wow.

I have been working 10-hour days. My sister made me dinner tonight. It was nice to have someone to come home to. I'm tired.

I think I've had a good day.

Today, this is what happened:

I woke up, drank a cup of tea, and studied for my midterm.

I received an email from Fernando Carneiro, managing editor at Metro News Vancouver. He asked if I had an interest in reporting for the Olympics. If so, to give him a call.

I wrote my midterm at 12. I aced it.

I called Fernando at 1:30. Spoke with him about my work, my experience (of which I have a great deal, but none in daily news publishing). I referred him to my website.

I went for lunch with my prof and another student. I had my first glass of beer in a long time. It was delicious.

I just caught my bus in the nick of time on my way back to Richmond.

I went to my night class, which, despite recent negativity, went fairly well.

I received a phone call, from Fernando. "We'd like you to come work for us for the Olympics."

Extreme excitement, anxiety, nervousness, more excitement, overtakes my life. At this point in my day, things are great.

I arrive home. There are two packages waiting for me, plus two cupcakes covered in chocolate icing from my landlords.

One package has specific instructions: do not open until Feb. 14. It is from Ben. I have not opened it.

The other package: from mom and dad, with the words "Keep up the good work" written on the outside. Inside: 12 delicious homemade zuchini muffins, a chocolate heart, peanut butter cups, and two packages of Brown's Famous beef jerky.

I think I've had a good day.

onboard the procrastination station

Sometimes I believe I have seasonal affective disorder. That is, I avoid doing all means of work because of the weather.

Then again, I think that is just a poor excuse to disguise the fact that I procrastinate. Badly.

I have a midterm tomorrow. I haven't studied. I mean, I look at the notes I've made, 14 pages to be exact, all typed in appealing font so as not to deter me, but the words sort of blend together in a nonsensical way, and I have no desire to blatantly stare at them, again and again.

I blog. I watch movies. I go for a run. I turn on the tv. I eat dinner. I blog again. I take pictures of my bike. I call my boyfriend. I call my mom and dad. i call my sister. I watch another movie.

It's exhausting.

Our Deepest Fear

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.

Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant,

gorgeous, handsome, talented and fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be?

Your playing small does not serve the world.

There is nothing enlightened about shrinking

so that other people won't feel insecure around you.

We are all meant to shine, as children do.

It is not just in some; it is in everyone.

And, as we let our own light shine, we consciously give

other people permission to do the same.

As we are liberated from our fear,

our presence automatically liberates others.

Poor little Raleigh

My poor little Raleigh... she has been sitting quietly in the corner of the car port, day after day, night after night, in the rain, or the sun, waiting patiently for the day when I come outside and take her for a ride.

Unfortunately, life has not been flexible in meeting Raleigh's needs. Life has instead consumed all the time I would much rather be spending cruising on her seat, heading down to Steveston village, with my camera in her basket.

Even her back wheel, from lack of use, has become weak and could use a few pumps of air to fill the big void she must be feeling from not being enjoyed. Don't worry little Raleigh, I will ride you soon, I promise. Especially if the next week's forecast is correct - 6 days of sunshine, with 10 degree weather.

Keep your chain crossed, Raleigh, and I will cross my fingers, and soon we will bicycle off together.

Missing the most.

The fresh air, I miss the most.

Cold, harsh wind against my face, at high places

like this.

Places where the view, like the waves on the ocean, goes on forever in mountain ranges.

I miss home. On nights like this, would give

anything

to sit on that rock, in the summer sun.

Feel the heat warm my skin.

Sitting in the clouds of home.

spell check, please!

I'm becuming one of those peeple that Konstantly is ofended when others can not spel properley.

Chocolate is spelled with an E.

you are is you're, not your.

Awesome, is not awsome.

Maybe it's the journalist in me, or maybe it's just something that isn't too hard to do. Or maybe I'm a prude. huh.

Honey, put the kettle on.

I had to wait forever, or so it felt, for the bus to come and take me home tonight. It's so strange, how waiting by yourself can seem like hours have passed, but when you are with someone it couldn't be long enough, is never long enough for you to finish the conversation you were having.

So, the wait was lonely.

And when the bus finally came, I did as I normally do - step on, show my bus pass, and proceed to look for an empty seat, preferably by the window so I can just space out and watch the street lights go by. I found my seat, and it was crowded, and a man of about 35 sat beside me.

Of course, like so many young people today, I was completely tuned out with my iPod, music playing in my head. And, of course, in my lonely state, I was listening to the type of music that really does one no good at all - music that makes you only feel more lonely, or more sad, or more angry, than that certain mood you are already in. Why do we do that to ourselves? I don't really know. But it seems like it's a reoccuring ritual with me.

I'm digressing. Anyways, the song I was listening to - A John Mayer classic, nonetheless - was at a quiet moment, and I overheard the man beside me on the telephone. He said, "Hey hon, I'm almost home. Put the kettle on?" in a sweet, gentle tone that only meant one thing: he was talking with his wife who was waiting for him to arrive home from work.

I just thought it was the most consoling thing to hear at that moment. Because it led me to think how lucky someone is to have someone else to go home to. I think it could make the world of a difference in someone's day - like mine, for instance. Or for anyone who just needs a cup of warm tea to come home to.

Oh how I hope to call 'someone' from a bus ride home and say "put the kettle on" one day.

Training arrete!

Oh no! I just realized that come tomorrow it has been one week since I last worked out, and it's only because I went to Whistler on the weekend, and then was sick for the past three days. What about my marathon??? The bandwagon drove off without me, and now I have to run to catch up with it. Better run a bit faster is all I'm saying...

ramblings

It's a very frustrating feeling, when your field of study no longer stimulates you.

I mean, the type of stimulation that makes you excited to go to class, or to one particular class.

I feel as though there are certain things about journalism - and only certain things - that I don't think I will ever be able to enjoy.

For instance, I don't think I'll ever be able to enjoy writing about politics. I know it's important, and I've covered small-town politics in Ottawa and outside when I worked with the EMC, but I can't fathom doing investigative stories about some of the crooks that run our country. Not because it's not important: someone has to cover those and inform the public (as we've repeatedly been told 'that is your job as a journalist'), but I want to write when it doesn't feel as though it's a chore to get information. Maybe I'm just an odd journalist with different desires than most?

I want to write about the environment, and in that sense I think I could enjoy covering some politics - like the tar sands in Alberta, and what the provincial government is or isn't doing. Or about how much pollution coastal provinces let flow into our Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, or about Fish Farms, or earthquake preparedness, or animal protection, or hiking. Some of these could have some relation to politics, but not in the same way as some instructors would like it to be.

I've just realized I have contradicted myself, but it's a revelation about politics I suppose.

And I'm waiting so patiently to hear back from Canadian Geographic regarding a student internship I applied for there. Waiting, patiently... and impatiently, and anxiously, and intensely. Honestly, if I managed to get in with that internship I wouldn't know what to say. All I would know is that for once, for ONCE!! my dream of writing about the environment, about geography, could possibly come true. And if I don't get it, I think I'll be crushed. But that is life. Living like a small ant on the ground, hoping that someone doesn't come along and step on you... or if they do, you hope you fall between the grooves in their shoe and don't get squished against the sidewalk.

The worst analogy I think I've come up with yet. Oh, dear. ha.