{Not Forgotten}

by Camille Posted on January 24, 2008

A part of me has died. A rather large part of me.

Matta’s. Gone. Closed. This is an outrage. How could they do this to me? How could they knowingly shut down the institution that made my life worth living? How could they close their doors and shut me off–cut me off–from the only chips and salsa I have ever actually tasted in my dreams? How does the Matta family sleep at night?

I’ve made some really special memories there, and now…they’re all I have. Oh, sure, the Matta family says they’re relocating somewhere else in Mesa. Only they don’t know where. And they don’t know when. And really, would I even enjoy it anymore without the old-town, been-here-since-before-I-was-born, my-mom-ate-there-after-her-first-time-through-the-temple ambiance? I sincerely doubt it. They haven’t even promised that their salsa will be the same at this alleged “new location,” nor were they willing to sell the recipe. Not for my car. Not for a million dollars. Not even for my soul [I offered]. They tried tossing me a bone with the whole, “There’s still a Matta’s Grill open somewhere out in the boondocks” line. But when questioned, the despondent-looking veteran-waitress of 21 years could not guarantee me it would be the same Matta’s I’ve always loved…so I’m not buying it.

To more accurately express my deep sense of loss, I have put together a short film [it’s not really seven minutes long…more like five and a half. I had trouble cutting down the song in iMovie, so as soon as the music ends, let it be a sign that the movie is over]:

“The End of Life as We’ve Heretofore Known It”

To anyone who has ever chosen to have dinner at El Charro over Matta’s: shame on you. Shame on all of you. And shame on me, for marrying out of the Arizonan Covenant, moving to Canada, and letting it come to this.

The worst part of the whole tragic tale? Matta’s was the only Mexican food that Poor Kyle has ever enjoyed, and ever considered eating a second time.

And…my life will never be the same.

Posted in fiascos, sad things, short films, what I'm about | 11 Comments

O, Poetry!

by Camille Posted on January 23, 2008
I have struggled with poetry all my life. I don’t really like it. Don’t really need it. Nevertheless, my teachers in high school and college seemed insistent that I familiarize myself–but I think it is basically bogus. I can make anything poetic. And if anything can be poetry, why does the word “poetry” even exist?
Watch:

“Poetry”
by
–cps Fairbanks–

I have struggled
With poetry
All
My
Life.
I don’t really like
It.
Don’t really need
It–
Poetry.

See? Poetry. And yesterday when I was tending my nephew, I happened upon a collection of Emily Dickinson’s “masterpieces,” just the sort of thing my English teacher sister would stow away in her son’s diaper bag. Fully prepared to mock her every word, I opened the book and was shocked to find myself actually relating to a poem she’d written about snow:

“It Sifts from Leaden Sieves”
by Emily Dickinson

It sifts from Leaden Sieves --It powders all the Wood.

It fills with Alabaster WoolThe Wrinkles of the Road --

It makes an Even FaceOf Mountain, and of Plain --Unbroken Forehead from the EastUnto the East again --

It reaches to the Fence --It wraps it Rail by Rail

Till it is lost in Fleeces --It deals Celestial Vail

To Stump, and Stack -- and Stem --A Summer's empty Room --

Acres of Joints, where Harvests were,Recordless, but for them--

It Ruffles Wrists of PostsAs Ankles of a Queen --

Then stills its Artisans -- like Ghosts --Denying they have been --
I took these photos last month, long before I ever knew Emily Dickinson had found similar beauty in the snow. Of course it’s good and well to talk about the beauty of the snow now that I don’t have to deal with it. Tomorrow’s high for Phoenix is 66 degrees…
If the CanadiansAre lucky--It willGet uptoFreezing.

by--cps Fairbanks--
Posted in Canada, photos, Pretty Things, snow | 5 Comments

{Learning}

by Camille Posted on January 22, 2008

Here’s something people might not guess about me: I was wild in my youth.

Not wild wild. I never had any desire to drink or do drugs (though there was a phase during my teenagehood that I considered planting a pack of cigarettes in my bedroom just so my parents would think I was wayward, thus making anything “bad” I did afterwards not seem so bad after all. [I never did follow through with that notion. I guess it wasn’t such a great idea. They probably would have shipped me off to Dr. Phil’s boot camp]).

No, my wildness was fairly mild. [That’s right–I was a mild wild child.] Basically I was just…off the walls. Hyper. Enthusiastic. Passionate. Enigmatic. Psycho.

Adults hated me, essentially.

If I–as an adult–had known me then, I would have hated me. I mean, just look at me:


I was the girl who made even the most stalwart primary teachers beg to be released (there’s a true story to back me up on that one). Every time I run into someone who used to be in our ward, I cringe–they always start out saying, “You’re Camille? Camille Strate? Man…I remember when…”

I was the Marky Davis of the Maricopa Stake.

As most hyper, enthusiastic, psychotic children do, I got in trouble a lot. Most of the time, “getting into trouble” was no big deal. I’d get sent to my room. I liked my room. It gave me time to think about what I’d done and look at my rock collection. [I named my rocks. (Like I said: psycho.)] But occasionally, I would get in trouble and it would really stick. I knew I’d crossed the line. I knew I was busted. And I hated it.

Like the time I was shimmying up the palm trees at Lincoln Elementary and Ms. Hinshaw, the P.E. teacher, came out and gave me 3-day detention. I guess climbling trees wasn’t allowed–unfortunate, since I had such a knack for scaling tall edifices.

And the time I got my good friend’s bike stolen. Oh boy, was that bad.

And the time I skipped Mr. Buck’s Junior AP U.S. History class to addend a boy’s volleyball tournament–which Mr. Buck just happened to attend, also. That was a big-time bust. (Though I distinctly remember getting in less trouble than Sadie Babbott*, who did the same thing and lied about it. At least B and I told the truth…) But it was nevertheless bad.

There have been more recent escapades, too. Right after high school graduation, for example, I went to England with my good friend and got into a nice heated debate with the bobbies. We’d been misbehaving, naturally. I was so ashamed of myself.

I still get in trouble occasionally; only as an adult, I can’t simply go to my room. As an adult, “going to my room” would mean I’m just running away from confrontation. I suppose part of being an adult is 1) not getting into trouble anymore, and 2) owning up to it if I do.

I got in trouble recently, and it was bad. I could feel the confrontation brewing just like granny can feel a storm coming on; I could feel it in my bones. And in my blood pressure. My heart beats faster. My hands shake. My eyes dart about the premises, frantically searching for the nearest escape–anywhere but “here” will do. That is me in the face of confrontation.

I am such a little girl. 21 years old, and I might as well be a toddler, for all the “growing up” I’ve done.

These kinds of realisations are most unpleasant… When I was a little kid, “saying sorry” was such a good solution–the natural solution–to all of my tight spots. It worked every time. My question now is…am I past that? Is there anything that we adults are supposed to do differently–anything more sincere than “sorry?” And if so, why don’t they teach a class on that in high school? It would have been substantially more valuable than most of the other blather I sat through…

*Names have been changed for privacy’s sake*

Posted in fiascos, self-actualisation, this little girl, what I'm about | 5 Comments

{MVD}

by Camille Posted on January 18, 2008

The sole purpose of the Motor Vehicle Division is to remind God-fearing people here on Earth to behave themselves, or else they’ll end up stuck there eternally in the afterlife. That’s right. The Motor Vehicle Division is very akin to Hell. Hades. The Underworld. Pit of Eternal Damnation. The Catholic church should forget about Hail Marys—a real punishment for sins would be to send people to the Motor Vehicle Division, give them a numeric ticket, and rig the electronic board so that it never calls their number. And if they’ve done something really bad, like killed a man or fornicated, the priest could find an extremely fertile parishioner to drag all her children in to the waiting area and let them run amok. A retribution worse than death.

Since I moved out of the country and failed to have my address changed, I missed the cut-off for renewing my car’s registration, which meant I could not simply send in a cheque, because it would take too long to receive my tags in the mail and thus inhibit my driving freedoms during my stay in Arizona. I was forced to submit myself to the horrible experience in person.

It had been a while since I’d visited the Motor Vehicle Division; I knew from past experience that when I entered, the first step would be to take a number, but I could not locate a ticket dispenser for love nor money (and I tried both). Finally I asked one of the less-crusty individuals who already had his ticket, “Hey, where’d you get that,” motioning to his golden ticket. (Okay, it was white. But it may as well have been made of diamond, it was so valuable.)

He nodded his head in the general direction of a very long line, and I clarified, “I have to wait in line to get a ticket to wait in line?”

He crinkled his eyes, smugly looking me up and down, and I could almost hear him thinking, “Hey, toots…a nice girl like you doesn’t belong in a place like this. Might as well turn around and git–you’ll never make it.”

Not to be deterred, I made my way towards the line for the unfortunate souls like me, twice nearly slipping to my death on wayward bouncy balls and chew toys. [No, not chew toys…chew toys are for dogs. What are those plastic water-filled squishy things that babies munch on when they’re growing teeth? Teething rings? One of those.] I don’t know why people don’t get a sitter for their children when they have an appointment with the Motor Vehicle Division.

After 20 minutes of waiting in the line for the line, I was officially given a ticket permitting me to wait some more. K667 was my number. I found a seat in between Gold Velor Sweatsuit Man and Bubblicious™ Bubble Gum Smacking Woman. Bad choice. Only choice. D@#!mn. Looking up at the electronic board recording what number was being “served” (“sentenced” is more like it), I was thrilled to see that we were on K666. I was up next! What luck! [The triple sixes should have tipped me off, but I was too naive to think that anything but K667—my ticket—could succeed K666.]

My heart raced as the numbers on the board changed and a robotic voice announced, “Now serving number…”

“Here we go,” I thought, gathering my bag and car keys, “let’s get this show on the road.”

“A001.”

“Nooooooooooooo…. They’ve started the sequence over again!” I mentally did some calculations and concluded that there were a lot of letters between A and K, and even more numbers between 001 and 667. D@#!mn.

As it turned out, and as is true with most demonic institutions, there was zero rhyme and zero reason to the numbers being called. After A001 came B405 and 406 and then 410. Then on to the letter O and its accompanying 332 and 354. I started keeping track of the letters and numbers, thinking maybe there was a word of the day and the Motor Vehicle Division People have to guess what is being spelled out.

“Let’s see…I came in on the letter ‘K’ and next it was ‘A,’ ‘B,’ and ‘O.'”

“KABOB!!!” I exclaimed aloud, jumping up and waving my ticket around like a maniac, my wild eyes searching earnestly for confetti or a giant balloon or any kind of prize. All I got were a few children jumping up and down with me, thinking it was some kind of something fun. The adults didn’t even bat any of their eyes–lunatic behaviour is not uncommon at the Motor Vehicle Division.

When they finally did call K667, I walked shakily up to counter 8, where one of The Tempter’s Demons informed me that I could not pay for my registration until my car passed Emissions–another hour’s worth of waiting in line.

As I made my way out the door, dejectedly, the words of that less-crusty man echoed in my wasted head.

“You’ll never make it…never make it…never…make it.”

Posted in failures, fiascos, the great state of AZ | 20 Comments

Should Have Knocked on Wood…

by Camille Posted on January 17, 2008

…when I titled that last post, “R & R.”


I’m on baby duty tonight. Preston is so soft and round. He’s got a double chin and dimples. He’s quite a lovely child. And, yet…so stressful.

It just goes to figure that Adell would bear a child who doesn’t know what to do with his hands; so he has to be wrapped up tightly all the time. Swaddled, they call it. Otherwise he smacks himself in the face. And sometimes at night he cries just to cry. Not hungry, not stinky, not anything but just…kind of belligerent. Of course babies can’t really be belligerent, because that would mean they could feel spite, and I won’t believe that he’s spiteful. I think he just doesn’t quite know–well, anything. Yet.

Anyway, Preston doesn’t like me as much as he likes his Grandma. But that’s okay. I wasn’t expecting him to love me straight off the bat, like I did him.

It’s strange, that. I can spend lots of time meeting new people at church, or school, or anywhere, and maybe–maybe–a fourth of them I end up loving. But this little guy? Absolute, unconditional love. Immediately. Most strangers I meet don’t poop their pants; Preston does. Most strangers don’t totally ignore me when I’m talking to them; Preston does. Most strangers don’t scream in my ear for extended periods of time; Preston definitely does. But despite his unfortunate quirks, I feel like there’s nothing this boy could ever do to make me love him any less. Weird.

Must be because he doesn’t have any cats.

He’s sleeping now. I wish I could, too. But every noise he makes draws my attention. I’m afraid he’s going to choke on his spit-up, or turn his head the wrong way and not be able to lift it and then he’ll suffocate. He’s stressing me out.

Which is why being Auntie ‘Mille is far superior to being “Mommy.” In my {ahem} humble opinion.

Posted in nephew | 6 Comments

R & R

by Camille Posted on January 16, 2008

Here I am. Home again.

I’ve been gone three months, but really it feels like I have never left.

I met my new nephew. He’s nice enough. Kind of finicky. He expects a lot of the people around him. Likes things just so. I think the general idea of his child rearing experience (i.e. his life) is for everyone in his vicinity to dote on him. Completely. He doesn’t fancy me. I’m not the doting type…not yet. And it’s true what Adell said about the French. He doesn’t fancy that either. He’ll learn what his Auntie ‘Mille (pronounced “ant-ee meal”) is all about, though. We’ll get through this phase together.

I’m staying at his house, though, and I’ll be honest–tonight’s my first night; I’m not fancying waking up every three hours when he does. Go figure. So we’ll see how it goes. I might move back to my parents’ house before long.

When my plane landed and I debarked, my dad met me at the gate [one of the many perks of a parent who works at US Airways]. It was good to get a few one-on-one minutes with him. Then my mom and my Grandma picked me up, along with Preston. What fun it was to see them all! It’s lovely here in Mesa. It’s like I never left. The only thing different is that Bath and Body Works had its huge sale, and all my relatives consequently have Wallflower air fresheners in their homes. Mesa smells better than I remember.

I’ve had my first Super Burrito Carne, and my first Diet Doctor Pepper** from QT. We’re well on our way.

As it is, I’m quite fatigued, but in keeping with my 5-days-a-week resolve, I thought I’d better post. So here is the post. Tomorrow I’ll write something better. Promise.

Oh, and post script: Thank you to all the people who came out of the shadows and let me know they’re reading my blog–what a thrilling surprise! Also, thank you to the 16 people who’ve voted so far. And whoever said I should never. ever. post on this blog…are you the same person who told me I could just go to Hell? Just come out with it already; I’m really curious to know who you are, and what you have against me!

**I read and re-read this sentence. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with it. Finally, it hit me like lightning: I spelled out “Doctor Pepper.” Who does that? It’s Dr Pepper (with no “.” at the end of Dr.). I’ve been away for far, far too long.

Posted in nephew, the great state of AZ | 5 Comments

The Great Debate

by Camille Posted on January 15, 2008

I am trying to post more often. Have you noticed? Last week I wrote on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. I am trying for the 5-days-a-week type of blog. Make it more like a job. Make myself more dedicated to “the cause.” [“The cause” is yet to be determined, since my blog still hasn’t defined its real purpose in the e-niverse.] Make my life have one more meaning.

There’s a problem, though. In all my natural indecision, I can’t decide if this aforementioned resolve is a good one. In my life, checking peoples’ blogs is a daily (and often bi/tri-daily occurrence, if I’m particularly unmotivated to do more productive things). Reading blogs comes as a real joy to me, but I don’t know if I’m the only person this obsessive. Is it good to post so much, or bothersome? Do you, as a person who is currently reading this blog, feel obligated to check up on me, or is “blogging” your idea of a real good time? How much are we really alike, you and me? Shall I blog a very lot, or very little? And please don’t give me some answer like, “It’s up to you, Camille. Whatever makes you happy.” Because it’s not about me. I blog because I like writing, yes; but mostly because I like to entertain.

So I am putting it up to you all. Not fishing for compliments {ahem}, just wondering if I’d be a nuisance or not. Do keep in mind the question isn’t whether or not you like my blog…I’m assuming since you read it, you like it. Nor is the question whether I should change the way I write–because I won’t. I just want to know if reading this blog 5 days a week would be tedious.

In an effort to come to an educated conclusion, I’m taking a poll…look to the right-hand side of your screen. See it? So take a moment to vote–let your voices be heard. I won’t get my feelings hurt if you think blogging 5 days a week is too much. Truly. No, really. I want to know. I’m not fond of being a bother, so if you have any opinion on the matter whatsoever, speak up!

Posted in blogger finger | 13 Comments