Archives of Our Lives

Shattered Dreams of Corn-on-the-Cob

by Camille Posted on August 6, 2009

Once upon a time, before the sun disappeared, we (my husband, our company, and I) grilled Caribbean Jerk Chicken on our most beloved barbecue grill.

The grill makes a cameo appearance in this photo from this very old post.

The main dish was everything that grilled chicken should be: savoury, spicy, tender, and tangy. Maybe someday I’ll post the recipe.

Unfortunately, for every good culinary success in my life, there is an equal and opposite culinary failure. Last week’s particular failure was corn. Specifically, corn-on-the-cob on the grill on the deck. That is to say, in addition to grilling chicken on our deck/backyard barbecue, we also grilled corn-on-the-cob. Prepositions, anyone?

Our corn-on-the-cob on the cookie sheet, ready to be grilled.

Now, I had heard nothing but praises about corn-on-the-cob on the grill, so I was eager to try this new way of corning. (Corn is a verb, as of now. Quick, tell all your friends.) We did everything Google told us: Soak corn; remove outer husks; peel back inner husks; remove silks; brush with olive oil and spices/herbs (we used salt and fresh cilantro); replace inner husks; tie with cute leftover-husk bows; grill; eat.

I will say this for the corn-on-the-cob on the grill: It was strikingly good-looking. So good-looking, in fact, that we photographed it from every angle imaginable:

My sister is to credit for the cute little corn-husk knots. She’s the good daughter.

She’s always the good daughter.

Sadly, though, the corn didn’t taste any better than regular pot-boiled corn-on-the-cob (or should I say, “corn-on-the-cob on the pot on the stove?”).

So even though our corn-on-the-cob on the grill on the deck looked fancy and festive, our final prognosis was this: OVERRATED. We decided that for all the extra work involved, the grilled corn didn’t provide enough benefits.

But the thing is, I sort of can’t get it out of my head. No, the grilled corn didn’t taste any better than boiled corn. But it didn’t taste any worse. Sure, it wasn’t necessarily easy to prepare, but it wasn’t really hard, either—just time-consuming. The biggest thing I liked about the grilled corn was how charming it looked. The biggest thing I didn’t like about it was that it didn’t taste as good as I’d hoped.

So now I’m wondering if there’s a happy medium. Is there a way I can grill my corn and eat it, too? If there’s even a prayer of a chance that I’m doing something wrong on the grill, I would give it another go. What spices might I try? What different techniques? Is there something—some key component—I’m missing that would change my world? If you know any secret to delicious grilled corn, I am open to options. I’ll grill corn every day for the rest of August if I have to, to get it right.

Then again, it may be a total bust. If you believe that I got it right the first time—that grilled corn-on-the-cob isn’t as spectacular as I had hoped it’d be—please tell me not to hold my breath. I hate chasing after unreachable dreams.

I guess that makes me a realist. A corn-on-the-cob realist.

Posted in cooking, kitchen failures, photos | 17 Comments

Pill Pushers: A Cut above the Rest

by Camille Posted on August 5, 2009

My sister and her family have come all the way from Arizona to visit Canada and lounge around in lovely weather.

The day they got here was hot, hot, hot outside. We grilled dinner on our back deck, ate corn on the cob, and pretty much lived it up in a drunk-on-summertime stupor.

That night, we were awoken at 4:30 a.m. by the second loudest crack of thunder I’ve heard in the last 22 years. It was pouring rain, and we haven’t seen the sun since.

It’s chilly outside; our plans to spend hours lounging by the pool have been thwarted to the max. Instead, we’re bundling up in our warmest clothes, making hamburger soup for dinner, and drinking hot cocoa in place of lemonade. Hot chocolate, in August? I never would have thought. Winter is coming, winter is coming! Stupid August.

Anyway, the Arizonans were so unprepared for the extreme change in weather, they didn’t even pack sweaters for themselves. (“We should’ve known,” they joke, “that we can’t come to Canada and not bring our parkas. How stupid.” Now they’ll never want to come back for a visit.)

Consequently, three out of five members of this household are hacking up their lungs. We’ve all got colds in this House of Sickness, and we’ve made no less than three trips to the pharmacy in as many days.

I like going to the pharmacy, actually. While I lived in Belgium, I learned that nine times out of ten, people there go to the pharmacist for medical advice before even thinking about talking to a doctor. I had a few opportunities in Belgium to try it myself, and found I quite liked the one-on-one personal experience. Since I’ve grown up (in the loosest sense of the word) and moved to Canada, I’ve gotten into the habit of consulting with local pharmacists any time Poor Kyle and I are in need of medical attention.

Ten bucks says this man is not a real pharmacist at all, but some man paid to look like one just because of that distinguished-looking dimple in his chin. Image from here.

Have you ever asked a pharmacist about his or her medical recommendations? If not, I suggest you try it the next time you’re ailing. You’ll never see people drop what they’re doing so fast, just to answer a simple question. Those pharmacists, they love doling out advice. It makes them feel valued, I think.

I feel sorry for pharmacists. I mean, really? You couldn’t hold out just a few more years in college to become a real physician? It’s like being a CIA agent, but with a cubicle. And no gun. And pharmacists, they know it; they know that they were just one step away from being the real deal, but for whatever reason—lack of funds, aversion to blood—they couldn’t quite make the cut to Doctor.

Well, I shouldn’t be snippy about it. I like pharmacists. Every pharmacist I’ve ever talked to has known—off the top of their heads, no less—exactly what aspects of which medicines will help combat various symptoms. They’re brilliant people, and their career choices are none of my dadgummed business.

Brilliant, I say. And I have an appointment with one first thing tomorrow morning.

Posted in Canada, family, fiascos, health and vitality, oh brother what next | 13 Comments

August, Baby!

by Camille Posted on August 3, 2009

It’s August. Eight months into this year, and I still feel like it’s 2008.

Luckily, the painful blow of passing time has been softened by the presence of my sister’s family, including (especially including) this little whippersnapper:

Twisted Flip Flops

Oh, sure, he was a holy terror on the plane ride last week, but—what am I saying? Never you mind all that nonsense of last week. This face could never belong to anyone less than a darling angel:

Oh yes. I’ve become one of those aunts. You know, one of those aunts who believes her nephew can do no wrong whatsoever, under any circumstances. If he’s screaming, it’s because he just needs to make himself heard. If he’s whiny, it’s because he’s not feeling well. If he’s misbehaving or cranky, I draw from a page-long list of possible excuses, beginning with “He’s got gas,” and ending with “He’s probably feeling insecure because he’s out of his own element.” I also consider hunger, thirst, allergies to hay (it is cutting season), and H1N1. If he gets accused of manslaughter when he’s thirty, you can bet I’ll be there in the courtroom screaming like a maniac, “THAT GUY DESERVED IT! HE WAS PROVOKED!” If my nephew is acting out, there is a very good explanation for it. (At this point, my sister is piping in saying, “Yeah, he’s breathing—that’s the explanation!” But the kid needs a defender, you know? I love him.)

As I write this, he is eating breakfast in the high chair I bought at a yard sale especially for him last weekend. (I also bought a stroller, crib, pack-n-play, and What to Expect When You’re Expecting. I’m not pregnant, but I’m prepared.) I want him to feel comfortable and secure at my house, since he will be coming here every summer for the rest of his young life, if I have anything to do with it.

Anyway, I’m sorry posting has been wretched these past few weeks, but once things settle down around here, I’ll be back to my normal self.

In closing, I would like to share with you one last photo to help you have a happy Monday. (If you’re like me, and remain cold-heartedly unaffected by photos of other people’s snot-nosed kids, I apologise. I’ll try to contain myself.)

This post is finished.

Posted in Canada, family, kid stuffs, mondays suck, nephew, photos | 16 Comments

Adults: 0 Toddler: 1

by Camille Posted on July 31, 2009

Sorry I’ve been out of comission lately. I spent yesterday traveling to Canada with my sister and her husband and their 18 month-old boy. Ahem—their active 18 month-old boy.

Oh sure, he looks cute enough, but in all reality, kid’s a total hellion.

Now, my friends, I have flown to a lot of places in my life. I have had uncountable horrible travel experiences adventures. I have been bumped off flights and forced to sleep in an airport overnight (where I proceeded to throw up several times over the course of the evening). I have had layover after layover after stinking layover.

From the Phoenix Airport, I have flown to the following far-away places: Washington, D.C., New York, Oregon, Florida, England, and Paris (twice). I have suffered through many long flights across country and oceans, but yesterday’s 2 hour flight with my active nephew seemed longer than all my international flights combined.

I can think of a lot of things I’d rather do than making the return flight home with him, starting with a root canal and ending with a pap smear/mamogram combo.

I am not lying when I say that he started screaming before the plane ever left the runway, and continued to do so—at the extreme most top of his tiny little lungs—until the last twenty minutes of the flight. SCREAMED.

Three adults vs. one toddler. Adults: 0. Toddler: 1.

So I’m exhausted, and I wasn’t even the one dealing with the little cuss. You’ll excuse me for my lack of energetic posting? Please and thanks.

Posted in failures, family, nephew, oh brother what next, Travel | 15 Comments

Crowning Glory

by Camille Posted on July 29, 2009

This is a public service announcement.

Dear Readers,

I love you, but HAVE YOU GONE MAD?

I write one little post about premature menopause, and before I can say “Yasmin,” I’m suspected of pregnancy? Mercy hell sakes alive.

Poor Kyle and I are a two-person family. There’s no room in the frame for anyone else right now. Maybe it’s a little out of focus, but it’s a good picture anyway. Cayman Islands, May 2009.

I was on the white pill week (menstruating, if you will {How unfortunate that I have sunk so low as to use that atrocious word in a blog post, huh? I know.}) the day I flew down to Arizona for dear Great Uncle Henry’s life celebration. My dwindling stash of Playtex Sport (regular absorbtion) proved I wasn’t pregnant then; I’m certainly not pregnant now, less than a week later. Poor Kyle stayed in Canada, you see, and as far as it was explained to me during the Fifth Grade sex talk, making babies takes both eggs and sperm. I might be dumb, but I’m nowhere near stupid enough to be a floozy while Poor Kyle waits patiently for my return to Canada. His is all the sperm I’ll ever need.

How awkward.

So no. I’m not pregnant. I’m not trying to get pregnant. I don’t expect to be any time soon.

Now that we’ve got that settled, readers, I would like to share one funny story with you about my weekend. This is the one about me and The Comeback. The Comeback, as in the single-most brilliant retort I’ve ever delivered with pitch-perfect accuracy and without missing a beat. It’s almost as if someone had written the script for me…

After my Great Uncle Henry’s funeral was over, all the family members who’d attended the funeral congregated for an organised luncheon put on by our church (birth, death, baptism, wedding—we eat a lot in our culture). As I made my way between tables full of family members I hadn’t seen in years, I paused to visit with some dear cousins and their parents. My uncle, who I’ve always been a little scared of, began the teasing and good-natured ribbing almost immediately after I sat down.

“So, Mill-mill, where’s that Canadian husband of yours?”

“Oh, he’s back home enjoying his week as a bachelor.” It was my formula answer to the question I’d heard a hundred times already that day from well-meaning relatives. (My relatives are nothing if not well-meaning. I love ’em all.)

Taking my response as a cue to prod into our family planning schedule, my uncle asked, “So when are you guys gonna get pregnant?”

And friends, I tell you, what I said next was inspired. I swear to you it was not pre-meditated:

In a moment of unadulterated genius, I replied with a straight face, “Oh, didn’t you know? Kyle can’t. Get pregnant, that is. Never has, never will. It’s really pretty sad.”

There was a split second of awkward silence while the table processed my frank admission; my heart almost stopped for fear that they wouldn’t get the joke, and instead think I was confessing some sort of medical problem with Poor Kyle’s manly bits. Then, just as I was preparing to make a hasty retreat to the food table, my uncle started to chuckle. And then laugh. And then roar. Soon, the entire table was positively in stitches. I sighed in relief, let loose a little giggle, and then I left anyway to change the underoos I had soiled while waiting for them to catch on.

It was a crowning jewel in my sparsely decorated collection of clever and witty moments.

Forgive me for bragging, but I know it is unlikely to ever happen again. I have to soak it in while the glory is still fresh in my mind.

I am not pregnant. I don’t need a pee stick to tell me that.

This has been a public service announcement.

Thank you and goodbye.

Posted in family, It's All Good, Married Life, oh brother what next, Poor Kyle | 19 Comments

If It’s REALLY What’s On the Inside that Counts, I Guess I’m Doomed.

by Camille Posted on July 28, 2009

I think I’m going through a premature menopause.

Think about it: I already have granny arms. I’m saggy in places that 22 year-old girls should normally be perky. I’ve got an odd smell about me (I skipped the shower today—I was too hot to bear it). It’s so obvious. Menopause.

The menopause is starting to affect my marriage. Poor Kyle couldn’t get me out of the house quick enough when I was planning my departure for Arizona last week. I had the choice of flying out on either Thursday or Friday (I was flying standby and there were five times more seats available Friday than Thursday), and when I asked Poor Kyle what he thought, he said, “Oh, you should leave Thursday. Definitely.”

“Even though there’s only going to be three seats available for me?” I asked, stalling with the hope that he’d come up with something sweet to say, like, oh, I dunno…MAYBE YOU SHOULD WAIT ONE MORE DAY SO I WON’T HAVE TO MISS YOU AS MUCH, MY SWEET WIFE?

Instead he said, “Yeah. Thursday. For sure. Where’s your suitcase? I’ll help you pack.”

I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure that when I paused in the airport entry to wave a final somber goodbye to my husband, I caught a glimpse of him punching his fist in the air with glee. He was thrilled to be rid of me.

I don’t blame him, really—I am going through premature menopause, after all, and I’m not that fun to be around these days. I would want me to leave Thursday, too, if I were Poor Kyle. See, lately I seem to get annoyed by the smallest of disturbances (translation: I’ve become a grouchy old broad thirty years before my time) and blow them way out of proportion. Seriously.

Exhibit One: Trying to deposit a cheque from a Canadian bank into my American chequing account proved to be much more tiresome than I had planned. Instead of taking it in stride like a young, vivacious girl ought to, I grumbled and growled and clacked my dentures at the poor bank teller who thought he’d entered some sort of geriactric twilight zone where all the crazy old hags look deceivingly like college co-eds.

Exhibit Two: Facebook has really gotten on my nerves lately (oh, my poor nerves!). If I have to read one more Obama quiz marked “STRONGLY DISAPPROVE I HATE THE MAN’S VERY EXISTENCE AND EVERYTHING IS ALL HIS FAULT,” I will probably delete my account. Not to be dramatic, or anything. But yes, to be dramatic.

Exhibit Three: I’ve been replying to emails all day, but the Mail program is having difficulties sending them. As it stands, there are twenty messages in my outbox that keep trying to send themselves every few minutes, but to no avail. This is just the sort of thing Poor Kyle could fix for me if he knew I was having a problem, but he does not. It makes me hopping mad. Some people might simply delete the unsent messages and call it a loss, but I hate to go to so much work responding to comments just to have them lost in cyberspace. So if you randomly receive an email next week (after I sort out my email issues) in response to a comment you made on yesterday’s post, please forgive me my trespasses. I am but a lone girl drowning in a sea of technological advancement; all the lifeboats are full of first-class passengers, and I don’t have a penny to my name.

Exhibit Four: I just bawled through My Sister’s Keeper next to my (also bawling) dear friend in an empty movie theatre. Who even does that? It’s the menopause hormones; I’m sure of it. After the film ended, I talked to my own sister on the phone and told her I loved her. I always tell her I love her, but I don’t usually call to tell her that and only that. She asked me if I was getting ready to commit suicide or something. Nope, just covering my bases.

Exhibit Five: Today, while trying on clothes in the fitting room at my local JC Penny (menopause), I started sweating profusely. I had to sit down on the little corner bench in the fitting room and fan myself with a crumpled up tissue I dug out from the bottom of my purse. As sure as I’m typing this blog post right now, I was having a hot flash. A hot flash. I, who wear closed-toe shoes to movie theatres and restaurants because I’m always so cold in public places, had my first hot flash!

Exhibit Six: I’ve been feeling a bit gassy. A sure-fire indication of menopause, no?

This is all very disturbing to me, to be experiencing symptoms of menopause at such a young age. But, as per my new take-charge attitude of “Get Over It,” (i.e. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em), I’m attempting to fight my way through the darkness. Do any of my more life-experienced readers have suggestions for me to deal with these unexpected changes?

I would just Google™ it, but I seem to have misplaced my trifocal reading glasses, and you know I’m lost without them.

Posted in change, health and vitality, I hate change, It's All Good, oh brother what next, woe is me | Tagged premature menopause | 21 Comments

A has-been who never was.

by Camille Posted on July 27, 2009

Due to an unexpected death in my family {Great Uncle Henry was white water rafting at the beginning of July; two weeks later: dead}, I am visiting Mesa, Arizona, where I was born and raised. It’s good to be back where everybody knows my name (Norm!). Comfortable. Familiar. I love this desert place, more than my teenage self ever imagined possible. {Back then, I wanted nothing more than to move far away and never come back to this land of heat and sagebrush. Silly me.}

But being home is not all lollipops and daisies. The bad thing about coming home after moving away is that I usually run in to people I haven’t seen in a while {whether by chance or by design}, and it’s very nerve-wracking to me. One of my lifelong fears is that I’ll see an old acquaintance and he or she will immediately think, “Wow, she’s really let herself go.”

It is for this very reason that I have developed an unhealthy phobia of going out in public. I mean, what am I? I’m a 22 year-old college NONgraduate with no job, driving my mom’s old Ford Windstar (which is only because I flew down from Canada and am not old enough to rent a car, but old acquaintances don’t necessarily know that—for all they know, the minivan I drove on our group dates to the mountains our Senior year of high school is the very same vehicle I drive today). And okay, image isn’t everything; it’s just that the Windstar is the cherry on top of the bran muffin that is my unfulfilled life.

“But Camille—you’re married! How can you say your life is unfulfilled? Of course your life has meaning!”

I’ve never understood that logic. Maybe for some girls being married is an identity, but not me—never me. I never wanted to be the kind of woman whose entire sense of worth was wrapped up in a man’s presence (or lack thereof). So yes, I love Poor Kyle and the life we have together, but it doesn’t necessarily mean I have DONE something with myself…you know? I got married, and I’m happy I did, but it doesn’t change who I am. Being married is not an accomplishment to me {in the sense that writing a best-selling novel would be}, because it was never my major goal in life. (I hope Poor Kyle understands what I’m saying and doesn’t feel bad…I love you, dear.)

Therefore, I have come to the conclusion…that I am washed up. Worn out. Old news. Past my prime. Expired. If I was a gallon of skim milk (who am I kidding? I’m whole milk if anything), I’d be right sour.

I’m a dadgum has-been.

I haven’t graduated from college. I’m unemployed. I’m the image of failed domesticity, and to top it off, I have really flabby arms.

Tragic.

That’s the root of my problem, I think—my flabby upper arms. It’s nothing new, of course; they’ve always been flabby, but it’s not really an issue in Canada. I simply wear a lot of sweaters {a solution which is both functional and appropriate}. But now, in Arizona in July, sweaters are neither functional nor appropriate. On the contrary: a sweater in Arizona in July is like a BMW in an Amish town—totally worthless.

So while living in Canada, I can hide from the problem, or ignore it altogether; but here, I’m wearing short-sleeved T-shirts and feeling ridiculously insecure about my granny arms, all the while bumping into people at the grocery store who knew me in the glory days. It’s pretty much awful.

But you know what I’ve decided? Enough is enough. It has to stop. Over the past seven months, I have proven to myself that, in fact, I do have stamina. I can work hard. I can get As in all my classes. I can lose 20 pounds. I can go months without washing my hair. I can, I can, I can.

I can either leave my arms alone and get over my insecurities (knowing that even if my arms were toned like Jillian’s, I’d just find something else to fret about), or I can buff up my arms and get over it. Either way, I have to get over it.

I might as well try to build some muscle mass along the way.

After all, the miserable month of August is fast approaching, and it’s only getting hotter from here. I’ve decided to fight the frump starting on August 1st. I mean, August is such a worthless month, I might as well take on a quest and try to make the best of it. So, in exactly four days, I’m going to begin a strict push-up routine. I’ll stick to it diligently, providing (of course) regular photographic updates, and hopefully make some progress by the end of the month.

Who knows? Maybe someday I’ll be able to bench press more than the super ultra-light bar at the gym that I haven’t visited in years.

Bring it, August. I’ll punch your face.

Posted in change, health and vitality, mondays suck, Overall Good Things, self-actualisation, woe is me | 19 Comments

A blog about being married and making it.

Shattered Dreams of Corn-on-the-Cob

Pill Pushers: A Cut above the Rest

August, Baby!

Adults: 0 Toddler: 1

Crowning Glory

If It’s REALLY What’s On the Inside that Counts, I Guess I’m Doomed.

A has-been who never was.

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