Do Not Pronounce It “Orry-Gawn”

by Camille Posted on April 3, 2008
We went on a trip [business related]. A recap, in photos:



Destination: Oregon

Mode of Transportation: The FWhatever50. Naturally.

With a G.P.S. [thank heavens]:


and heated seats…


…which might have been a bit superfluous, since the weather was lovely:


We jammed (jammed?) to this mystery album (any guesses?):


…all the while marveling at the magnificent bridges and tunnels built by the CCC just after the Great Depression. I really appreciate the New Deal. And FDR. Those were the days…

We also marveled at the scrubby trees on the banks of the Columbia River:

Everything was going swell. We picked up trailers at the appointed hour:

And started back on our way (after grabbing a bite to eat):


But then, about midnight, something went terribly wrong. Turns out, our load was four feet over the legal limit in Oregon. And we got in big-time trouble for it:



Not only did PK get a ticket, but we had to leave the trailer at a scale in Washington and go stay in a hotel for the night while we waited for our rescuers (in the form of my in-laws, whom I, like an idiot, forgot to photograph).

It was a most inconvenient detour.

Then the next day we had troubles loading and unloading said offending trailer (which troubles I also failed to photograph because…well…it just wasn’t a good time to be taking pictures).

And then we almost didn’t make it to the fuel station, which almost didn’t have ultra low sulfur diesel, which turns out to be really important stuff.

But everything worked out in…

…The End.

Posted in fiascos, photos | 10 Comments

{Current Me}

by Camille Posted on April 2, 2008

**In lieu of recent Archives of Our Lives happenings [i.e. bearing my heart and soul to this here blog and its 100 daily readers], I have decided to write yet another deep, heart-wrenching, Camille-tells-all kind of post. Just as a warning.**

I’ve noticed a trend in some of my previous “Random Facts About Me” kind of posts: I usually talk about things I used to do, beliefs I used to uphold, or accents I used to embrace. In other words, when people ask me to divulge little-known facts about myself, I often revert to Childhood Camille for said random tidbits. I don’t know why—perhaps I don’t find the current me interesting enough. At any rate, I am taking this opportunity to change that. I give you:

Eight Things About Me Now Which Only Family or B Might Know:

1. I have a penchant for hats. Any and almost every kind of hat is thrilling to me. When I’m shopping and see hats for sale, I invariably try on one or two, just to see how much one of those hats could change who I am. (I have even been known to make an unfortunate hat purchase or two.) I like baseball caps, cowboy hats, gardening hats, sombreros, toques (beanines in American), and flower-woven crowns with flowing ribbon like you can buy at the Renaissance Festival. Any number of hats can make me feel sporty, or chic, trendy, elegant, or free-spirited. The only problem is…hats look awful on me. It has been one of my lifelong sorrows, and, I suspect, why I never got very far in my acting career—any girl who cannot look fittingly enough in hats could never be a movie star. Audrey Hepburn would never have been cast as Eliza Doolittle if she’d not looked so striking in that Ascot hat. And that’s a fact.

2. I have mastered the art of eating Lunchables. Yes, Lunchables. Are those still a highly sought-after choice of lunch for kids around suburban America? Because I know it was a great day for me when I opened up my brown lunch sack and found a treasured Lunchable waiting patiently to be consumed (but this is supposed to be about current me, not childhood me). Since I’m on the road a lot, I’ve found them to be the most healthful nourishment a gas station’s convenience store has to offer. And I’m good at eating them, too. I could eat them in the dark; I could eat them in the park. But that’s another post entirely…

3. I have recently (as in, within the past three or four years) become converted to the “Cover the Toilet Seat” school of thought—so much so that even if the covers aren’t supplied, I always take the time to toilet paper myself.


I’d always been taught this way, but until recently, I never felt compelled to actually use those flimsy tissue-paper coverings sometimes found in public restrooms. I don’t know exactly when I changed, but I know it was a complete conversion. And so help me, if I someday die of AIDS, the world and I will know exactly why. The stupidity and irresponsibility of my wayward days will haunt me forever.

4. I have myself so convinced that I’m going green, I even feel guilty for using tap water to refill my water bottles—and that’s the greenest way to drink water! When I need to boil eggs or cook potatoes, I have nagging thoughts that won’t leave me alone—thoughts like, “I’d better save this potato water to make dinner rolls tonight, or else it will be wasteful,” and, “I could cook these eggs another way, like in a frying pan—using this water really isn’t necessary.” I have yet to decide if this is a bad thing, or simply environmentally responsible.

5. After a long and mournful inner debate, I have come to the conclusion that green is indeed my favourite colour. It was hard to say for a while, because my favourite colour seems to change depending on what I’m observing. My favourite colour of furniture, for example, would be red. But as far as clothing goes, I am quite fond of wearing pink, and sometimes brown. However my favourite colour of house tends to be white, with black trim (a little something I learned about in Belgium). Finally, though, I could not deny it any longer: green is the colour, overall, that makes me happiest. So now you know.

6. Asking me to make a speedy decision is like politely requesting that my four month-old nephew stop screaming when he’s hungry: you can dream all you want, but it’ll never happen. Which is why 70% of our house’s interior walls are still painted the lavender colour its previous owners seemed so fond of (or else bought in the clearance aisle of Home Depot: You Can Do It. We Can Help.). I will decide what colour to paint when, and only when, I am ready to decide.

7. I don’t know the proper way to fold an American flag. I know there’s a trick to it (just like with fitted sheets), but I never learned. And every time I see Old Glory waving proudly in the wind, I feel a little bit of guilt knowing that if our flag fell down, I couldn’t walk over, pick it up, and fold it correctly. I should have been a Boy Scout.

8. I feel a perverse satisfaction when I can tear ketchup packets open right along the quarter-circle dotted line. It happens rarely, but when it does…it’s magic.

Posted in thisandthat, what I'm about | 11 Comments

You Mean I’m Not Perfect??

by Camille Posted on March 31, 2008

As old as I keep getting, I never really seem to learn anything.

Why do I spout off hurtful vendettas without thinking things through first? I don’t know, really. There are two sides to every story (sometimes three or four, if you’re CSI: Miami), but I am the tunnel vision kind of girl who only sees my own misfortunes. Quite the victim, aren’t I?

Tunnel vision kind of girl. That’s the point, really. I’m still quite a little girl. It’s true–I don’t feel like a grown up at all, most days. I go on and on about how disappointed I am in people–in the state of the world these days. Yet sometimes, when I step back and look at my own life, I realise I’m quite the biggest disappointment of all.

It’s all very distressing. I mean, think of it: imagine if you lived your life all day every day, thinking you knew exactly what people are going through and what they should do to fix themselves, and the whole world has major problems, and people just need to get over it. Then imagine that one evening as you’re flossing your teeth (which everyone ought to be doing), it is called to your attention that maybe–just maybe–you might have some issues of your own. Maybe you’re a big jerk when all is said and done…maybe you’re all talk. Maybe you’re 21 years old and still acting like a child.

Maybe you’re too harsh on the seemingly incompetent clerks at the homogenise-the-world chain stores who wear blue vests with yellow smiley-faced pins; maybe they have lives and hate their jobs and don’t really care whether or not you can’t find strike-anywhere matches (which are not by the barbecue supplies, just for the record). Maybe people with children aren’t the enemy, and they aren’t judging you for not wanting any of your own. Maybe old ladies at church don’t think they’re being crotchety at all, and Becca Flunt* truly did think you stole her graphing calculator. Maybe the sky isn’t intentionally pouring down powdery white stuff just to get even with you.

Maybe all the mean comments “anonymous” makes on your blog is exactly right: Maybe “anonymous” is much more clever than yourself.

And think what a shock it is to the system–to go from so right to totally, undeniably wrong.

I don’t know quite what to make of it, actually.

Posted in change, failures, fiascos, introspection, self-actualisation, this little girl | 15 Comments

Hairway to Hell (Hairdos on Trial)

by Camille Posted on March 27, 2008

I’ve always had issues with my hair. From a very young age, my mother forced toxic chemicals on my otherwise-straight hair, with the hopes it my curl and bounce like Shirley Temples. It did neither, instead forging its way down a lonely lifelong path I like to call “Hairway to Hell.”

Exhibit A–Two Years Old:


When we finally realised that perming my hair wasn’t working for my disobedient locks, it became an uphill struggle to find a hairstyle that could handle my daily escapades without turning stringy (as stick-straight hair is wont to do). My mother was of the “Let’s-Brush-it–and-Fluff-it-and-Tie-it-Back-Conservatively” school of thought.

Exhibit B–Neighborhood Preschool Class Photo:

During this period in my life, I was not the cutest girl in class–but I was at least presentable.

Exhibit C–1st Grade:

Then something terrible happened: I learned about independence. Somewhere along the lines, some teacher planted seeds of revolution into my already-impressionable mind. I grew, I learned, and I became sure that I knew better than everyone else–my mother included. Every outfit I wore had to be my own creation. Every extracurricular she signed me up for that didn’t sound fun turned into a war zone. And you’d better believe that every school year on picture day, my hair became a battle of wills between my mother and me. Now, anyone who knows my mother can see that she is strong-willed. Probably the most strong-willed person I know. But she also knew to choose her battles. My guess is that she became so exhausted from forcing me to continue piano lessons and singing classes and dance and softball, she decided to let the hair issues…slide. I was that kind of kid. I give you…

Exhibit D–“The Scraggle-Haired Girl,” or “How I thought I Could Do it Better:”


Exhibit E–“Seriously?” or “Seriously??” or “I Even Fought to Wear a Christmas Dress When School Pictures Were in the September:”

Finally, about the fifth grade (grade five, Canadians), I decided that brushing my hair might be a worthwhile activity. I got myself some bangs cut, found a can of hairspray, and got with it.

Exhibit F–Still-Not-as-Cute-as-Some-but-at-Least-Maintained:


Unfortunately, within a few months, those bangs grew out. Instead of getting them trimmed like any normal person would do, I took a page out of the oh-so popular Rebecca Donaldson-Katsopolis from the after school sitcom “Full House.”

Exhibit G–My Hairdo Hero (circa 1996):

Unfortunately I could not find a photo from this tragic phase of my life. I know some exist, but I have an inkling they’re back in Arizona with my family. Not to fear, though! My bangs are just long enough now to capture the general idea of my fifth grade hairstyle:

Exhibit F–How My Hair Looked [an Approximate Re-creation]:




And while the above photos are horrific (for I’d only just woken up [despite the fact I’m wearing pearls]), trust me when I say: my actual fifth-grade hair was much worse. The bangs were higher, my hair was swoopier, and it was truly a bad phase of my life.

Please…don’t try this at home.

Posted in fashion people, fiascos, looking back, oh brother what next | 11 Comments

I Called Him a Cutie on the Internet…

by Camille Posted on March 26, 2008

…because of his bad behaviour.

Did I forget to mention I am in Oregon this week? I’m in Oregon. Actually, our trip is almost over—it was just a short run down to Oregon to pick up trailers as part of Poor Kyle’s job. We left Monday at 4:30 a.m. and we’ll be back tomorrow night. This time, though, Poor Kyle’s parents wanted to come along (to get out of the winter, I presume [or else just to make sure Poor Kyle’s doing his job correctly?]). I was looking forward to having extra company.

I’ve often heard it said that a road trip has the potential to make or break a relationship. Many times in my family (at least when I was growing up), road trips were sources of great strife. Please don’t misunderstand me: I was blessed with parents who saw the value of giving their kids experiences, and we took family vacations at least once a year, if not more. I knew I loved to travel, and I enjoyed every bit of our trips…but, in a time before GPSs, cell phones, and On-Star, just trust me when I say: road trips were often a great source of strife.

But I digress. So readily did I believe the adage of road trips making or breaking relationships, that before I could ever consider marrying Poor Kyle, I insisted on taking at least one road trip with him [though when all was said and done, we took more like 10 before we were married]. Poor Kyle pulled out all the stops on these road trips, and I was fully impressed—he passed the test, and here we are married.

And let me just say that if Poor Kyle had, on any of those 10 trips, acted like he has this go-around, we would have never progressed past dinner and a movie. Never. Perhaps extended-length road trips with Poor Kyle and Camille and his parents are just too much to handle. Maybe he likes his peace and quiet. Or maybe, being the youngest child, road trips with his parents cause him to regress back to his inner three year-old. I don’t know. But whatever the reason for his bad behaviour, this toothless cutie…

…suddenly turned into the grouchiest mean old thing I’ve ever known. And I’m pretty sure it’s uncalled for.

He’d better be thankful he waited until after the wedding to let it all hang out like this…

Posted in fiascos, Married Life, oh brother what next | 13 Comments

{Food Room}

by Camille Posted on March 25, 2008

I live in Canada. Up here, pretty much everyone who has a house also has a basement.

Basements are more rare in Arizona. In fact, growing up, I always dreamed of living in a house with stairs. That was my fondest wish (second only to an older brother for my sister and I [but imagine my despair when I discovered that no matter how many more children my mother bore, none of them—brother or sister—would ever be older than me]). Basements were so exotic…

…only now that I live in a house with one, I find them more than a little terrifying. Ours has a finished living room, bedroom, and bathroom, along with an unfinished other bedroom, laundry room, and food room.


It’s the food room I want to talk about today. When walking through the basement’s damp and musty hallway, one (well, probably only I) feel instantly unsettled. The cold tile flooring is uneven on account of whoever built our house was a crook who should have had his license revoked. The walls are lined with narrow wooden strips that could be cute…if they weren’t there. The basement is dark, chilly, and smells like produce and cardboard.

So it’s already creepy as it is, but somewhere along the line, the homeowners decided to up the creepy anti by, like, a thousand. With this door to the food room:


That’s right. Somewhere in the world, some hotel’s room #26 is missing a door. Can you imagine? I wish I could hunt down whoever built our house and force the story of this door out of them. Where did they swipe it? What is its history? And I know it was a hotel room door, because look at the plaque on the opposite side:


Anyway, I’m glad to have a food room at all. Inasmuch as I hoard food, it’s convenient to have it all in one place, organized in perfectly-faced rows just like in Safeway. See?


I have a canned vegetables section, canned soup section, a whole stockpile of canned mushrooms (we thank you, Aunt Linda!), a Mexican food area (because I don’t want to live in a world without El Pato Sauce [otherwise known as the stuff dreams are made of].


I also have a designated space for pasta and sauce, in which I include Kraft Dinner (Mac & Cheese for all you USA residents) and Ramen noodles. Because we’re cultured like that.




My food supply is not impressive by most people’s standards, but it’s nevertheless thrilling to me. Every time I go grocery shopping, I buy whatever stockpile-able food is on sale, as much as our budget allows—and it’s growing. Slowly, but definitely growing.

Posted in Married Life, Overall Good Things, photos, thisandthat | 16 Comments