Archives of Our Lives

…you should eat more Nutella.

The original chocolatey hazelnut spread, Nutella has been around since its conception in Italy in 1940 (used as a substitute for chocolate during the scarcities of war). And I say this is the year it should make a full-fledged immigration and take over the Americas at long, long last.

Eat it on plain bread or toasted bread, pretzels soft or pretzel sticks, Ritz crackers or Cracker Jacks; or just grab a spoon and dig in without reservations! Available wherever groceries are sold, I think. But for sure at AJ’s Purveyors of Fine Foods.

I laugh with my future mother-in-law that I am much better at relating to elderly people than to youthful people (by “youthful” I mean childish [by “childish” I don’t mean immature–I mean children]). But it is true. So many people say they learn a lot from their children, but I say, “That’s absurd. How can you learn from someone who knows so little?”

I, myself, prefer to learn from people who know; the ageds‘ wisdom comes on warranty–backed by years of experience and a degree from the school of Hard Knocks. Children might accidentally say profound things because they don’t know any better, but elderly people are eloquent because they cannot be anything else–their histories of trials-and-errors are sure to produce some fool-proof advice to help others.

This is my Grandma Strate on the pier where we went fishing many times in Texas last month. I consider her to be one of the most beautiful women I know–her grace and poise is comparable to the beloved Audrey Hepburn in her later years… Such a gem. [By the way, I can never be like Audrey Hepburn because she and my grandma both love the children. Pity.]

I love all my grandparents so dearly. I was grateful for the opportunity I got to spend time with my far-away Grandparents Strate last month in Texas. Isn’t this photo (of my 90 year-old Grandpa) precious? I got to tour an Aquarium for several hours by his side, and this was his expression the entire time:

Look at those laugh lines! I will never inject myself with anything that could possibly hinder my acquisition of laugh lines–I think they’re something in which to feel pride. I hope Kyle ages exactly like this when he grows up…

I suppose what I am trying to say is this: Love the children if you must, but please–please–remember to cherish your elders.

I am a girl of extremes. If I do something, I do it dramatically and with fervor. Sometimes that is a good characteristic, like when playing a major role in a ward Road Show. Other times, however, it is less good…

…Like how I don’t usually get embarrassed, but when it happens, I can’t forget about it–I’m a dweller. I either let it bounce off me, or I get embarrassed to the max. I can still remember, for example, the time I was 13 and took my best friend to a ward outing and we met some boys to whom I made the comment, “Mountain View sucks butt!” and immediately regretted it. Quite horrific, and it was even around a campfire, so the boys couldn’t really see us. I felt so silly, though, and am dwelling on it almost 8 years later.

Practising pirate faces can be embarrassing if captured on the digital memory of a camera…

Another time, I was riding in the backseat of a Volkswagen Jetta. There were two boys in the front seat: one I had a little inkling for, the other was his friend (who later turned out to propose to me). And I asked the first boy–the inkling boy–flat-out if he had a girlfriend (when it was obvious he’d been flirting with me all night). I thought it would be funny, but it turned out that he actually was seeing another girl at the time, so there was a pregnant pause and then he replied, “Yes”. I then turned to the other boy, mortified, and tried to save face. “Oh, well,” I said casually, “then you and I should go on a date sometime!” A voice inside my head was saying, “Camille, you are a complete idiot! You should be locked up and fed sardines on saltines for the rest of your life–you don’t deserve to exist in public.” Amazingly enough, boy #2 agreed to going out with me, and somehow grew to love the dork-off that is me. (Either that, or he is marrying me out of the same pity he felt for me that night.)

I wonder why I have such a hard time forgiving myself my trespasses…

Sometimes I think it is going to be so wonderful to move to Canada, where very few people know the real me. That way, when I get there, I can start fresh, and always think before I speak, and then maybe nobody will ever find out about how socially backwards I actually am at times. Canada is a sweet escape.

Despite the supreme August-ness of this last week, I stumbled across a little gem of comic soothing. This kid is getting his voice made into ringtones all across North America and Europe. His parents are thinking about getting an agent to handle the production of “I Like Turtles Kid” bobble heads. Someday I will succeed in getting video footage directly onto my blog, but for now a link to the YouTube page will have to suffice–watch it here. I hope you enjoy the 17-second clip as much as I do! Oh, and just for the record, I quite like turtles myself.

I never thought I would be one of those girls who works at a mall. But now I do–at the Scottsdale Mall, no less. [I am glad I can at least say I work somewhere reputable, like an art gallery, as opposed to Forever 21 or Limited Too or something teeny-bopper like that.] The Scottsdale Mall can’t just be called “The Scottsdale Mall,” however. It is more correctly known as the Scottsdale Fashion Mall. For fashion people. (Although my fiance’s niece Ady is most definitely a fashion girl, most people who know me cannot argue that, sadly, I do not fall under this category. See?)

Fashion people wash their hair even when they aren’t going anywhere…

Anyway, the Scottsdale Fashion Mall is like nowhere else in the country (except maybe 5th Avenue in NYC, or the entire universe we know as Beverly Hills). I went into work today and was reminded why I usually choose not to shop there. I parked my 1999 white Toyota Camry at the only place available by the time the mall opens: The Outcast Lot. Nobody who actually lives in Scottsdale will park there, because they are afraid their H3s and Jaguars and BMWs will get keyed by the frustrated-with-their-station-in-life bourgeoisie. But there, amongst the other late models, Tamra the Camry felt right at home.

Tamra Camry, ever unassuming. Doesn’t she look unassuming? I bet if she had a mind, she would spend all day just thinking, “I don’t assume much.”

The Outcast Lot is strategically placed at the entrance between Tiffany & Co., Louis Vuitton, and Prada, so as to remind the untouchables of their status (or lack thereof). I entered the mall wearing a white eyelet skirt I got on clearance at Target, a hot pink wrap-around top that I’ve had for years, and nondescript white wedges from Payless (where I paid impossibly less because of a back-to-school sale my senior year. Of high school). Oh, and a Hawaiian shell necklace my sister got me as a souvenir, just for a bit of frosting.

I think the Scottsdale Fashion Mall is on high alert for people like me. It’s like the CEO put out a memo: “Attention all security personnel: This is an APB. This is not a drill. Be on the lookout for tall, overweight Caucasian females. May be seen wearing a number of generic brands at any given time. Possibly toting overstuffed pleather handbags. If searched, said pleather handbags likely contain a variety of Bonnie Bell lip glosses. These cosmetics are highly mediocre–again, highly mediocre. Be on high alert. This is not a drill.”

Walking tall, though, right? Seven days a week.

It’s August, and I feel drained of all inspiration. I do so dislike the month of August. SYTYCD last night was pretty lousy, as far as SYTYCDs go. But really, what should I have expected, what with it being August and all…

Canada is a good place because they have a holiday in August. I don’t know what they are celebrating, but all the Canadians get off work next Monday. Good for them. It’s sad for me, though, because Kyle will be at the family cabin with the family down in Montana for the long weekend. And I am missing it. To read about Kyle’s beautiful sisters (& their adorable children) click here. You might also find something about his parents… [If you are an internet stalker like Afton, you will just love this!!]

Since it is August and there is no good in the world, I don’t really have any good photos to put on here–nothing good has happened recently. But let me take a look into my File of Happier Times, and maybe I can find something interesting–for a blog is not a blog without photos.

This is a time when my hair looked better (see Lindsey Burnham’s blog for more information on how you, too, can look this good every 6-8 weeks).

One year ago in NYC, I had some good hair too. Again, thanks to Miss Lindsey Burnham.

Well that’s all I have. Lame, I know, but oh-so typical for the times.

Nothing good happens in August. It has long been my opinion that August is the one month the calendar would be better off skipping. If only August could be more like September…there’s so much hope in a September; so many good things are bound to happen as soon as September rolls around: the heat finally mellows, autumn smells are in the air, and the general consensus of the world is that life is good.

Flowers like this happen in months like September.

Alas, it’s August, and all is not well. August is bleak. By the time August rolls around, the heat is at its peak, but we’re all so sick of it we don’t even have the energy to brag about it like martyrs anymore. In August, school starts, and (though I am a strong supporter of higher education for one and all) I am not going to sucker anyone into believing that I like starting school again. August brings no sight of hope for Autumn to descend, even though it deceivingly starts with the same lovely letter amalgam–that’s so typical of August: sneaky. It’s true—August sneaks up on the world like the devil himself sneaks up on the stalwarts. Independence Day parades come and go, and suddenly, August. Sucking the life out the innocent like a dementor from Azkaban, August comes in all its dismal glory. Almost makes me want to curse.