Sooooo, there's been a lull in my casual employment situation which means I haven't been working for the last two weeks.

Which has actually been pretty good, because I've been bogged down with school work and I don't even know how it would have been possible to finish it all if I had been working. Even a little.

But now things are wrapping up school-wise, and I still haven't gotten a call about any upcoming projects. So, as much as I hate job-hunting, I started perusing the job bank boards.

Annnnndddd wouldn't you know, I just applied for another Veterinary Receptionist job. BUT in all fairness, it's only for 20 hours a week, which is perfect for my life right now. And I need something to keep me going while I finish this program. It might as well be something I like.

So there's that.

Oh little critters, how I find it hard to stay away from you!

Latte had to pee

Hey! Someone reached my blog by googling "latte had to pee".

Gentle reader, I have a lot of questions for you. Except you're probably some kind of internet bot. Maybe. I like to think of you as a kindly latte drinker who really had to pee and then panicked.
So that's what you'll be to me.

I'm doing a couple of presentations for my program and we have to open "with an anecdote, rhetorical question, or joke."

I kind of hate it. It feels hokey and sets an eye-roll-worthy feeling for the whole thing. Considering my presentation is pretty technical, I don't even know how to go about it.

"Hey, hear that one about the endovascular abdominal aortic graft that walked into a bar? No? Yeah. Me neither. Now that I've destroyed all credibility. let's continue."

"I've come to believe errors, especially written errors, are often the only markers left by a solitary life: to sacrifice them is to lose the angles of personality, the riddle of a soul" - Johnny, in House of Leaves

This is kind of my personal motto now. It's my permission to error. Not that I really needed it. But it's nice.  

In other news, one really bad crunch-time week in my program can take my - otherwise very balanced and "me" eating habits and turn them into super-binge a la whole toblerone bar, entire bag of ketchup rice crisps and a poutine. I've only recently realized that I'm a bit of an emotional eater, and it's not good. Because, I don't mind eating yummy things when I'm, oh, I dunno, actually hungry, but crazy binges are actually a bit freaky because my brain takes over even though I know that I should feel satisfied, but I don't. I'm all like "I just ate 800 calories, wtf, why aren't I full yet?" and my brain's all like "BECAUSE STRESS. and I hate you." 

Off kilter. 

Don't like it. 

So you can take that little tid-bit and add it to my whole "how I relate to body-image" spiel. Thingy. If you like. Or not.

In other, other news (you'll notice I use this transition a lot. I estimate that I have typed this phrase approximately 2,000 since I started writing dumb blogs on the interwebs. Seriously. That's my actual estimate.)

Anyhoo, in other news (2,001) Husband and I are having some difficulty with our current daycare situation.I won't elaborate at present, but just let me say: if they continue to be dickheads you are going to have one deliciously ranty blog entry coming your way. 

If that's what you're into. 

I don't know if I've mentioned this before (here), but Mr.Fella and I are only planning on having one child. For a host of reasons. Very well-thought out reasons that fit our lives and our family.

We've been pretty certain about this pretty much since we brought Wee Man home. We've talked about it. We've told our family (with various levels of grumbling - and "you'll change your minds"). We haven't changed our minds, and now, almost two years later, we've only grown more sure that this is what we've decided. We are very happy with this! Wee man will be fine. Life will be good!

Another thing: I don't like hormonal birth control. I've taken it here and there, but I don't like it. Call it crazy and in-my-head, but I feel like it effects me in noticeable ways that I don't like.

So there's some back story. Here's the actual story (if you call it that).

Yesterday I had a run-of-the-mill check up with our new family doctor. In Ontario, it would seem, they like you get to a check up when you get a new doctor. We had our new doctor, so that was the obligatory check-up.

I really didn't have any concerns, so, after checking my blood pressure and other normal check-upy type stuff, she asked me about birth control. At this point I told her that Mr.Fella and I had been talking about him getting a vasectomy.

She looked at me: "How old are you?"
"26"
"How old is your husband?"
"28"
"How old is your son?"
"Almost 2"
"I really wouldn't recommend that. It's permanent. You're young. You could change your mind. I think we should talk about an IUD."

She said it in the kindest tone possible, and generally, I like our Doctor (she's from Newfoundland!), but I was pretty incensed.

Because you know what other reproductive decision is "permanent"? Oh, I dunno, having a baby, perhaps? Everyone was cool when I was 24 and knocked up - I got more questions about being married than I would have liked, but everyone seemed to respect "Hey. This is their life. They want a kid. They don't seem crack-addicted. Yay for them!" But now that we actually have experience as parents and some hind-sight - woah, woah, let's not do anything permanent here?

Is there some kind of baby shortage I'm unaware of? Who, exactly, keeps a vested interest in making sure my husband and I can or cannot reproduce? If we had 8 kids would we have gotten the same reaction? Or is it just because we don't have the "right" number of kids yet?

Isn't it my job, as an adult, to decide what permanent decisions I want in my life and which ones I don't? I mean, I got a tattoo when I was 18! When I asked for it in the shop, I knew what I was asking for, no-one gave me "hey did you know tattoos are permanent?" disclaimer. If a couple asks about information regarding a vasectomy, they probably know what they're asking for. 


It is simply not anyone else's job to worry about what I might change my mind about besides me.  And, in this case, my husband. Period. And, honestly, I've been pretty happy with all of our life-decisions up to date.


It probably didn't help that she went on to ask me "what I was doing for the acne on my face". My response was "I've had acne since I've been 12 years old and honestly, I don't really care anymore. I'm okay with it. I can put on make-up if I feel the need."

Again, if I don't tell you that I'm concerned about something, I probably don't care all that much. Is it really medically imperative that we have doctors pointing out fairly minor flaws in women's faces and asking "hey, are you okay with that?"

"Well, I was until you just pointed at it and asked about it, thanks!"

My little rant of the day.
I really do appreciate the medical community and I know they have a very hard job, but, jeez, help a sister out here.

So much sun reminds me of before Newfoundland.
Laying in a bed by a breeze that smells like grass, sun, dusty skin. Nestled far from the ocean, between apple trees and hills covered in manure.

After migrating so much, I'm convinced that every place has its own ethos. I don't know why. Whatever makes up the blocks of land and houses and weather and genetic history of the people creates a spirit in a place. It's one of those things that's hard to see if you've lived somewhere your whole life, but, if you've been an outsider enough, you get a sense for it. Little tics that remind you you're somewhere else - pinpoints in your heart that point in one direction or another.

The sun in Ottawa isn't like the sun in Newfoundland. It's like Nova Scotian sun. Valley sun, specifically.

I laid in bed this morning, awake, while my son was napping and thought about our home in Bridgetown ("our" being my parents and sisters when I was a child - not "our" my husband and son's). I thought about my room, on the second floor, and how it was perfectly positioned to take in the afternoon sun. So much sun. I can't remember what colour our walls actually were, but everything in that house feels white to me now; bleached by sun. Happy cracked windowpanes. White curtains, white bed, white floor, walls, clothes in omnipresent sun beams. Even at night, every night with the windows open, I could still smell the light on my skin.

And grass.

Not the rough, mossy grass that I found in most of Newfoundland (that I would also come to love in its own way). The grass of Acadians. Green, gentle; you could roll in it without getting wet or a stain. I don't think I ever wore shoes outside our Bridgetown house; feet in grass until something would upset me and I'd climb one of the tall slender trees in our backyard. I can't remember now what kind they were; elm or maple, maybe? I marvel now at how fearless I was, an 80 pound monkey, sitting in the tops of bending tree arms (Yes they were maple, I remember the leaves now: purples, reds, mosaic edges).

And I'd think.

Never about the future, the way that children never do, but about the world and how to touch it and share it in my limited capacity. How to reach into the whistling around me, wondering, but never quite figuring out how.

When I found out we were moving (again), I wrote on a piece of paper and slipped it into one of the cracks in the wall of my bedroom. I was desperate for someone, anyone, to know that I had been there and I had loved my bare-foot tree house. I had intended to write: "I'm a girl, I was here", but, being a poor speller I actually wrote "I'm a gril, I was here". Which is pretty funny.

I've done this in a couple of our houses, when we've had renovations, or I've found a hidden crook. Memos and notes to someone else about nothing. Just that I was there and I wanted them to know (I guess I'm still doing that. Hello, blog).

Another funny thing is that this particular bought of nostalgia compelled me to Google my old house and, sure enough, it still exists in the same place. And it is for sale. This is it.

True to form, it's sunny in the picture, but that's about it. It's just a house now and when I first looked at the picture I felt a little embarrassed at how I had blown it up in my mind. Not magic. Just a house.

I looked through the listing ; they had torn apart the bedrooms, resurfaced everything, painted the walls, covered any evidence of the previous owners - who knows how many. Like they would, I guess. The white, cracked, daylight breezes are gone and there are just pictures of rooms. Could be anyone's rooms. With small beds, small furniture, small dimensions. Dim features, not the endless hallways I remember. An old house, in a small town, somewhere far away.

Which would serve me right, I guess, for trying to resurrect a romantic child's-view from 20 years ago. Memories never seem to stay in the places you hope to find them.

I flew through our front door as Mr.Fella was feeding Wee man.

"Hey sweetie, I hate to come in and run, but I have a million things to do. I'm going to head into our room and try to get some work done. I have, like, 3 big assignments due next week. I have to write a proposal, and create a presentation and yeah - sorry - you won't be seeing much of me the rest of March."

Mr.Fella: "Yeah, uh, actually, I have a thing I have to go to tonight."

Me, momentarily pausing in my flurry: "Oh? Cool. What kind of thing"

Mr.Fella: "I don't know. Some thing. It's a lecture, I think. The University puts it off every year and they always expect the Ph.d students to go. Apparently it's a big deal, and they keep track of who goes and who doesn't and it looks bad if we don't show up. They spend a lot on it, I guess. I pretty much have to go."

Me: "That's okay, that sounds neat. What's it about?"

Mr.Fella, shaking his head: "I honestly don't even know."

Me: "Is there a dress code? Are you, um, going to wear that?"

Mr.Fella looked down at his faded blue jersey shirt. "Um. no, I guess not."

Me: "You have to play the game a little, you know. When you're a big fancy professor, you'll have to schmooze at least some of the time."

He made a face "I don't have to like it."

Humble to the end, that one.

Mr.Fella and I are watching "Across the Universe"

Jude: "Hey, want to go outside and get some fresh air?"
Mr.Fella: "It'd be great if he named his penis 'fresh air'"
Me: " haha, yeah, 'fresh air? Anyone? Who wants some fresh air in this bar?'"

tingly fresh genocide

Tonight, side-by-side
Mr.Fella and I flossed
We brushed our teeth
We gargled
Silence
I said, "It is weird that whenever I use mouth wash, I envision a million tiny germs screaming as they die a million, tiny, painful, deaths?"
He jumped, "I do too! It gives me a grim sense of satisfaction."
In unison, we nodded.

Chubby cheeks and arms,
and a weight on my chest.
When you were very small, you used to whimper and frown in your sleep and you reminded me of a lost little alien.
I used to feel badly for you - missing a perfect, warm, complete home.
You didn't know you couldn't go back, and you'd cry for it.
All hours,
Till we stumbled round and stop-gaped the problem.
Appeasing our lost little alien.
It's been painful every way,
nothing is given.
Sometimes I still choke when I think about the things you will have to face.
Our Boy
I wish I could promise it will always get better and all you'll ever need is your little fuzzy duck and your pile of puppy games.
I wish dancing around corners would always make you forget every hurt, forever.
We're all little aliens, and sometimes we feel it and sometimes we don't.
But you'll always be the weight on my chest,
One way or another.