The Millionaire Adventurer {My Calling in Life}

by Camille Posted on February 22, 2009

Remember Steve Fossett, the Millionaire Adventurer who died in a plane wreck in September of 2007?

It’s okay if you don’t; my own head was kind of exploding when it was being reported, so I didn’t hear anything about it until a year later, when they finally found his remains.  I never met the late Mr. Fossett, on account of I don’t really run around with very many independently wealthy people, but his legacy will forever live on in my heart.  He changed the way I think about life.

The man was a Millionaire Adventurer. That was his title—a Millionaire Adventurer.  Not a CEO, not a Real Estate Executive, not Doctor or Lawyer or Therapist Fossett; a Millionaire Adventurer.  Can you imagine?  “Hi, what do you do?  Oh, you’re an attorney?  Fascinating.  My name’s Camille; I’m a Millionaire Adventurer.” Yeah.  That would be amazing.

Actually, though, it’s not so out-of-reach as I would have you believe.  Truth be told, I’m halfway there:  I’m already an adventurer…

…now I just need the millions.  I’m almost positive it’s my calling in life to be a Millionaire Adventurer (though I’ll be smart about it and try not to die in a plane crash right when I’m at my peak).

Now that I think of it, however, I could probably go one step further.  According to this article at npr.org, some guy named Sir Richard Branson (a good buddy of Steve Fossett), is a British Billionaire who helped fund many of Fossett’s record-breaking Millionaire Adventures.  If I had to choose between being a Millionaire Adventurer or a British Billionaire…I wouldn’t. Instead, I would combine the two and become a British Billionaire Adventurer.  That, my friends, is my true calling in life.  I’m pretty sure of it.

The only problem I foresee with being a British Billionaire Adventurer is that I would be too embarrassed to ever tell people what my profession was.  I mean, it’s bad enough when people ask me what I do and I tell them I’m getting a degree in English.  “Oh, you’re going to be a teacher?” they ask.  Nope, a writer.  It’s always sort of awkward when I announce I want to write professionally; it’s kind of like art students telling people they’re going to be paid artists someday: “Oh, well, isn’t that…nice?” I’m sure every English major in the world assumes she is going to live by her pen alone, and the chances of it actually happening are quite slim.  There’s just…a lot of competition.

So if I’m embarrassed just to tell people I want to be a writer—a paid, professional writer—when I grow up, think how much more uncomfortable it will be when I start saying I’m going to be a British Billionaire Adventurer.  You have to admit, it is pretty far-fetched…

…I’d better just stick with Millionaire Adventurer; it’s much more conceivable.

Posted in It's All Good, like-it-link-it, my edjumacation and me, theories | 18 Comments

You Know You’ve Been on Too Many Road Trips When…

by Camille Posted on February 18, 2009

…the prospect of sleeping in the backseat of a Ford FYadda50 doesn’t even phase you:

Though the “morning after” experience is not nearly as glamourous as one might imagine.

As you may know, Poor Kyle and I are seasoned road-trippers.  We’ve bunked out in the truck on more than one occasion, and I was looking forward to avoiding such a feat this trip.  I had the promise of a luxurious hotel in Pasco, Washington, but yesterday’s 5.5 hour delay made reaching Pasco an impossible goal.  So, instead of my favourite hotel with the good shampoo and delicious bedding, I got to sleep in a truck {which looks roomy until you’re trying to complete a REM cycle, and then it’s kind of like wouldn’t it be better to just amputate my legs below the knees because then at least I could stretch out?  They’re doing amazing things with prosthetics these days}. And now, anywhere I have a joint, I also have an accompanying crick, which makes the second day of driving sort of painful.  And by painful I mean nothing short of hard liquor could make this bearable.

…Hope the hat was worth it.

Posted in fiascos, It's All Good, Married Life, on the road again | 14 Comments

Dadgummit to the Max.

by Camille Posted on February 17, 2009

I’m so vain; I once considered myself an expert traveler.  Sadly, my friends, I must be out of practise.  Rusty even.

*Note*  When taking a trip wherein crossing international borders is part of the itinerary…

…it might be helpful to remember your passport.  They’re kind of, sort of, marginally…necessary.

Poor Kyle never forgets his.  I remembered mine, but it was five hours too late.

Luckily we have some good friends who were willing to drive it out to our location.  Meanwhile, we’re waiting in the parking lot of a Husky™ station that just so happens to have free WiFi.  A hidden treasure.

I took the opportunity to fill my daily exercise quota, and went shopping at a nearby mall.

For $8, I got…

A $2 toque {beanie} that actually sort of looks marginally okay on me…

{Which, trust me, is a rarity indeed…} By the way, Poor Kyle’s sister Amy totally got ripped off when I bought this hat.  She inspired me.  Sorry I’m such a copy cat, Amy.  But you’re my own personal Stacy and Clinton, so…it is what it is, I guess.

{Two pairs of mitten-gloves.  Glittens?  Mloves?  They’re something I’ve always wanted, and at $2 a pair, happiness came cheap…}

…And a pair of [not pictured] grey tights (also $2).  I’ve not worn a pair of tights since I was a wee lass, but I hear they’re making a comeback.  Plus, it’s really cold at church in Canada with bare legs.  Up ’til now, I’ve resorted to growing out my leg hairs as a measure of warmth.  I guess I can finally shave.

So, although I’m really irked with myself, and have self-revoked my previous status as Expert Traveller, at least I got some cheap winter wear out of the deal.

Thus begins the Reading Week Roadtrip of 2009…  Stay tuned for these and more.

Posted in Canada, failures, fiascos, It's All Good, Married Life, mediocrity, oh brother what next, on the road again, Overall Good Things | Tagged | 17 Comments

Nobody Listens to My Brain Waves Anymore.

by Camille Posted on February 16, 2009

***Preface*** In the comment section of a recent post, a question of the integrity of my blog’s content was implied: Do I make this stuff up?  It’s not the first time I’ve been asked—someone once even accused me of commenting anonymously on my own posts, just to stir the pot.  No.  It is not true.  I’ve never done either.  Though good, dramatic writing sometimes merits a few embellished details, like rounding up the number of stairs I climb each day from 107 to an even 110, the the stories on this blog are founded in truth.  This kind of stuff really does happen to me, and here’s how you can know:  My imagination is not all that great.  I couldn’t make up these stories.***

So there I am, all gussied up in my Sunday best…

Image from here.

…Poor Kyle’s on the pew next to me, and I’m laughing at the fact that we’re sitting on a “pew.”  [Okay, not really.  I got over that childishness a long time ago.]  A nice lady is at the pulpit giving a spiritual talk, because that’s how we roll in the Mormon church—everyone gets to have a go at preaching.  [Not really.  But sort of.  It’s actually kind of complicated.  Feel free to drop me a line if you have questions about how it works.]

Anyway, Poor Kyle and I are sitting there reverently, listening to the speaker, when suddenly, amidst the congregation, I hear a distinct “Snip.” High-pitched and tinny, it sounded strangely like…well…like fingernail clippers at work.

“It couldn’t be,” I thought, “Who in their right mind would clip their nails at church?  Surely it’s just a random noise.”

“Snip.”

“Snip…  Snip.” And just like that, all sense of reverence I might have been feeling flies out the proverbial window, and my mind becomes consumed with the desire to make sense of the situation.  Who is doing this?  Is it seriously for real?  Why do they think that is appropriate behaviour? {Note: I, myself, have been called out on my INAPPROPRIATE, DISTRACTING, AND ABOMINABLY WHORISH BEHAVIOUR before at church, so I consider myself an expert on “how to act while sitting through a sermon.”}

I elbow Poor Kyle in the poor ribs and whisper, “Did you hear that?”

He furrows his bushy eyebrows at me, giving me one of “The Looks” that implies I’m not acting my age when I should be.

“Hear what?” he demands quietly.

“…Snip…”

“That!  That snip!”  I’m trying to whisper, but it’s hard to remember to use my inside voice when my brain is screaming STOP SNIPPING YOUR FINGERNAILS IN CHURCH! at the anonymous clipper sitting somewhere behind me.

“Someone is clipping her nails at church!”

Poor Kyle looks at me like I’m embarrassing him—another expression I’ve learned to interpret over the past 16 months of marriage to a man who doesn’t like any attention on him whatsoever.

“Just listen,” I whisper, “she’ll do it again.”

“…Snip…”

“See?!  Did you hear it?” It is blatantly obvious; I am elated to have proof, so Poor Kyle will stop looking at me like I’m growing antennae from my eyeballs.

“…Snip…”

He hears it, and nods his head.  It is the sound of fingernails being clipped.

I am smug, but at the same time completely perplexed on so many levels.

I, of all people, understand the value of a short set of nails—but mercy!  There’s a time and a place for everything.  At least, that’s what I was taught.

By this time, I have pinpointed the culprit (and none too stealthily, either—I’m pretty sure I’ve been staring), and I believe it’s a teenage girl sitting with her parents.  I am baffled:  Why does her mother not put an end to the persistent snipping?  Why has the lass chosen now to clip her nails?  Why does she even have clippers with her?  {I can’t find my nail clippers on a good day, let alone carry them with me at all times.}  What kind of person is she?

“…Snip…”

Furthermore, it seems she is giving herself a full-on manicure, right here in the middle of the church meeting.  I suppose I could understand clipping a wayward broken nail—those buggers snag on clothes and are certainly irritating—but she’s been snipping for five minutes straight.  How many nails does she have, anyway?  Last I checked, people have ten fingers (give or take a few), and even at two snips—maybe three—per nail, the entire process should take 60 seconds.  But no; this girl is a chronic clipper.  She’s clearly obsessive-compulsive/anal retentive when it comes to her nail clippings, because this process seems to be never-ending.

I’m compelled to send her mental messages, in the hopes that she will catch one and get the hint that she should stop her incessant snipping:  “For heaven’s sake, child,” I think loudly, “Pack around a file, too, if you’re going to bring your clippers; don’t do all your fine-tuning with such blatant ‘snips.’  It’s unbecoming!”

She continues, “…Snip…  Snip…”

What a pity.  Nobody listens to my brain-waves anymore…

***Post face*** I know the sound of nail-clipping drives some people bonkers; it’s not one of my pet peeves, but I can only imagine how some members of the congregation might have been getting annoyed with the situation.  I, myself, was more fascinated than anything else.  I couldn’t believe such a thing was happening.***

Is it just me, or is this situation really bizarre?

Posted in ask me anything, It's All Good, thisandthat, watch out or I'll blog about you | Tagged | 27 Comments

Something for Nothing.

by Camille Posted on February 15, 2009

Normally, Mondays and me do not agree.

Luckily, I am on holidays from school for a week, and that sort of makes everything better.

In this case, I’m almost glad to see a Monday, because it means that last week is over.  Last week was stressful for me, to say the least; I had two papers to finish, a midterm grade to dispute, and limited sleep to do it on.  As a crowning point of the less-than-lovely week, Valentine’s Day was on Friday.  Poor Kyle was really sweet.  He got me this:

Poor Kyle!  A white neon sign that reads “nothing?”  Awww…you shouldn’t have. Image from here.

The sad thing is, my “nothing” didn’t even come with a white neon sign.  It really was just nothing.

Anyway, it doesn’t really matter.  Whenever Poor Kyle drops the ball on days that he really should hang on to it, he always makes up for it later, with something.  Something to replace the nothing. Today, for example, I get sushi.  I like sushi.  PK, not so much.  The sushi is going to be part of my new “something.”  Another bit of my Valentine’s-Day-Making-Up-For-The-Nothing is a trip to Oregon this week, in which PK has actually agreed to taking a few extra days for sightseeing.  In the 12 months we’ve been making trips to Oregon, he has never once agreed to take a few extra days for sightseeing.  This is a really big “something.”

Since I haven’t gone on one of these Oregon road trips with PK in quite a while, I’m really looking forward to it.

I always find a way to make something out of nothing.  Poor, poor Poor Kyle.

What did you get for V-day?  Or are you like me, and still weaseling something out of nothing?  It’s a sad plight, truly, but someone’s gotta do it…

Posted in fiascos, It's All Good, Married Life, Poor Kyle | Tagged | 18 Comments

Praying in Parallel Structure

by Camille Posted on February 12, 2009

It’s getting bad around here: I am really, seriously, 100% an English major.  I’ve taken the plunge and committed myself to the cause, however noble it may or may not be.  There’s no denying it now.

Know how I know?

Tonight, after my last class, I trekked out to my car in the relatively pleasant weather.  (By “pleasant,” I mean “even though it was below freezing, there was no windchill so it was like taking a stroll through the streets of Rome on a nice July afternoon.”)  I had finally rid myself of the two burdens I’d been carrying for so many weeks (papers which were due today), and I felt an enormous sense of relief and gratitude.  I realised I should probably thank The Good Lord, who undoubtedly played a major role in my still being alive, as opposed to dead in my basement from an overdose on DDP, and so I sat down in my car, locked the doors, and uttered a quiet little prayer.

I thanked Him for all my blessings, like the support of my family {relatives by blood and by marriage}, and quietly asked for one other blessing:

“I’m so thankful for Reading Week, Heavenly Father; please bless that I can be productive and relax.”

But something sounded wrong.  What was it?  “Please bless that I can be productive and relax…  Please bless that I can be productive and relax.” It took me a second, but I figured it out…

“Productive” is an adjective, but “relax” is a verb—my plea to the Lord was not structured in a parallel manner!  Horrors!  How would He ever understand what I was asking if I didn’t phrase it with clear, concise, and proper diction?

I started over, “Please bless me this week, that I might be both productive and relaxed.  Also, forgive me for praying without parallel structure for 22 years.  Amen.”

My English classes have seriously altered the lenses through which I view the world; I’ve got a brand new prescription.  Heaven, help us all.

p.s.  I talked to my professor about that exam. She didn’t demean me, which was good.  She did listen to my arguments (also good).  But, I only got an extra 1/2 point out of the deal, which means I received a 79% on the exam.  Still not a B, but, like my sister says, it’s not going to matter in 10 years…

…It doesn’t even matter now. I’m over it.  Thanks to everyone who encouraged me to visit with her.  I am not kidding: I read and re-read all the comments on my previous post, and once more right before my appointment with the woman.  It helped me feel more self-assured.  {I need to improve on defending my beliefs; normally I’m pretty much chicken @#(*&#@.}

Posted in It's All Good, my edjumacation and me, oh brother what next | 23 Comments

Sweets for Your Sweetums (or Chocolate Chip Cookies for Any Occasion)

by Camille Posted on February 11, 2009

The cracks in my cookies are indicators of perfection.

If you’re anything like me, you’ve become disillusioned with St. Valentine’s Day and don’t care one whit about any of the pink-and-red nonsense.

If you’re like the other 99% of the world, however, you might be interested in this cookie recipe for any one of the following reasons:

1.  A gift of these cookies will easily get you a valentine, if you haven’t already got one.

2.  If you do have a valentine, gifting a plate of these cookies will secure him or her as your valentine for years to come.

3.  If you haven’t got a valentine and you swear you don’t want one, these will help get you through the day this Saturday.

Either way, you need to make these cookies.

Big, Fat, Chewy Chocolate Chip Cookies

{This recipe I have adapted from some other website which I failed to bookmark.  If it’s yours, please don’t sue me for not linking.  I normally give credit where credit is due, honest!}
(makes 18 cookies)

Ingredients:

-2 C. all-purpose flour

-1/2 tsp. baking soda

-1/2 tsp. salt

-3/4 C. margarine (at room temperature)

-1 C. packed brown sugar

-1/2 C. white sugar

-1 Tbsp. vanilla extract

-1 egg

-1 egg yolk

-2 C. (1 regular-sized bag) chocolate chips

Method:

1.  Preheat oven to 325°F. Grease cookie sheets (unless you have non-stick sheets) or line with parchment paper.

2.  In a medium mixing bowl, mix together flour, baking soda, and salt; set aside.

3.  In a larger mixing bowl, use a hand mixer (or a stand mixer if you’re lucky enough to own one [or your bare hands if you have neither—I won’t judge)] to cream together margarine and both sugars.  Add in vanilla, egg, and egg yolk, beating until the mixture becomes light and creamy.

Two yolks in one egg—isn’t that how twins are made?

It should look like this after the addition of the eggs and vanilla. If yours looks different, I won’t judge.  But it probably means something is wrong.

4.  Mix in dry ingredients until just blended. Stir in chocolate chips by hand.

Note: If you aren’t using milk chocolate chips, why are you even bothering to bake?

5.  Drop dough, 1/4 cup at a time, onto cookie sheets. (If you’re familiar with baking cookies, this might sound like an extreme amount of dough, but trust me: It works.  And the results are amazing.  Just do it.) These cookies are huge, so you won’t be able to fit the traditional 12 per cookie sheet, but that’s okay.  Place them 3 inches apart, and you’ll be golden.

I know it seems fussy, but they’d be ruined if they baked themselves into one glob.  Please just humour me.

6.  Bake for 15-17 minutes in preheated oven, or until edges are slightly toasted.

If they come out looking like this, you have achieved perfection.  You may now die happy.  I give you permission.

7.  Remove from oven and let cool on cookie sheets for 5 minutes before removing to cooling rack.

8.  Package them up nicely—presentation is key—and deliver to your lover/future lover/self.

*Note: If you don’t need to make 18 cookies, simply make the amount you need and freeze the dough. I prefer to ball it up into cookie-size portions and freeze for about 20 minutes on a cookie sheet until they are hardened.  Then, I remove them from the freezer, dump ’em in a labeled plastic bag, and save for later.

These are going into the freezer.  I’d never want to bake them this close together, because they’d become one massive glob of cookiness.  They will keep, frozen, for at least two months.  When ready to bake another batch, simply remove the dough from freezer and allow it to soften at room temperature until normal consistency.  Then continue baking as usual.

Anyone want to guess whether or not I actually tasted one of these beauties?

Posted in cooking | Tagged | 22 Comments