lauramacduff’s blog

There I was, in Port Elgin, Ontario, sitting amongst a group of people of all ages, facing a decorated garden arbour. All of the guests were flipping through the same little pamphlet entitled “Our Wedding Day. Kristina and Nicholas.” I looked around the room. I watched as every guests’ face lit into a smile at the cartoon on the back of the wedding ceremony pamphlet thing. They were all strangers to me. I didn’t recognize a single person. But we had one thing in common: we were all gathered there that day to witness the combining of two lives, the love of two people, and the extreme humidity of that hot summer day.

I had gone to high school with Kristina. I had never met Nick. She was a friend of mine through those years of school. We shared laughs through accounting class (and the same lectures from the teacher about paying attention in class, and disruption of other kids’ learning), and small talk in the hall. About a year before that very day, I ran into Kristina at “Wal-mart”, and she told me to keep 07-07-07 open. I did.

Armed with a digital camera, dressed in my little black dress, and sporting a new pink lip-gloss, I slipped into my Ford Explorer early Saturday morning, and ventured forth to Port Elgin.

The wedding was wonderful. Small, intimate, and loaded with emotional tears of bridesmaids, mothers, sisters, cousins, and friends. I was happy to see my high school friend so gleeful as she danced around the dance floor, and kissed her groom like she was going to love him until the cows came home.

I mingled. I ate. I partied. I left.

I’ve never been one of those little girls that dreams of the big “Wedding Day”. I’ve never put a pillow case on my head, pretending it was a veil. I have however put a pillow case on my head when I drunk, and pretended I was a ghost, but that’s another can of worms….or beer.

I put my mother’s wedding dress on once, and I haven’t’ put it on since. The very idea of wearing something my father thought looked sexy sent into a big anxiety attack. I whipped it off so fast I could have made meringue with my feet.

I don’t give much thought to my wedding. I think more about the marriage.

However, on the drive home from the wedding, I let my thoughts lift towards my own wedding (or Shin-dig, as I’ve been known to call it). I was munching on jelly beans packed in purple lace to match the bridesmaids dresses (best party favour ever!), listening to my country music blare from the speakers of the old Explorer. Even in my thoughts I managed to dodge an entire family of raccoons crossing the road, unlike one of my best-friends, Claire, who took one down with her Honda Civic. The raccoon didn’t suffer, however Claire did.

My best-friend since public school will probably be my maid of honour. She and I will lock eyes during her speech. I’ll feel a pang of sisterly love, as she talks about old memories and inside jokes that only she and I understand. No one will understand what we’re laughing at, as we lean over, and feel our abs burn the calories we ate during dinner. Someone will say something, where it sparks the humour in Kimberly and I. We’ll rib each other with our elbows lightly, both signalling to each other that we find it funny. We’ll try our best to not laugh, but it will happen anyway…like it always does. My groom won’t understand what we’re laughing at, and neither will anyone else.

My father will not be able to look at me in the eye when we reach the alter where my sexy man is waiting for me (preferably Tim Mcgraw in whip cream not a tux). I’ll see a swelling of tears in his eyes as he hands his daughter over to someone that will be truly wonderful to me, but still, in his opinion, will never be as good to me as he was. My father will share small-talk with a man outside at the reception, as he smokes an “Old Port”, and cuts the filtered tip off the end of the cigar. He’ll probably chew mint gum through the entire ceremony. The wave of mint will hit me when I look at him. The scent will remind me of when I was a child. Part of me will yearn for the days when presents were “Barbies” not photo albums and oven mitts, and my father cut the grass with me on his knee.

My mother, whether she likes it or not, will be dressed glamorously. After raising me, battling with my brothers’ mental illness, their business, her own worries, and my PMS, she deserves to look “hot to trot”. My Mom never went to prom, she deserves a fancy dress. On that day, she’ll look like the Queen who raised the Princess. She’ll walk around, sharing laughter and smiles with her sisters, and she’ll try a sip of wine and thinks it’s gross. She’ll welcome my man (Tim McGraw) to the family in a speech, while she calms my father, and assures him that Timmy is a good man, and there is nothing to worry about. My mother will ask twenty times during the entire day how her hair looks.

My father’s old 58’ Ford Fairlane will be the background to the photographs. I’ll be sure to get a picture of me pointing at the weathered sticker that my Great Grandfather, the man that I never got to meet, placed with the care on the bumper, when he sold the car. He was a Ford Dealership owner.

My photos will be totally and completely “me”: smiles, tongues sticking out, thumbs up, funny faces, peace signs made with two fingers, cheeks pressed up against cheeks (and I don’t mean asses, but I’m sure that will happen too!), and a few candid ones.

After watching the fireworks light-up across Walkerton last weekend, I must say, I’m seriously thinking of lighting a few off in the parking lot of where the reception is. (Now, you stop your dirty mind, I mean ACTUAL FIREWORKS!)

My mother’s sisters, will dance the “The Twist” in their bare feet and their swishy dresses. I’ll be sure to grab the photographer to get a few snap-shots of me and the women that always called me “Lolly”, and told me I was wonderful, especially when I wasn’t as conceded as I am now.

I’ll spill something on my dress and it will stain. I’ll think it’s funny, and me and my maid of honour laugh until our stomachs hurt, and our faces ache. My new husband will become annoyed at our “fits of laughter” He’ll wonder if Kimberly is coming to our house a lot. He’ll see by the light in my eyes and the fun on my face, that he might as well get used to it.

My groom and I will hear the rhythm of a Elvis tune. He and I will probably stand on that dance floor, and swing our legs around like Elvis. We’ll prove to the entire crowd that we picked each other because no one else wanted either one of us.

The groomsmen, during the reception, will strip off the cumber buns and neck ties. Their jackets will be draped over the backs of chairs in a row at the front of the hall. They’ll unbutton the top buttons of their shirts, roll up their sleeves, and dance with a beer in their hands, armpit stains on their shirts, as they belch out lyrics to country music, and the gel in their hair sweats down their faces. Their girlfriends will mingle in the corner, and wonder when they’re day is coming…and if the drunken buffoon singing off-key will ever propose, and if they’ll say yes.

When “Man! I feel like a woman” comes to the dance floor, me and my beautiful ladies will shake what our mothers’ gave us. We’ll have a kind of alcohol in our systems that can only be described as adrenaline, happiness, friends and vodka.

People will say I look beautiful, and I’ll tell them I think I look pretty damn good too.

But this is all coming to me now. I don’t think about the material things about a wedding. I think about how great it will be to see my best friends standing, in pretty dresses, in a row, looking at me with love. I think about my man, who, strong and robust, will look so vulnerable as a tear rolls down his cheek, as he thinks to himself how lucky he is that he gets to kiss me everyday, that I kiss him back. We’ll bask in the glow of each others’ light for years, and we’ll look back on our wedding day with a smirk on our faces, and pride for the love we have.

That is, assuming I get married.

I once said to my mother that I didn’t want to get married. I said I was too independent, not emotional enough, and too strong willed for marriage. She rolled her eyes, and set her tea cup down. She looked at me for the first time like I was an idiot.

She said to me “Laura, you’re going to meet a man that is going to fall madly, deeply in love with you, and whether you like it or not, you’re going to fall madly, deeply in love with him. You’re going to get married. You’re going to have your ups and downs in that marriage, and you’re going to be happy. It’s going to happen sooner than you want, and when it happens, it happens, and there is not a damn thing you can do about it. All I ask, is that when you marry this engineer-type, you let me come over, and swim in your pool.” I was sitting on the back step of my parents’ house, listening to the June bugs clink against the glass of the porch light, smacking mosquitoes away from my bare legs. Mother was sitting on a lawn chair, in her nightgown. She finished her lecture with, “you will get married, you’re going to meet him soon, and you’re going to be married, and I don’t know what I’m going to do with your father when this happens.”

I didn’t argue with her, because, as I’ve learned, Mother’s just know these things.

"Mom, I'm out of here!" I yell over my shoulder as I reach for my purse, my keys, pat the cat on the head, then head for the door. I'm wearing a t-shirt that I stole from my mother, that I'm waiting for her to notice that I stole. The sleeves of it are rolled up, and tucked underneathe my bra straps. My , very short, black shorts are riding up a little further than I want them too. I've got new Newbalance running shoes on my feet. I'm wearing those stupid socks that only go back your ankle, and my hair that I spent so much time on that morning, is tossed up into a messy ponytail. I've got my Mp3 Player in hand, and, ironically enough, a Rocket Popsicle in the other hand.

"What?" My mother yells from her perch in her brown chair.

The door slams.

I'm on my way into town for a jog.

I always thought that jogging was a little stupid. The people that did it never looked as though they were having any fun. They had beads of sweat soaking down onto their worn-out, baggy t-shirts, and their expressions said anything but "please, stop, chat with me, look at me, I'm having the time of my life". In fact, they kind of looked as though they were being chased by lions, or that they personally enjoyed torturing themselves.

But on my usual route of walking (my first love, my first involvement in excercise) through my small town, I took a detour behind my old high school. I saw a long stretch of grey road, free from bends and winds, and I decided to go for it. I jogged from my high school down to my family's business, where my brother looked at me as though I had lost my marbles, and was being chased by a group of hooligans. Afterall, his sister, doesn't run, there must be some band of perverts waving around wooden sticks with flames on the ends saying my shorts are too tight, or something to that affect.

The day following my little run/walk, I felt as though my legs were going to fall off. Each one had a kind of pain that seemed to throb whenever I did anything that involved any muscle in my body. My abdominal muslces ached, and my mother had threated to kill me twice becaus I was complaining of the pain so much.

That was three weeks ago. Now that run that I do is so easy. The pain that I have is gone, and my mother wonders if she should also purchase an MP3 Player. She also wants Facenose Book...she's hip!

I never dreamed that I'd be a jogger. In high school I was anything but an athlete. I had the type of care towards being an athlete that I do about taking care of my CDs, and let me tell you, my country music is piled up beside another pile of CD cases. The only Cds that don't skip are my mother's that I've borrowed, and my new ones...but give it time!

But, I ditched my old history, for making a new one. After four months of walking my buns on the treadmill at 4 miles per hour, and then doing the same when I returned home from college, I decided that I'd give jogging a try.

It wasn't until the beginners pain of running was gone, I found a new anti-persperent, and some good tunes that I realized exactly how much I was really enjoying myself out there on the silver roads of my town. In the past three weeks, I've only missed two nights of running. I ran tonight, I'll run tomorrow, and the next, and probably the next. I'll also probably trip and land flat on my face.

When I find myself just wanting to sort out my thoughts, when I want to just be alone, when I just want to listen to music, when I'm frustrated by a guy in my life, the restrictions of moving home, missing my best friends, life in general, or even my cat, I find myself tying up my laces and roaming my "up to ya-ya" legs along the streets of my hometown. When I find myself experiencing the angst of being twenty, the hormones of being woman, or even the traits that make me, me, I strap on my shoes and take to the streets. Running has become a "stressbuster", a way to help me figure out myself, my thoughts, my feelings. Running has become my excercise, my drug of choice...and judging by the way I threw back six Vex Vodka coolers last weekend, I'm glad I've chosen running!

The streets that I run on don't care whether or not the roots of my natural brown hair are stretching through the threads of hi-lited blonde. The streets don't care if my mascara is smudged, my eyeliner isn't perfect (one eye bigger than the other), and the streets certainly don't care if I look good, or if I look bad. The streets don't pay attention to what brand my t-shirt is, or how short my shorts are. The streets don't judge my efforts at life, and the way I behave. The streets don't care if I like them or hate them...they just let me walk and run all over them!

God bless my legs, my socks, my anti-persperint, but most importantly, my running shoes.

“Woman…you got a lot of nerve walking in here, wearing that, looking as good as you do, and making me want you the way I do,” he said. He then felt his body raise, and he leaned forward just enough to kiss her. Those lips felt good.

Like you didn’t enjoy reading that! Can’t fool me!

I was seventeen when I was introduced to Harlequin Romance Novels. I was at the Library in Walkerton rummaging through a bin titled “free”. I found a novel called “The Other Laura”. My first name being Laura, my love of having my name in stuff, and the fact that it was free, all added up to me carrying that novel with me out of the library. I still have it.

I read it in one night. I started as soon as I got home, and I finished it at six in the morning. I remember leaping for the light in my room, as I heard my father’s footsteps on the floor as he awoke to go to work.

After that first novel, I was addicted. I spent a lot of time at eHArlequin.com, and I spent even more time, flipping the pages of these novels. I became a master at rummaging through used book stores, and I was even better at budgeting at how many of these novels I could afford.

I spent two months doing that, and then I had to give up my love of reading about romance for ten months of Grade 11. Time just didn’t allow for my love of reading these novels. So, me and Harlequin “took a break” from one another.

I grew out of my enjoyment for these novels. I replaced them with Cosmopolitain, Glamour, The Hamilton Spectator, and good books. I put my romance novels in a box and I put that box in the far corner of the basement labelled “Keep Out”. “The Other Laura” remained on my bookshelf.

I’m 20 years old now. As I mentioned before in other blogs, I’m having a hard time adjusting to being at home. I miss my life that I had in Hamilton. I miss my friends, I miss my roommate, and I miss all the fun I was having, and even the classes I went to.

In order to save my sanity, and stop the tears from strolling down my cheeks, I did what I tend to do: I made myself a steamy, hot, bubble bath. Lavender, vanilla, and a romance novel saved me from going bonkers one night.

I felt a certain rush (not that kind) when I flipped open “The Other Laura”. It was like seeing an old friend again, after too long of being separated. I skim-read that book in a three hour long bath. I was shrivelled up like a prune by the time I decided that I really should get out. My skin, very sensitive actually, wasn’t reacting well to the Lavender bubble bath that I found, and the pasta and pasta sauce in the kitchen was calling my name, and so was my brother in hopes that I would make it. But alas, I lied there, completely and utterly thrilled to have read such a fantasy. Wouldn’t it be great if I found a love like that (BARF!).

I mentioned my little “sanity savour” to my incredibly down-to-earth friends. I’m an idiot.

My friend Caylz, had something good to say. “It’s porn!” she said, in a set-me-straight kind of attitude, as she pondered how her friend could spend so much time in a bubble bath.

Claire indulged in coming up with her own scenario as to what they sound like. She read off words of romance, in a teasing manner, while Caylz concluded the story with “and then he stuck his head in her bosom!”

They killed it for me. They know it. I love them anyway. We had a good laugh about my little “night of fun in the tub”, and I think that when I get together with my ladies for Martinis, they’ll still somehow work into the conversation about how “I get off on my porn”, as Caylz has said to me.

This was the first romance novel I have read in a long-time. That novel was great, but unfortunately, my world of dating has actually happened to ruin the reality in these novels.

I’ve gone from “The Other Laura” to “He’s Just No That Into You: The No Excuse Guide to Understanding Guys”.

Oh the irony…

I still love my romance novels, but the realities of the dating world have completely ruined the “actuality” of them…along with Caylz, who now always asks about my “porn”. I’ve learned that “love” just doesn’t happen like that.

You don’t run into “The Other Laura”, in fact it’s more like “He’s Just Not That Into You”.

I’ve heard about love in the songs that play from my CDs. I’ve seen it in friends’ eyes. I’ve heard about it from people on television. I’ve seen it in the eyes of two people at weddings, I’ve even looked it up on the internet. My “Party Favourites of the 60s” CD said that “if I want to know if he loves me so, it’s in his kiss.” Well, I’ve been kissin’ and so far, I’ve only been missin’.

I don’t know much about love, but it’s my understanding that it’s an uncanny understanding of another person. It’s a kind of caring that you just can’t hurt, and it’s a kind of trust that bubbles over any circumstance of hurt. It drives your hormones crazy, and it’s about “not being able to keep your hands off someone”. It’s about the little things, like when he shows up to fix your tire on the side of the road, so you don’t have to pay for the tow call. It’s about a kind of attention that never leaves when you have something to say. It’s about burnt dinners, but still asking for seconds. Love has no lies. It’s about being together, without saying a word, and not wanting to go anywhere. It’s about feeling better, attractive, smarter, intelligent, confident, and overall just plain great, when that person is in your company. I want the most comfortable love that I can find, with lots of laughter, the little annoyances that make funny stories at dinner parties, and a true partner, but I’m not in a hurry.

There is a whole world out there just waiting for this strong, independent woman to bust into. I want the independent, early 20s life that I’ve been looking forward to so much. I believe people when they say, don’t rush, don’t hurry. I believe people when they say, that if I don’t find ALL of myself, before I find “the one”, I’ll regret it.

My mother just asks one thing of me when I bring home “the one“. She says, “Nemo is out there, but for the love of God, don’t kill your father by bringing home a jackass”.

My dear Caylz just asks one thing of me as well. That whenever a new man comes into the picture, we’ll have good laughs over my tales of first dates (the farmer), hairdo’s that are bad (my womanly power of being able to change them!), tales of making out (poke! Hello there!), and tales of when it all goes bad (cheers to the loss of my 200 pound tumour!). She’ll say something like “you’re gonna’ find a guy that loves everything about you”, and I’ll say “thanks”. Then we’ll sip out martinis and check-out the cutie at the bar!

Two weeks ago, I came home from, what felt like, a "speedy" eight months of college.

Classes that lasted for three hours, late nights with drinks in my hand, fun times with my college friends, and inside jokes with my roommate came to a screeching halt as soon as I saw the “Welcome To Bruce County” sign. Well actually it happened as soon as I turned onto West 5^th street in Hamilton, but it really HIT me when I saw a sign that basically said “honey, you’re home”.

It was a two and a half hour drive from Hamilton to Walkerton, and about every few seconds of that drive, I was wiping mascara stained tears from my eyes. (Waterproof my ass!).

This college girl wasn’t ready to go back to return to her roots.

I cried…oh how I cried! I haven’t cried like that in a long time. It felt good. Therapeutic. Made me look like crap, but it was a good feeling nonetheless. I scared the hell out of the gas station guy, who looked across from me from his side of the counter, gently took the signed receipt from my hand, and then said shyly "have a nice day".

My cell-phone came in handy as my mother checked in every so often, to make sure that one of my emotional outbursts of sadness didn’t cause her daughter to take the wrong exit on the 401, accidentally drive to London, or worse (well at least in a mother’s eyes!) turn around and drive back to Hamilton to the life that was partly the cause of the cough/cold that wreaked havoc on her daughters health…and the bars that were partly to blame for her daughters lack of sleep, and her daughters lack of healing! (Yes, I went to the hospital. The doctor told me I shouldn’t have been going to bars sick like I was, drinking, and smoking cigars. I have a feeling that she’s a mother too!)

The tears that I was crying were for the life that I was mourning leaving. Visions of stepping onto the “35” to go downtown to see movies with my friends, sliding through the eager shoppers at Limeridge Mall as I headed to the pet store to see the puppies, and sitting in i210 listening to a professor talk about how important it is to get your facts straight, ran through my head. I remembered little things like the way that the people waited outside my window at residence to catch the bus (one day, my friend Lisa and I peered out the window and watched a man played air guitar and danced as he waited), what it was like to wake-up staring at a grey wall with teal coloured speckles (not the colours I would have chosen, but hey, it’s residence!), how the door of my dorm room squeaked closed, and how my roommates television would mumble through the night (a sound I found quite comforting after a while). I remembered what it was like to pass room 223 and hear country music blaring, how the R.A. and I could “shoot the shit” until he eventually grossed me out. I remembered dancing down the 2^nd floor with my roommate, as we performed some sort of a “hallway workout routine” singing “John Deere Green”. I remembered the time I got drunk and told the cab driver his taxi smelled like laundry (I love the smell of Laundry. Any man of mine doesn’t need cologne to have me all over him, just a good smelling detergent!), how I learned the hard way about too much peach vodka, and what it’s like to be in constant fear that perhaps that teacher you so pathetically begged, won’t give you that “pitty pass” they hinted at.

Good times.

I stopped in Elora for napkins to dry my tears. I stood in the parkigng lot of that place and I looked around. Elora is kind of the breaking point between the country and the city. It's the place that I've always considered to be the beginning to "the country". I looked like a confused, lost, passerby as I

Already I longed for the social life I left behind me, and all the friends that I hugged goodbye. I already missed my friend Lisa who listened to my problems and offered sound advice, emotional support, and true friendship from the bottom of her heart. I missed my friend Theo and his roommates who threw good parties, offered kind words, knew how to make me smile, and provided me with great memories, and friendships that will last well into next year, and beyond. I missed my roommate who some called “The Bean”, and I called “My Little Bambeno”. She understood the value in the song “Build Me Up Buttercup”. She and I understood so well how awesome that song truly is…to the point where we text messaged each other the lyrics coming back drunk from The Ranch, a country bar. I missed Dan, Meg, Andy, Wymon, Nova, Shane, Mike, and other people from my journalism program, who I can’t wait to see this summer, and who I can’t wait to go to school with again in the Fall. I missed my future roommates, who will make next year a blast.

I stepped back into my Explorer from Tim Hortons, catching the eye of a concerned, what looked to be, grandmother looking up at me from the passenger seat of her car, and started the engine. The tears rolled again, and I wiped them away as soon as they fell. Some made it onto the seat belt, and my halter top. Those were the tears that were just too much to keep held in.

A pink tote bag (one that my dear friend Caylz gave me, after she was tired of it, and decided that it was ugly, I called it “unique”) was full of little sentimental “things” that would remind me of something so much bigger. The Smirnoff Ice bottle cap, the ticket stubs, the bus transfers, the pictures, and two large pieces of paper with “Me love you long Tim” and “Build me up buttercup”, the “Happy 20^th Birthday Laura” paper that my roommate taped to my door and I left taped there until move-out day, the white t-shirt that drunk people scribbled on at Graffiti Pub, the “I hope you had a great night…SLUTT!” note that my roommate left on my keyboard for me to find when I returned from a date with the boy down the hall, the Mohawk College Teddy bear I named BJ (Broadcast Journalist), the “Martha Would Die Here” nick-knack sign that I set-up in my room, a napkin from “The Egg and I”, and two pompoms that my mother, to this day, refuses to hear how I got in my possession, were just a few of the sentimental things that I plan on scrap booking….well except for the teddy bear, I’ve grown attached to BJ!

Following my day of constant waterworks, it was three nights of falling tears, as well as coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever, so I can’t get on with my day flu, that followed my return that Saturday.

When I felt up to it, I ventured forth with my hometown friends to a bar, where we caught up, like old friends do.

“You’ve changed” was what I heard from two of my hometown, best, friends, as they listened to my bar, boy, school, and roommate stories over Martinis one night. These stories put a “what the hell was she thinking? Doesn’t she know that that is how you get cancer, fall on your ass, waste your money, and get your heart broken” looks on their faces…well, especially Caylz. They care, what can I say, they’re true friends!

What they said, stuck in my head. Those two little words were tossed around until finally, I lay them to rest enough for me to shower, Facebook, and then hit the hay. But the next day, when I got up, they were thrown right back into my thoughts. Thank you Claire! Thank you Caylz!

But what can I say, these young women know me well.

The girl that left Walkerton, slightly shy, cautious, ready to learn but scared to do it on her own, returned a fearless young woman, with a backbone bigger than an ass on an elephant, a confidence that says “I know who I am”, a brain that can think, act, and do, without the influence of others, and a personality that was quickly moulded into the spitting image of a young, confident, girl with dreams of her own, causes to pursue, and a heart that is still just a poundin’ for those important in her life (friends and family).

You know that song by Destiny’s Child that goes “all you women, who independent, throw you hands up at me”? Well throw your damn hands up in the air!!!!

So, the drive story, concludes with this. The toaster oven in the back of my Explorer is making a really annoying rattling sound, which I disguise with really loud country music. I’m doing that sob cry where your entire body shudders with your sobs, and your mouth makes an upside down half-moon shape. The skin on my face has never been so dry (from the tears), and yet my forehead has never been so oily (from adolescence). I’m coughing every five seconds, my voice sounds like it’s going to stop at any minute, and to top it all off, the brakes aren’t doing so good, and the light that says so just came on…and it’s flashing!

All I needed was to get pulled over. Sure enough!!! Just kidding.

I drive through another little town, like mine but smaller, and come to a set of lights. To my left is a Ford Dealership, where I once thought my parents might surprise me someday by giving me a car they just freshly purchased from there (parents: don’t let the fact that I know stop you from committing such a wonderful deed! Stop laughing. It’s not THAT funny!). I turn left, and to my right is a gas station/place where my friends and I would go out for breakfast sometimes back in the high school days. I drive past the Toyota Dealership (yes, I know, Walkerton is just boomin’ with dealerships!), and drive a little ways more to see the rolling fields and houses spaced out between fields. I pass one country block, and then another. This time, I slow down, and take a right.

There it is, my humble abode. There they are, the fields that I used to run ramped with four wheelers when I was a kid. There it is, the garden that my mother takes pleasure in. There it is, my Dad’s truck, parked in the exact same spot it always is. There is it, the place where I’ll be living for four months. There he is, my father, playing on his Waldon Loder.

My cell phone rings. There she is, my mother.

“Where are you?” she asks, sounding concerned.

“In the drive-way,” I answer, half amused.

I'm sitting in my den at my home in Walkerton. Nine months ago, a person had to pull some gymnastic moves to get in the door to this room. I had new pillows piled on top of a toaster oven, and a cheap kettle was sitting on Mom's desk. A big and green comforter was jammed into a plastic bag marked "bed in a bag" and beside it was a George Foreman grill with a receipt taped to the top of the box. You couldn't see the carpet because of all the college things that were stacked there.

Now, you can actually see the carpet…I didn't know there was grey in it.

In September, I watched as the scenery to Hamilton slowly passed by the right window of the backseat of my Ford Explorer. When the school crept close, those butterflies that I had been fighting away, slid into my stomach, and made me almost sick.

My Dad, the guy that nearly cried when I showed him my prom dress, cried all the way home to Walkerton, after leaving his baby girl in her dorm room.

My mother, the wonderful woman that she is, hugged me good-bye, and went on her way, knowing that her daughter was taking one step further away from the nest that she created for her.

I’ve come a long way from that girl, on that first day of residence.

I knew that college was going to be a battle, but I had no idea that I would learn more than what my journalism classes were teaching me.

I’ve learned what makes a good friend, and what doesn’t. I’ve learned that to make good friends, you first need to be one. I’ve learned that it’s OK to say “no”. I’ve learned that I’ve got the makings of a good journalist, but I’ve also learned that it’s just not going to be handed to me. I’ve learned that Hamilton isn’t as bad as I thought it was. I’ve learned that my parents love me for who I am, and not what I want me to be. I’ve learned that friends are the best medicine to a broken heart. I’ve learned that sometimes, you just gotta’ suck it up, no matter how much you don’t want too. I’ve learned that my hometown, may not be my home forever. I’ve learned that “fun” and “alcohol” do go together, but so does “toilet” and “hangover”. I’ve learned that long-distance phone charges are worth every penny spent. I’ve learned that the tough parts of life, can be dealt with on your own, but it’s really nice to have support through those tough times. I’ve learned that dreams are great, but reality can be better.

The sad thing is this, it’s not over. Life is going to throw new challenges at me, and I’m going to have to have to handle them. I’m going to probably feel the sting of a “break-up” again. I’m going to have to look at my mother’s eyes filled with tears, and my father, the big man that he is, looking so small. I’m going to have to say good-bye to a beloved pet. I’m going to have to know how to handle peer pressure.

I co-oped at a newspaper during high school. During an interview with a 103 year old man, my editor asked the man what the key to a happy, healthy, and long life was. The man leaned in closer towards me, like he was about to tell me a great secret, or give me one of those moments in life you never forget (he succeeded!). I was seventeen. He gripped his cane a little tighter. I got a good look at his brown, kind eyes, his droopy skin, and the thick prescription of his glasses. He looked at me and slowly said, “good food and good love”. He then winked, and leaned back into his worn-out chair. I noticed the “sepia” coloured picture of his wife on his nightstand.

Because he said this to me, does this mean I’m an expert on life?

When I drive, I sing along to the radio. To every song that I recognize, I sing. I sing at the top of my lungs, with a voice that could break glass, make every cat within a two mile radius hide under the sofa, and send every person forced to listen into a mild psychiatric stay at a mental ward.

Because I sing in my car, does that make me a singer?

Right before my 20^th Birthday, my boyfriend of three months, ended our relationship. We both knew that it was coming to an end. My mother, being the kind, supportive, and sweet-hearted lady that she is, presented me with a book called “He’s Just Not That Into You”, as a way to sooth my sorrows. I was introduced to phrases like “the only responsibility that you have in someone else’s lapse in judgment…is to yourself”, “you already have an asshole, you don’t need another one”, “life is already hard enough without choosing someone difficult to share it with”, and “don’t be that girl”. My mother’s inclination was correct (I can’t wait until I can torture my own kid!). I was in need of a little reinforcement. I went through a growing pain that many face. All my own values, behaviour, and words said, were justified by the words said in a lime green book.

Because I read “He’s Just Not That Into You”, am I a psychologist?

Do you see where I’m going with this?

OK, here’s another one to consider…

I follow along with the stories of the day-to-day. I write about my findings on an internet generated posting service, where my “friends” can read my words, leave comments and write back to me if they so chose. I can write about anything that I want, from how much I hated the shoes of the woman in line in front of me at Pioneer Gas Station, to, how George W. Bush is handling the war. I’m a blogger.

Am I journalist?

I test myself by answering this question. A blogger is a journalist. Almost immediately, I’m offended.

My thoughts are these; “what! They think they can just waltz in here and say they’re journalists because they write on some website about what happened to them that day, they’re opinion, what they had for lunch?”, and “how dare they! They don’t know what it takes to be a journalist, the responsibility of being one, how important it is to see a story from all sides, and who knows if they know how to credit a quote to a person!”

To quote Ed The Sock “don’t piss in my ear, and tell me it’s raining”. Don’t just write things, and call it journalism.

But how many people really rely on a blogging website to report the facts, accurately, honestly, and with a proper degree of professional writing? When someone wants to know what happened, they pick sources they know they can trust. They scoop up a newspaper from a stand, or they tune into a local radio station. There are reasons for this…

To me, a journalist knows the importance of integrity, enthusiasm, patience, respect and have a true love for communicating. They know how to deal with every kind of person; from the overly pompous to the painfully shy, in order to get something they want. They’re master communicators who know how to reach every level of a broad audience with the words that they use to say what they mean. They dig below the top “sugar coated” level of a story, and dig into the gruesomeness that they know will steal the reader’s heart, grab their attention, bring tears to their eyes, or make them smile. A journalist reports what happened and saves their opinion for the “supper table”. They actually sit down, and speak with their sources. They don’t post what they think happened on a website, they know what happened. They don't go by "hear say". Journalists write the truth, and publish it in a honourble, professional, and reliable way. Then, it’s read over by another set of eyes, and then another. That’s journalism.

You can’t just start a website, stick a funny name on it, write on it every so often, and call it journalism. To me, this just doesn’t make sense.

Perhaps I’m just biased because I’m studying to be a journalist. Perhaps the many things that I have learned, have clouded my mind, to the point where I’m just plain stubborn in my ways, and opinions. But I don’t pretend to be an expert at life because I live by the words said by an elderly man, I don’t pretend I’m Diana Ross because I sing her songs, and I’m certainly not an expert at relationships because I read a book about them.

Blogging is fun, creative, sharp, intelligent, and a neat way to communicate with people. But it is not journalism.

 So, I'm sitting in i210, staring up at a lady who calls herself a "Cybrarian".

Jenn Hoffarth introduced me to a world of searching. She introduced me to a world of words that I can use to find the information that I need. She taught me new ways to which I can use the internet to my advantage.

For example; picture this, you're sitting at your desk, holding your head up with your sweaty palms, while you listen to the lock slowly tick away the hours of the day, as the deadline slowly looms over you. I picture myself sitting in front of a computer, with many windows open across the bottom toolbar. I picture myself having a sore ear from all the phoning I'v'e been doing all day. I'm tired of searching for the right person, to help me find the right person. I'm tired of aimlessly going nowhere, for a story that has the potential to be on the front page.

I think with the way that Jenn taught us how to search, and how to use the internet to find...well...damn near anything, a lot of the stress and heartache that goes along with Journalism, will be easily cut down. Finding a source for a story, as well as their address, and their phone number is easily done. I can see myself using this knowledge, as a tool for success.

My favourite magazine in Glamour. Inside the shiny cover of "my bible" you'll find stories about woman who struggles with the things that make them passionate (love, family, career, money, etc.), the things that make them suffer (cancer, family, love, I even read a story on a woman who witnessed her mothers death), and the things that make them spend their money (it was because of this magazine that I decided to drop $70 at my salon to get my brown treads turned blonde).

It's a magazine dedicated to the young, gutsy, "I am who I am" attitude, and self-confident woman of today. Otherwise known as me, or "moi" if you prefer.

This particular issue beside me has a few things written on the cover. For example; "sexy at any size", "the secret things men do when women aren't around", and not to mention the fact that the beutiful Liv Tyler is gracing the cover of the magazine with her hair delicately spiralled to make curls, and her make-up so perfect that I think if she smiles the wrong way her whole face will crack right off.

But the thing that I like most about this magazine is the "Hey, it's okay..." part. In this particular issue this section features; "to change into pajamas the second you get home from work", "if you haven't inherited a family recipe", "a peice of real estate, or killer legs", "to take everything off before stepping on the scale-underwear, jewelry, ponytail holder", "if you still can't figure out what's happening on Lost", and my personal favourite is "to eat a brownie on the way to the gym. That's why you go the gym!".

Hey! Here's MY "Hey, it's okay..." list:

• if you love to stop into pet stores just to see the puppies....and the kitties...and the birdies....and the fishies...and the cute pet store worker who thinks you're nuts!
• if you stay up WAY past your bedtime just because you can...even though you're exhausted
• if you fart in public, and then pretend like you didn't do it. Farting stinks, why would you admit to gassing the elevator?
• if you don't completely know what the green thing in the back of the fridge is/was...but you like having it around, afterall, you like that it eats all the things you don't
• if a little part of you just can't help but get a kick out of someone falling on an icy sidewalk right in front of you
• if you skip the gym...twice
• if you eat when you aren't hungry...you'll be hungry sometime later, might as well eat now
• if you dance when no one is watching. It's excercise, and that's good for you. If you stripdance, then we have a problem.
• if you love the "oldies". You don't find lyrics like those. Now, they're "my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard", then it was "my baby love".
• if you would rather blog than do your homework
• if your idea of a date involves a bucket of chicken and a movie
• if you laugh hysterically at America's Funniest Home Videos. Someone getting nailed in the crotch is always funny.
• if you get a little uncomfortable seeing those commercials on television about feminine hygeine products. They're annoying. These products seem to have more features than a car. Period.
• if you truly believe he's suppose to chase you. This is human nature, don't mess with it, it's worked for years.

 Perhaps this list won't mean as much coming from me, as it would from the editor of a magazine that has Liv Tyler on the cover, but I hope that I lifted a little bit of the stress from your day, as I know these little lists lift mine. 

Here in my little "box" of a room at Mohawk Residence, I can feel the sweat still on my brow. My hair is up in a "pony tail", and sweaty socks like in the bottom of my hamper. I've just gotten back from the gym. I'm sitting on my bed, with my laptop on my lap, and some American Idol is beltching out a song that I'm trying to sing along to (it's a good thing my roommate is gone to work).

I've just gotten back from the gym. I just worked out. I excercised in my spare time, for no apparent reason other than enjoyment and to cure restlessness. I'm nuts!

Out of pure angst towards a break-up with a boy, I strided into the gym to "walk it off". And that I did...a month ago. Then I did it again. And then again, and then before I knew it, it was reading week, and I was accompanying my mother on her nightly one hour walks around my little town of Walkerton. I haven't missed a day of a one hour walk, in about a month. Even when the flakes of snow were pounding against my face, the weather was anything less than warm, or it was so dark I needed to wear my glasses, I just dealt with the weather and time, and I love my Guess glasses, so I just dealt with it.

Long story short; I'm more toned, I have more colour, I sleep better, I'm not as winded when I climb stairs, I'm eating better (which can only make me think that I'm digesting better), I have a new stress buster, I can notice a slight difference in the way that I fill my jeans, and, well, I'm tired. I also need a shower....but that's beside the point.

But yet, I keep going. I don't plan on stopping. I plan on travelling miles more on a machine that makes it so I travel nowhere. I don't plan on retiring my grey sweat pants any time soon (although I do plan on washing them), and my cheap running shoes aren't set aside to gather dust (actually they're outside beside my big boots stinking up the kitchen, like I said, it's a good thing my roommate is at work or she'd be gassed).  

So, the escapade continues....

So, for the past week, I have been, what I like to call, Web 2.0ing. I've been posting, tagging, lurking, and commenting. I've been tapped into "the blog world", for the first time in my life. I like it. For the creative person, such as I, it's a way to let those creative juices flow. For the person with a life story to tell, stories that they want to share with the world, it's a way for them to let the world know what they're up to.

I can't say that I like being exposed like this though. In fact, I feel uncomfortable with it. I don't really like the idea of my life stories and thoughts being exposed all over the world, for any "Joe Schmo" to read, and lurk, and then decide to do whatever with.

I love people, socialising with people, writing about people, reading about people, but I mostly enjoy just plain communicating with people. Web 2.0 allows me to do that. Web 2.0 allows me to communicate with people, people that I haven't even met, that I haven't even associated with in my life, but that I've read something about on the internet one time. This tool allows me to meet anyone.

I can see myself being a journalist a year from now (wow, scary thought), and reading about someone on a blog. I can see myself reading about some heroic story, and then realising that that story is a wonderful story, that my small town would love reading about. I can see myself "Web 2.0ing" until I set-up an interview, and I get that story that I know will make a good one.

I can see a need in Web 2.0 though. I can see where for educaitonal purposes, and even just for enjoyment, this tool is needed. How else are you suppose to know if you're making the grade? How else would I know what my friend in France was up to (yes I have one, she blogs, I can't read it because it's in French).

Web 2.0, cheers buddy!