Archives of Our Lives

{Running on Fumes}

by Camille Posted on April 7, 2009

Doesn’t it kill you when you just get excited about a new blog you’re reading, or a fun new internet personality who updates regularly, and you really feel like you’ve got a good thing going, and then suddenly BAM! The blogger announces he or she will be taking a brief hiatus for “personal reasons” or to reevaluate priorities or some equally open-ended excuse?

It kills me.

Which is why it kills me to have to do it to you today…

…not really. I wouldn’t do something that I hate having done to myself.

But I do think there are going to be some changes happening around here—just temporarily. I don’t have quite enough brain matter to go around right now, it seems. Today, after turning in my last paper of the semester, I felt total relief, but the lousy kind of relief laced with dread, because I know it’s not even close to being over yet—I still have two weeks of classes, plus final exams, and that’s only this semester. Who knows how many I’ll have left before I escape the collegiate crap-hole with my ridiculous piece of paper graduate? I don’t even want to think about it.

I disliked college before I moved to Canada, and I dislike it just as much now—or maybe worse, because I have to trek from the parking lot to the campus in snow and hurricane-force wind, which is just awful. At any rate, I am a bad example to all the kiddies out there because my advice is to graduate from high school and then run—don’t walk—as far away as humanly possible from any sort of institutionalised education from there on out. College never did a thing for me but break my spirit and suck dry the pockets of those who cared enough to keep me enrolled.

Like I said…I may not be the best example for your children.

In case you couldn’t tell, I’m feeling a bit blue these days. I think it’s a combination of missing home, missing green grass, missing my days of freedom, and missing a piece of my heart. Something’s just…missing inside me. {Or maybe I’m just suffering from depression; all the good bloggers do, and I always did want to be one of the good bloggers…} I am consummately burnt out, but there’s no time for that—I still have three weeks to survive. I need to prepare myself for the barrage of the upcoming month, because the ride’s not over yet, and it’s foolish to be running on empty during times like these.

I either need to snap out of it, or get myself some heavy sedatives—I can’t keep living like this.

Thus, since my brain is already functioning at ultra-too-full capacity, I am sorry to announce that I will temporarily be cutting down my time online. I hate to do it—I hate missing even one day on the internet, but it has to be.

And when something has to be, there’s nothing more to be done than simply to do it. A wiser version of myself said that once upon a time (who am I kidding—wise people have been saying it for ages; I’m nothing special).

Image from here, though I wish I could say it’s from my own house. I need one of these posters.

So I’m sorry if you don’t see my comments on your blogs as frequently as normal. I’ll do my best to keep calm and carry on and post five days a week.

Posted in blogger finger, Cutting Back, mediocrity, my edjumacation and me, sad things | Tagged keep calm carry on, mild depression | 29 Comments

This is Your Brain. This is Your Brain on Drugs.

by Camille Posted on April 6, 2009

This movie…it’s funny.

If you’ve ever had any sort of surgery {or if you’ve ever been completely stoned}, you might be able to relate to this poor, pathetic little drugg-ed up kid:

David After Dentist {or alternatively, This Is Your Brain on Drugs}:

But just in case you’re at work and can’t watch the video, I’ll do a play-by-play for you:

David has just undergone oral surgery. He feels understandably woozy and disoriented, so he asks a trusted adult, in all seriousness, “Is this real life?”

Whoa. I feel funny.

Yes, says the father figure, it is, in fact, real life. But David is not convinced. “Okay, now—” he begins, but before he can re-pose the thoughtful query, he is immediately distracted by his fingers {of which there are two—no, wait—four—no, wait—yeah, four}.

And then another immediate distraction: “Do I have stitches?”

And then, at 1:00:00, poor, drugged-up little David is unable to cope with his father’s iron fist (for all he really wants to do is touch his mouth to verify if he really does have stitches, but his father won’t allow it). And there is no more appropriate reaction to stagnant rules than this:

AAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I hear ya, kid. I hear ya.

Then, three seconds later, at 1:03, David sinks pathetically back into his seat, utterly hopeless:

{But “he doesn’t feel tired…} He’s exhausted with the sorrows in life, I assume. Life is so hard, little buddy. I get it.

Oral surgery makes everybody feel an infinite despair, I think.

Suddenly, he’s encouraged by a thought: maybe he has stitches! {Wait, didn’t we already cover this?}

“Do I have stitches?” he inquires {for the third time} to the voice behind the camera.

“Uh huh…” replies the older man.

But “uh huh” is an incomprehensible response for our completely wasted little friend, who asks again, “Do I have stitches?”

Before hearing the response to his {exact same} question, David becomes overwhelmed with the injustice of it all…

He throws his hands up in despair, and asks, to no one in particular {because who could possibly know the answer to such an abstract question}, “Why is this happening to me???”

Honestly, I wondered the same thing when I had my wisdom teeth out: How could such a thing happen to me? What did I ever do to deserve such hardships?

Have you ever seen such a profound look of angst on a face so young? He is literally mourning the loss of his youth—he thinks he’s going to live in this perpetual state of befuddlement for the rest of his days.

Finally, in an astute moment of metaphysical philosophy far beyond his years, he ponders, “Is this gonna be for ever?”

It’s hard to say, little fella. It’s really hard to say. Drugs have that effect on people, so let this be a lesson to you…

Posted in health and vitality, It's All Good, kid stuffs, like-it-link-it | Tagged oral surgery, this is your brain on drugs, wisdom teeth removal | 15 Comments

{Ppl Mite Get ‘Fended}

by Camille Posted on April 5, 2009

Oi, another Monday. I don’t digg Mondays; not too much. I don’t know why—I have no scheduled classes on Mondays, but… I don’t know. I think Mondays are too much of a let-down after the loveliness of Sundays {though I’m told Sundays aren’t nearly as lovely if kids are involved}. At any rate, I don’t believe in difficult things on Mondays—it’s against my moral code or something. So today, I’m going to answer another reader question. It’s been a long time since I’ve answered one of these, so I might as well, eh? Plus, after writing so many literary papers this semester, my mind can’t really…think anymore. Call me a cop-out if you must {you’d probably be right}.

Question, from Anonymous:

Hahaha do you think any of the ppl you write about would be offended if they stumbled upon your blog? {This question was posed after a particularly bitter diatribe.}

Answer, from Me:

Hi, Anonymous! Who are you? Are you in hiding? In a secret annex? Are you a member of the Witness Protection Program? {I always thought that would be cool.} Why are you hiding behind your anonymity? Not that I can blame you—I long for anonymity quite often, too.

In answer to your question, yes. I think a good many ppl would be offended if they ever read some of the things I’ve written about them. My one wretched English Professor comes to mind. I have rhetorically massacred her many times on my website, and even more in the imaginary book in my head:

Here and here, to name a few (there would be a lot more if this semester would last a little longer {not that I’m complaining!}) As a matter of fact, back when I was writing for the University paper, and publishing my real name and my real website address, I was a little bit paranoid she would find my blog and read how much I hate her. Luckily, I’m done with the paper, and I’m pretty sure she is way above blogging, anyway. She only reads dadgum poetry and literary journals—deep stuff. {She has a Doctorate, after all…} She’s one of those ppl I will probably loathe until I die.

Other ppl who might be offended if they stumbled upon my blog: the ppl at Ford™, the ppl at Wal*Mart™, crazy nail-clipping maniac ppl, ppl who stab me in the back, Canadian ppl with poor grammar, kiosk ppl at the mall, and all the communist ppl in China.

Lots of ppl probably hate me, if you want to know the truth.

So now I have a question for you, my secret annex friend: Did you ask me that because you think I’m too harsh on ppl? What about the rest of you, my readers? Are you offended? Have you been in the past? Should I tone it down a bit? Do you think I should create a sweeter type of myself, a version 2.0, and just consider my blog thus far as a beta? Or would AoOL not be AoOL without the literary onslaughts? What do you say?

Because I know I come off a little bit like I hate the world or something. And I’d be sad if I’m giving ppl the wrong impression…

…because that would be a pity.

Posted in ask me anything, mondays suck | 20 Comments

Announcing the First Semi-Annual Meeting of the New United Blog Order™

by Camille Posted on April 2, 2009

In my spirit lives the makings of a recluse. You think I’m kidding, but seriously… I’m not.

Wouldn’t you be, if you looked like this?

It’s all good and fine to be ha-ha-very-funny on the internet, but I have hours to think of this material; in fact, sometimes I change words to posts that are months old, just to maximise their optimum hilarity potential. Oh, I know, it doesn’t matter—nobody ever reads the archives anyway; but that’s just me, always occupied with nonsense that will never amount to much {English degree, anyone?}.

But I digress. The point is, I try really hard to be funny online, and here, behind the illuminated screen, it sometimes works. I can sometimes pull it off.

In real life, though? I’m a major let-down.

I get all nervous when I meet people from blogs (or people from anywhere, really—people just aren’t my forte), and I stumble over my words, and laugh too loud, and I stick my foot so far down my throat you’d think I was bulimic except for I don’t nearly look it.

The point of telling you all this, you ask? Because I don’t want you to get your hopes up too high for when you meet me next month.

If you live in Arizona, or if you plan to be visiting Arizona during the first two weeks in May, start thinking about what you’re going to wear, because the pictures of this get-together will surely be posted on your blog later. That’s right, my friends: I’m going to try and overcome my fears, and…

…deep breaths…

…stay focused…

…don’t freak out…

…meet you.

I’ve already Facebooked™ Busy Bee Lauren, and she’s game, which is good because then I can just play hookie and never even show my face. {But I wouldn’t do that, at least not without thinking really hard about it first.}

So now, all that’s left to do, is 1) wait awhile longer, because what sort of nerd actually plans her lives three weeks in advance, and 2) figure out where this shin-dig should occur. We’ve already agreed that food must be involved, because. {That’s right, because. Do you need any more explanation than that?} But it can’t be a sit-down restaurant, for, presumably, there will be more than just two people eating, and we can’t be splitting cheques left and right all over the place. It should be someplace more like Dairy Queen™, where everyone can order what they want, and pay as they go. Only it can’t be Dairy Queen™, because this was my {and Lauren’s} brainchild, and I can’t eat ice cream, so…

…I’m out of ideas.

This is where you come in, friends. Do you have any brilliant suggestions for where The First Semi-Annual Meeting of the United Blog Order™ should be held? If so, jump in and let me know.

Also, just as some ground rules:

1. Everybody is welcome to join the United Blog Order™ (unless I didn’t like you in high school), if he or she has a blog which the founders can investigate (because we’re no dummies; we don’t want to be accosted by creep-os). So, if you want to join the order and attend our bash, but you don’t have a blog…BETTER START ONE. Locations of the Semi-Annual Meeting of the United Blog Order™ will be emailed to active participants, not posted on blogs, so don’t think you can cheat the system. And if you’re worried that I didn’t like you in high school…heh. Sweat it out for a while. (Just kidding: I like you.)

2. If you are scared of people, like I am, do try to overcome your fears, because it’s going to be grand. Facing fears builds character, after all {yeah, I never bought that rubbish either, but I sure know how to dish it out!}.

3. I will wear makeup for you. You don’t have to—we at the United Blog Order™ are no respecters of makeup. It’s just my own rule I made up for myself. You know, because I’m so goal-oriented.

4. If you are interested in joining the United Blog Order™, comment on this post. I’d like to get an idea of what we’re dealing with. Might help me think of someplace brilliant to convene.

5. No other rules, until further notice.

Posted in United Blog Order | Tagged United Blog Order Meeting | 32 Comments

What it Takes to Be a HyperMiler

by Camille Posted on April 1, 2009

It’s no secret that I was born to drive like a city mouse. When the streets are dry up here in Canada, I take every opportunity to fly like the wind—I don’t speed {more than necessary}, but I do like to get ahead of the other cars right off the line at a red light. At stop signs, I wait the cursory three seconds—but not a moment longer.

Image from here.

And yesterday, when the idiot woman in the Lexus™ expected me to slow down just so she could merge into my lane (which I did not, because puh-lease…), and then crammed in front of me at the last second, and then STOMPED! on her brakes as soon as she was in my lane, just to make me mad…I may or may not have gestured rudely to her rear view mirror. I suppose she expected me to let her in—even though I had the right of way—just because most Canadians would’ve. Drivers in this country are just so courteous, you see, and I…

…I am not.

But all that is in the past now. It is with much regret that I announce my days of lead-footed driving are no more. No longer do I “give ‘er” as soon as the light turns green; gone are my days of gunning it just to get ahead of the pack. Why, you ask? Why the sudden change of heart?

Thor.

Thor is a beast of a machine who hasn’t been economical a day in his life.

Ever since I killed Tamra Camry, I’ve had the good pleasure of having Thor as my chariot. He’s my trusty steed. Only he’s not very trusty. Or steedly. Nevertheless, I’m grateful we had a backup vehicle for me to use after I incompetently destroyed my other one. I won’t complain.

Or maybe I will, because there’s just one thing: Thor uses 1/4 tank of gas to get me to school and back—that same drive would have taken Tamra Camry less than 1/8 tank. It’s kind of disturbing to drive to school only two days and suddenly see the tank on empty.

People actually convert their fuel gauges to look like this. Brilliant. Image from here.

I was bemoaning these woes to Poor Kyle last week, and he said to me, most unsympathetically, “Well, you’d get better mileage if you’d just slow down.”

I, of course, took exception to that, because I never drive any faster than the speed limit should be, and I told him so.

“It’s more about how you drive than how fast you drive,” he said smugly.

Naturally, I was confused, because that didn’t make any sense—“how fast I drive” is basically my identity, and that’s no different than “how I drive.”

Poor Kyle went on to explain that if I could manage to work my way up to the speed limit *slowly,* and never rev the engine, I’d get substantially better mileage.

“Never rev the engine?” I asked, incredulous. “How is it even possible? That’s no way to live!”

But evidently, it’s true: if I keep Thor’s motor revving under 2,000 RPMs, I get better mileage. I’ve been trying it all week, and I’m sorry to say that it actually works. Already, I’ve been to town and back twice, and it only took 1/4 tank of fuel—that’s double last week’s average.

Dadgummit.

As much as I’m loath to admit it—and I am very, very loath—Poor Kyle’s method really works.

Poor Poor Kyle; he’s been trying to get me to ease up my driving habits for years now. Always before, when I asked him why I should drive more slowly, his reason was because I might run over a kid playing in the street. Horrible reasoning, Poor Kyle; it would never happen—too obscure. But tell me it could save a gallon of fuel, and I suddenly become the granny driver I always used to tailgate.

Image from here.

Since there’s really no excuse not to be driving more conservatively {except the sheer tedium of it}, I’ve decided to make my daily commute as fun as possible. I stare at the rev-o-meter almost constantly; I cringe when I approach an uphill road; I don’t even use cruise control, for fear not being able to regulate the revolutions.

It takes me 20 minutes just to work up to the speed limit. I’m halfway done with my commute before I ever hit 100 kilometers per hour. On the highway into town, there’s always a clear open road ahead of me, and a loooong line of cars backed up behind me, itching to pass.

For all intents and purposes, I’m becoming a hypermiler.

Or, in other words, I am now the driver I used to hate. Just shove me behind the wheel of a Lexus™, and I’ll be flipping me off in no time.

Posted in Uncategorized | 13 Comments

Timeline of Decline

by Camille Posted on March 31, 2009

*Posted as part of the Sprite’s Keeper weekly Spin Cycle*

Remember when you were in school?

Remember how, after months of attending lectures, and meeting with belittling professors, and receiving poorer grades than you deserved, and basically getting the life sucked out of you one Tuesday/Thursday at a time…after months of dealing with that rubbish, you started to look sort of gaunt and run-down?

Well, just in case you forgot, I have documented the progression (or should I say, “digression” [or should I say, “slow and torturous death by higher education”]) for you, my readers. Every few mornings this semester, while waiting for my first class to start, I’ve opened my laptop and snapped a picture of myself. I don’t know what has compelled me to do it, except maybe a spiritual inspiration that I haven’t quite understood until just this moment. No matter the reason, the point is that I now have proof—photographic evidence—that the pursuit of higher knowledge is killing me, one class at a time.

My Marked Progression/Digression Through School

Phase 1: Months before classes started, my eyebrows were maintained. My face was glowing, and my radiant skin was totally blemish-free. Those were friendlier days.The Look: Carefree and Happy

Phase 2: A month into the semester, I was still putting forth some effort. At least I was wearing makeup, which was a sure sign They hadn’t beat me yet. By the looks of it, I was optimistic enough to wake up early, shower, and actually style my hair with volumising product. Still no sign of stress-pimples, but my eyebrows were starting to look a little mangy. There was a semblance of a little smile, though—I was obviously still in the game.

The Look: Hopeful

Phase 3: Hmmm… I obviously couldn’t be bothered to wash my hair anymore. My bangs were pulled back, and not in a cutesy sporty way. I was starting to resemble the drug-dealing days of my past, which was a realisation I must have planned to bury under dark black eyeliner. At least the makeup was still present, and covering a pimple-free face. Still, I was not even trying to smile anymore, which doesn’t bode well…

The Look: In Denial

Phase 4: Weeks later, college finally taught me something—I got smart and bought a hat to cover the craziness. By then, spots of red were starting to creep through my foundation and powder, but the pimples were mostly controllable. Eyebrows seem bushier, but there was evidence of attempted makeup and hair-care. Nevertheless, something in my eyes looked a little despondent.

The Look: Starting to Wonder

Phase 5: Now, my hair hasn’t been washed since last month, and I don’t bother with trying to manage it anymore. Instead, I give it a few tosses, decide it’s a lost cause, and bust out the Pollyanna braids. {Plus a hat, because I have a feeling it’s going to be one of those days.} I’m not wearing makeup because I’m fresh out (must’ve spent too much trying to pretend everything was okay during the last two phases). But really, even if I had any makeup to apply, does this look like the face of someone who’s about to use it?

The Look: Haggard

This how I walked around campus for 12 hours yesterday. I’m pretty much a ghost these days—a shadow of my former self. I float from class to class with a vacant look in my eyes:

I look haunted, and I probably am. Haunted by the ghost of how I used to be, that is.

Since I don’t have makeup to hide the aftermath, I don’t even bother to pop my pimples anymore—not even the whitehead volcanic ones.

And that, my friends…

…that’s when you know it’s not getting bad…

…but it’s already gotten there.

Posted in change, failures, I hate change, looking back, mediocrity, my edjumacation and me, photos, what a nightmare, woe is me | Tagged college kid, I'm slowly getting uglier | 32 Comments

This is the Song That Never Ends.

by Camille Posted on March 30, 2009

In the office {next to our bedroom where I’m typing this}, Poor Kyle is humming the tune to Jason Mraz’s “I’m Yours,” which is already about as sweet as it can be, but Poor Kyle adds in all kinds of runs and trills—he really fancies it up, and it’s just precious. {As he’s reading this, he’s groaning and rolling his eyes, hoping none of his friends read my blog.}

You will probably never have the good fortune of hearing Poor Kyle sing—he’s incredibly shy about it, but he has a fantastic voice. He even wrote me a song once, with guitar parts, and lyrics, and everything! A real song. {Cue more groans—sorry, PK!} It’s a lovely song, and I have a recording of it, but if I ever posted it on this blog, he would probably morph into an Incredible Hulk-ish Husband and strangle me in my sleep or something. Well, he’s not violent, so that would be a stretch, but you get what I’m saying: he’d be MAD—no, he’d be MADD, with two Ds. Really madd.

Mad like this—I see this expression more often than you might expect.

Anyway, the point is, Poor Kyle is a musical fellow, without even having any formal training. In the time it’s taken me to write this, he has picked out riffs of “I’m Yours” and morphed them into a techno version of a different song altogether. He could hum to himself this way for hours—and he does. Parts of one song will remind him of another good tune, so he’ll start singing that, and then he’ll think, “I bet a whistle would sound really good with this,” so he throws in a couple of those. He’ll drum his hands on his chest, the desk, his knees—any solid surface within reach will do. If he’s working on the computer, he even clicks the mouse in beat to the rhythm of the moment. It’s like he’s got an entire band inside his brain. He goes on and on, and there’s really no telling where one song ends and another begins. I don’t know how he gets any work done with all the tunes floating through his mind, but it must be what makes him tick.

It’s hard to take him seriously when he’s just so goofy.

I’m musical, too, but in a completely opposite way. I compartmentalise. When I’m being musical, I focus on the music; when I’m writing, I only write. I can’t mesh the two together. For example, if I’m trying to write a blog post, but there’s music playing on another blog’s playlist, I get totally distracted by the melodies and words trickling from my speakers, and can’t seem to think up any words of my own. I don’t know how Poor Kyle can focus on html and xhtml and CSS and all that other technological nonsense, with the music in his mind running at exactly 120 beats per minute.

Also, I’ve taken piano lessons and flute lessons for as long as I can remember (well, not the flute anymore), and when I sit to learn a song, I’ve been taught to drill it into my brain. No varying from the written music—no nuances. I learn the songs how they’re written, and that’s that. Poor Kyle, on the other hand, learns guitar chords off of YouTube™, and then puts them together in his own ways—ways that work. I could no sooner improvise a lovely tune than I could squeeze juice from a novel, but Poor Kyle? He’s a pro at it.

Like night and day, we are.

I hesitate to post this, because I know he’s going to read it and become insecure, thinking his quirkiness bothers me—but it doesn’t. In a way, it’s symbolic of our lives together. I’m intense about my life the same way I’m intense about my music: I play by the rules; I don’t really vary from the guidelines; I practise and practise (at music, at writing, at communicating, at losing weight), hoping that I’m improving in some small way. You might think I’m easy-going just because I’m funny (ho, ho!), but really, I’m quite regimented. I don’t like change or variations to my routines; I don’t improvise my music, and I don’t improvise my life [if I can avoid it].

Poor Kyle is 180° different—he’s laid back with his plans; he’s an extremely flexible, fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants sort of guy…

…though you’d never know it to look at him.

He makes changes in his life as easily as he can alter the songs in his head—one change after another, taking them all in stride. His music never ends, and thank goodness: if the song ends, it will probably mean that he’s been around me for too long. I like the song just how it is right this minute; and if it’s a little different in thirty seconds, I’ll like it then, too.

{I think I married exactly the right person for me.}

Posted in I hate change, introspection, Married Life, Poor Kyle, self-actualisation | Tagged hum to yourself, Music of Our Lives | 19 Comments

A blog about being married and making it.

{Running on Fumes}

This is Your Brain. This is Your Brain on Drugs.

{Ppl Mite Get ‘Fended}

Announcing the First Semi-Annual Meeting of the New United Blog Order™

What it Takes to Be a HyperMiler

Timeline of Decline

This is the Song That Never Ends.

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