'Tis the season to be jolly.
Bah humbug. That's what I say.
Since when do I have to grow-up?
Somebody tell me that.

And Cor and Kris spent the Night at Cor's brother's. The next day they went to Canadian tire and then accumulated over 1/2 an hour walking to get out of town (Cor naively thought it would take ten minutes). At that point they got a ride within 15 minutes with a nice lady named Jodie from Alberta who was breaking her rules ("cool. Us too"). She let them listen to "Alice's restaurant" and she gave them a ride all the way home.
The end.

Cor and Kris, long time partners in crime, decide we want to go Christmas shopping. Unfortunently the nearest Wal*mart is over an hour away. What to do?
They are not girls to sit around when faced with a problem. They put their heads to the matter. They think. And think. And then Cor strikes upon a solution.
"We could drive your car!"
"No," says Kris decisively, "gas costs too much money."
"Oh," says Cor. And they settle down to think some more.
Finally they have a good idea. They remember a form of transportation knowing to most of the English speaking world as hitch hiking.
On Kris' next days off (cause she works) they get up early (Kris is in a surly mood due to talking on the phone after midnight the night before). They step into their baggy jeans, button up their plaid shirts, lace up their hiking boots, and belt on their knives. It's light by time they're walking out of town. It takes a while to get used to thumbing passing vehicles.
Kris is obnoxious. She thinks she knows about hitch hiking since she's ridden with lots of them, and her Dad did it across Canada. She keeps trying to tell Cor to stick her thumb up better.
Their first ride comes along soon. They know this woman. She is a homeschooled mom, firendly, all around safe. All good. They climb in and ride a kilometer or so out of town.
Fifteen minutes along comes another ride. Pretty cool ride. Except Kris has to ride in the back with a weiner dog named Sasha. The diver is Czech, friendly, interesting. He's going about halfway to their destination.
"Cool," think Cor and Kris, "This is pretty easy."
They start walking again. Kris wishes she wore long johns. She wishes her boots didn't hurt her little toe. Cor gloats. She is glad she wore pj pants and that her boots don't hurt.
They walk for a very long time. Or so they think. They eat granola bars and Cor blows her nose many times. They thumb a lot of vehicles. Not very many pick them up.
Kris thumbs one vehicle. She sees a man with long curly hair and a baseball cap driving an old pick-up. Said truck pulls over.
Kris and Cor find themselves in the back seat of a beat-up pick-up with two grungy longhaired redneck types smoking a joint and using coarse languages while talking about course subjects in the front.
It is interesting. But they get to their destination with only minor harm to their lungs, braincells, and innocence.
Thus passes the first time Cor and Kris went hitch hiking.
They spend a lot of money. But really, to be honest, the shopping was kind of an excuse to chalk up another experiance.
At time of writing they were halfway along in their little adventure.

What's up with me? I'm busy, and I'm sick. That's basically it. On with a crazy life even though I cough 'till it hurts and have an externally chapped nose. But it's nicer then when I had the sore throat.
That said, what I really wanted to tell you is a story. A story about 40,000 children.
Yesterday I got together with a bunch of friends. And one asked us if we'd heard of the Gulu Walk. We had not. I don't know if you have, but it's a walk that was held yesterday to raise awareness. A ten kilometer walk to think of the kids who have to walk from the country to more populated areas every night in an attempt to keep themselves safe from the Ugandan rebel army. These kids are the untold victims of a harsh civil war. Captured and forced to be soldiers and sex slaves.
So my friends held their own Gulu Walk. A small act that won't make any difference. Unless making us think about can help change something somewhere.
I was smart. I didn't go. Because it was hard enough trying to wait up for them to get back. And I'm not resting enough to get better anyway. But also because I was able to stay back and feel perfectly safe. Because I don't need to make a two hour walk every night.
And so maybe that's the good it did. Because suddenly my cold doesn't seem quite so bad. I'll get over it eventually.
realize. (dial-up users beware. The link has a video clip).

I steal Cor's bike for the afternoon. I then zip around town. Small town alleys. Rough paths. Classic shortcuts. A quick glance to make sure the coast is clear before dashing across the road. With my hair blowing behind me.
It's true when they say you never forget how to ride a bike.

I'm starting to remember what I dislike about sitting on my rear for hours trying to find the correct answers for too many questions in a row.
I'm starting to remember the thrill of figuring the right answer after trying twenty times.
I'm starting to remember the frustration of fighting against stupid english courses that tell me to believe in not using incomplete sentences.
In short, school returneth.

I was singing Larry Norman. Not even his most impactful song, as far as I'm concerned. The one that goes,
I've been shot down/
kicked around/
some people scandalize my name./
But here I am talking 'bout Jesus just the same.
Talkin' bout Jesus. Shouldn't that be what it's about? Talking about Jesus, living for him, putting him first before everything else? Going out and doing what we think he's leading us to.
But it's not. I tell myself that if I was forced to choose I'd stand as a martyr for him. But How could I? When I don't even do the simple act of having time with him regularly in a country where I'm free to do so. When I don't even bother asking him to guide me except when I'm stressed and I need relief. But only to fix my mistakes.
I go through life. I've set my standards. I know where I draw my lines at what's wrong. Still mildly confused when faced with some stuff. But I try to follow the guidelines given to me. But then I don't read them. Because I think I find them boring.
I get caught up in theology. And I think we should learn through it. Study it. Form our opinions. And be able to face the tougher questions. But at which point did it turn from 'Yeah, brother!' to 'Yeah, but do you accept your denomination's doctrine?'.
There's a lot of important issues out there. And they need to be faced. But in the end it needs to come back to what's basic. And what's important.
So let's hear it.
There is love in the red letters/
There is truth in the red letters/
There is hope for the hopeless/
Peace and forgiveness/
There is life, in the red letters/
in the red letters. (lyrics gratis of DC Talk)
And you have no idea how hard it's been for me to keep this post as simple and basic as I have.

Both of us sitting at either end of the couch. Under our own blankets, and deep in our own books. Our toes touching. Aware the other is there. But not thinking of it. Unless we come to a section of our book that needs sharing. Or let our minds wander to a thought we need to tell the other. Until we're back in our books.
I involved in the plot of an Agatha Cristie. Her deep in some philosophical novel. And each of us planning to read the other's. Once they're through, of course.

When I was younger and hair wraps were big I used to want one. To sit on those lawn chairs at those outdoor markets and have some hippi chick bedeck my hair in my chosen colours. I believe Meg and I tried on our own a couple times. We weren't very succesful.
Which is why I agreed on spontaneousness today. I was wondering the town. Studying graffiti, realizing the college was closed (Sat. Duh), and eating fresh butter buns from the bakery. Oh yes, and visiting the last weekend market of the year. Between not buying eggs and buying half a pound of hot peppers I walked past a table set up by a couple younger girls I mostly know.
"Do you want a hair wrap?"
Laughs. "I don't have much in the way of hair."
"Oh well. Then it's cheaper"
"About how much?"
Shrugs all 'round, "Depends what you want to pay."
I was shown a gift bag full of tangled embroidery thread, and three samples.
"O.k. Where's your longest hair?"
"Oh man. I don't know. Just choose somewhere."
"eeny meeny miny mo."
Five minutes later I handed over fifty cents and walked away. A one short section of my layered hair striped in tangerine and aqua blue.
Maybe they're not quite hippis. And I don't have that long strand that can swing in front of my face anymore. But I have a hair wrap.

I just bought gas. And then I remembered that today was the day I was supposed to "stick it up their behind". Meaning if the whole of North America didn't get gas then prices would have to drop.
I don't know who starts those things. You gotta know they won't work. And let me tell you, I wasn't the only one not buying gas.
There's about two places in town that stayed twenty cents cheaper then everywhere else today. And I had to get in on it.
I think maybe I should give up driving all together.

When I was little I had an umbrella. I loved it. I would go outside when it rained just so I could use it. And stand dry beneath well I heard the crisp pop of drops landing on plastic.
It had strips of white and blue. You know, classic umbrella style. And on each white strip there was a picture of a little girl also holding an umbrella.
One day something strange happened. Out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the little girls simply disappear leaving one plain strip of white. It happened so quickly. But the little girl that was me was pretty sure it had happened.
And then it suddenly reappeared.
I looked my umbrella over carefully. After a complete investigation it was clear that every white strip had a little girl. And so I lowered myself to a quick search for secret buttons. Even though I was old enough, or just simply logical enough, to know I wouldn't find any.
I let my mind wander to fairies. But only briefly. I definitely knew better when it came to that.
I had no choice but to file it as freak. Imagination. An unexplained phenomenon. And to know that I would get laughed at as childlike source of humour if I tried to tell anyone.
And then I forgot it.
Fifteen years later I've suddenly remembered it. But now I'm too old for it to hold any sense of mystique. Life has taught me a few pretty straight forward explanations. Like, say, blind spots. A phenomenon...maybe. But one completely explainable through science. One that would've intrigued the four year old me. But disappointed me at the "simplicity" of it. To know that there are plenty of people out there capable of telling me exactly what had happened. Something so much more complex, but maybe not so cool, as secret buttons.
But not all is lost. The other day I brought a row of cows into the parlour. Suddenly, from between two of them, falls a pen I'd never seen before. Freak? Imagination? And unexplained phenomenon?
Definitely enough to respark my curiosity anyway.
Maybe when I'm thirty I'll suddenly remember it, grin to myself, and then tsk at the simplicity of the answer.
I hope not. There should always be something to make one wonder.

How come you don't realize when you forget?

I find the term, "Ah...We're camping," to be somewhat flawed. Indeed your camping. At least I hope you are, if you're going to say it. So, first of all, it's a statement of the obvious. Second of all, it's an over used excuse. I dropped your sandwich, that's o.k. We're camping. I haven't shaved in a week, but yeah, we're camping. Ah, screw it. We're camping.
Most importantly, that statement is flawed because physically, scientifically, and emotionally you are still the same as when you're at home. Well, besides being a bit more sunburned, happy, tired, and carefree. But your germ tolerance doesn't officially go up. Your standards of beauty don't have any real reason to go down. Unless you're generally prettying up for the guy at the office. If you're that kind of person, you're probably not camping in the first place. You shouldn't be able to stand sand in your bed any more then usual simply because you're in a tent. "A little dirt never hurt anyone" should be as relevant in the backyard as around the campfire.
All the same, we use it. We use it like crazy from the first minute we set up our tarps and throw on our swimsuits. And, somehow, we come out better for that casual embrace-it attitude.
Ah, I was camping.
I played volleyball and wrestled on the beach. Stayed up late playing with coals. Whispered to the next sleeping bag. I went skinny dipping, and hiked trails. I windsurfed, dived from the dock and had to give in to sunscreen. I laughed. I ate s'mores after supper and smokies at midnight. I pulled on my hoodie well still wet from the beach, and sat around the campfire playing Mafia. I went rock climbing, repelling, and tried to out sing my cousin, to start the list.
In short, I enjoyed this years vacation. Did I really need to say that?

Liquid nitrogen feels weird when it splashes in your ear.
Other then that, I've been uninspired. What? Are you mocking my, "other then that"?
Last night we there were nine of us line dancing at a double beat. All good fun.

There. Because you're such nice people. Note: the problem with digital cameras is you take twenty and then can't decide what you want. Oh well. Btw. This is me raw and uncut. Very unprettified. Oh, and sorry that I'm sideways. I'm sadly ungeek. Maybe I'll keep working on it until work.

Heh heh heh. I just posted a "picture" of myself. To see if I could make the photo upload thing work. And then I promptly deleted it. Wouldn't do to have it go down in history, eh? So now that's one less bad picture of me to haunt the world.

Things that are bad if you're a teenager on driving probation.
Summer.
Music with a beat.
windows that roll down.
windows that are non-exsistant.
music from when you were twelve.
getting a kick out of going around corners at twice the recommended speed.
road trips.
Cops with nothing worthwhile to do.
School Zones.
owning cars.
split shifts out of town.
enjoying driving.
Life.
Summer.

I sat up rubbing my eyes. Ahh, evening naps on the couch at times when I could hardly keep my eyes open any longer. I told myself I shouldn't make a habit of it. Because it throws my sleep schedule even more out of wack then it already is. And it's a pointless waste of time, this lying about with ones eyes close. I also told myself I should go lap swimming. As had been my intent for a while. When a girl is used to hours of judo and hockey a week summer can be slow.
"So, Kris, if it's not past 7:30 we'll go." I smirked to myself in my brilliance. For it was most definitely at least eight. But my faithful clock defied my conclusion. Dang.
"Ah yes. Lap swim is only two days a week. We shall check our schedule and go if it's today." Happy with my brillaince I entered the bathroom (where I keep my schedule for some random reason) and flipped through. What? No esta possible. But it was possible. It proudly told me I could attend lap swims on Mondays.
So I loaded up my old lady bag. No swim cap. No goggles. Just about forgot my towel, and zipped down.
I've never been big on the lap type of swimming. I love messing about in the water, any random lake pastimes are fine. But the idea of paddling back and forth in stuff that's more chlorine then water never much appealed to me. But, it would be good for me, no? Good for my knees, about which I worry. Good for my joints in general. All of which worry me. It was an old person's sport.
Ten minutes later I slid into my lane. Only two other people showed up. Two big buff hairy men. Their muscles bulging in anticipation as they snapped their goggles into place...
Oops.
I began two swim. Probably at a rate of more then a lap a minute. By the fifth lap I was ready to quit. Oh good grief. I have got to go longer then these five minutes of my hour. Man, I paid good money for the opportunity. So I struggled on.
Front crawl, back crawl, breast stroke, jelly fish. Up and down the pool. Well on either side of my the two buff young men, and the buff older man (who'd joined us) whizzed by in solid front crawl. I began breathing loud enough I wondered if the guy on the lifeguard chair could here me. No doubt that smirk was in humour at my attempts.
I began to breathe in water as I desperately tried for air. Having been a little kid, I know what all the little kids before us were doing in there. Pace yourself Kris. Just take it slowly. Well, let me tell you. It's a deadly trap. The slower you go the longer you have to go between breaths. The sport of the elderly. Pah.
However. All's well that ends well. I kept up my tiring rythem for the whole hour. And suspect I could've keep going. Although I started breathing every couple strokes on my front crawl. The better news, all the big guys got out before me. They took time to stretch out their tired limbs. Score one for the teenager!
front crawl, back crawl, breast stroke, jelly fish.
At last I emerged. Wet and tired. Red rimmed eyes from prolonged exposure to too much chlorine. But no bruises! No crude talk in the change room. No smashed up knees or aching elbows from arm bars.
But I'm still sticking with judo. The senior citizens (or big buff guys) can keep their lap swims for now.

Dude. Don't you love it?
Once again we salute essy and thank her for her creative blog designs. Long live geeks! Cause we probably wouldn't without them (not that you're a geek, ess. But you sure do a mean template).

Grease stained hands. Makes me feel like I've been doing something. Although in reality I was just swatting mosquitos and getting in the way well Dad worked on my car. Pretty much all I did was the tire.
The manual always makes things seem simpler then they really are. And that's pretty sad, since to just read it is extremally complicated to me.
I wish I was more mechanically minded then I am.

This morning I learned a lesson. I learned several things, but only one lesson. The lesson was this.
Never risk your life for your job.
Are you exaggerating, I hear you ask. Oh, probably. But I was still left pretty shook up.
The lesson proceeded as so.
"Alright class. Today we're learning through experiences. Please bring four cows into the parlour and give them shots. That's right. We must make sure that all new transition cows have had their shots, musn't we? Now that we have done that, we have three cows remaining outside that also need their shots. Who can tell me what we do when we have three cows left over, since the parlour holds four? Yes, you in the cutoffs? That's right! We hold one cow back. O.k. students. Let the cows go, but please stand up by the gate and stop the last cow."
So I, being an eager student of life bounced up the steps and stood in front of the gate.
Now in order for you to understand the next steps in my lesson (which I hope you will also learn from so you never have to learn it yourself) you must understand that after I let the cows go they walk down a cement alley with bars on one side and a wall on the other.
I opened this particular gate and watched three cows walk by. I kept my eye faithfully on the last one and when she was at the gate, meaning the others were through, I jumped in front of her waving my hands and commanding her to stop.
ninety-eight times out of a hundred when you do this the cow will be sufficiently scared of you so that she'll stop. This cow, however, had just been jabbed with three needles. Meaning she wasn't in a nice calm mood. She was as determined to get past me as I was determined to hold her back. She was bigger.
I could've stepped to the side when I saw she was going to be stubborn. But sometimes I've had success in making them take a few steps backwards. So I kept at it. She pushed me out into the alley before I realized it was too late. I was trapped between her and the other three cows. And she was in a hurry. I've had cows push past me in the alleys a couple times before. And it ,hurts! They scrape you along the bars. Well this cow was far pregnant. And I wasn't too sure how her trying to pass me would go over.
In the next few moments I can not tell you exactly what happened. It was the rush of adrenaline. The push of more important things. But you look back and can't say exactly what happened.
In my attempts to get away I fell, or something. All I know is I was on the ground with a fifteen hundred pound beast rapidly pushing on behind me. I was dragged or pushed or I just crawled a few feet, well under the hooves of the animal. I was in and open space (no bars to the ground) and then I had the presence of mind, and speed of reaction, to roll under the parallel bars, leaving me safe.
I was able to get up and walk away. But in a circumstance like that it's not guaranteed. I was shaking, and, although not in actual shock, it was like a mild form of it. I walked around saying, "Man, Kris. Oh man." and other forms of that phrase as well as telling myself it just wasn't worth it.
I finished the three cows and got home to bed. You know how people keep replaying things in their mind? It was like that 'till I got home, and managed to fall asleep.
In going over my injuries afterwards, I have a scraped base of spine, and scraped elbow, and just mild scrapes and bruises in other areas. The worst is above my ankle where I have a decent swelling bruise. I'm convinced the cow stepped there (although not with her full weight, since they never put all their weight on one foot). Although at the time you're not thinking, "Oh, look, the cow just stepped on me". You're too pumped with adrenaline and more important things at mind to feel pain. But if she had to step anywhere, that's probably the best possible place.
I was lucky. Or, maybe I should say, blessed. I've been hurt at work before. But never that close to really serious injuries. Although it's all in the turn of fate.
"That's fine class. That will be all for today. Classes on job-related issues will continue tonight. Please make sure you're all on time. And have a good day!"

The other night I hauled my guitar home. The D string was broken. And I had yet to perfect the art of changing guitar strings. Hang on. I still have yet to perfect it. Oh well. I'm a whole lot closer.
So since I had the whole set, and it's the D that always breaks I set about changing all of them. After a small amount of instruction from those, or that, which has far far more experience. The type of musical experience I'm unlikely to ever accumulate unless I start "playing" a heck of a lot more then I do. Also the type of ability I'm unlikely to have no matter what I do. Short of some futuristic operation to give a person oodles of musical talent coupled with hours and hours of practice.
Anyway, I was struggling with the last string. Dad had retired to the schoolroom where he was working on his second love, speaking hobby wise. His video editing. I called out, "Dad?"
"Mmm?"
"Did you buy my guitar new?"
"No, why?"
"Curious."
"The guy I got it from told me it was a 'screamin' deal'. Although I'm not sure how much of a screamin' deal it really was."
"Really? How old were you?"
"Oh. About twenty."
"Twenty?"
"Yup. That's the guitar that went across Canada with me."
"Really? This is the guitar you took across Canada?!" We spoke of the adventure he embarked on in his early free-to-do-as-he-pleased days. The time he hitched to Manitoba with my Aunt, also free and adventurous then, and then continued on to the east coast for the heck of it. With his necessary guitar on his back.
As far as recent history is concerned, it's also the guitar that made two trips to Mexico with us. Perched above my parent's bed in the incredibly beat-up case I still keep it in. And the same one I found on the kitchen table the morning of my seventeenth birthday. The one that had spent years hanging above his chair waiting for when he got home.
I felt so...I don't know. How does one describe emotions? Imagine you were turning seventeen. You were a new girl in the guitar sense. You found your Dad's guitar for you. Like he was sharing a part of his music, his biggest part of who he is, with you. And giving you an instrument shaped through years of playing, and starting you out on the one you first started plucking on. Imagine that. I'm sure that's not how I felt, since I'm not you. But that's what it was to me.
Let me be clear. He is not the type of man to live his dreams through his kids. To push them into his ideas of success. Or what have you. But I don't doubt he would be happy to see one of his kids interested in playing.
I have not done my guitar justice. Yet. Dad thinks it's because he plays it often and plays it well that the rest of us never got very far, comparatively. Guitar is a frustrating instrument to try learn if you've not got a lot of patience. So to have his years of dedication to compare ourselves to...
I don't even notice when he plays guitar. It's just been a so-often present sound somewhere in the background of our lives. Some nights he would bring it down and play us to sleep. Now when people comment on it I'm like, "Oh, yeah. I guess he is playing. Yeah. It's nice." Some of the songs he wrote are just engrained. So much so that over the last couple years I've still been finding out that some of them are his. Songs that were just always there.
I was pleased to learn some of the story behind my guitar. I love things with history, and stories. Probably because I love history and stories. I love my guitar. It's something I'm proud to own. It's lived through a few scratches. But it's still the nicest one, if not the most expensive, I've ever played. Now if only I was half decent enough to be proud to play it.

*sigh*
O.k. Life has been busy. But nothing that I'll tell you or that would interest you too much.
As a note, someone pointed out to me that I tell people what they think. It's true. I do. But I'd never really noticed before. So now I'll probably be more aware of it. But I doubt that means I'll quit. But you don't care, *G*.
I bought myself an absolutely wicked knife. It was twenty-five bucks at a garage sale. I snagged it for twenty. In my mind I have the perfect knife for myself in mind. The one I would wear on my hip as I travel the world. The one that I would cut up mangos fresh off the tree with, trim my hair with, and generally make good use off. Not to mention it would make me feel a lot more secure well hitchhiking from Saragossa to Venice. This knife isn't quite perfect. It's a little too big. The blade is just about as long as my wrist to my fingertips. And pretty heavy duty. But it's a cool knife all the same.
I worked and slept all Canada day. I'd stayed up the whole night before and then work was heck. Morning shift took five hours. Wacked! And then when I finally crawled into bed and was just asleep my phone rang. But that's o.k. It was really important. Wrong number. And then when I was just about asleep again the j-witnesses came knocking. But amazingly I never did feel too dead. And some things are more important then a good nights sleep. At least when you're young and tough.
I celebrated hardly at all. Mostly just 'cause there was nothing to do. But I'm not quarter as patriotic as I used to be. We're in pretty nice trouble politically. Too bad, 'cause this is still a pretty awesome country other then that. God keep our land! Now let's hold up our end, eh?
I did stick on my best temporary maple leaf tattoo. I also caught the fireworks. Yes to small town spirit! It was actually a really good show. The best I've ever seen here with the possible exception of the millennium. I kept thinking, o.k. grand finale, No? Well right, here it is. This'll be it. k, here's the Grand finale. But then they just kept on firing. I walked back in the warm night air (it actually wasn't raining) wearing my jean jacket none-the-less because it has an awesome flag patch on the sleeve.
What else? Well, my first stint of roomating is over for a bit. It was odd, but worked out. I have to start avoided screaming songs out at midnight. Not to mention my stubborn habit of talking to myself. One morning Cor and I were in our respective rooms (she'd come to work with me) and I started laughing to myself. I was laughing hard, but quietly. And then Cor asks what was so funny. Shoot.
By the way, what was so funny, when I knocked on her door that morning I heard, in a moan, "Just go to work by yourself Kris." Heh. The girl's a bit out of it if you try talking to her at the wrong time.
One evening we were bored and took off up the mountain. We just wanted to see if we could walk from the road and end up in something resembling wilderness. We succeeded. Except the dog barking continually somewhere not too far away. We also climbed the greatest tree, ate saskatoons, and jumped through long grass.
Oh yeah. A cow bit me. Dang! Not really intentionally. But she was being horrible. Horrible I tell you! I was trying to drench her, which means I was sticking my hand in her mouth anyway. But I won. Even if the thing has more muscle in her neck then I have in my whole body.
I named three calves today. I needed a "T" name, and a "A" and "J" name. We have way to many Js on the farm. I settled on Turk, Afro, and Jungle. Exciting, no?
K. This is getting bad. Joel can beat me at ping pong. My rusty childhood tricycle is my front deck. My Eagles tape went missing. I'd just bought it at a garage sale for fifteen cents. And it was good.
Anything else you want to know?
See. I was right. Nothing that would interest you. And I'm hardly scratching the surface.

I told you summer would make a difference. Except there has got to be better places to swim then mud puddles. And, I suppose, the difference could be made by a nice number of days off.
I sunburned my thighs very very nicely yesterday. And my shoulders turned a glorious red today. That's one part of summer I could live without.
Pah. It will rain tomorrow.
My sister is now graduated. Well, she partied it up anyway. And then went to school on Monday. But that's o.k. She'll make lots of money. Some of us have to be studious goal oriented types. Otherwise we might not be past horse and buggy yet. Although it's my type that got us out of corsets.
Although, when your motivation interfears with cool-sleep-on-the-roof-parties, you might be taking it a little far.
Cor is starting to move into my place. Or, to be more exact. Cor's stuff is starting to move into my house. It's very strange. I've had the run of the place for nearly a year. Although I suppose I get a couple months yet. There will be some advantages of living with someone again. I hope. There'd better be *G*. I did get a stock of body spray in my bathroom. I am happy! I am sarcastic. Although I suppose most people prefer the smell of that over dairy.
I'm thinking of getting Krystal Meyer's c.d. Although I've only heard one song. Anyone heard of her?
Speaking of which, I have a Jars of Clay c.d.! And I'm actually really liking it! And they actually came in a parcel. I love parcels. Especially wrapped in string!
Also speaking of which. Meg got her hands on an old Spice girls tape. It didn't bring back too many memories. We started an anti-spice girls club. Although I don't think we ever did much besides sit around and talk about how we were going to through darts at pictures of them. One song immediately reminded me of a dance some girl did at a local talent show. Meg and I had weird childhoods. We still remember the songs to dances we saw at ten.
Also weird, we knew the names of all the spice girls. Except one.
Scary Spice-The black girl with big curls and skanky clothes
Baby Spice-The blond ditz with short skirts
Sporty Spice-The girl who thought she was an athlete because she wore runners and tight little tops.
Ginger Spice-The bad hair colour job and clothes cut out of fabric samples.
I don't suppose any of you would know the name of the last one? The girl with a super straight bob and not wearing much?
I have the tape now. Although I should get rid of it. It's funny. And so ninties! They were huge in their time.
I can't believe Megan mooned me.

I want sunshine. I want sunshine and swimming. I want picnics and days off. I want friends, novels, butterflys and fresh air. I want the musty canvas smell of a faithful tent. I want laughter. I want shorts and barefeet. Hot pavement and shady trees. I want to pedal a bike and lie in the grass. I want this blasted rain to stop. I want summer.
Tell me. Where is the place that gets to evaporate all this water that keeps falling on us? I think it's hardly fair.

How many of you read?
*counts hands*
O.k. How many of you are reading a book. Innocently. Caught up in the plot, maybe. Possibly enjoying the professional building of characters. And you come to a passage?
*counts hands again*
O.k. Now how many times is that passage incredible? So good that it makes you stop and re-read it. Enjoy the string of words. So perfectly does it seem to say what it's trying to. So well does it convey some meaning. Some part of life. Some emotion. You only wish that every word spoken was so well done. So nearly right. Something that made you want to stop, and enjoy it one more time?
*counts*
And when you read it all you want to do is stop somebody and read it out loud to them? Hand them the open book so they can enjoy it from themselves. Write it out and pass it around. Make sure everyone has an equal chance to appreciate, savour, those words that hit something in you?

Man. I cat-walked this ancient old tractor. I didn't know that was possible. And it had a turner hooked up to the back. I guess you just crank up the throttle and drop the clutch fast. Probably a very special tractor. I suspect it's been around since the fifties. I've never cat-walked much before. I can't even do my bike half properly most the time.
The tractor is great. The muffler fell out. But I was able to fix it by jamming it back in well trying to protect my hand with my shirt. Which was mildly awkward. It's emergency brake was a stick attached to an unused lever with a piece of wire. You push down the brakes and then try jam the stick in there.
Speaking of unused levers. It seems everything at my farm has at least six of them. I don't know if this is typical. But it seems odd. Do the makers of farm machinery purposely throw in a few buttons, switches, sticks, for the heck of it?
"K Kris. This is the mixer. Umm. There's the key. We don't use this. here's how you move forward. No, we don't use that pedal. Just this here. Umm, K, this doesn't do anything. Oh, this is broken. This, oh, that does nothing. Here's the levers for the front and side. You pull on this vise grip to move the conveyer. That toggle has to be switched to get the box to turn. No not that toggle. The one above it. That toggle, what is it for? I don't think it does anything. Don't worry about this stick. Heh, and this is completely useless"
He moves, flicks, pushes everything to show what it does, or in most cases, does not do.
"Either of those is right. Just push 'em and see what works."
This tractor didn't even have half the hoses from said levers. But she still ran. She was a nice little tractor. And I like turning. You just drive around in circles over the rows. And the little machine on the back promptly picks up the hay and spits it out a few feet over. Very cool. Helps that it was evening and there was a nice breeze blowing.

Dang. I've handled enough emotionally charged stuff over the past 24 hours to last a week. Make that a month. I think I'll have a breakdown. *G*, just kidding. I wonder what it takes to make a person breakdown. More for some people then others, I guess. Maybe? Is it a choice, how much you can handle? It's not been anywhere near that bad. I just like junk in small doses.
Right at the peak Mom brings in a piece of paper. It reads;
The Ranch
When I grow up I want to work on
a ranch. Because I like horses.
I also like the other animals.
And it has a drawing. I suppose of a ranch. Which makes me think about me being little. And then me being big. And me working my current job. And me telling Mom, "You know what? I changed as I grew up." And her telling me, "You got that right." And about what I've become. Which is a long ways from whole. And what I might become. And how much everything moves on.
And then I return to more important issues at hand.
Ach. I like it. I know I do.

Mystique

Balancing on the rail. Barefoot, cleats dangling from one hand. Cargo shorts with the sun sinking towards the mountains. Sounds nice doesn't it?
Well I passed my Grandma's. Which changed my train of thought. It's ironic. The place she thought she'd live the rest of her days. Where's she's built two back room businesses, and a library. The place she's filled with Grandma-junk and made only her own. The place she was given a three month eviction notice on.
Why ironic, you may well ask. Well...she owns it. It's hers. And she's being thrown out. Why, you may well ask. The stupid highway department wants to straighten out the stupid curve in the road.
I suppose I'm getting my terms mixed up. Because I was under the impression that it's communism where the government control's all the land. Or dictatorships where they do whatever they like. I thought free democracy was supposed to be, well, free. And democratic.

The wind is blowing hard (resulting in no mosquitos). It's getting dark. The sky is overcast. But the air is almost warm with only a crisp hint of freshness. You're laying on the back deck. Your stomach hurts from laughing, and yet every line makes you laugh some more.
You're talking about getting old. And how you'll wear purple hats, just because you can. then you come up with ways to violently disable the dirt bike driving next door. Despite, the trees are tall. Boxers, and tee-shirt. And a warm sleeping bag. Inside jokes carried on.
Maybe you realize, this is life. A part of it. The part which you go out of your way to create. But then hardly notice when it's here. More likely you don't.
This is life. Caramilk bars on the kitchen floor. Journal and pen on the brown velvet couch. Fresh sun on your cheeks as you head home from work. Yelling and pounding and needing to be free. Questioning and content and being eighteen.
Taking it all as it comes.
So tired your eyes hardly want to stay open. Opinions that change every month. Fighting your heart out. And being too shy. Toby Mac, Nickelback, Avril Lavigne. The life of the party. Hours in books. Feeling held down. Strong, single, your own. Eighteen.
Because, one day. What will be?

I've never seen much vigerous attempt to recruit young Canadians, until today. The navy had a trailer complete with video clips, sumbarine looking thingys, computers, and plenty of reading materials, all aimed towards getting me to join them.
It most definitely has it's pros and cons. Ultimately, I wouldn't go that route. Three reasons, primarily.
1. I'm too scared of comitting a full nine years of my life.
2. I hate the fact that they could ship me off to war at any time. I much prefer to be my own girl. I don't feel any need to be broken. And I probably wouldn't agree with their reasons to make me risk my life anyway.
3. Spending continual time in navy type company is probably something I don't need.
All the same, it was interesting. They would pay your university. You see the world and retire early. You get in wicked shape.
And, hey. I got to spin the wheel and they gave me a free portable radio. Which was what I wanted most. Everybody got something different compliments of the Canadian tax paying public.
Oh yeah. I also bought this awesome set of chopsticks. I went for the more expensive ones. 'Cause they were so hot. And now I just want to keep eating stuff so I can use them.

I've often been pleased I don't blush. Pleased, happy, gloating. All 'round glad. And I've had people agree with me.
"I'm so glad I don't blush."
"Yeah. Do be. It's very annoying."
The conversation would then take a turn to how annoying the tendency to blush is. Well I would sit feeling self-righteous on being left out. And looking down my nose in the best possible manner.
Or how about, "I'm glad I don't blush. At least I don't think I do."
"yeah. You don't. Be happy."
So the other day I was talking to my family. When I threw out my occasionally used line. "I'm so glad I don't blush."
"Oh yeah. You do!"
"What? No I don't."
"Trust me Kris, you do."
"No. I don't."
Ect. This was very disconcerting. I have always been under the impression that I don't. And I asked some other person (it evades me at the moment who) to try cement my former held opinion of my reddening tendencies. They didn't help.
Maybe I don't blush at all the right times. Or maybe I don't get flustered/embarrassed easily enough. Or something. Actually. I still just honestly believe that I don't. When you blush you know it, right? And I never recall noticing that I was turning red.
No. I quite like being a non-blushing girl. And I am going to stick with my opinion that that's what I am. If I ever get warm, or see clear proof in the form of footage, or am told when I blush, and pay attention. Then I suppose I'll have to admit that maybe I do. Occasionally. But I've gone eighteen years without that happening. And you would think one of the above would've by now if I blushed at all. So there.

I pushed my sister backwards off a church railing. It was hilarious, but only because she didn't get hurt. Jen maybe didn't think so though.
I got pm off last minute today. So I hit our second-hand best-in-Canada place and bought food. I love buying food. Maybe someday it'll become a chore. But for now I may as well enjoy it. Plus, it's nice to come home and actually have choices when I open the fridge.
I couldn't do the lever on the tractor one day. I was mad, and muttered for two days about how I hated being a girl. But it ran like a hot knife through butter then next time, so I felt better.
I am the owner of a pearl necklace. When I dress-up (once/twice a year), I prefer funky. But what girl wouldn't want to own pearls once in her life? Now I can pair it with my high class fur coat. I kid you not on either count.
I am going to be working very long(12-14) days over harvest. Probably. Tractor work. Whoo hoo. Beach babes, your tans will be nothing. I will be a heavy competitor in most-likely-to-develop-skin-cancer section.
I am reading Wodehouse on Crime. I can't help but think Wodehouse on Crack. But he has a, umm, unique writing style. And I have been forced to laugh out loud on several counts.
I wish I had a life.

My boss went into a state of absolute shock when he found out I'd never watched Star Wars. Not a single one. He staggered around the parlour gasping for breath and clutching his chest.
"Kristen ------, where have you been!?"
His advice was this. Next time I have a day off I must rent them. All. And then sit around in my p.j.s and watch them straight through. He says that way I'll be ready to stand in line when the fifth one comes out.
Oh yay.
I'm eighteen, and I've never seen Star Wars. Any of them. Do I really want to give that up? I'm still deciding whether or not to take him up on it. I really doubt that I will. I suspect I wouldn't be starwar freak. At all. We all know the sort. The people that argue over which light sabre has more power and over intricacies in the fight scenes (having never seen them I have no idea what I'm talking about).
"What do you watch then!?"
Well. I dunno. Ironically, watching movies is more of a social thing to me.
"Hey, Kris. Let's get together and watch a lighted box that allows for absolutely no conversation or social interaction".
I'd really prefer not to be a person who needs to see the latest Johnny Depp/Drew Barrymore/Brad Pitt movie. Those kind of people scare me. Really, there's enough in my own life. I have no need to get involved with actors on screen. The people that have to always be watching movies, don't they wonder about their own lives?
But maybe someday I'll need a good brain numbing. So I'll keep the opportunity in the back of my mind.
I don't mind a movie now and then. Especially with friends. Or if it's either funny or thought provoking (to the extent that movies can be). But...yeesh.
I know enough to get it when my boss tells me, "Good luck, young Jedi". Although from now on I suspect that I won't get that line. At least not without him going on about my lack of education in modern entertainment (speaking of which, I love it when my boss calls me, "kid". Although I think he tries not to now. Figures I'm really a woman, or something. Pah)
Anyway, I figured I better not mention that I've never seen any LOTR. I'd done enough damage to his nervous system for one day.
But it was funny. And I spent half the time I was washing down the parlour grinning about it like crazy.

On main street we have a street light. Actually, we have several. But this particular one is great. Because there is a pair of runners dangling right beside the light.
I have no idea who's they are. But every time I see them I grin. Because there dangles somebodies runners, proudly adorning our local stop light. It's a quirk of town.
I don't know how many people specifically notice them. But they're great.

This just in.
After three fights I emerge triumphant. Nice to get at least one gold over the duration of the year. I threw one nice ippon (full point. Immediate win). Other then that I mostly won on pins and stuff. I guess it could've gone either way. The girls I fought were really cool.
I did lose one fight. B. signed me up for club comp without my knowledge and I got stuck on the misc. team. Being "second biggest" paired me against a big (not really huge, but that makes me sound better) green belt guy. It was a good fight. But I lost. Still got gold though, since my team mates won.
You really wanted to know that. Didn't you?

This is a random minute of my time over the past week or so. I would never have thought of it except I was just picking a scab on my leg. Which reminded me of how I got it.
We were building a new feed bunk at work and I was recruited to help. Because of my experiance working with Dad my current boss expects me to know what I'm doing. I'm not completely helpless because I have logged a decent number of hours in construction. But I just completed the jobs as I was told to do them. I had never tried commit everything to memory. Or anything, for that matter. I wouldn't even gone out of my way to figure out how or why.
Stick this board exactly ten feet below the trusses using the screws out of the green box (not an actual senerio I would suggest well building *G*)? Consider it done. Just don't expect me to know why I'm doing it.
But if nothing else I know how to reverse a screw gun and what a snap tie is.
So on with my story. We were using chunks of plywood instead of forms to build the dividers in the bunk, and I was put on constructing one of them almost in the complete. Which was fine. I had it all up and then had to drill holes in the plywood for the snap ties. So I put the massive drill bit on and start drilling. It wasn't real easy since the boards kept sliding around, but I was getting it done.
So I straddle the board I was trying to drill and I'm excerting as much pressure on the dying drill as possible when it broke through. Which is good. Another hole done. Only this time I had stupidly placed my leg directly behind where I was drilling.
I barely felt the bit on my leg and started immediately pulling it back. But it wasn't coming very easily.
Oh man! I've stuck the bit in my leg! And now I'm in shock and I can hardly feel it.
Pull, pull. No I'm not panicing. Oh yes, I am, this is stupid.
My aunt stuck a chunk of rebar through her leg and pulled it out thinking it had just gone through her jeans. That's what's happening to me!
K, boss can't see. Hang on, if I can't walk boss should definitely see.
Quit pulling!
K, look down see how bad it is.
I honestly expected my jeans to be soaking through with blood, and I kept yanking with various degrees of irrational thought the whole time. Ends up just the pointy end of the bit had jammed into my leg and the rest was just twisted up in my jeans making it hard to pull out, which was why I thought it was in the skin. Had I taken time to think it through, it would take a whole lot more then the pressure I was putting on it to stick the thing in my leg so quickly.
But it's a bit odd. To think that I, along with the rest of the human race, is prone to panic and shock.
It was just funny. 'Cause it's the closest I've ever been.
And one thing about doing construction at work. Makes me figure the more I know that better. My boss seriously asked if I'd want to build my own house. At the time it seemed ridiculous. But hey, he says it's one of the best things he's ever done.

So my Mom is celebrating her fortieth b-day today. I put together for her use something that she needs muchly. I presented her with a midlife crisis starter kit. I tell you, it was freaking embarrassing buying some of the stuff in there. The silver lipstick was somewhat so. But was nothing compared to the second-hand lingerie (I don't even know how to spell that) or the wanna-be leather skirt. The funky hair streaks were a bit odd too. As I tip-toed up to the counter with my curly mop of hair looking like I'd just crawled out of bed. Which I had. Yup, it was good fun. If mildly insane.
One of the items she is now the lucky owner of is a hideous yellow bikini with pink flowers. When she was showing them to her friends this one prompeted much comment. One of the popular ones was that she should wear it. Or that they knew someone who would want it if she didn't.
One lady said, "I wish I wore a bikini when I could." She was completely serious too. Like she was honestly sorry she didn't.
This caused Meg to giggle in my ear, "You never know what you'll regret, eh?"
It made me think, what if I get to be fourty and wish I had spent my teen years prancing about in halter tops and mini skirts? It's stupid how one innocent comment can make you reconsider your morals. If you can, why shouldn't you hang-out at the beach in nothing more then panties made out of swimsuit stuff? Heck, you're only young once.
Well, I really don't like the thought of guys looking at me for more then who I really am, for one. And if wearing something less then decent will cause them too sin then it's a sin for me to do so. covering up is the most basic of morals. It's my body and will be that way unless I get married. And were I to, it would be only right that I'd have saved it for him.
Well, that and I'm just entirely not a halter top/mini skirt girl. :). Dressing as such would be anything but real to myself. I'm much more at home in my bluejeans and tank-top. Or cargo shorts and plaid shirt.

You know how it is to be little. You have friends over, but have spent the last ten minutes in your room crying. Then you come out, and try to be brave. Put on a front. So you smile. But it's so fake, it just falls off. Because there's nothing you feel like doing less then smiling.
Yesterday I was low. The last couple days had been crap. Although don't take the excert above to mean I cried. I didn't. I sometimes think I've forgotten how to cry.
But today has been considerably better. Thank God.
And on that happy note, I announce the first birthday of my blog. It's wack. Didn't I just start this thing last month? Or was it a decade ago? You could tell me either and I'd probably believe you.

I live in a small town. And, as of yet, I don't drink. I'm sure you can figure out that means that you have to be imaginative to find new and exciting stuff to do.
Before I get going I'm off on just one tangent. I'm not saying that there's much more to do in the cities, other then club, which is the same difference as drinking. So I'm just pointing out that I'm not dissing small towns. Oh, and sometimes a good concert or something will come in, but whatever. In large there's not much more to do. Just more stuff to get involved in, if that interests you. But there's stuff to get involved in here too. It's just a point of getting one's butt off one's couch. You just might have to choose between judo and karate instead of judo, karate, tae-kwon-do, ju-jit-su...you get my point. Plus here you've got the lake, the mountains, need I say more?
Tangent over.
So tonight we went to the gymnastic's year end show. Hey, it's something to do. And talented gymnists never fail to amaze me. Meg and Mom (who decided she was coming) piled in my car and we hit the highschool.
In large it was kinda slow, and a tad boring. But some of it was worth watching. Yeah I'm glad I went. It was impressive, to a girl like me. But let's just say we're not currently producing any olympians.
So it was getting dark when we got home. But Meg had to show me her "handspring". Ends up she can kinda do them. But they're not what I would call a ten. I don't think I saw her do any where she landed exclusively on her feet. Still, I had to give it a go. So away I went. Within five minutes I had scuffed arms, grass stains on my jeans, and an ankle that was landed on funny. But the thing is I was giving it.
When I learned breakfalls for judo I had to train myself to keep my right leg staight. so now it's coming back to haunt me since I kept only getting my left under me.
We got on the trampoline and after a few minutes any agility I had in my youth started coming back. I was nailing handsprings and landing flips. But, heh, the extra bounce you can get on a trampoline kinda helps. Plus, it's a lot easier on the body to land wrong on there then if you try it on solid ground.
My triumph of the night was back handsprings. I've never done them before in my life. But once I got over the throwing myself backwards onto my face with only my hands to stop me I could do them well.
The feeling of power, people! The feeling of power. I told you they were fun. And, man, they are.
Meg was pumped after a week of keeping heavy on the textbooks. And it was good for her.
So, now I just have to teach myself to do them on the lawn. I have a lot of learning to do.
But there is a general point to this post. It's gymnastics in the cold air, the rapidly growing dark, barefoot, and with rain drizzling around you. You can feel the blood pumping through your fingers. Your sister is encouraging you, and you her. You take turns flipping your body through the air, sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing. Always coming back ready for more.
Gymnastics after dark in the rain.
It would be hard to beat as far as feeling alive.

Yesterday I made my first mix of the year. After loading the corn I moved onto the haylage, and promptly jammed the conveyor belt. This is one of my favourite pastimes. So I had to haul myself out in order to change the hoses around, so the conveyor would go the other way, see. And something about the smell of haylage, and oil, and diesel, and whatever other foreign substances come on a mixer reminded me of last summer. Made me feel like I was going to stop at the river on the way home.
So maybe I don't mind making mixes all that much.
Well, except I just about went in the ditch within the first ten seconds.

Good Charlotte, I just want to live is playing on msn radio right now. And after that it's Linkin Park. So I'm sitting here thinking of what I can possibly write after spending time doing just about every other meaningless computer task that I can think of.
My family has just gone to bed. Even Meg has closed her book and turned in. Not before her incredibly hilarious Megan-the-geek impressions. I think I'm about the only person that has ever seen them. And I'm probably about the only person who would appreciate them. The sad part is they're almost half true. She just needs some thick rimmed glasses. But they're so funny!
She is almost comparable to Harold off the red green show. He's about my favourite character. Red green is a boring personality. It's his stunts that are a laugh. Where as Harold just a hilarious guy. Common. Can't you picture him now.
"But Uuncle Rrred. I don't know if officer Jim would like that. Aheaaa."
I hope you've seen the show and can imagine him saying that. He's a blast!
What else? I'm not working a lot of mornings right now. I just have long afternoons with extra farm jobs. I'll be driving the mixer. I hate driving the mixer. Last year during the two weeks that I had to do so I hit just about everything within a ten mile radius.
My older boss usually does it. But he's off to Korea. Lucky guy. But he deserves it. He's been up with me or Cheryle every morning since his two weeks last year.
I hope I'm retired by time I'm his age. If I'm not then I'll probably be bitter.
And my songs are over. So I'm off to home. To stay up as late as I think I can get away with. Seeing as I don't have to get up for the next couple mornings.
Then again, I don't have any books right now. And what else is there to do in this life if one doesn't have any movies, books, or a computer?
That sounded really lame.

Lately I've been having a re-occurring dream where I'm able to do handsprings. Different circumstances, settings, ect. But I'm able to bounce onto my hands and back onto my feet again. Let me tell you, it's so much fun!
It's not really surprising that I'm dreaming this. I've been moaning the my inability for a while now. I'll see a stretch of lawn and want to do more then a "handstand", or "cartwheel". This girl wants to be able to handsprings!
Moaning is about all I'm doing, though. I don't have anywhere to learn it. And my biggest excuse is quite good. I'm eighteen. Is this not the age where most girls are quitting gymnastics? So if most girls are getting to old for it at this age then I'm certainly not about to start trying something new.
Also, my various groups have gone through several gym spurts. I was always the one that couldn't do it. But no one can say I didn't try. Look, if I can't learn at ten there's no way I'm going to do it now. At one point our family would clean up after church, put away the chairs, and then Dad would coach us as we lined up and tried them over and over again. It was great, until I messed up my hand pretty good on one go. I wasn't getting anywhere anyway.
Not that any of us succeeded, beyond Joe. Well...Meg was telling me yesterday that she can do them to. But, I gotta say, I'm gonna have to see it to believe it.
"I'm sure I remember trying it at the park. I think I'd land on, like, my feet...or butt...or back...or something"
O.k. If that counts then I guess I can do it too.
Hey, interesting fact of the day. Both my parents were something of gymnasts in their teens.
So, elusive handsprings. I'll keep whining about how much fun they would be. But if I could master them...I'd probably start pouting about wanting to do flips

Ladies, I have found him. Imagine my excitment at this entry under misc. in a copy of Hoard's Dairyman,
26 year old, homeschooled, Christian man
seeks wife. Part owner of 200 cow dairy.
Intersted girl or parents may e-mail
addy here
he's maybe a little older then I'd imagined. But a girl like me needs a mature man. Especially one who's settled on the family farm where he was raised at the kitchen table and in the church. And a guy that would advertise for a wife. That is sooo hot!

Big Five Test Results

Extroversion (59%) moderately high which suggests you are, at times, overly talkative, outgoing, sociable and interacting at the expense of developing your own individual interests and internally based identity. Friendliness (33%) moderately low which suggests you are, at times, overly selfish, uncooperative, and difficult at the expense of the well being of others. Orderliness (26%) low which suggests you are overly flexible, random, improvised, and fun seeking at the expense too often of structure, reliability, work ethic, and long term accomplishment. Emotional Stability (81%) high which suggests you are very relaxed, calm, secure, and optimistic. Openmindedness (50%) medium which suggests you are moderately intellectual, curious, and imaginative.

Take Free Big Five Personality Test
personality tests by similarminds.com

I'm friendlier then that. Really. They just put that because I was honest and I admitted that "I can be unsympathetic" was "very accurate". And junk. My work ethic and reliability do no suffer because I'm fun loving and exciting. And, hmm, I clearly didn't think I was that extroverted

First of all, Happy Easter Everyone.
I had a day off and absolutely nothing to do. Until family dinner. So I sat, watched the snow outside, and read. It's been a while.
Then I came early to help Gram get ready. Let me tell you, I have crossed a certain line. For it was I, Kristen, who hid the Easter eggs. Instead of having to pretend not to see them nestled behind photos 'till after supper I was the one putting them there. And I just about drove my brothers insane with my wicked bunny hiding skills. But, that doesn't mean I miss out on chocolate all together. This kid isn't sitting down so easily.
*G*, I suppose eating my own chocolate chips out of my own bag might disqualify me for next year. And it might be about time. Everyone gets to be an adult someday. But that doesn't mean they have to grow up.

Me: You know, Uncle Ted, if you start making Jennifer listen to Mozart right now she'll be smart by time she's, like, twelve.
Uncle Ted: Maybe, but she'd be boring.
Me: [laughs...hard]

---

Yesterday I discovered an alley I didn't know about.

---

Give me a place to stand and I'll move the world. Until then I'll whine about not having a place to stand.

Because people say I'm negative here is an expression of appreciation.
To Cor- thanks for being my most faithful reader, likely commenter, and the friend that is usually next door and not doing anything. Who knows how much boringer my life might be without you there. You are spontaneous enough to keep up. Lot's of crazy moments have you in the picture.
To Sped-Thanks incredibly for a month + of my life. Very frustrating that's all we have. Thanks for a stack of letters, and numerous laughs and not enough late nights since we were fourteen. Gosh, we were young. Screw it, young forever.
To someone we shall not mention-Thanks for nothing.
To Larry Norman-Thanks for Christian rock.
To God-thanks for life. And everything else that I'm thankful for.
To my parents-also thanks for life. If you meant to or not ;).
To Abby-Thanks for being crazy, young, and ready to do anything.
To Steve-Thanks for being cousin, and fun as of the last couple years.
To the twins and their mother-Thanks for introducing me to judo.
To Megan-Thanks for sisterhood.
To my brothers-thanks for brotherhood and hanging out when I feel like it, sometimes.
To the icecream lady-Thanks for icecream with attitude.
To Sarah (sis de Cor)-Thanks for being a latenighter and a pig.
To Jen and Amanda-Thanks for 7 through 10.
To Tia-Thanks for laughing fits, and an auntie's veiw with good times. Also, thanks giving me a pen and paper.
To the kids of LR-Thanks for the Spanish lessons, good times, and month not to be forgotten.
To essy and Ruthy-thanks for the fun of mailing people I've never met.
To Jen-Thanks for being honest and occasionally surprizing.
To Gram-Thanks for putting us in the neighborhood I grew up in.
To Grandma-Thanks for the making the best buns you can bring on a picnic.
To whoever invented denim-Thanks for blue jeans.
To my bosses-Thanks for hiring me and having the patience to teach me.
To other dreamers-Thanks for showing me it's o.k. to dream.
To everyone who helped shape me-check our your masterpiece, eh?
And I'm barely scratching the surface. How incredibly positive of me.

"Tomorrow is always fresh with no mistakes in it."
I get this quote from Anne of Green Gables. And remember really liking it when I was younger. It was so encouraging. Go to sleep and you can wake up with a new, fresh chance.
I have since been introduced to the truth of the matter. Yesterday's mistakes are far too easily carried over into today. And I can be sure that whatever I do wrong this afternoon will not be forgotten by tomorrow.
Not that this is a bad thing. If it worked that way we would all run around repeating our same mistakes, creating the same problems, and then not paying the consequences.
Can you imagine if you woke up tomorrow and it was made as if you had never, ever, done anything wrong?

I go away for the weekend. I get a cold. I don't sleep. 40 year olds way out-party me. I have to skate regardless. I have a blast. I first succeed in doing a french braid. I score two goals. I wear a pink feather boa. I leave long before the dancing. I skate heard, and cough hard, and sprawl across the back seat on the way home. And then I go back to work the day after.
Is this a good thing?

I remember riding in the baby seat of grocery carts. I suspect I did until Meg came along, and then she had rights to it. I remember twisting around to try see where we were going and trying to reach things that I wasn't supposed to. But in general I was pretty happy there. Safely sitting in my designated area, just being the little kid in the shopping cart.
Then I graduated to the actual cart. There I would sit happy to be getting a ride. Looking out through the metal mesh. Until, at last I would get kicked out to make room for groceries that couldn't walk, like I apparently could.
I kept riding in the cart, even when I was old enough to climb in myself, although I'm sure I caused my Mom to grasp hard at the cart sometimes.
Eventually I was either forbidden or shamed into staying out of the cart. By then I was old enough to sit crosslegged, feeling Mom's opinion at her daughter still riding in the cart, and thinking that the strangers I was watching probably thought I was too old.
I then started climbing on the end and riding backwards. That was fun. You could hop on and off at any stop or anything that caught your attention. By then, I had siblings at all other stages of cart riding. I kept on with this as long as I could. Even after I had to shift my weight so as not to make the cart nose downwards. Mom would get tired of extra weight making the front swing funny and would make me get off, where I would stay for all of a few minutes.
By time I was really too old an heavy for this we started shopping at a warehouse. Here we would take a pilgrimage once month. Dad would push a massive blue flat and load it with massive boxes of rice, flour, and other things big families can't grow and go through quickly. We would perch happily on the flat, and then the boxes, until there were just too many squishables to continue. I would survey the store, pretended I was Veronica Lodge in her father's cellar and able to choose anything she wanted to eat. The massive boxes of chocolate bars and huge containers of juice. Forget the fact that Veronica would never touch any of it in fear of sabotaging her diet. Eventually, as the oldest, I would be the first one to have to get off, and actually walk around the store until I would whine about my feet hurting.
Nobody will push me in grocery carts any more. Instead, I take my own, run across the parking lot, or down a near empty aisle, and then jump on coasting for as far as I can. I suspect this is the last phase of a grocery cart riding history, and by time I outgrow this my free rides in grocery carts will be ended forever.

I have decided technology isn't worth it.
It results in more frustration then is worth it at all costs.
Dang it.

Today's subject, extrovert vs. introvert.
Yup, I read and article on it the other day. So a subject that has spent about an hour on my thought list over my life time has been near the top for today.
I've been rating every-body I know. Cor, you are definitely a decided introvert. Sped, you're more extrovert. Ess, I haven't the slightest...extrovert?
Myself, I come out closer to the introvert end. I like my alone time. I can be perceived as quiet if you don't know me. I get crabby at times if forced to spend more then a week with somebody. I don't like phoning people on errands (i.e., the phone company). I don't display my "talents" or lack of, for the world to see. Indeed, is my last sentence not very introverted?
I don't really feel like an introvert inside. Other then the piece of my that revels in an afternoon on the couch with a good book. Extroverts have it easier.
I'm not all the quiet girl. If you know me, I'm loud, opinionated, and often the centre of attention. I like rollercoasters, and listen to rock.
You know what, I really don't have any of this figured out. Which is probably why I've been thinking about it for so long. And which is probably why I shouldn't be posting my lack of decided views on it.
So what's better? Super outgoing, always up for a party (another point, I'm never the first one to say let's go to sleep/home. Chalk up one for Kris the extrovert?) Or reflective and polite? It's not safe to wonder that (so don't. Stop thinking about I tell you).
In my mind, before, it had to do with how you grew up. I'm quiet in any big group because I never spent my adolescence in a room with twenty other kids (and who's not quiet when thrown in a big group of outgoing people?). But now I don't think so. I think if I had I would still be the same. I would just always be around kids I'm always around. Hence I would be the Kristen that you know when you've been around me a bit. Let's talk in circles, why don't we?
I'm not uncomfortable around people. I don't get sweaty at the thought of small talk. I'm not painfully shy. I just think I rate more as an introvert. And I'm wondering about posting this. Because I just don't know. And I don't want the world to think I'm what I'm not. See, introvert. I don't want people to think I stutter (at least, I don't very often anyway ;). But you all know me anyway. Right?
So introvert, extrovert, and whatever that means. Screw it, I'm Kris.

My poor bed. And poor me.
A couple nights ago my eyes started to close around seven. And it was with great pride and rejoicing that I was actually in bed with the lights out by eight thirty. This, as I'm sure you can guess is an extremely rare occurrence. In fact, practically non-existent. I settled down for my usual 1/2-1 hour random pointless thinking before drifting off. I was getting there too, when, ##bing## my eyes pop open. I glanced warily at my glowing alarm clock (which I hate, abhor, and despise, but couldn't live without). What met my gaze was the red 8:56. I groaned inwardly. O.k., fine, I believe it was out loud. I am well aware that my mental clock has trouble knowing that 9 to 11 is the usual time for working girls like me to go to bed. But no one can say I'm not a fighter. I turned my back, pretended I was still tired, and closed my eyes. Every intention of mine was to beat this thing. I don't know how it happened, but my next actions were unavoidable.
I found myself in push-up position. With the flick of one foot and pumping my arms against the bed I could get decent height. Then slam against the bed again, and the groaning "springs" would help launch me into the air again. After several repetitions I would maneuver into a sudden twist resulting in hitting the bed on my back.
I grinned to myself, and promptly discovered if I held my body just the right angle I could pretty good height without even using my arms from my back. Then, flip, back on my stomach. After such a rush I would bury my head in my pillow, giggle with glee, and proceed to start from the beginning.
This made me hungry. So I sat on the kitchen floor in my boxers eating grapes, chocolate chips, and drinking juice. Thoughly re-energized I retired again with a book, and read until my mind thought it might be able to rest. Three hours later, off goes above mentioned alarm.
*grins*, or, *groans*, maybe.
I have a habit of bouncing on my bed. I should take bets on how long it'll be until the legs just break off. An old bed is like an old car. You don't need to worry over actually living with them.
I have broken blinds in my room. Reminisce of the night I watched Much Ado About Nothing. I was over-tired, but high on the thought that I had the next day off. I did a very nice prolonged handstand in my dining room, then pirouetted in the mirror and flew through my bedroom door landing on my back on my bed. At this point my feet flew back and hit the blinds. Which I found horribly funny in said state of mind.
I don't know if I'm crazy. Or just a bachelorette living it for all it's worth.

On reply to a topic on Canadian identity, what is it. There was some good repies there. This was mine.

Canadians are people who spend have their time explaining to the yanks why they're not Brits and the other half explaining to the Brits why they're not yanks.
And I'm Canadian myself, so I'm allowed to say that.
I'm all for healthcare. I just don't appreciate being overtaxed to pay for other's councilling and abortions. I'm all for letting people live their lives, but I believe marriage always has been, and always should be between a man and a woman. I'm not against medicinal pot, but anyone who thinks kids will be happy to smoke stuff bought at the local drugstore, without going heavier, is kidding himself.
Tim Hortons is owned by an American company and (I think) Molson is melding with Coors. The oldest company in North American (the Bay) is up for sale.
I thank John Cretian for keeping us out of Iraq, but bemoan the taxes on softwood and overkill reaction to one case of bse.
I'm finally proud of our french history. But here in B.C. I know more people (including myself) who know some Spanish, and no french.
We generally don't think we're the best and always right and that our job is to liberate the rest of the world. This is where we differ from those down south. Arrogance and ignorance are not what I consider faults of ours (no, I'm not saying we're perfect. Just that we're not the only ones).
We can proudly wear our flag on our backpacks abroad. And do say "eh". It took me hundreds of tries to learn to draw a decent maple leaf (and strongly suspect that most other flags would be easier to draw decently). But I truly think our flag is nicer then any other. Nickelback is our idea of rockers.
We were some of the first sending troops against Hitler, and didn't let nobody take what was ours in 1812 (although the results would be far different if they tried today). So we don't run around giving people reason to hate us. And I'd like someone to explain how this makes us wimps.
We're proud of how many surviving heritages we can cram into one city.
It gets hot enough in summer. But most of us can build a pretty decent snow fort. And when we get tired of throwing snowballs, we go inside and watch hockey (or is it ultimate fighting. Sometimes I'm not sure which).

Things my brothers would want to tell the whole world.
Oldest brother-Donate money to me for my great invention ideas.
Middle brother-Everyone is horrible. Kris is a jerk.
Youngest brother- judo rocks!
What can I say? My youngest brother has the right idea.

The setting is last farm meeting. After a hearty breakfast, and talking over all things farm for a month we decided to go move calves, since we all happened to be there at the time.
O.k., I don't know how to explain it, and how interested in our particular farm's method of moving calves, but in order to do so we have to herd them through a pen. Since there were a few relatively new calves in there we had to move them into the calf barn.
K, sorry, but this is essential where I'm going.
So, I picked up one of the calves and carried it over. Have you ever carried a calf (never mind, I know the answer)? You feel like if you were a bit cleaner, smiled big, and had your hair tousled in the wind you could be a painting on a country calender.
After we were done Cheryle came out and was rubbing her arm off in a pile of sawdust.
"Scours", smiling.
Cheryle, as I'm sure you've guessed, is my co-worker. My reprieve on my days off. I milked together with her for a month or so. She's in her fifties, drives truck, and ropes calves. She makes me laugh very hard.
She's told me a little bit about her life. How she wanted to drop-out, but decided that school was better then the alternetive. How she hated school. Hated sitting still all day. How she went to business school, and eventually came to terms with the fact that she's a physical labour person. She thinks she would've loved to become a mechanic. She and her husband do logging as a business.
She used to load fifty bales of hay onto a truck on her own, for her horses. I must admit, even I was impressed by this. I was also dejected since she, with experiance, had said woman weren't made to push themselves to that extent. I guess she feels it now. Just another subtle warning that it would be good to take care of myself now. I'm getting a lot of those lately. I'm afraid I don't really listen, but I know, I should.
So, she's scrubbing scours off with a handful of sawdust when she looks at me, wrinkles her nose, and asks, "can you imagine living in the city." I found this so an epitome of something. Yet amusing, and cool, because she was not living, doing anything glamourous about the country at the moment. Yet she was still being a true, aging, outdoor tomboy.
I wrinkled my nose back, at the thought. And then told her that my Mom wanted me to apply at the bank after graduation.
Her voice surprized, "At a bank?" More wrinkling of noses. "Office work kills you if you're not cut out for it. Believe me I know."
The other day I walked in to pay a bill. Well standing in line I was struck with one thought. "This, this would kill me." I can't imagine having to get myself a pair of pumps. Getting up and spending fifteen minutes making myself look professional. Filling out forms all day.
Nope. It's just not me. And I'm glad I didn't have to find it out the hard way. Not that getting up at 3:30 is me. I'm a total and complete night girl. But I survive. And come out stronger for it in the end.

O.k. Just had a killer laugh fest with by bros
Renn; "Man, you cry easy when you laugh"
But it is so true. I shed far more tears through laughter then crying.
The amount of "that was so stupid" stories we have.
Ty had a rope tied from his leg to our dog. And Joe threw a stick for him to fetch. That one was worth a laugh.
K, my parents have finally bought a computer with highspeed so I'm in supreme luxery right now. Not that I live here. But it's still killer nice.
Last night I scored the first goal for my team in a game. One New Years Resolation down. Maybe that's why us humans are stupid enough to chase a hunk of rubber around a slab of ice. Cause the rush of seeing it hit the back of the net is worth it. Like judo, nothing matches that moment when you're playing tori and you know it's about to be a ippon worthy throw. I mean, there's more to that then that. But that certainly doesn't hurt.
Oh yeah, more news on a New Years Resolution. Last herd health I came out with 5 sucessful pregs. Well on my way to my goal of 20 for the year. This made me happy. 'Cause I've probably had more then my share of failures.
And now, dear friends, it is about time for me to pack up and head home. It's naught but short hours 'till I return for am shift. *yawns*.

Once upon a time when I was a computer addict I was blog surfing for lack of anything better to do well filling my daily hit of internet time. The pale light washing over my face, and ruining my eyes well I sat entranced by the glowing screen. My fingers in constant motion. Click click click. And continual trips into my e-mail to make sure nobody had written within the last ten minutes.
Yeah, I'm on something of a down-with-computer-dependant-people kick. Like, now that I'm liberated, I'm above you all. Looking down. And make pretenses of wanting to bring you to my level of freedom. And I was never even all that bad.
But that's not where I was taking this post. So we'll leave well enough alone.
As I was saying, I was blog surfing. At some point I wandered into a blog where some chick had posted her results on a bunch of quizs. So I proceeded to take some of them. Out of curiousity.
This particular girl had taken a "type of girlfriend" quiz. And came out as maternal girlfriend. Motherly loving sort. So, yes, I randomly clicked and took it too. my results came out as,

-Perfect- You're the perfect girlfriend. Which
means you're rare or that you cheated :P You're
the kind of chick that can hang out with your
boyfriend's friends and be silly. You don't
care about presents or about going to fancy
placed. Hell, just hang out. You're just happy
being around your boyfriend.

What Kind of Girlfriend Are You?


So there. I'm an absolute waste. I could be making some guy an ideal girlfriend. Unfortuenently (for him) I've got better things to do. Oh, and I didn't cheat. So I'm rare. The prefect catch. Just, nobody can catch me. I laugh at myself, the quiz, and everyone else.
I was going to say I couldn't remember the address, but after about a minute of searching I found it so I thought you would appreciate my results and the link. Comon, you know you're going to take it. Admit it or not.
I won't say anything about how quizs don't work for me half the time. This one seems to describe me decently. I just didn't know it made me perfect.
*g* @ world.

I officially can't wait for summer.
Not that I don't love winter. Not that I'm one of those crabby people that hates snow. Not that I don't think it's awesome to be one of the tough notherners in the world. But working outside in -10 temperatures with no mitts and only a fall worthy jacket is enough to make me start counting the days.
That and I'm finally having to admit I've got bad circulation. I do not like the thought that I, Kris, may have bad circulation. I don't like to think of myself as a bad circulation person. But when my toes freeze along with the worst of them well I attempt to skate happily along, and my fingers feel worthy candidates for falling off I must admit, I think I might have bad circulation.
Same with weak lungs. I, Kris, still maintain that I don't have the weak lungs that run in my Dad's side of the family. I've proudly taken on just about everything else that runs in the paternal side, but I'm afraid that I'm fighting the weak lung syndrome.
O.k., O.k. Here's a change of topic for you. For I feel I have to comment on whoever it was that just walked in and out of the library.
He was young, and maybe a real cowboy, or maybe a want to be real cowboy. I'm afraid I'm not experienced enough that I can always tell them apart yet. He was closer the a stereotypical cowboy then anyone I've seen around these parts before.
And, before I continue, I don't really believe that real cowboys exist anymore. The rancher may exist. I've seen some pretty genuine looking ones in Mexico. But sources tell me that Texas is now that fattest state in the fattest nation, and I strongly suspect that means they aren't riding the range. And if Texas has gone down, I don't have much hope for anywhere else. Alberta included. They (Albertans) pushed off any hope of ranchers dominating with their first oil line. And now we flock to their "western" cities to get jobs generate by the industry. And, I find it humorous, that Alberta likes to consider themselves the only true western province. We in B.C. are willing to let them have it. We're more the cutting edge province. Our cities (or ought I to say city) are/is more dynamic. We're like the youthful state. The one that took the longest to get to. Therefore we are newer, therefore we are cooler. Almost the nonsurfer California of Canada. Historical goldrush intact.
Back to my "cowboy". I always look up when people walk by, or when somebody says something. Small-town-kid thing, I strongly suspect. So when I looked the first thing I noticed was he was walking bow-legged. I must admit, it looked quite genuine. Not that I've a lot of experience, but my co-worker is a horse woman, and she walks like this guy did. Maybe not so obvious, but pretty much the same.
He took time to merely set his pile of books on the counter. To the librarians thanks, and this is the best part, he merely touched his hat. The shy quiet type. How sweet.
I must admit, I've always wanted reason to touch my hat to someone. I have been thwarted by two circumstances. One, I am a girl my self. Therefore, the typical "Ma'am" senerio is invalid. Second of all, I rarely wear classic touchable brimmed hats, apart from when I'm doing summer construction. And I'm not about to touch my hat to my dad. So my personal experience in this is limited to doing it in the mirror.
When he turned to walk out his green felt and leather jacket had Arizona emblazoned across the back, complete with the clubhouse looking flag and all. He had a silver star pinned to the back of his cowboy hat (didn't look beat-up enough to be quite true). I didn't notice if he was wearing spurs on his boots. But it wouldn't have surprised me.
Since I was in the midst of being mildly intrigued/amused by his whole being I was watching him walk out when he glanced back. He probably thought I was examinining the holes in the back pockets of his wranglers. Which I was, but not because I was even slightly interested in what was underneath. But because I was impressed that his jeans looked saddle worn. So weather he was real, or not, I'll never know.
Oh yeah, he also had something of sideburns. I'm not sure if this is typical cowboy. But since he had them they probably are.
So, there's another episode of my people watching. I, being a skeptic, bet he rides on the weekends and couldn't rope a calf and better then my boss. But, one great thing about people watching, you get to make-up your own stories. Only, with me, I get very curious and want to know the truth. I've got a thing for people in general. People and stories and history. All quite related.

A Few Things I Learned in 2004

-Cows always move faster when you accidentally leave the wrong gate open.
-Never sleep when you can party.
-frozen blueberries are a waste of money.
-When someone tells you to, "grow-up", don't listen.
-Society will win, but rebel against it anyway.
-Potato flakes taste nothing like real mashed potatoes.
-Independence has a high price tag. Buy it as soon as it comes on sale.
-Back windows break if you shut them on hard things, like t.v.s.
-Stay on your check.
-Don't flush paper towel down your toilet.
-English is a good subject if taught right.
-Not thinking about things is easier.
-Easier doesn't mean better.
-Snail mail is good fun.
-Learn to whistle while you work.
-It is possible to live solely on chocolate.
-It is also possible to live without it.
-Life is better if you learn to laugh at it.
-Occasionally it's good to just forget it