty bin.

“How is this even possible? Were we robbed in the night? No, I locked all the doors and windows… Could it be? Poor Kyle? He took out the…the…the trash?? Oh, this is too much. I’m touched. Overwhelmed, even. That dear, dear man. He loves me. He really, truly loves me.”

Tears are now streaming down my face with this realisation. And also with the realisation that I will not, in fact, have to trash-train myself with my nose in the refuse this week.

Some might say I’ve lowered my expectations.

But I will tell you one thing–I love that man. I love him with a love that is fierce. And strong. And that is exactly how I always expected to feel about the man I would eventually marry. So I’d say my expectations are met…

…and…very possibly exceeded.

Posted in Married Life | 12 Comments

{Get Real}

by Camille Posted on May 8, 2008

At the health clinic today, where I was given a thorough examination so the government of Canada can decide whether I will be a nuisance to their health-care system (and consequently whether I will be allowed to stay here), I read a sign on the wall. It explained the symptoms of Alzheimer’s, and it struck me that I am prone to every single one of those symptoms. Forgetfulness, difficulty completing menial tasks, short-tempered, irritable, and un-motivated were the ones I particularly recall.

When I pointed out to Poor Kyle that I think I have Alzheimer’s, he smugly replied, “No you don’t. You’re 21. What you have is PMS.”

[Okay, he didn’t really say that. I made it up for comedic purposes. But he did disagree that I don’t actually have Alzheimer’s.]

I got to thinking about how un-motivated I have been, of late. I realised today I can’t remember the last time I mopped the kitchen floor.

“Well, it’s annoying to mop the kitchen while I’m in the process of painting the cabinets, because it’ll be dirty again in an hour, what with my traipsing in-and-out all day,” I rationalised.

And, “My kitchen is going to look like this:

whether I mop or not, so why does it matter if my floors look like this: