Entries from May 2009 ↓

Despite my beliefs that things happen for a reason and that they all balance out, and my lack of beliefs in a specific higher power, I find myself going Why god? What the fuck did I do to you?

The way-back story:

I live in a part of Vancouver that if you look at certain websites’ maps, is alit with red dots. Those red dots represent addresses wherein bed bugs have been reported. These red dots do not represent all of the bed bug cases in my neighbourhood, but even just looking at the Vancouver map, it’s pretty obvious where’s a scary as fuck area to move around in.

When we moved into this apartment last August, we unknowingly moved into one of those unreported red dots. Two steam treatments, three fumigations and countless loads of laundry later, we were bug free. Then other suites were treated. As far as I know, the building is clean, now – but I’m still suspect every time I see a neighbour throwing out furniture.

Point: this is not the place to live, if you’re interested in buying (or scooping from back-alleys) second-hand furnishings. I won’t even shop for vintage or second-hand clothes any longer – it was hell for three months, not being able to sleep and waking up each morning, counting the new bites – because it’s just not worth the potential reintroduction of the fuckers.

The not-so-way-back story:

About three weeks ago, Isobel started getting splotches. I’d notice them in the morning, as I was getting her dressed, and nearly immediately, various expletives would come to mind as I assumed the worst: more bed bugs.

I let this go on for most of the week – watching each day as she got more splotches, that curiously weren’t itchy and would fade within 12 hours or so. I thought to myself, “Self, this is odd. I’m not getting bitten, and she’s not getting as many as when we did have bed bugs, before. These don’t even look like bug bites – they’re not regular or swollen and they’re not palpable. Maybe something else is up, Self.”

That was in my head, for the record.

So, by the time our little Ikea excursion came to be, I decided to take a little walk-see to the local clinic and have a person with various degrees check her over.

While waiting for him to mosey into the room, I found out that she’s lost two pounds since her last doctor’s visit. Two whole pounds within about six weeks. A. She can’t afford to lose that weight – the kid’s got like, no fat on her, and is now down to 26 pounds and nearly three. And, B. Yes, she goes to the doctor a lot. Which is kind of funny, considering how un-medicated and un-vaccinated she is, compared to a lot of her peers.

Anyway.

He said they didn’t look like bug bites. He said that they weren’t regularly-shaped, and not palpable. {I just play a doctor on the Intarnetz, I swear.} He said to leave her for a couple more weeks and see if, without other symptoms cropping up, the splotches resolved themselves.

I said the word I’ve come to curse: allergies? And he did a quick scratch test on her back, which she passed, fine.

Now, I’ve never been made aware of a scratch test – but apparently, if you scratch a letter with your fingernail – not hard, but enough to leave a mark – and it doesn’t flare up all angry, fire-breathing-demon-like, you’re in the clear for allergies. Something about red welt from a tiny nail graze=histamine levels rising. Histamine indicates an allergic reaction taking place in your bod. Lesson finished.

Anyway, I asked what he’d done, and why she’d passed – I’m always wondering what the grade curve is based on, you see – while looking at her back. He explained the whole demon thing and I said, “Oh, so this is fine, then?” and batted my little eyelashes.

Wait, no, I was wearing good mascara that day. Batted my full, curly, long, dark brown eyelashes. Thank you L’oreal and Almay and The Body Shop lash curler.

“Yeah. Wait. No. That was a delayed reaction. And a rather severe one.”

This coming from the multiple-degreed person who’d just purposefully GOUGED my child with his dirty old-man thumb nail, who was now peering at the swollen, demons-are-too-low-a-life-form-for-this-kid, bring-out-Satan’s-brand patch on her back. You couldn’t even tell what letter he’d picked, it was so angry and huge.

“Yup. She’s being exposed to something that’s giving her a pretty good reaction, I’d say. Watch it.”

Thanks, Doc.

More-recent story:

I racked my brains for what she could have been recently exposed to. Wheat? (that makes her mental and this wasn’t mental.) Dairy? (that makes her physically ill and she’s been pooping like a pro.) Something environmental? (there’s been nothing new, and she would have other symptoms.) Corn? (please god, not corn, too!) Strawberries? (the kid does eat a lot of those. Shit. Maybe it’s strawberries. Shit. Her favourite food. Shit.)

I watched as almost every day, some new splotches – or rashes, as she calls them – would pop up, and I’d put her to bed, seeing them fade practically in front of my eyes.

This was most curious.

We laid off the strawberries, and for two glorious days, she got no new splotches.

Then, she had some blueberries. And three popped up within six or so hours.

Fine. Let’s avoid those, then…raspberries.

Four more splotches.

Cranberry juice? Two more.

Fuck me, this kid is allergic to like, every berry in the world. I’m so sad for her.

She’s pretty happy, because the splotches occasionally show up like works of art. And cuz she thinks she might get a Dora band-aid for them. Or at least extra attention from every. single. person. she. shows. them. to. (yes, even I was annoyed, writing that. Sorry for all the .s)

She doesn’t yet realize, fully, that I’m taking away all of her berries. She’s going to be one sad kid, then.

If you’ve sat and pondered what you’ll be when you grow up as many times as I have, then you’ve changed college majors a few times, signed up for and dropped several classes and picked up a wealth of books from the local big box retailer that are still sitting on your shelf, waiting to be absorbed.

If you’re as prone to maniacal planning as I am, you’ve drafted your entire course-load for undergraduate, masters and doctorate degrees, down to off-the-top-of-your-head notes of thesis topics and resources to look into. Every single time that major in college changed. Or could have. At some point, you’ve owned lists and lists, and possibly considered a book of lists, with a master list of all the lists within said book of lists.

All because you were trying to decide what to be when you grew up.

I’ve wanted to be everything under the sun, from a pediatric oncologist to a pharmacy technician, a writer to a librarian, a cousellor to a bartender. I was going to get anorexic kids healthy, help people work the 12-steps and at the end of the day, design an entire bridal collection. Then I’d bake, frost and deliver the wedding cakes to go with. All while penning the latest and greatest coming-of-age-in-a-dark-and-stormy-way novel.

I could do anything, my brain and mania told me.

I was exhausted from all of the maybe I should be this when I grow ups. Because I couldn’t choose just one thing and stick to it. I couldn’t commit to a life, or some chunk of one, being X, when I could also be Y, Z, 0001 and a naughty nurse.

So, somewhere along the way, I decided, accidentally, to never grow up.

I schlepped from job to job, never staying long, always being promoted and excelling until I didn’t anymore. I moved into new areas of expertise as often as Kirsty Alley calls herself fat. Each job increased my confidence more – if I could do this and do it well, then I could do that – and each industry further heightened my self-esteem.

Make no mistake, I can think I look like a troll, but I know that I’m a fucking asset to a company. I own that shit, immediately upon walking in the door, make it my bitch, put it on a leash and tell it to be quiet unless spoken to. Then I break up with it on a post-it.

At this point, I’ve had over 20 jobs, most of them different from the ones before. And it’s never bothered me.

Ahem.

Only recently, as insomnia has crept back in and plans have gotten more grand and inspiring (I refuse to call this mania, this is merely spring cleaning. On a global level.), have I figured out that even though I’ve been living the life of a grown up in some facets, I still don’t feel like one. I still feel like that 19-year old, bouncing around from easy job to simple gig, making enough to pay the bills, buy smokes and ensure that my Starbucks addiction was quenched.

Except now, I have a kid. And I’m a single mom who currently gets a great hand-out from The Ex, but won’t for much longer.

Except now, I’m doing stuff that is pulling in money, like grown ups do.

Except now, I’m doing stuff that I want to do when I grow up. That happens to pull in some money.

Now, I’m thinking of entitling myself a freelance whatever.

I do a few different things very part time, each of them paying off in some way and value, and each of them could be a full-time career, if I was willing to commit to them. But there’s that broken brain vessel or whatever in me: I can’t commit to one thing. I can’t say “I will be a freelance writer” and the next thing you know, I’m pitching articles geared toward a specific genre, then writing them and getting paid, and going onto the next.

It’s too hard to do that – to wake up every morning and be one person. For me.

But I’ve still decided to grow up at the tender age of 28.

I’ve accepted that I’m not now, nor ever have been or ever might be, that person who picks a career and sticks to it. My perfect grown up existence might actually require me to have a few different careers going at a single time, or else, more bouncing around might take place. And yeah, I have a kid to support and model behaviour for – doesn’t make for a stable existence for her, if I’m constantly moving around.

Now, I blog professionally, outside of the Mommy is Moody compendium. I do bookkeeping and small business consulting. There’s more that I’d love to do – which is supposed to be the goal, right? Do what you love and it won’t seem like work, and all?

• I want to do what I do here everytime that I get the urge to change my look – tweak and customize themes.
• I want to do what I do for myself and friends – transform small apartments and spaces into clean, organized, livable solutions.
• I want to edit and write articles.
• I want to draft an actual, whole, entire novel and shop it around.
• I want to create ebooks. And recipe books.
• I want to get paid to travel and speak about something I’m apparently some form of expert on (which means I’d better get on mastering something, some time soon).
• I want to prepare meals made of simple, healthy foods for families-on-the-go.
• I want to have one hand in online marketing and another in event promotions.

I don’t want a fat wallet, the most beautiful home or 2.5 kids, a cat and dog. I don’t see myself shooting for the executive chair, or a sugar daddy. I’m not planning to ever drive, never mind a sleek, expensive, green-is-the-new-pink-is-the-new-black car.

I want to be busy being me – all 1013 facets of her. And I think the first step is building a career as a freelance whatever.