To My Lover

by Camille Posted on February 14, 2008

I know. Love, right? I’m sick of it. I’ve always sworn that anything I write should be for entertainment purposes–I have very little interest in writing words that aren’t funny. Believe it or not. I’ve just posted two serious love letters right in a row, and understandably, nobody’s liked them. I need to stick with humour. Don’t know why I forgot that.

Unfortunately, I have to write just one more love letter; it would be very rude to write a series of love letters right before St. Valentine’s Day and not include one to my husband of four months [especially since I’ve spent too much money on groceries this month, and this post is going to be the only valentine he gets from me]. But tomorrow, it’s back to funny business.

Dear Poor Kyle,

I love your face. Especially when it’s shaved–all the way. Come to think of it, I love your face while you’re shaving it. I’ve always wondered if you make those ridiculous faces only when I’m watching, or if they really are necessary in order to get all the nooks and crannies.

In fact, your face has a lot of nooks and crannies. I am fascinated by your smile–the way your face etches deep lines from the edge of your nose to the corners of your mouth. Everybody who doesn’t get Botox has the same lines, but I like yours best. I wish I could number the crinkly eye wrinkles you get when you really, truly smile; I would count them if you would ever sit still long enough.


I love almost everything about you {I’m not one of those e-Harmony girls who will daftly say “I love absolutely everything about you.” That’s not even possible. It’s not how I roll}. I don’t love when you get mad at me for trying to warm up my feet by wedging them under your legs at night–it’s cold in Canada, for goodness’ sake. I don’t love that you won’t run the 5K with me–it’s only five Ks. And I don’t love thinking about the time you wouldn’t hold my hand at that yard sale we went to last summer. Yes, I still remember it–I almost broke off our engagement because of it. I remember most things.

But…I do love you–I’m pretty sure marrying you was the right choice (okay…I’m 100% sure). Happy St. Valentine’s Day, Poor Kyle.

Love,

Me

Posted in Poor Kyle | 9 Comments

Blood is Thicker than Water

by Camille Posted on February 13, 2008

**Warning: This post may cause bile to rise in throats of less-sentimental readers. Immense tenderness ahead. Do not read if prone to illness or reactions against tenderness. This post may not be suited for adults who are not directly related to me. Read at your own risk**

Dear Immediate Blood Relatives [Mom, Dad, and Big Sis],

Over the past two years it seems I’ve been away from home more often than not. I wonder, if I’d realised my time with you was short-lived, I would’ve stopped leaving. Even though I’ve been to interesting places and accomplished some of my lifetime goals, I sometimes feel a twinge of remorse thinking about how I spent my last days as a Strate. Maybe instead of being so determined to learn French, I should have focused on bonding a little more. Perhaps rather than traveling the world and spending all those weekends in Canada with a guy who’d soon have me for the rest of his life, I could have embraced every spare minute I had with you.

I always have a clearer perspective of my experiences after I’ve already lived through them {and when I am thousands of miles away}.

Dad,
Do you remember the time Mom and Adell went to a conference in Tucson and I was so disappointed I didn’t get to go? I’m pretty sure I was eight years old; you took me to the Compass Room restaurant at the Hyatt Regency in Phoenix. I’d always dreamed of going there. To this day, I don’t think I’ve eaten at a fancier restaurant.


I remember I got some kind of bisque–I’d never had bisque before, but the waitress told me it was soup (and I like soup), so I ordered it. I was turned off when I found out it was cold–it reminded me of V8, and I don’t like V8. But I ate it anyway–all of it, I think. I was so excited. That was the last father-daughter date we ever took, just you and me. Why don’t we do that more often?

Mom,
My first year at ASU was so miserable. Almost all of my near-and-dear friends had gone away, and I was really in a funk (as you would say). I was so oblivious to the world around me that the day before classes started, I had a nervous breakdown–I didn’t even know where my classrooms were, or where I could park. I hadn’t even bought paper. You insisted on driving me around campus after church that Sunday–Dad and Allison came, too. You taught me how to get to the Institute building. “If you can get yourself here, you’ll be okay,” was your calm, seasoned assurance. There, I’d be able to park for free, store my lunch, and hide out in between classes. I drove the same way to campus every day–the way you taught–just me and Beulah (and sometimes Adell).


During the second semester, when Valentine’s Day rolled around, I became so fed up with ASU and its lousy boys, that I declined all dates for the entire month. I left you a Valentine (on your pillow, maybe?) and I think it made your day–we were each others’ valentines. Later on that year we had quite a few disagreements about my life, but you never stopped supporting me. The next Valentine’s Day, I found a letter from you in my Canadian mailbox–you’d sent me a valentine. I felt so bad I’d forgotten to do the same for you. And the next year I was in Belgium, and never did get around to sending you one. Now I’m back in Canada and I don’t have any stamps. I’m sorry.


Adell,
Remember how viciously we used to fight? Not argue or quarrel–we’d punch, bite, and pull hair. You were so much stronger than me, but if you backed me into a corner, I could kick really hard–my legs were longer than your arms. In a strange way, those fights brought us closer as sisters. They always ended in us laughing together, or trying to disguise the holes in the wall–together. That time you sat on our wobbly piano bench and it broke to pieces, I teased you endlessly. I think it made you feel bad–I’m so sorry. It was going to happen, no matter who sat on it. But I know if I’d been the one to break it, you would not have laughed at me. You have always been a better sister to me than I was to you.


Like how you were my strongest support system throughout my entire engagement and wedding…but I just moped all the way through yours. I was so sad to see you go–but that’s no excuse.


I’ve just bawled through this entire post. If I wanted to make it extra sad and sappy, I would talk about Sampson. [Our poor dead dog–he was a Strate, too, even though he wasn’t very obedient.] I won’t do that, though.

To my family, still living in the place I can’t stop calling “home…”

I love you all. Very much.

Just thought you should know.

Posted in family, looking back | 7 Comments

Letter to My Life

by Camille Posted on February 12, 2008

I am stingy with the word “love.” Real stingy. It took me so long (and so many boyfriends) to come to my own conclusion about the meaning of “love” that I don’t just toss the word around like pretzels. I try to cherish it–reserve it for the real deal, if you will.

In honour of St. Valentine’s Day (a holiday I struggle with normally), I’ve decided to conquer my petty misgivings by writing a series of love letters. To institutions, things, and people that I really do love. Today’s is about life.

Dear My Life,

I love you. I love the direction you’ve taken over the past 12 months. I love where you and I have ended up. We’re in the right place for us right now.

It’s been hard, to be sure. I miss home. I miss family. I miss The Familiar. The Comfort Zone. The carne asadas and QTs. Every time I go back, it gets harder to leave.

Sometimes I complain about you, My Life. I get disgruntled with the sky. I get frustrated with my husband–nobody ever warned me how hard it would be to communicate with the testosterone of it all. Sometimes I get so discouraged about where I am and who I’m with that all I can do is curse you, My Life. It doesn’t really make me feel better. Not when I know the good in you outweighs the bad, one hundred to one…

How many women are free to do what they want, when they want? Not many. I love that I’m young and (for the most part) still energetic. I love that my time is my own–not my kid’s. I love that I have so much: so much family…so much to be thankful for. I love that I can afford to shop at Costco; it’s my very favourite.

But my love for you goes deeper, Life. I love that you’ve taught me to have compassion over the years. Good heavens, how I worried as a teenager that I’d never be able to feel compassion. It was a hard lesson to teach me, I’m sure; presenting me with a grandfather who grew slowly more feeble–did you have to stoop so low?


He meant so much to me; I miss him every day. Couldn’t you have taught me compassion some other way? Probably not.

I love that you’ve grown with me–it takes more to fulfill you than it did a few years ago, but I’ve tried to pack you with good experiences.

In our travels about the world, I’ve learned so much about you, My Life; and so much about other peoples’ lives.

I guess this is overly-optimistic (which I generally try to avoid being, because of the guaranteed disappointments), and totally cheesy, but I’m not naive. I know you are going to become more difficult–more complicated. It’s a fact of you.


But I’m looking forward to the challenges you will bring, and I hope I can rise to meet them. I can’t wait to spend the rest of you with you. Does that make any sense?

My Life is good.

I love Life.

Sincerely,

Me

Posted in Overall Good Things, self-actualisation, what I'm about | 12 Comments

The Me in Me

by Camille Posted on February 11, 2008

In honour (or maybe a better term would be “begrudging acknowledgment”) of St. Valentine’s Day this week, I am going to write a series of love letters.

But first, a tangent:

Perhaps people may be wondering why I don’t seem to care much for St. Valentine’s Day. “What has she got to whine about? She’s newly married and brimming with bliss. This should be her best St. Valentine’s Day ever.” Yes. It should. But. I still cringe when I think back to the fifth grade when I had to give everyone a Scooby Doo valentine, even Evelyn who brought her mom to the “Talk About our Bodies” day at school [and “talk about our bodies” they did {I’ve hated “the awkward” for as long as I can remember}]. Of course there were the insecurities that maybe I wouldn’t get valentines from everyone, which would be the ultimate disgrace, since it would mean the other kids would be going out of their way to snub me. And then there was the sting of disappointment when, really, none of those valentines were at all juicy or exciting. No budding romances to be had.

Then in junior high and high school, I suffered through the oh-so-common indignities of not receiving any Cuddle Bugs or Cootie Cuties or whatever it was that, like, the Pom & Cheer club totally sold for, like, only a dollar, right? Y’know? Pom & Cheer girls got out of homeroom to deliver these secret admirer valentines. I remember Jazlee and Lorna and Rachel and the gang would always get gaggles of goodies, whereas I really…didn’t. It was fine, though, because I was raised by clever parents who taught me that literacy was a Great and Natural Escape. So I wrote poems–bitter diatribes for me and my fellow “slighted” girls. Bitterness works wonders; it heals all wounds. I really believe that.

If Lindsey would ever get her act together and clean out the shed and find for me “Ode to St. Valentine’s Day,” I would gladly post it here for all to read. It was a real masterpiece. I think it started out:

Pain, misery, squalor and muck,
All of these qualities prove that boys suck.

Or something. Later on, it seemed that no matter how many dates I accepted or boys I kissed, I always ended up “between relationships” on the 14th of February. Which is no fun at all, for a young adult who otherwise dated often enough. The more thought I gave it, the more it bothered me that the world would have the nerve to announce a holiday in honour of love. Why was it necessary to give flowers on a holiday? Being the exact same thing all the lovers worldwide are doing, I soon came to think of the tradition as cliché, blasé, and a variety of other chic-sounding French words. And two years ago, four months after meeting Kyle, we got into one of the biggest fights of our relationship of St. Valentine’s Day, because of my forward-thinking ideas and notions. It was wretched.

This year, though, I am married {weird}. High on love and drowning in all my newlywed bliss, right? It should be the best St. Valentine’s Day of my life. But the me in me won’t get my hopes up. I’m almost more married to the bitterness than I am to Poor Kyle–let’s face it: I’ve known it longer and more intimately.

So that’s it. All the gory details of why I struggle with the holiday that we all know and…love?

In the end, it wasn’t a tangent at all, but my entire post.

Posted in looking back, Married Life, Poor Kyle, self-actualisation, what I'm about | 10 Comments

Anger Management Issues

by Camille Posted on February 9, 2008

I flipped off the sky today. Gave it the good ol’ middle finger.

Because it’s perfectly gray–so much so that it completely devours the horizon. Does that even register in your heads, my Arizona friends? Imagine if you can: snow on the ground, thickly blanketing every other colour in the world with white. Then, take your bright blue cheerful sky and turn it the exact same hue as the stark white ground. Now get in your imaginary car (make it a Benz–no…better make it something with 4 wheel drive), and travel as far as it takes for the buildings and mountains to disappear. Go somewhere flat. Somewhere where the line between the sky and the ground is perfectly straight. Only instead of seeing bright cheerful blue on top and brown scrubby desert dirt on bottom…all you see is a drab, grayish white.

You never can know how much a horizon means to you until it gets taken.

Flipping off the sky didn’t change my situation. It didn’t change the fact that it’s 22 degrees below freezing. It didn’t stop the snow from flurrying into my car as soon as I opened the door in the Wal-Mart parking lot. Giving the sky the finger didn’t help at all. But short of screaming every foul, explicit word I know–with my head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, arms raised and fists clenched into threatening fists–it’s all I could do.

It made me feel better.

Posted in Canada, change, snow, the great state of AZ | 11 Comments

This Might Be a Controversy

by Camille Posted on February 8, 2008

My mom was so right about so many things…

“Friends will come and go, but your family is forever. So you’d better learn to love us.” This was mainly in reference to my big sister, with whom I would fight, bicker, quarrel, and argue almost constantly until we both got into junior high.

“You don’t have to want to, just do it.” This was in reference to chores, homework, and anything else not fun but nevertheless good for me. My dad also really enjoyed busting out this saying. It really got on my nerves as a kid.

“Oh, the places you’ll go.” Well there’s some situational irony…she swiped this line from Dr. Seuss. She was so determined that I would be the best I could be, and really go places in life, and now I have gone somewhere [far far away from Mesa, Arizona 85201] and she’s miserable that I’m gone. Such is life, I suppose.

Of course there were several things she was wrong about, too. Like the time she was convinced that Summertime Boy would brainwash me to fall in love with him and sweep me off my feet and then marry me and become an abusive husband and I’d completely lose my sense of self and who was I kidding I didn’t even have a sense of self yet I was only 18 for Heaven’s sake and did I know what I was doing and was I behaving myself and why did she have such a sick feeling all the time? She was wrong about all that, certainly, but it worked out for the best. You see, because my mom disliked Summertime Boy so intensely, she funded my two semesters in Canada, that year when I first met Poor Kyle. (I bet she wishes I’d stuck with Summertime Boy. At least he lived in Arizona.)

She was also very, very wrong about me being friends with The First Canadian [not Poor Kyle], the one I met while I was dating Summertime Boy. Either she wanted me to get away from Summertime boy so vehemently that anyone seemed a better option…or she was just way, way off. The First Canadian (sounds like a credit union) was bad news all around; from top to bottom, front to back, that boy was trouble. Deciding to completely renounce The First Canadian was one of the few decisions in my life that 1) I made wholly on my own, and 2) over which I have never felt any remorse.

Otherwise, though, my mom is usually spot-on.

“You can run, Camille…but you can’t hide,” she would tell me forebodingly, back when I used to complain about how people always asked me to accompany their songs on the piano or flute. It happened a lot during high school, and it always stressed me out. I like playing the piano, but it can be a curse sometimes. Mom told me I could run far away, but as long as I was going to church, I would never be able to hide from my “gift” (it’s not a gift if anyone can do it).

It proved true when I visited England the summer after graduation. How exotic it felt to be able to play the piano at church in London!

It proved true that first time I moved to Canada. I just couldn’t seem to keep quiet when the question, “Can anyone here play the piano?” was raised. The only thing more painful than my accompanying is none at all.

It proved true when I lived in Belgium, and the congregation was practically doubled when the BYU interns and I showed up.

And it has proven itself to be very true now that I’ve settled down in Canada, for temporary permanence.

Any time someone asks me to accompany a song they’re singing, I try very hard to graciously accept. Which, quite frequently leads someone to approach me afterwards, saying, “I didn’t know you played the piano! What are you doing next Wednesday night?”

I am so okay with that. I will help someone “in a pinch” by playing the piano any time I can.

But please…please…don’t ask me to watch your kids**. Because I’m really bad at saying no. If I wanted to watch kids during my free time, I’d make a baby of my own [I’m allowed to do that now].

–Camille

**Kathryn, this does not apply to you and your twins. I’d have gladly taken that deal if I could have made it work. Also, Big Sister, go ahead and disregard that part. You know I love That Baby more than any human child on earth. And since we’re disclaiming, I might as well add that anyone who is a friend or a family member is allowed to ask, too. Rachel, that goes for you, too. Jack really was a gem, and I bet Baby #2 will be equally swell. Jeff and Carmen, if you ever need a hand, give me a call. Anyone else who reads this blog…please know that I don’t particularly like kids, and I’m not great with them, but if you need me to…I’d help you out in a pinch.

So, in other words…to any stranger who doesn’t read this blog…don’t ask me to watch your kids. I don’t want to. Offering me money doesn’t change it, either. My time is more valuable to me than anything you could afford to pay. Babysitting, to me, is a pure act of love. No amount of money is worth it to me. Probably.**

Posted in Canada, what I'm about | 12 Comments

Paid For by the *Canadians for French Singers* Association

by Camille Posted on February 7, 2008
Archives of Our Lives endorses Yael Naim.
Here’s why:
1. Yael Naim is shy. How many celebrities or rock stars have the decency to be shy about themselves anymore? Very few, I submit.

2. Listen to the amazing song playing through the computer speakers right now. If the speakers are turned to low volume, crank those suckers up! Not only does “New Soul” have a catchy tune and surprisingly universal lyrics, but that actually is a real trombone you’re hearing in the background.

3. If you are enjoying the song, click here and enjoy the even more free-spirited music video. That old-school piano? Those front doors? The round-bulbed party lights? Everything I ever wanted in a music video, all in one place.

4. The first time I ever saw the video, or heard the song for that matter, was right here on this blog. And within the first few words she sang, even before I knew Yael Naim’s background, I could tell she was French-speaking. I will always love her for boosting my confidence in my accent-pegging skills.

What’s not to endorse? Yes, she sounds kind of like Regina Spektor. And I know…everyone likes Regina Spektor right now–but so do I. I’ll jump on any bandwagon that changes my life the way this musician has.

In closing, might I please remind you to get a load of what she’s saying in this very good song:

I’m a new soul
I came into this strange world
Hoping I could learn a bit ’bout how to give and take
But since I came here
Felt the joy and the fear
Finding myself making every possible mistake

Those lines perfectly…perfectly…describe every major decision I’ve made in my life to date.

And that is why this blog endorses Yael Naim.

Why isn’t her blurb on Wikipedia more detailed?

Posted in good tunes, what I'm about | 3 Comments