Who am I? how do I express that? How can I let you know? I`m so much more then my blue-jeans, sneakers, and t-shirt. So much for then the way I observe you from underneath my layered bangs. More then my hazel-brown eyes, even, or the shape of my lips.
Aren`t you more then what you first seem to be?
I can`t explain myself to you. If you want to know me you`ll have to try. You`ll have to care. Ask me, talk to me, get to know me. It`s a long process, I know. It`ll have to be. Everytime you learn something it`ll open up ten more possibilities. You`ll have to watch me react a thousand times before you can even consider predicting. But the discovery can be fun.
Won`t it be that way with you?
I`m interesting too. Aren`t we all? don`t we all have different experiances, something new to teach, if we`re open to learning? I want to live your story as well. If you`ll let me. There`s something about me. Start with that.

I went skating by myself last night. I needed it. Yet at the same time I felt discouraged, lonely, and nostalgic. I like feeling stuff. And I loved it. The cold wind in my face. I forgot the feeling of spinning on skates. The rush of pushing yourself across the surface with your own power. If I closed my eyes, or squinted at least, I could pretend I was on a pond back home. I wanted a stick, and a puck, and an opposing team. I revelled in being on my own and then desperately wanted my family and friends.
I lay down in the snow. And watched the tiny needle flakes flying past the flood lights about my head. It was time to go home. Singing the whole way to my mp3. Just because that's what I wanted to do.

It is so bloody cold out there. I walk two blocks to work and I can hardly move when I get in. Apparently it got to -39 with the windchill. O.k. That`s cold. I don`t know how dairy farmers here keep on working through that.
Enough complaining? Life is exciting. I`m done at Cegep for the week. This makes me glad. And I`m getting a schedule at Golden Valley. Which also makes me glad.
I get to meet my billet family tonight. Hmmm. Thom won`t tell me anything about who they are except for that I`ll really like where I`m going. He won`t even tell me why he apparently knows this. And Cass apparently told him to send me there. So we`ll see. Updates will be forthcoming.
Meanwhile, group life is fun. Group life is always fun. It`s been a good couple weeks, actually. I think we`re moving on. Which is good.

I`m in the middle of making bread. Guess what. I`m like the bread guru of the house because I`ve made three good batches. I`m actually the only one in the house that`s made much so far. This week I`m house manager. So it`s actually my job this time. I`m thinking it`s about time I screwed a batch up so that people stop counting on me so much.
Listening to beachboys over our cheap speakers. They`re singing about Kokomo, and I`m in Val d`Or. Which is good enough. It really is good enough.
This week was pretty much the first week where we had much conflict of any kind. But we also had the rest of the cluster in our house for four days. And, comparatively, I think we`re still doing pretty good. In some ways my group didn`t get the coolest participants. Especially guywise. But we also haven`t got a single cti, which isn`t bad. Since I bet some of the other participants will be kicked out by the end of trimester.
I talked to my family yesterday. It seemed like a long time since I`d called. Mostly because it was. It was good.
And now, I have to check my bread. And help explain to Jess that there`s no way she saw a cockroach in the house.

So here I am all excited because I`m going to donate blood. The only other person in the group who isn`t scared to is Tom, and he`s off. So I take my coat and head out in the general direction of the sign I saw. Rosie is sitting on the steps in a bad mood, smoking (luckily the bad mood isn`t at me). She decides to come take a picture. She`s a regular little photographer. And we want to win the photo contest.
So we eventually take off. And we walk. And we walk. And we walk. Ends up that hotel Foréster is a long long ways away. After about half an hour Rosie stops to take a picture. This is when she realizes she left her camera battery back home. We`re a little upset about this. I`m starting the laugh anyway tatic.
Finally, numb legs and frozen ears later, we reach the clinic. Fortunently, we`re still in time. I`ve never given blood before. And Rosie is brave and decides to do it as well. We fill out the forms, we read the pamphlets, we check the little boxes, ect. Than we go wait.
I am ushered into the little booth where I`ll sign. The nurse looks over my form. Her pointy jaw and stiff blond head tilt towards me. ''You have been out of Canada or the U.S. in the last three years?''
''Yes, I was in Mexico early this year.''
Finally with my usually basicisized English and her formal accented attempts I find out I can`t give. `Cause you know, I wasn`t in a tourist area and might have dormant malaria in my blood. I was sullen. But should`nt`ve been. It wasn`t exactly her fault.
So I went out and sat by Rosie, who was still overly nervous. When she found out I couldn`t give (after we`d gone for me) she swore at me, fingered me, in the most friendly of ways, and then held my hand well the needle went in. She had to admit that it wasn`t that big a deal.
So, that`s my story. The last tragic part was that Rosie wasn`t allowed to smoke for an hour afterwards. I just laughed. The whole thing seemed humerous. She told me it wasn`t funny, though. But we got a ride home. So there`s my story.
I have yet to do the noble act of giving blood.

Thanks to living in a house with ten people, I have a cold. It`s kinda like a domino effect. My latest pastime has been blowing my nose. Especially at night when I usually like to sleep.
The day is starting. I must go eat some of my stash of Christmas goodies and get ready for work.

Time to update, I think. Problem is, there`s too much to update. Really though. What do you want to hear about? my jobs? My team? The hundreds of new things I do every week, Quebec, anything else?
It`s so hard to believe I`ve only been here a week and a half. they keep you busy enough that it feels like it takes a lot of time. Starting tomorrow things should pretty much be down to `routine` though (forgive the quotation marks. I don`t like this French keyboard). Whatever routine means. I guess it means I`ll be going to work regularily five days a week. It`ll mean housemanagers will be doing the cooking, cleaning, and other assorted chores. It means we`ll have meetings on Sundays, and commitee stuff at least weekly. Plus who only knows what.
Today we have a bread workshop. I`ve made bread before. But that doesn`t mean I`m confident in my abilities. Cor, you should be here. Show them all up. We`ve also had a blitz clean today. This morning was a block of free time. It`s so we can all sleep in after our partying. We get all of four a week. And even that`s not guarenteed.
I`m wearing my Katimavik shirt over a thermal longsleeve right now. It`s so cool. Like, hey, I`m a part of something.

Here is one of the ironies of life. You live in a small town (if you don't really then I'm being hypothetical). Life is good. But eventually that small town gets kinda dull, even though you love it. Or maybe it's the small town job. And a few extended live-in-a-bus deals don't quite cut it. So you find something else.
In this hypothetical case it's a volunteer opportunity. A little crazy maybe. You're giving up a years working potential, or a possible first year schooling to throw yourself into an unknown town with unknown people doing unknown work. On top of that, the unknown town is still going to be in your hometown.
Follow me so far? Yeah. A little crazy maybe. But hopefully good. You get accepted and follow through with occasional news from the front. You get the names of the places your going, and you give your leave at that small town job. A good job, don't get me wrong. It's just that two years is a really long time if you're twenty and the work eventually gets monotonous. Especially if you crave experience, adventure, and a little living.
Time passes. You bemoan the loss of tradition, the year away, and whether you're crazy for doing something a little crazy. But other then that you get a little excited. This small town is such a part of who you are, so you kinda want to see how much exactly, and who you'll be without it.
The wait seems long. Then, suddenly, you realize time has passed. And all of a sudden something goes wrong. There's people to see, things to do. You remember all the back burner plans you formulated that you want to see happen. You think of all the friends you never hung-out with enough. You realize you'll come back to brothers who are taller then you and acquaintances who'll be married. Your farm will go on without you, a few e-mails later people will start to forget you, and you know this, because it's happened to you before.
So even though your still that intense weird combination of nervous excitement you wonder if it's maybe not worth it.
The irony? The minute you realize you're leaving there's way more to stay for. You get closer to people, you see so much left un-done. Even if inside you know it's because you're leaving. You put a little more work into all those relationships and a little more motivation in to making things happen. And, on top of that, if you hate change you contemplate everything it'll mean.
Still, you know if you don't live you'll regret it. And that...that is your biggest fear. So you count the days and cram your time and wish you could be several people at once.

"I think you're a jean and t-shirt kinda girl." And so my fashionable, Europe travelling aunt observed to me in the card she sent me for my ninth birthday that accompanied my present. A t-shirt she probably picked up at a Scottish thrift shop.
And, guess what. She was right. I love my blue jeans. I always have. At ten I already had definite favourites. At twelve I was already admiring my denim collection. By fifteen I'd decided jeans should be acceptable for formal wear, interviews, and first dates.
And t-shirts. I have ones I wouldn't part with. The ones I usually reach for first. A collection I've built up with patient scaning of many second hand stacks. They change. As do my favouites. But, as when I was eight, my favourites are always at the top of my drawer (or on my floor and ready to wear).
To me nothing sounds so sexy for a girl as wearing worn in bluejeans with her hair loose (or quickly put up) and a favourite jersey, sweater, or...t-shirt. What could be better then being comfortable, casual, and ready for life?
Which is why this is a great time of year. Not that I don't revel fresh summer air on bare-legs when my shorts come out each June. Not that I don't love unearthing a favourite hoodie. Not that I don't enojoy hanging out in boxers and, putting on my suede jacket, or wearing scarfs and one of my collection of hats.
But When I can get up in the morning and scan my favourite, worn in tees. And then wear them with my favourite, worn in jeans. When a tank-top and good baggy jeans are what you pull on before walking to town, well... really... How can that be beat?
It's indian summer. And that's exactly where we're at. Today in my jeans and grungy ripped camo tee (coincidentely one of my favourites, which my Mother and sister conveniently hate) I walked about. Library, thrift store, post office. Recieving what will probably be my last comments of the year on my barefeet. "Lost your shoes?".
It's like a lucky extension of summer. Except I get to wear jeans.

It must take incredible strength to grow through and accept trials. To be able to look at something and say, "God intends this for me". I used to be in awe of that verse where it says that they glorified God that they could suffer for his name. And I still am. I get sick, I lose a friend, I have a crummy day at work, and it's, "How could you do this to me?" And then I start trying to outsmart him. I try to figure out ways to fool him into giving him what I want. I analize things to convince him that I've learned what he's teaching. And then mutter through my teeth that he's not helping. If that doesn't work, I beseech on the edge of sobbing, then I try "giving it to him". Which I'm very good at...if it means things go my way. Meanwhile, feeling doubt if he doesn't get on my agenda straight away.
Helps to look at things in perspective, of course. But in my little self absorbed world I find it hard not to feel as if the whole world is falling apart because, with my twenty years experiance, I think my world is.
Real prayer helps. Sometimes the bible helps. But isn't that half the problem? I cry to God to pick me up once I've fallen. then when he stands me up I think "cool," and yell my thanks over my shoulder as I walk away. I'm good now. Let me get busy with life until it throws me another punch in the face.
Punch in the face used loosely here. When he chooses to let me fall down it's pretty light stuff. I just like to look at what I think I should have and whine. I usually don't look at others. My hardknocks look like satin pajamas compared to what some have to go through. And I cringe to think of what a baby I can be about myself.
But, in the end he helps me pull myself up. He takes my hand and gets me there. I can't help but learn things after all. It's just a long slow process.