You Know it’s Love if I’m Listening to Country Music.

by Camille Posted on December 16, 2008

I can’t listen to this song without thinking about Poor Kyle and his buddies.

Here it is for your listening pleasure (or angst, depending on your musical preferences):

I’ve gone to the effort of copying and pasting the lyrics here so you can read along as you listen.  I’ve also added my own side notes in [brackets like these], because the song really makes more sense if you know a little about Southern Alberta, Canada.

Chorus:

The Chev got stuck and the Ford got stuck
But the Chev unstuck when the Dodge showed up
But the Dodge got stuck in the tractor rut,
Which eventually pulled out the Ford
(With some difficulty) [It really is like this when people get their vehicles stuck in the snow or mud…anyone who’s around comes out to help. Like a party.]

More rain than we’d seen for a thousand years [because the prairies are generally dry]
Caused financial joys and biblical fears
It caused some smiles, it caused some tears
But more to the point of our story
For the first time in the collective memory that old brown prairie
That had been so dry for so long was very muddy (boggy, sticky)

Well we’d pull one truck out get another stuck in
Motors would roar, tires would spin
We’d sink right down, down to the diff [he means a differential and it has something to do with a truck’s axle or some blathering nonsense like that]
We’d all take turns and then do it again
Till no one could move then call one more friend
Come on out here, we need ya, (bring your truck)

The Chev got stuck and the Ford got stuck
But the Chev unstuck when the Dodge showed up
But the Dodge got stuck in the tractor rut,
Which eventually pulled out the Ford (and the Dodge; equal opportunity)

Got me stuck in the mud so’s i couldn’t rehearse [missed band practise]
And Chavez too has missed his work
Richie, he now fears the worst
Stood up his ex-wife, she called him a jerk
Of course, Holtman didn’t have nothin better to do, (except ranch) [Yee-haw.  Southern Albertans mostly ranch, farm, or drive truck to earn their livelihoods.]

It was truck after truck, we all got stuck,
Except the big old four-by-four Hutterite truck [Hutterites are like modernised Amish people.  They’re big into farming and live in colonies and their first language is German and once a Hutterite taught me how to say *a-hole* in his native tongue.  He volunteered the information.  I didn’t ask.]
We all thought ‘lord are we in luck!’
But he wouldn’t come anywhere near us, mighty neighborly…(mighty neighborly)

Well we used a lot of our backs and a little of our brains
We jacked up the jacks and snugged up the chains
And we all did our very best to refrain (from shovellin)
We put what timber we had underneath the wheels
And we was all out of sand but managed to steal
Two sacks of the best modern canola seed you ever did see [One thing that Albertan farmers are famous for harvesting is canola seed, used to make canola oil.  It’s bright yellow in the summer time, and from an airplane, the fields are a breathtaking sight of green-and yellow checkerboards.]
(That oughta give us some traction)

(Epilogue…)

We spilled genetically modified canola seed
That was genetically modified for control of the weeds
And for big old yields of margarine oil
We raised hell all over that virgin prairie soil
Agriculture Canada is definitely gonna be lookin for us [In Canada, the different departments are called *blank* Canada.  For example, the Canadian version of the United Stated Department of Immigration is called “Immigration Canada.”  And the Canadian version of the U.S. Department of Agriculture is called “Agriculture Canada.”  My best guess as to the reasoning behind this is because it’s easier to translate into French.  I don’t know, though.]

Poor Kyle and his cronies get together when they’re riding quads, and sometimes it can take hours to get guys unstuck from mud holes and whatever other nonsense they go blazing into.

Anyway, there’s no real point to this post except to give you all a little insight into my daily life up here in the Canadian Nether Region.  I heard the song on the radio, and it took me back to the days when I was dating Poor Kyle and liked him so much I pretended to totally dig his country music style.  Now that we’re married and the honeymoon is over, I don’t fake it anymore.  But I do like this song, because it’s so…Canada.  And so very Poor Kyle.

Posted in Canada, It's All Good, Poor Kyle | 12 Comments

Paint Me Green and Grow Me a Beard—It’s Christmas Time, By Golly!

by Camille Posted on December 16, 2008

I already said that not only do I not feel any sort of Christmas spirit, but I’m beginning to kind of hate it.

Tonight, with Poor Kyle out of town, I sat down to watch a little telly (at my in-laws’ house, on account of our cable being revoked a few months ago), and was secretly delighted to see that the local channel was featuring Dr. Seuss’ How the Grinch Stole Christmas.

Image from here.

That movie has long been one of my favourite Christmas flicks—it’s always been a sure-fire way to get me into the swing of the holidays and really feel the joy of the season the way I used to as a kid.

This year, however, all I could focus on was…

…that poor little dog.

Amazing blinking image from here.

I just felt so sorry for that dog, and I very rarely feel compassion for any animals.  For some reason, though, little ol’ Max really pulled at my heartstrings.  He’s always taking abuse from the nasty, mean Mr. Grinch:

Image from here.

And those antlers!  They must weigh ten times the poor dog’s own BMI…

Image from here.

Soon I asked myself, as I sat watching the classic movie I so revered in my childhood, “Why? Why does Max stay with mean old Mr. Grinch?  Does he have no other alternative?  Does he have no place to go?  Or maybe he’s just stuck in the midst of a vicious abuse cycle…never trusting himself to maintain an identity beyond being the Grinch’s slave…  As for me, I would never put up with such mistreatment.  I would have to be chemically sedated to allow myself to be treated like garbage that way.”

I was working up a brilliant load of steam, becoming more furious with the dog than sympathetic, when it occurred to me: Who on Earth cares? It’s a 30-minute animated movie made in the ’60s.  Life was wonky in the ’60s.  I mean, Dr. Seuss actually wrote phrases like “They flared their flamsneegles and stomped their stompeezles,” and still got published. Has anyone in the history of the world ever questioned Max’s motives for playing lapdog to the Grinch?  I seriously doubt it…because it’s the dumbest thing a person could possibly worry about at a time like this.  Times like today, when I had to bake from sunup to sundown, and most of my concoctions failed pathetically.  Times like tomorrow, when I’ll have to shower and make myself presentable for a slew of mall-shoppers and their *darling* children.  Times like the day after that, when I have to show up at a Christmas party thirty minutes early to play some piano music which I haven’t yet practised.

May this be a Christmas lesson to all of you.

This holiday season, do people a favour and fret about things that actually matter.

What are you anxious about this week?

Posted in kitchen failures, oh brother what next, thisandthat, what I'm about, woe is me | 16 Comments

It’s the Most Desolate Time of the Year

by Camille Posted on December 14, 2008

Tra la la.  Can’t you hear the joy in my voice?  I have a beautiful singing voice.  It’s true: perfect pitch, impeccable timing, and never too much vibrato.  I would have moved to New York and starred in musicals on Broadway, but I didn’t want to drive a U-haul™ all that way.

[I fibbed.  That entire previous paragraph was a blatant lie.  I don’t sing; I play the piano.  And I’m not a prodigy; I’m marginal at best.]

Nevertheless, for brilliant musical minds like myself, Christmas is the most miserable time of the year.  Since Thanksgiving, my weeks have been booked to the brim with song practices and rehearsals, and I’m getting used to having no free time whatsoever.

I’m getting used to it, but I’m not happy about it.  In fact, I can’t remember the last time I felt cheerful about anything Christmas. I’ve already decided I will never teach my kids about Santa.  Poor Kyle and I are not exchanging gifts.  Forget the figgy pudding—I’m having Chinese takeout.

Not only do I not feel the Christmas spirit…I’m beginning to loathe it.

Oh, sure, I think it’s fine to have a time to honour Jesus Christ more than usual, but that’s the only thing that hasn’t bothered me so far this season.  I am sick of everything else: the carols, the colours, the baking, the spending, the wrapping, the twinkle lights, the *sob* inspirational stories, and—oh yeah—this:

Those temperatures are in Fahrenheit (a word I am learning to spell with sudden speed, on account of typing it in every email I send to my relatives in Arizona, who have never heard of sub-freezing anything).  I mean, no offense, Poor Kyle’s family, but you guys are nuts.  For living here.  In this cold cold nether-region.  (What is a nether-region?  I’m not sure, but it sounded good…)

It’s so cold here, I’ve stopped locking Tamra Camry’s doors because the locking mechanism freezes and it becomes nigh on impossible to get her unlocked again.

It’s so cold, I bend over and breath steam on the the toilet seat before I sit down in the morning, to alleviate the sudden jolting chill.

It’s so cold on these Canadian plains, I can’t breathe through my nose because my nasal hairs freeze instantly [and you haven’t felt cold until you’ve felt your nose hairs freeze and then splinter off].  But I can’t breathe through my mouth, either, because the frigid air gives me an on-the-spot case of the whooping cough, and my two poor little desert-bred lungs stop functioning—they go into shock from the cold, and simply fail me.  So any time I need to leave the house or the car, I can only go as far as I can hold my breath.  Otherwise I die.

Here’s the picture I’m sending out with my Christmas cards this year:

Not this actual photo, but the photo in the photo.

So yeah.  Merry Christmas, I guess.

And if I smile when I tell you that, you can be sure I’m faking it.

Posted in Canada, fiascos, oh brother what next, what I'm about, woe is me | 27 Comments

High School Musical {Without the Music}

by Camille Posted on December 12, 2008

Q [from RatalieNose]:  Camille, we (meaning your faithful blog stalkers) have not had the privilege to hear much about your high school days. Being in high school myself I would love to hear some stories! So here are a few questions, you can pick whichever ones you want to answer:

1. Of all the dances you went to which was the best? the worst? Who was your date? What was the theme?

2.Were you ever on student council? If so, what position?

3. What was your best year of high school?

A [from me]:  Hi RatalieNose!  Thanks for the questions.  I’ll give a lengthy overview of my high school years in this post today, and will probably return to answer your questions specifically next week sometime.  Thanks for the good ideas!

Would you believe me if I told you I enjoyed high school?

You should—I did.

And in my journals I documented, quite faithfully, every aspect of my life I considered to be important.  I even titled my journal entries, so when somebody decides to someday publish my writings, they’ll have no doubts about what I wanted each entry to be called.  I want nothing left to chance. I thought of good titles, too.  Titles like, Insights by Camille, and The Bitter Ironies of Life, and Prom is a GO!!

Names blotted out so creepies won’t stalk my granny.

I was not, by any stretch of the imagination, popular (but really, is that such a shock, for a girl who titles journal entries?). Attending a high school with a student population numbering in the thousands could afford a wide range of relationships; I had friends, acquaintances, people I knew vaguely, and people I didn’t know at all. In fact, on the night of my graduation (which drew such a huge crowd it had to be hosted on the football field [as is customary with all public high school graduations in Mesa, Arizona]), I was sandwiched between two people I’d never met before in my life.

The nucleus of my friends in high school (Chelsie’s missing because she graduated a semester early and wouldn’t walk with us in May).

I mostly (read: only) ran around with a close-knit group of girl friends, with whom I would occasionally branch out enough to attend a few random parties every so often.  Generally we kept to ourselves, and I was thrilled with our arrangement.  I had neither use nor desire for a vast range of friends—it had been my brief experience that a few top-rate comrades were more valuable than a slew of “meh” buddies.  Probably at some point during high school, the girls I considered my closest friends would have liked to branch out a bit, had I not been so clingy.  It seems only natural that a teenage girl might want to be loved by the entire school.  Me?  I never even considered such treachery.  It wasn’t that I didn’t like all the other kids…I just never felt like I was missing out, so I never tried making new friends.

My mom warned me I was too exclusive, and she was probably right, except “exclusive” implies that there was some sort of closed-off “circle” or club to which nobody else was invited.  In reality, I’m pretty sure nobody else really wanted to join. The fact that I didn’t exactly petition for new members probably makes me seem snobby, but anyway, there it is.

That said, I absolutely believe it is possible to enjoy high school without a) massive quantities of friends, b) partying, c) clear skin or d) illegal substances.  I had/did none of those things yet still managed to enjoy most days at school, while maintaining decent grades and remaining active in sports, music, and student council.  Was I a dork? It depends on what you mean by “dork,” I suppose.  I don’t own a pocket protector (or even know what one looks like); but I was totally random and I’m fairly certain I made a fool of myself at more than one pep rally (part of the student council territory [and my genetic makeup, no doubt]).

At some point in high school (most likely after I started dating when I turned 16), I decided to develop a main part of my personality into an outward utter distaste for boys.  I grew up watching, nay, idolising Anne of Green Gables, and I can honestly say that I strove to play out my relationships with boys in a manner that would have made Anne proud.

My mission statement of the time: “All guys are jerks*.  I will not ask them on dates.  I will not accept any offers of dates.  I will find my life’s purpose, and it will not include a jerk.  *Editor’s note [jerk=guy].”  I was nothing if not thorough.

I talked to boys easily and often enough, but stayed vigilantly outspoken against any manner of chauvinism—real or imagined—that ever came my way.  Oh, I had more than my fair share of crushes, to be sure, but I was always bold enough and loud enough (or perhaps just pimply enough) that nothing ever came of them.  Boys don’t usually like girls who are too snarky.  And I was snarky.

I never kissed a boy until after I’d graduated.  I was 17.  [I never enjoyed kissing a boy until much later.]

In reflecting on these memories, I busted out my stack of journals I have kept faithfully throughout my life.  There are fifteen, ranging from before I could write (I would dictate to my mom or dad), to now.  My journals are basically the pride and joy of my entire life.  It’s fascinating the details I considered important enough to record.  For example, I once drew a comprehensive comparison between my life and that of Éponine, the tragic waif who never could secure the attention of Marius in Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables.

Image from here.

Striking resemblance, no?

Don’t worry.  After a brief period of mourning, I got over my 5-year crush and laid it deeply to rest.  The Marius in my life became a splendid friend, but he was simply too daft to deserve my affection after high school.  All’s well in love and Victor Hugo.

The Original Archives.

There are sixteen journals I’ve filled in my lifetime so far; I consider these the Original Archives of My Life, and take time to re-read various passages every so often.  If there’s one thing I take pride in…it would be my washer and dryer.  But if there are two things I take pride in, the second would definitely be the Original Archives of My Life.  Everyone should keep a journal.

So in answer to the one question you didn’t ask, RatalieNose, I did enjoy high school.  I’ll spend some time over the weekend to think up good answers to your specific questions, so stay tuned next week for more from…

…The Original Archives of My Life.

Posted in ask me anything, It's All Good, looking back, oh brother what next, The Original Archives | 27 Comments

My Tech Guy is Sleeping all Day

by Camille Posted on December 11, 2008

Poor Kyle crawled in bed at 6:00 a.m. today, after driving for more hours than I can fathom to get home from Oregon.

There are one trillion things I needed his help with to be able to post the promised “view into my life through journals” post, which is basically written but just needs a few final touches.  [If you have no idea what I’m talking about, here’s a brief overview:  I will be answering one (or more) of RatalieNose’s question, “Camille, we (meaning your faithful blog stalkers) have not had the privelage to hear much about your high school days. Being in high school myself I would love to hear some stories! So here are a few questions, you can pick whichever ones you want to answer: 1) Of all the dances you went to which was the best? the worst? Who was your date? What was the theme?  2)  Were you ever on student council? If so, what position?  3) What was your best year of high school?”

Poor Kyle, however, won’t be coherent until at least noon.  And I’ll be gone when he wakes up, off to spread joy throughout the land as Santa’s Little Bitter (and not just a little bitter) Volunteer.

Which means that anybody anticipating this post is going to be sorely disappointed by the following statement:

Archives of Our Lives is having a postponement.

But at least I left you with a pun.

Posted in Uncategorized | 10 Comments

The Way You Speak is Hurt My Head.

by Camille Posted on December 9, 2008

Good heavens, is it Wednesday only?  And I still have to think of something entertaining to write for three more days?  It’s going to be a long week…

The good news is that tomorrow I’m opening one of my journals from my Junior and Senior years of high school (grades 11 and 12, Canadians!), for all the world to read…but probably only the hundred or so who read this blog will actually see it—far cry from the entire world.  As a bonus, on this one day only, I’m not even changing any names!  {Okay, so there’s one or two I’ve blotted out, but I am keeping some in their entirety.}

Trust me, this is something you won’t want to miss—I had [er…have?] quite a flair for the dramatic, even back then.  I’m fairly certain you won’t be disappointed.

For today, however, I want to dissect Canadian lexicon: specifically the way Southern Albertans communicate done-ness. As in, being done—or finished—with any particular thing.

If I were to announce I was done with work for the day, I would say,”I’m done with work,” or “I’m done working.”

Let’s recap:  I’m done with work.  I’m done working.

If a born-and-raised Southern Albertan wanted to say he was done with work, he would say, “I’m done work.”

Or, in the same words:  I’m done work.

…Is there something missing there? My older sister can tell us all exactly what role the “with” plays in my sentence (adjective, pronoun, blah blah blah can you believe I’m actually going to major in English and I don’t even know the parts of speech?).  All I know is, I’m fairly certain the “with” is supposed to be there.

In my little head, this is a black-and-white issue.  Telling people that I’m done dinner [Done dinner? What does that mean?  Am I done eating dinner?  Cooking dinner?  Digesting dinner?  What?] is as silly as saying “I’m talking phone” or “I’m play piano” or “I chubby bum” or “I Tarzan; you Jane.”

When I first met Poor Kyle, we’d be talking on the phone and he’d announce, “I’m on my way to your house—I’m done work,” I just thought it was a cute little speech impediment he’d gotten from being raised by parents who call the United States “The New-yited States.”  But after living in Alberta for only a few months, I realised it wasn’t a Poor Kyle family nuance…I found myself hearing it everywhere:

The waitress at a restaurant asks if I’m done dinner.

The cashier asks if I’m done my shopping.  Not if I HAVE done my shopping…if I AM done my shopping.

Oh, you’re done your holiday? How was it?

Hey, Camille, I’m done school, you wanna hang out?

I’m sorry I can’t answer your questions; I’m too distracted trying to make them sound right in my brain.

I’m not making this up.

I took a poll of, oh, five or six Canadians [not in the same family], and they all agreed:  Saying they are done WITH something indicates, to them, that they are never going back.  They’re done, absolutely.  Forever.  If they were to say they were done with work, it would be in a fit of rage, and they’d better have a good backup plan, because it means they’re completely done working.  It’s final.

I don’t know where this came from, or how Canadian teachers haven’t corrected it, but it is a very real phenomenon.

I’m not crazy, am I?  Please, someone tell me I’m right and they’re wrong.  Because after typing it incorrectly so many times, it’s sort of starting to look normal to me.  So help me if I raise my children to say things like “I’m done hockey practise!”

Posted in Canada, It's All Good, oh brother what next, watch out or I'll blog about you | 19 Comments

“There’s a (Slight) Chance I Might be Going to Hell.”

by Camille Posted on December 9, 2008

That’s what Laurie Notaro said, anyway.  I only wish I had thought of that title before she did; maybe then I would be a best-selling novelist instead of Santa’s Little Volunteer.

Nevertheless, I have not written a book (not a decent, published one anyway), and so posting daily blather on this blog will have to suffice for now.  And since I am on my deathbed with this non-pregnancy related illness, all you get for the day is a book review.

There’s a (Slight) Chance I Might be Going to Hell, a novel by Laurie Notaro, caught my interest before I even opened the cover.  I mean, look at the title.  Is there anything that could describe my life more closely?  I think not.  It’s a fairly easy read—no deep thinking involved, which was perfect for a recent road trip I took to Oregon with Poor Kyle.  He enjoyed it as well, since I could not seem to keep from bursting out with laughter and comments like, “Listen to this!” or “That’s so clever!”  {And, might I add, laughing out loud while reading is rather a rare occurrence for me; I tend to keep it bottled up inside.}  He was a captive audience, and had no choice but to act amused.

I feel like the book was written for me:  It’s about a woman—Maye—living in Phoenix (ahem) with a well-established network of close friends (ahem) who packs up with her husband and moves to a small town in the northwest (ahem?).  The only real difference in the plot line is that her new town is full of hippies and mine—Mayberry—is not.  Sadly. I get a kick out of hippies.

Oh.  And one more difference: Maye works tirelessly throughout the course of the book to make friends, whereas I have striven (and more or less succeeded) to keep myself unattached and friendless in my new town. Other than that, we’re spitting images.

Mae finds herself in the middle of countless hilarious predicaments throughout her journey to make new friends, culminating in a “Sewer Pipe Queen” pageant, which ends with an uproarious finale.

The only downside to the book is that I found myself consantly reading “maybe” when I was supposed to read the main character’s name, “Maye.”  I found it distracting, since I was continually re-reading sentences, but this is more my own problem than Laurie Notaro’s.

Favourite quotations (mostly because they seemed literally written about my life and my opinions):

“You can move your furniture, you can move your books, you can move your underwear, but you can’t move your whole life.” p. 13

“Small towns are sometimes like that; familiarity runs high, while regard for personal space is low, if nonexistent.” p. 18

“‘Oh, goody, a sh*tty spoken-word artist,’ Maye whined to herself.  ‘I hate spoken-word people.  It’s all fun and games until a poet shows up and sucks the life out of everything fun in six seconds flat.'” p. 273

For a quick, amusing read, check it out.

I give it SIX STARS out of SEVEN, see?: ******

Posted in Book Reports, It's All Good, like-it-link-it | 11 Comments