{On the Brink}

by Camille Posted on April 15, 2008

I imagine you’ve come here [to this blog, that is] today looking for entertainment. Entertainment, amusement, or just an update on this little life of mine. Well, you’re not going to get it, Greedy.

And I’ll tell you why: I am exhausted.

I have been painting my kitchen cupboards for the past two months, but only this week have I gotten seriously down to business. And let me tell you this one thing: painting kitchen cupboards is not as easy as HGTV makes it look. Oh, sure it would be…if you had power tools and a paint sprayer and a five-person crew to back you up. But it’s quite another story if you’re just one person (and most of us are [just one person, that is]).

Before

Anyway, I’m too tired to go into detail of all the work I’ve been doing. So instead let me simply give you a sneak peek into what is to come…

After

So there you have it. My cupboards are getting a major overhaul, and it’s sucked all the life (and blogger) out of me.
Posted in change, photos | 6 Comments

Meet Chair.

by Camille Posted on April 12, 2008
Hi. I’m Chair.

I’m old, but you can’t call me “Old Chair”–I’ve been called that too often throughout my life. People have called me “Old Chair,” “Ugly Blue Chair,” and even “Worthless Piece of Garbage Chair,” but my new owner doesn’t believe in stereotyping, so she just calls me “Chair.” Because that’s who I am. Anyway, it’s nice to meet you. Let me tell you how I came to be…


…Actually, I can’t start from the very beginning, because the lady typing my story hasn’t known me from the very beginning–and I can’t type it for myself, because I am an inanimate object and therefore cannot type [though I seem perfectly capable of speaking…].

So instead I’ll tell you how I came to be, insofar as my typist knows the story…

Back in the ’70s, I was a very fine piece of furniture. When I was brand new, I lived in a nice home with my courteous Owners. They sat on me all the time of course, but I didn’t mind, because I am

Chair, after all. They never let their filthy kids jump on my cushions, and they never allowed their sneaky cat to scratch at my legs. I was loved–at least as much as humans can love their living room furniture.

But that was over thirty years ago, and times…they change. One day, Mr. and Mrs. Owner came home from the city, talking excitedly about their new furniture. They kicked me to the curb (quite literally) to make room for the new arrivals, and I was left for the garbage collector. But that night, a nice lady driving by saw me, and thought, “That ugly old chair has potential!” Which of course I did. The new lady picked me up and dropped me off at her nearby parents’ house to store for a while–next to an old rickety door that someone else had already scavenged–until she could take me home and make me her own.

To make a long story short (because nobody likes reading Very Long Stories), the new lady never did get around to picking me up from her parents’ backyard. I stayed there all winter, and got snowed on and peed on and probably bird nested on, too. Finally one day, a different new lady–who had recently taken up exercising (and who happened to have scavenged the old door sitting next to me)–ran right past on her morning jog. She jogged directly into the old new lady’s parents’ house and asked what I, Chair, was doing in their backyard. As it turned out, the parents were sick of me sitting there, and said, “Take it, if you want it. Our daughter scavenged it from the neighbors and never did pick it up. So you take it, and don’t forget to take the old door you scavenged from the neighbor last summer, too. Get that garbage out of here.”

Everyone seemed to think I was garbage.

So there we were, just me and the door, and the

new new lady. The new new lady took me home (even though she felt guilty for scavenging me off of her sister-in-law’s scavenge). She sanded down my already-worn finish:

And she placed me in her well-ventilated garage:


(Oh, look–there’s my old friend, Door… Hi, Door!)


…and painted me a nice crisp black. She washed my foam cushions and their blue covers and finished my black paint with a shiny coat of polyurethane.

And now look at me! I’m sharp, I know.

The only problem is, I don’t really fit here, because I’m blocking the walkway to the Twins, and that’s bad. So the lady tried putting me in her living room:

But while I look nice by the piano, I don’t really blend in with the other colours she’s got in the living room. See? I kind of stick out like a sore thumb.


I also look bad in the basement, even though none of the furniture down there matches anyway:

Where can I live? Finally, the lady had a breakthrough. I am now the proud resident of…any guesses? Here’s a few hints:


The Blue Room! But of course! At long last, I have found my niche in the world. Good thing some previous owners’ teenage yahoo painted this room blue to match me. And it’s another good thing that the blue room hasn’t been painted over yet.


…and that’s the story of a chair named Chair.

Posted in change, Overall Good Things, photos | 12 Comments

{Strange and Random Neighbor Kids}

by Camille Posted on April 10, 2008

I am mildly obsessed with doors; I am always on the lookout for doors with character–doors with soul. I like to decorate with doors, or even with photos of doors. I have photographed doors in Paris, London, Amsterdam, and a smattering of other equally interesting (though less-known) locations.

The front door of the house where I lived in Brussels, Belgium.
The door of the bedroom where I stayed in Normandy, France.

Probably my interest in doors dates back to when we were remodeling our house, and I would go on long family drives with my parents and sister–we were on the quest for the perfect door to copycat.

Anyway, I like doors a lot, and I am the type of person who always feels compelled to answer the door when someone knocks (unlike my mother-in-law, who ignores it anytime she doesn’t feel like dealing with people). I just thought it was normal to do so–plus, it bothers me when I don’t know who’s trying to get in contact with me. But I’m kind of starting to reconsider my previous notions that just because there’s a knock at the door, I must answer like some sort of glassy-eyed zombie. Maybe I don’t have to answer…maybe it’s better if I don’t, because…

…people have stopped asking me to babysit. Instead, when they fancy some “mommy time,” they’re just sending their kids over to my house unannounced.

Today, two random neighbor girls (whose parents I have never even spoken to, by the way,) stopped by my house just as I was sitting down to a nice turkey sandwich (complete with Jarlsberg cheese, butter lettuce, roma tomatoes, and fresh mustard) and a glass of skim milk.

I was perturbed. I knew one of the girls a little bit, because she’d been in Poor Kyle’s primary class last year. But I’d never met her little friend, and I was quite shocked to see them at my front door.

In fact, when I went to answer the knock at the door, I saw it was these strange little girls and said, “Hi…umm…what do you want? Why are you here?”

They just stood there, looking at me.

I stood there, looking right back at them. Finally I could stand the awkward silence no more (because I so despise awkward silences), and, though my mind was screaming, “Shut the door! Shut the door! Shut the door!,” all I said was, “Did you want to come in?”

They needed no further invitation. Like a flash, they were in my house, shoes discarded at the door, exploring our creepy basement (where I secretly hoped a boogey man really would pop out and scare them, so they wouldn’t think our house was “fun” anymore). Anyway, all kids like Poor Kyle better than me, and since he wasn’t home, the girls lost interest fairly quickly and left me to my sandwich.

But it makes me wonder about their parents. I know I live in Mayberry and all…but haven’t these people ever seen American Beauty? (Okay, probably not, since it’s rated “R” and the population here is predominantly Mormon [and, okay, I haven’t seen it either, but I know what it’s about…]) The whole point is that bad things can happen even in seemingly perfect environments. I could be a child molester. I could be a drug dealer. I could harbor fugitives in my (exceedingly) creepy basement. The adults in question have never even spoken to me, yet they’re trusting their precious children in my care? Trusting me in my carelessness would be more like it. Because I don’t care about these strange and random neighbor kids…not really…

So what are these parents thinking?

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

It’s “Cheer Up, Charlie” Time…

by Camille Posted on April 9, 2008

Oh boy, am I ever in a good mood today! Look at what the forecast is**:

Can’t see? I’ll zoom in on it:


See that, there at the end, under the bright yellow sun under the word “SUN?” Seventy-one degrees! I know, it predicts snow tomorrow–but don’t worry. It won’t happen. I know it won’t. It’s the power of positive thinking, see? I learned about it yesterday [actually, I’ve known it since grade school, but sometimes I don’t utilise my positive thoughts to their fullest potential. But yesterday I re-learned how to do so]. I can decide how cheerful my life will be, regardless of the lousy white stuff that might be sprinkling from the sky–which won’t…be sprinkling, that is.

It all started when I bought a new pair of tennis shoes (or “running shoes,” as Poor Kyle would like to point out they should be called, when their purpose is to run. Not to play tennis. Because I don’t play tennis. {But old habits die hard and I’ve always called them tennis shoes, so leave me alone, PK! At least I don’t say SOAR-EE when I try to say “sorry”.}).

Anyway, I went on the inaugural run sporting my new cross trainers yesterday. Oh, look, here they are:

And since it was such an exhilarating workout (after which workout I even remembered to stretch [not that it did me a lick of good, since I’m sore like a granny today,]), I decided to further my sportiness for the day. Poor Kyle invited me to go golfing with him, and so I did.

I’ve never golfed before. But with the power of my amazing new tennis shoes (and after one hour on Mayberry’s own driving range and two hours on the nearby course), I was almost passable as a beginner. See?

I know, the girl in that photo could be anyone, but trust me: if I could claim anyone else’s body, I might–but we’re all about honesty here at Archives of Our Lives. It’s me.

Anyway, after all my hard work yesterday, and what with my bad case of The Whooping Cough, I decided to forgo the run today, and walk briskly instead. It was nice outside; there blew a lovely breeze [isn’t it funny how, when I’m walking, the wind is “a lovely breeze,” but when I’m running, it suddenly becomes tornado-scale gales? I know.], the sun was peeking through the crisp white clouds, and I was listening to this song [currently playing].

So despite recent setbacks in my Canadian residency paperwork, and despite the fact that I may never become an employed member of society, and despite children running amok in the neighborhood, and despite The Whooping Cough that is (ahem) going around…

…well, it’s just not worth it not to be happy.

**I just realised it’s kind of a personal thing to post one’s Mac dashboard on the internet for all the world to see. I bet you’re all wondering just what possessed me to look up the exact definition of the word “bequeath,” or perhaps why I felt the need to have a French-English translator so close at hand. Well, you’ll just have to ask God when you die, because I’ll never tell.

Posted in change, good tunes, introspection, Overall Good Things, Recreation, what I'm about | 7 Comments

{The Dreaded Inevitable}

by Camille Posted on April 8, 2008

Now, let’s talk about exercise. Growing up I was active enough. I climbed trees, participated in summer league softball (faithfully for 10 years), and jumped on the trampoline. I also fought viciously with my older sister, ran wild through the neighborhood, and took my high-spirited dog Sampson for walks while wearing rollerblades. Then in high school I played on the basketball, volleyball, track, and even marching band teams (during various years). I got my fair share of exercise.

So I don’t know where I went wrong. Somewhere along the timeline of my life, I developed a loathing for strenuous activity that I can’t seem to shake. Because it hurts to run. It’s not nice; it’s not natural–not to me. I’ve never understood the kind of people who say their “days don’t go well if they don’t get out there and run and blah blah blah.” You know the type–exercise people. Me? Not so much. Any day of mine wherein I do not feel compelled to put myself through utter pain and misery…well, that’s a pretty good day.

Nevertheless, I’ve put on weight (and lots of it) in the five months since I’ve been married, and I am just vain enough to dread going home to Arizona in May looking like this:


Moreover, I don’t fancy the idea of buying new jeans just because my expanding thighs can no longer fit into the ones I’ve got.

So, after putting off the dreaded inevitable for…oh, three months or so…I finally ran out of excuses. I ran. Not far, mind you. But far enough to remind me why I hate it so. To make matters worse, there is a {seemingly} continuous wind blowing here in Mayberry, and every time I attempt to exercise in it, I contract a new case of The Whooping Cough. That’s right–The Whooping Cough. I’ve been hacking and wheezing all day since my “workout,” and all I did was exercise for 20 minutes (only five of which minutes were rigorous). But what can I do? I can’t stop the wind from a-blowin’, so I just have to toil on. Indeed, my plight is mournful.

It has given me some insight, though–I do understand why people in serious emotional turmoil might turn to running as an escape: when I’m running, I’m so intensely miserable each step I take, there is absolutely no room for any other kind of misery. Got depression? Go running–I promise you’ll forget everything you once thought was bad in your life. Got a toothache? Go run somewhere–it’ll be like your tooth never ached at all. Dog die? Throw on some tennis shoes and run your living daylights out–by the time you get back, you will be so consumed in your own unfortunate existence, you’ll forget you ever even had a dog, let alone remember that it’s dead.

That’s how I feel about running.

Posted in change, failures, mediocrity, what I'm about | 13 Comments

Small Talk

by Camille Posted on April 7, 2008

They finally phoned. They phoned, and I was less-than-thrilled.

Meeting two new people, inviting them into my “not-quite-decorated-even-though-I’m-unemployed” house, letting them sit on my red sofa (whilst banishing myself to the wooden Amish chair which is less of a chair and more of a tree stump [inasmuch as we don’t have all the seating we need {inasmuch as we’re newlyweds}])…well, it didn’t sound like fun.

Not to mention the small talk.

But I try to do what’s right, and they were just trying to do the same, so I figured I wouldn’t make it harder than necessary for them.



So they came. They came, and they sat on my red couch (which you can see in the above photos, barely), and I fidgeted around on the tree stump chair. They asked me how I was doing and then proceeded to compare notes on their kids’ kindergarten teachers for 15 minutes, while I sat silently squirming. They brought me an apple pie, which was nice (though I promptly bequeathed it to my mother-in-law on account of I don’t like pie).

Then they remembered I was there, and shared with me a message, which was also nice, but by the time they got around to it, my bottom (bottom!) was growing numb and all I wanted was for them to vacate the premises so I could get rid of the apple pie and get on with my life.

But they wanted to chat more, asking me when we’re having kids, and then why we are waiting so long to have kids (to which I sincerely wanted to respond, “because I don’t want to end up like you,” but that might have only estranged them). I explained I want to get my degree before I have kids, so in the (un?)likely event of Poor Kyle divorcing me for being such a nasty people-person, I would have an education to put on a resumé. And then I explained I can’t go to school just yet because it costs $7,000/semester now, instead of much less once I get my Canadian paperwork completed. And no, I can’t work either (unless I want to get deported [which I kind of do, but still…]), so I am basically an S.A.H.W.: Stay at Home Wife. And yes, since they asked, it does go against everything I stand/sit for, and I know Anne of Green Gables would be disappointed in me. I do bake, though.

“But I don’t babysit,” I added (since I’ve learned to set ladies straight on that subject as soon as they find out my lack of daily responsibilities).

And then they left, hopefully for another five months until they feel so immensely guilty for neglecting their duties that they phone me once again.

I know I’m flippant; I know it’s my fault I don’t like the idea–not theirs. But I’m not even going to try to rationalise away my bad behaviour. Perhaps someday, but not now…

…and I wonder why I don’t have many friends up here.

Posted in Canada, change, mediocrity, what I'm about | 13 Comments

{To Be a Hotdogger}

by Camille Posted on April 4, 2008

We saw the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


I know. It was the happiest day of my life–happier than high school graduation, or getting married, or finally visiting the Louvre (okay, maybe one step under the Louvre).

And it recalled to memory the time, so long ago (but it was really only a year or two) that me and B decided we were going to audition to be Weeniemobile Patrons–they’re called Hotdoggers, and for one short phase in my life, I wanted nothing more than to be one of them. We spent hours rehearsing the jingle. We went to the website, printed out the forms, and even filled out the applications–but I don’t think we ever sent them in. I’m not sure why–I might have missed my calling in life.

Anyway, we were in Washington, headed to Oregon, and I was reading Better Home and Gardens Spring Edition, when suddenly, P.K. exclaimed, “What is that??”

I looked up and saw the strangest-looking red and yellow vehicle driving the other way on the divided highway. I didn’t recognise it at first, because it was quite a ways away, and the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile doesn’t exactly look like a giant Wiener from a head-on view. Here’s a rear view, so you can see what I mean:

So you can see why I might’ve had a difficult time placing the unique vehicle. I quickly realised my errors, though, and shouted with glee, “It’s the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile!” My voice got a little louder with every syllable.

We were so awestruck by such an amazing sight–for seeing the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile is something that most people only dream about–that by the time I thought to grab my camera, it was just passing by us. I begged P.K. to turn around at the next Authorized Vehicles Only turn-around point, but I guess when you’re lugging a 53-foot trailer around it’s just not feasible to do chase Wienermobiles. All I could do was call B and tell her the joyous news, for reference.

But I know I’ll see it again someday. It has to be that I’ll see it again.

Posted in Uncategorized | 15 Comments