Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Ugh...things that do not mix: pms and volunteering at an animal shelter. They equal Chelsea sobbing like an idiot.
It started yesterday actually. I have been volunteering at the animal shelter every weekday for a couple of hours to lend some purpose to my life as I wait to start my new job. I've been volunteering at the animal shelter for years but had to cut way back (and by way back I mean I stopped altogether) because of graduate school. I work with cats exclusively, mostly because 1: there are more cats then dogs at the shelter; 2: the cats are in tiny cages compared to the large kennels dogs are in; 3: I don't have to clean up their poops.
I'm no stranger to the whole cat euthanasia situation going down in the shelter. I know perfectly well what happens to the cats and the whole logic behind it. Many patrons admire me saying, "I don't know how you do it, I would bring home so many animals!" or "I couldn't do it, I'd be sad all the time." Neither of these, to me, sound like good enough reasons not to volunteer at the animal shelter. For one, I don't bring home tons of cats (or other animals) because I have a little something I like to call, "self-control." Yes, I know, an out-dated idea in our instant, super-size, perezhilton culture. But the fact is, I live in a stuffed one bedroom apartment with my three small pets and my anti-social cat, Lilu. Not that Lilu is anti-social towards people...she's a total slut when it comes to people, but she can't stand other cats. So, I don't take home the cats from the shelter.
The other reason, that it is so sad there, is, I concede, perhaps more understanding. Our culture tends to run from "negative" or unpleasurable feelings. We don't mind watching people be humiliated or broken-hearted on reality television but god for-fucking-bid someone should actually put themselves in the line of fire and actually risk displeasure. Yes, the shelter is sad sometimes, yes, I shed a tear, and yes, sometimes I want to stalk down the previous owners and shake them till they get nosebleeds. But feeling five minutes of heartache is NOTHING in comparison to the discomfort, fear, loneliness and pain suffered by the little felines I encounter. You see, I have another little something I call "endurance." I just endure the unpleasant emotions because in doing so I may be able to help a kitty feel better, even for a brief amount of time.
So, I go into the shelter and try to make at least a couple of kitties feel better even for a little bit. I take them into the play room and just let them stretch their legs, play with catnip and for thirty minutes, be a cat...whatever that means to them. Maybe it means hiding under the coffee table or climbing up the cat tree, or maybe it is sitting on my shoulder licking my earlobe or playing with a cat toy. But for thirty minutes, the poor creature is not confined in a two by two cell.
For the past three weeks I've been going in. And I've been able to help a handful of kitties find new homes.
Yesterday, I walked in to the "cattery" and heard the usual sounds: claws scraping the plastic bottoms of litter trays, faint mews and then the dreaded sneezing. The sneezing is not a good sign, it means that the cat is getting sick either it is getting some kind of bacterial infection or it simply is getting weak. This usually happens to cats who have been in the shelter for a long time, sleeping next to their litter pans, inhaling the ammonia from their own urine. It isn't the shelter's fault, they have very little money. Some cats can stay at the shelter for months with no problems, while others get sick within a week. Some kitties just aren't cut-out for jail.
One little kitty was such a sweetheart. I say thing acknowledging that EVERY SINGLE cat in the animal shelter is a sweetheart. This one, Zorro, was black and white (like cow print) with a tiny face and a teeny black nose. Playful, talkative and affectionate: I had totally become attached to her. I'd tried on several occasions to get her adopted but for some reason, no one took her despite the fact that she was incredibly cute. Yesterday, I noticed that she was breathing loudly, her nose was so stuffy and she was sneezing.
I knew that Zorro was heading to be euthanized, and soon.
I decided to take her to the playroom. Hoping that maybe just some time in a bigger room would clear her nose up. This was a totally faith-based hope, nothing logical behind it. It is the kind of hope you have when you see your houseplant is brown and hope that maybe if you water it, it might grow back green, but in your heart you know it is dead.
Zorro, despite her stuffiness, was very playful and so loving. It was like she couldn't get enough pets, not enough rubs. She chased the cat toys, and rolled in the catnip. She climbed the cat trees and explored the back of the couch. She sat in my lap and looked up at me, purring through her stuffy nose and with gratitude leaned into the palm of my hand as I stroked her cheeks. Oblivious to what her fate would be.
I gave her many kisses but had to return her to her cage. It was time to close the shelter for the day. I filled the watering can and made sure that all the kitties had fresh, clean water. I even sang them a little song about the water and how important it was for them to have it and I sang that it was my way of loving each of them.
I left the cattery, saying my usual, "Good night, babies, see you tomorrow."
Today, I walked into the cattery and this time I didn't hear the sneezing. I noticed one of the older cats was gone and I quickly walked to Zorro's cage but she wasn't their.
Apparently, the shelter had "cleaned house" and put down some of the cats. Or at least, I think that is what happened. I can't be for sure.
A part of me wants to think that maybe one of the rescue groups got Zorro and took her in (these are no-kill shelters) or that maybe someone adopted her earlier in the day. But something inside of me thinks that poor Zorro got put down, along with some other cats.
I tried really hard not to think of this as I worked with a few cats. Doing the usual, bringing them to the playroom and letting them be cats. But, as the closing hour approached, I became more upset. The injustice of these animal's situations is infuriating to me. I can't tell you how many animals are dropped off at the shelter due to their owners leaving the state (as if that somehow prevents them from taking a cat in a carrier) or because of divorce (yes, divorce! Rather than deal with the painful decision on who gets the cat they just get rid of the cat) or because of allergies (oh get real, spend three minutes in the shelter and if you are allergic you will now it). What is worse is when you see the cats that are rescued because they have been abandoned in apartments, left to fend for themselves.
I signed out and said to another volunteer that it is hard being there when you know that they have cleared out some of the cats. She replied, "You're right, it's fucking miserable." I started to breakdown. I cried in the car and I am crying now. I see all their little faces, I hear their little mews, I can see the silhouette of paws reaching out of the cages trying get someone's attention.
I'm glad that Zorro had a chance to have time in the playroom. And I pray, pray, pray that maybe she's okay and that maybe she's been rescued. But again, I say this knowing that most likely, Zorro is gone.
It is fucking miserable feeling this way. Angry and sad and mournful and brokenhearted. But tomorrow, I will be seen greeting the kitties, letting them out for a bit and making sure that they have clean water to drink. I do it knowing that maybe tomorrow they won't be able to be cats anymore.
It started yesterday actually. I have been volunteering at the animal shelter every weekday for a couple of hours to lend some purpose to my life as I wait to start my new job. I've been volunteering at the animal shelter for years but had to cut way back (and by way back I mean I stopped altogether) because of graduate school. I work with cats exclusively, mostly because 1: there are more cats then dogs at the shelter; 2: the cats are in tiny cages compared to the large kennels dogs are in; 3: I don't have to clean up their poops.
I'm no stranger to the whole cat euthanasia situation going down in the shelter. I know perfectly well what happens to the cats and the whole logic behind it. Many patrons admire me saying, "I don't know how you do it, I would bring home so many animals!" or "I couldn't do it, I'd be sad all the time." Neither of these, to me, sound like good enough reasons not to volunteer at the animal shelter. For one, I don't bring home tons of cats (or other animals) because I have a little something I like to call, "self-control." Yes, I know, an out-dated idea in our instant, super-size, perezhilton culture. But the fact is, I live in a stuffed one bedroom apartment with my three small pets and my anti-social cat, Lilu. Not that Lilu is anti-social towards people...she's a total slut when it comes to people, but she can't stand other cats. So, I don't take home the cats from the shelter.
The other reason, that it is so sad there, is, I concede, perhaps more understanding. Our culture tends to run from "negative" or unpleasurable feelings. We don't mind watching people be humiliated or broken-hearted on reality television but god for-fucking-bid someone should actually put themselves in the line of fire and actually risk displeasure. Yes, the shelter is sad sometimes, yes, I shed a tear, and yes, sometimes I want to stalk down the previous owners and shake them till they get nosebleeds. But feeling five minutes of heartache is NOTHING in comparison to the discomfort, fear, loneliness and pain suffered by the little felines I encounter. You see, I have another little something I call "endurance." I just endure the unpleasant emotions because in doing so I may be able to help a kitty feel better, even for a brief amount of time.
So, I go into the shelter and try to make at least a couple of kitties feel better even for a little bit. I take them into the play room and just let them stretch their legs, play with catnip and for thirty minutes, be a cat...whatever that means to them. Maybe it means hiding under the coffee table or climbing up the cat tree, or maybe it is sitting on my shoulder licking my earlobe or playing with a cat toy. But for thirty minutes, the poor creature is not confined in a two by two cell.
For the past three weeks I've been going in. And I've been able to help a handful of kitties find new homes.
Yesterday, I walked in to the "cattery" and heard the usual sounds: claws scraping the plastic bottoms of litter trays, faint mews and then the dreaded sneezing. The sneezing is not a good sign, it means that the cat is getting sick either it is getting some kind of bacterial infection or it simply is getting weak. This usually happens to cats who have been in the shelter for a long time, sleeping next to their litter pans, inhaling the ammonia from their own urine. It isn't the shelter's fault, they have very little money. Some cats can stay at the shelter for months with no problems, while others get sick within a week. Some kitties just aren't cut-out for jail.
One little kitty was such a sweetheart. I say thing acknowledging that EVERY SINGLE cat in the animal shelter is a sweetheart. This one, Zorro, was black and white (like cow print) with a tiny face and a teeny black nose. Playful, talkative and affectionate: I had totally become attached to her. I'd tried on several occasions to get her adopted but for some reason, no one took her despite the fact that she was incredibly cute. Yesterday, I noticed that she was breathing loudly, her nose was so stuffy and she was sneezing.
I knew that Zorro was heading to be euthanized, and soon.
I decided to take her to the playroom. Hoping that maybe just some time in a bigger room would clear her nose up. This was a totally faith-based hope, nothing logical behind it. It is the kind of hope you have when you see your houseplant is brown and hope that maybe if you water it, it might grow back green, but in your heart you know it is dead.
Zorro, despite her stuffiness, was very playful and so loving. It was like she couldn't get enough pets, not enough rubs. She chased the cat toys, and rolled in the catnip. She climbed the cat trees and explored the back of the couch. She sat in my lap and looked up at me, purring through her stuffy nose and with gratitude leaned into the palm of my hand as I stroked her cheeks. Oblivious to what her fate would be.
I gave her many kisses but had to return her to her cage. It was time to close the shelter for the day. I filled the watering can and made sure that all the kitties had fresh, clean water. I even sang them a little song about the water and how important it was for them to have it and I sang that it was my way of loving each of them.
I left the cattery, saying my usual, "Good night, babies, see you tomorrow."
Today, I walked into the cattery and this time I didn't hear the sneezing. I noticed one of the older cats was gone and I quickly walked to Zorro's cage but she wasn't their.
Apparently, the shelter had "cleaned house" and put down some of the cats. Or at least, I think that is what happened. I can't be for sure.
A part of me wants to think that maybe one of the rescue groups got Zorro and took her in (these are no-kill shelters) or that maybe someone adopted her earlier in the day. But something inside of me thinks that poor Zorro got put down, along with some other cats.
I tried really hard not to think of this as I worked with a few cats. Doing the usual, bringing them to the playroom and letting them be cats. But, as the closing hour approached, I became more upset. The injustice of these animal's situations is infuriating to me. I can't tell you how many animals are dropped off at the shelter due to their owners leaving the state (as if that somehow prevents them from taking a cat in a carrier) or because of divorce (yes, divorce! Rather than deal with the painful decision on who gets the cat they just get rid of the cat) or because of allergies (oh get real, spend three minutes in the shelter and if you are allergic you will now it). What is worse is when you see the cats that are rescued because they have been abandoned in apartments, left to fend for themselves.
I signed out and said to another volunteer that it is hard being there when you know that they have cleared out some of the cats. She replied, "You're right, it's fucking miserable." I started to breakdown. I cried in the car and I am crying now. I see all their little faces, I hear their little mews, I can see the silhouette of paws reaching out of the cages trying get someone's attention.
I'm glad that Zorro had a chance to have time in the playroom. And I pray, pray, pray that maybe she's okay and that maybe she's been rescued. But again, I say this knowing that most likely, Zorro is gone.
It is fucking miserable feeling this way. Angry and sad and mournful and brokenhearted. But tomorrow, I will be seen greeting the kitties, letting them out for a bit and making sure that they have clean water to drink. I do it knowing that maybe tomorrow they won't be able to be cats anymore.
Monday, April 23, 2007
So, today in our last class we had a presentation and discussion about the Three Strikes law and how ineffective (but popular) it is. One of the students is very passionate about domestic violence and working with criminals. She read a book and she really believes in that book and what the author proposed as a method of addressing crime and reducing criminal thinking.
During a class discussion she said something along the lines of, "Social workers and psychologists don't want to use [program she believes in] because they just don't want to."
This statement ruffled a few feathers in class. She said that "There are two programs that are shown to be very effective but they won't do it because it is too much work." Well, I could feel the tension in the class rise...and I really didn't want another student opening up a can of whoop-ass on this student because 1> she's very sensitive and 2> its not productive.
So, I spoke up and in the softest voice I could manage I said, "I don't think it is a good idea to make sweeping generalizations about social workers not caring when you are in a room full of people who do care." Then I pointed out that if these programs are intensive and are a lot of work, to ask social workers to use them when they are not funded properly isn't fair. "We not only need the dedication of social workers and the willingness to work hard but we need to get paid for the hard work we do. We need dedication from the federal and state governments in the form of funding." I saw that my classmate Dan was nodding his head...and I really respect Dan...so I felt okay saying what I had to say.
But...I left feeling really insecure...I just hope that the student didn't think I was attacking her. But I just wanted to bring up another side of why social workers or psychologists may choose not to adopt a program. Social workers are asked to do A LOT of work and we get paid chicken scratch for it. Is it fair to blame us for not wanting to do work we aren't compensated for?
Afterwards, I talked to my classmate Pat who was really ready to blow. She hated that the word "they" was thrown about. She pointed out that for years she's been trying to get funding for a proven effective program but the state and federal government won't fund her. I told her that as social workers we have to balance our desire to help with our desire to have a good life. "If I wanted to be totally selfless...I'd become a nun."
I want to own my own home, buy a car that is less than 20 years old, and go on a vacation every now and then that requires more than driving to Seward for the weekend. And I refuse to be blamed for societal ills because I want a good paycheck for the work that I do.
Okay...that's off my chest.
And hopefully my classmate doesn't think I'm a bitch.
It sucks being a loudmouth with low self-esteem. :P
During a class discussion she said something along the lines of, "Social workers and psychologists don't want to use [program she believes in] because they just don't want to."
This statement ruffled a few feathers in class. She said that "There are two programs that are shown to be very effective but they won't do it because it is too much work." Well, I could feel the tension in the class rise...and I really didn't want another student opening up a can of whoop-ass on this student because 1> she's very sensitive and 2> its not productive.
So, I spoke up and in the softest voice I could manage I said, "I don't think it is a good idea to make sweeping generalizations about social workers not caring when you are in a room full of people who do care." Then I pointed out that if these programs are intensive and are a lot of work, to ask social workers to use them when they are not funded properly isn't fair. "We not only need the dedication of social workers and the willingness to work hard but we need to get paid for the hard work we do. We need dedication from the federal and state governments in the form of funding." I saw that my classmate Dan was nodding his head...and I really respect Dan...so I felt okay saying what I had to say.
But...I left feeling really insecure...I just hope that the student didn't think I was attacking her. But I just wanted to bring up another side of why social workers or psychologists may choose not to adopt a program. Social workers are asked to do A LOT of work and we get paid chicken scratch for it. Is it fair to blame us for not wanting to do work we aren't compensated for?
Afterwards, I talked to my classmate Pat who was really ready to blow. She hated that the word "they" was thrown about. She pointed out that for years she's been trying to get funding for a proven effective program but the state and federal government won't fund her. I told her that as social workers we have to balance our desire to help with our desire to have a good life. "If I wanted to be totally selfless...I'd become a nun."
I want to own my own home, buy a car that is less than 20 years old, and go on a vacation every now and then that requires more than driving to Seward for the weekend. And I refuse to be blamed for societal ills because I want a good paycheck for the work that I do.
Okay...that's off my chest.
And hopefully my classmate doesn't think I'm a bitch.
It sucks being a loudmouth with low self-esteem. :P
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Sunday, March 04, 2007
The fat lady is singing...
My father's request that I update this blog is the only reason why I write now. The truth is...I maintain several blogs...and each one has something different to say. Some blogs are for the purpose of keeping in touch with classmates and long distance friends (i.e. myspace.com), others are to share my deepest fears and darkest secrets, and still others are to keep in touch with local buddies.
What is a busy girl like me to do?
Honestly, I want to shut down this blog...I just don't maintain it like I used to. My last entry was in October for heaven's sake. Talk about lazy.
Who reads this anyway, other than my dedicated padre? Perhaps someone stumbles upon this old, rusty time machine and takes a look around. Who knows...
That being said...don't expect this blog to updated very often. I might feel generous and post something now and then...but it is pretty much toast.
Want to get a hold of me?
Email me: chelsea-h78@moose-mail.com
Or
Myspace me: www.myspace.com/akredhead
Alright...an update
My father came to Alaska for his annual "Fall Off a Mountain" vacation (that is...he came to Alaska to go skiing). As you may remember, I have very strong feelings about skiing...which can be summed quite succinctly thusly:
SKIING IS LAME
However, my father, does enjoy chucking himself down snowy landscapes and paying for the priveledge. I can't complain too much as he is the only visitor from the Lower 48 to ever see me. My mother has yet to visit me since my move here about 4 to 5 years ago (trying...not...to...sound...bitter).
This visit was much more social in nature than usual. My galpal, Megan, wanted to go skiing with Dad, and my father was more than happy to oblige.
From what he reports, his hind quarters have yet to recover fully from the expedition. Megan's self-report of being not so great was less than accurate. My father tells me she was skiing circles around him.
Bruised ego aside I think both skiers had a good time. Drinks, good conversation and edibles were shared by all.
This was the trip that my father met my new boyfriend, Samuel. I could go on and tell you how Samuel and I met but I've told it so many times and each time it gets either more elaborate...I think the last telling of the tale involved an albino, lost gemstone and SS men...
Samuel is an interesting cat...he is high energy, highly opinionated, and highly prone to hurting himself and others. The guy goes a mile a minute, and if you can't keep up then you are better off ducking for cover.
I love the guy, and was relieved that my father gave him a stamp of approval.
I wish I could go on...
Alas, the gentle goading of my signifigant other tells me that we must leave to get to a movie starting in just a few minutes.
Perhaps, I will return to report further...but to give you the Reader's Digest version of my life as it is:
EVERYTHING IS GOING GOOD.
Fin
My father's request that I update this blog is the only reason why I write now. The truth is...I maintain several blogs...and each one has something different to say. Some blogs are for the purpose of keeping in touch with classmates and long distance friends (i.e. myspace.com), others are to share my deepest fears and darkest secrets, and still others are to keep in touch with local buddies.
What is a busy girl like me to do?
Honestly, I want to shut down this blog...I just don't maintain it like I used to. My last entry was in October for heaven's sake. Talk about lazy.
Who reads this anyway, other than my dedicated padre? Perhaps someone stumbles upon this old, rusty time machine and takes a look around. Who knows...
That being said...don't expect this blog to updated very often. I might feel generous and post something now and then...but it is pretty much toast.
Want to get a hold of me?
Email me: chelsea-h78@moose-mail.com
Or
Myspace me: www.myspace.com/akredhead
Alright...an update
My father came to Alaska for his annual "Fall Off a Mountain" vacation (that is...he came to Alaska to go skiing). As you may remember, I have very strong feelings about skiing...which can be summed quite succinctly thusly:
SKIING IS LAME
However, my father, does enjoy chucking himself down snowy landscapes and paying for the priveledge. I can't complain too much as he is the only visitor from the Lower 48 to ever see me. My mother has yet to visit me since my move here about 4 to 5 years ago (trying...not...to...sound...bitter).
This visit was much more social in nature than usual. My galpal, Megan, wanted to go skiing with Dad, and my father was more than happy to oblige.
From what he reports, his hind quarters have yet to recover fully from the expedition. Megan's self-report of being not so great was less than accurate. My father tells me she was skiing circles around him.
Bruised ego aside I think both skiers had a good time. Drinks, good conversation and edibles were shared by all.
This was the trip that my father met my new boyfriend, Samuel. I could go on and tell you how Samuel and I met but I've told it so many times and each time it gets either more elaborate...I think the last telling of the tale involved an albino, lost gemstone and SS men...
Samuel is an interesting cat...he is high energy, highly opinionated, and highly prone to hurting himself and others. The guy goes a mile a minute, and if you can't keep up then you are better off ducking for cover.
I love the guy, and was relieved that my father gave him a stamp of approval.
I wish I could go on...
Alas, the gentle goading of my signifigant other tells me that we must leave to get to a movie starting in just a few minutes.
Perhaps, I will return to report further...but to give you the Reader's Digest version of my life as it is:
EVERYTHING IS GOING GOOD.
Fin
Friday, October 13, 2006
Previous Passion
So, I've been catching up on Project Runway Season 2 via netflix.
And...watching it...reminds me of how much I LOVED fashion when I was younger...for about 15 years I wanted to be a fashion designer. Probably a little known fact among my newer friends. But I used to read fashion design books, custume history books; I'd watch Fashion File like some watch CNN. I'd design a season of clothes...with a theme...
I was always drawing...always sketching...I had expensive art pencils and would sit up in the living room till about 2am drawing and drawing and drawing.
It all started in the fourth grade when I discovered a book in the school library called "How to Draw Period Clothing." The book was older than my mother and wasn't that instructional...but it spoke to me. Because I had almost no friends at all in elementary school, I'd spend my recesses drawing and drawing...
I still have some of those original fashion drawing I made in the 4th grade.
The summers I spent in New Jersey were opportunities for me to draw for an entire day. I became fascinated with the 1930s and made a collection inspired by a reprint of a Sears-Robuck catalog. I made one collection inspired by the Medievel era. My mother and I spent HOURS looking over the historic clothing at the Victoria&Albert museum in England.
I told people I wanted to become a veternarian...or a teacher...but deep down...I wanted to go to fashion school...learn to sew and become a costume designer in Hollywood. Any adult I shared this with...told me I was insane...and that it was too hard.
I eventually stopped telling adults about my dream.
Then my lilttle brother died...I was in middle of designing a collection inspired by earth...not the planet but...you know...soil. I tried afterwards to retreat into that frivilous world but I'd sit there with my pencil quivering over the paper...and nothing happened...
The costume books were never opened again...and fashion fell to the wayside...and then...it just didn't matter anymore...something had died inside me...my inspiration? My youth? My ambition?
So...watching Project Runway is fun...it reminds me that one time...I actually cared about these things...at one time I actually thought I could be that brilliant and creative...that I could exist in the ethereal world of Michael Kors and Jean Paul Gautier. But I've come to terms with the fact that I am earthbound. That death and life...beauty and disgust...violence and peace...are all just a part of this world...a part of who we are...woven into the fibrous strands of our DNA. I don't protest wars...or argue with my friend when she wants to knock the teeth out of someone...because I've wanted to knock the teeth out of people (but I never have) and I've wanted to bomb the shit out of some dusty little country because I'm afraid they'll bomb me first.
Fashion just seems so pointless in light of all that. So little...like a sequin floating in a pond.
---
So tired...must eat face...
In case you haven't heard (and really...you should be listening) I am now a full-time, no shit, swear to God, balls-to-the-wall Graduate Student. I got accepted into the Master's of Social Work program at University of Alaska Anchorage and for the past two months I've been humping the leg of academia.
It's interesting...I told someone that I was going to be a social worker and they looked at me like I said something along the lines of "I'm going to castrate myself and be a Eunich." (That is...if I were male...which I'm not...haven't you been listening?). At first, I was totally offended by her "Oh dear, that's such a bad decision" comment. It isn't like I'm joining a convent, people...I'm just going to college to learn a PROFESSION...I could be doing worse...I could be going to school to become fluent in Sanscrit or some such bullshit.
I can't get too pissy though because my initial impression of social workers wasn't that kind or accurate either. I just imaged them as bedraggled, granola munching, burlap sack wearing, over-worked commies.
There...you know the evil truth...
I'm more than pleasently surprised by my classmates...Not a single one has been seen wearing burlap. And only a few are communists...
All the social workers I've met have been: 1> dedicated to their job; 2> care about people; 3> extremely intelligent; 4> hard working; 5> wearing nice clothes.
School work wise...I'm getting my butt KICKED. Or as I like to say "whomped." I am carrying almost twice the full-time load. I have 18 hours of classes a week, 16 hours of internship and about 6-10 hours of homework. Yeah! I only have one class that I have no idea what my grade is...but othe than that...I'm carrying an A in all my other classes.
Yes...yes...this does mean I rock.
However, most of the time I think I'm barely making it...I get my work turned in...and get A's on the papers...but I just don't feel as smart as the rest of the students. Maybe it is because I don't have an undergraduate degree in social work. Who knows...however...I like everyone in my class. Even the girl who makes me want to slap her on a daily basis...I still care for her well-being and want her to succeed.
So yeah...Grad school so far is some of the hardest work I've ever done...and still I can't believe I don't have a paycheck to turn to, but I think I'm adjusting well. I've sacraficed some things for others...and it is nearly impossible to maintain relationships...but dammit...I'm going to get this pretty piece of paper in about a year and a half...whoopy!
---
FIN
So, I've been catching up on Project Runway Season 2 via netflix.
And...watching it...reminds me of how much I LOVED fashion when I was younger...for about 15 years I wanted to be a fashion designer. Probably a little known fact among my newer friends. But I used to read fashion design books, custume history books; I'd watch Fashion File like some watch CNN. I'd design a season of clothes...with a theme...
I was always drawing...always sketching...I had expensive art pencils and would sit up in the living room till about 2am drawing and drawing and drawing.
It all started in the fourth grade when I discovered a book in the school library called "How to Draw Period Clothing." The book was older than my mother and wasn't that instructional...but it spoke to me. Because I had almost no friends at all in elementary school, I'd spend my recesses drawing and drawing...
I still have some of those original fashion drawing I made in the 4th grade.
The summers I spent in New Jersey were opportunities for me to draw for an entire day. I became fascinated with the 1930s and made a collection inspired by a reprint of a Sears-Robuck catalog. I made one collection inspired by the Medievel era. My mother and I spent HOURS looking over the historic clothing at the Victoria&Albert museum in England.
I told people I wanted to become a veternarian...or a teacher...but deep down...I wanted to go to fashion school...learn to sew and become a costume designer in Hollywood. Any adult I shared this with...told me I was insane...and that it was too hard.
I eventually stopped telling adults about my dream.
Then my lilttle brother died...I was in middle of designing a collection inspired by earth...not the planet but...you know...soil. I tried afterwards to retreat into that frivilous world but I'd sit there with my pencil quivering over the paper...and nothing happened...
The costume books were never opened again...and fashion fell to the wayside...and then...it just didn't matter anymore...something had died inside me...my inspiration? My youth? My ambition?
So...watching Project Runway is fun...it reminds me that one time...I actually cared about these things...at one time I actually thought I could be that brilliant and creative...that I could exist in the ethereal world of Michael Kors and Jean Paul Gautier. But I've come to terms with the fact that I am earthbound. That death and life...beauty and disgust...violence and peace...are all just a part of this world...a part of who we are...woven into the fibrous strands of our DNA. I don't protest wars...or argue with my friend when she wants to knock the teeth out of someone...because I've wanted to knock the teeth out of people (but I never have) and I've wanted to bomb the shit out of some dusty little country because I'm afraid they'll bomb me first.
Fashion just seems so pointless in light of all that. So little...like a sequin floating in a pond.
---
So tired...must eat face...
In case you haven't heard (and really...you should be listening) I am now a full-time, no shit, swear to God, balls-to-the-wall Graduate Student. I got accepted into the Master's of Social Work program at University of Alaska Anchorage and for the past two months I've been humping the leg of academia.
It's interesting...I told someone that I was going to be a social worker and they looked at me like I said something along the lines of "I'm going to castrate myself and be a Eunich." (That is...if I were male...which I'm not...haven't you been listening?). At first, I was totally offended by her "Oh dear, that's such a bad decision" comment. It isn't like I'm joining a convent, people...I'm just going to college to learn a PROFESSION...I could be doing worse...I could be going to school to become fluent in Sanscrit or some such bullshit.
I can't get too pissy though because my initial impression of social workers wasn't that kind or accurate either. I just imaged them as bedraggled, granola munching, burlap sack wearing, over-worked commies.
There...you know the evil truth...
I'm more than pleasently surprised by my classmates...Not a single one has been seen wearing burlap. And only a few are communists...
All the social workers I've met have been: 1> dedicated to their job; 2> care about people; 3> extremely intelligent; 4> hard working; 5> wearing nice clothes.
School work wise...I'm getting my butt KICKED. Or as I like to say "whomped." I am carrying almost twice the full-time load. I have 18 hours of classes a week, 16 hours of internship and about 6-10 hours of homework. Yeah! I only have one class that I have no idea what my grade is...but othe than that...I'm carrying an A in all my other classes.
Yes...yes...this does mean I rock.
However, most of the time I think I'm barely making it...I get my work turned in...and get A's on the papers...but I just don't feel as smart as the rest of the students. Maybe it is because I don't have an undergraduate degree in social work. Who knows...however...I like everyone in my class. Even the girl who makes me want to slap her on a daily basis...I still care for her well-being and want her to succeed.
So yeah...Grad school so far is some of the hardest work I've ever done...and still I can't believe I don't have a paycheck to turn to, but I think I'm adjusting well. I've sacraficed some things for others...and it is nearly impossible to maintain relationships...but dammit...I'm going to get this pretty piece of paper in about a year and a half...whoopy!
---
FIN
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
The way the cookie crumbles...mmmm...cooookie.
Gee...I really never update this blog anymore...I have just gotten out of the habit...or perhaps...I'm past the need to broadcast various life adventures over the web and find tipsy tall tale telling to be more satisfying.
Anyway...my life has taken quite a turn in the past months...certainly since my last entry.
I am proud to announce...I'm a jobless, single, overweight woman with too many clothes and not enough credit.
And I love it!
Jobless? Jobless, you say? Yes...jobless. I left my job with The Mall last Thursday...the idea that I will never go into that office and I will never have to answer the phone in a psuedo-pleasant voice saying, "Northway Mall how may I help you?" is beyond bizarre to me. However, leaving was not only a necessity to my sanity but also inevitable. I'd spent 3 years at that job and had mastered every task to the point that I simply found no stimulation or pride or pleasure in any of it. I spent most my days gossipping over messenger and scanning websites. It wasn't much of a life.
I mean, how much pride can one take in being a sloven wreck for 8 hours a day and then go home to sit around and suck down glasses of gin & tonic. I'd certainly not earned my stripes...in fact, I was trading in my stripes so that I could take a 3 hour lunch break.
The boredom was not the only reason to leave...for come August, I'd simply be unable to work fulltime.
No, I am NOT pregnant. (thank gawd)
In August I will officially return to the world of pretension and ass-kissing...yes...I will return to school...(rolls eyes) dear lawd, I thought I'd never have to go back...
Why is it that I feel graduate school is somehow taking three steps back rather than two steps forward? I know, rationally, there is some prestige in the fact that I am attending graduate school...that I am sacraficing comfortable living so that I can get yet another "valuable" piece of paper...but...ugh...school? AGAIN???
I'll be attending the School of Social Work. Yeah...I took this test and it said my perfect career will involve pointless beaurocracy, low pay, frustration and sob stories...so of course, I thought "That's social work!!!"
Ha! No really...The fact is...I feel most alive when I'm helping other people...I love it. Even in the smallest ways...helping people feels good. I love it when someone asks me a question...when a person approaches me at a store and asks me if I work there...often, I lie and help them...just cus I know it'll make their day better.
That sounds sorta crazy doesn't it?
And there's so much to social work...it isn't just over-worked post-hippies with prematurely grey hair, organic cotten socks and sack dresses escorting abused kids from one foster home to another. Hell no! I can work in just about any arena...corrections, medical, government, military, private practice...you name it...
Sure, I won't be buying the seven bedroom house...I will no be wearing the latest glitzy fashions...but then...when have I ever?
WHen I told my father my decision, he reacted as if I was entering the convent. Geeze, social workers are not living in shanties for heaven's sake...they are middle-class...and sometimes higher...they are just as political and backstabbing as compeating ad agents.
Heaven knows...I'll experience plenty espionage and intrigue...
Are we really shocked that I...the poster child for talk therapy would end up working around therapists...really...this isn't THAT surprising.
I lived here?
So, between leaving my job and going to school, I'll be staying in California...soaking up the smog and cancer causing sun rays.
It's amazing how I've detached from Bakersfield. I walk into my bedroom and while it is familiar to me...it brings me no comfort to be there. I hunger to be sitting on my ragged couch in my funky smelling living room amongst my many creatures. Home just isn't home...it is just a location that I seem to know like the back of my hand.
It isn't even nostalgic to me...I've managed to just leave it behind...finally...after living in Alaska for nearly five years. The house now is so full of knik-knaks and junk purchased by my mother...that it doesn't resemble the home I knew before.
OH lawd...don't get me started on mother's shopping habits...
I was busilly trying to neaton up the kitchen and opened up the pantry door...
Hurry! Call Sally Strothers...I found all the food Somalia lost...
I decided to try and organize the pantry a little...if not, just make it so you can SEE what was in it.
SOME OF THE THINGS I FOUND:
- 6 boxes of geletin to make jelly and jams with that were purchased when I was a sophmore in HIGH SCHOOL!
- 3 boxes of oatmeal
- 12 cans of beans
- 2 packs of stuffing
- 5 bottles of ranch dressing
- 5 more bottles of other dressings
- 1 jar of mincemeat (wtf?)
- 1 package of breadpudding mix
- 1 basket full of canned crabmean
- 12 cans of stew
- 7 boxes of jello
...and that doesn't even cover the two middle shelves let alone the three other shelves in the pantry.
Sound familiar? Sorta reminded me of cleaning out my car...
Suddenly, I don't feel so bad for having a dumpster for a vehicle.
I want to make a list of everything my mother SHOULD NOT buy....as if she'd ever pay attention to that...and really, it isn't my place to tell her what she should and shouldn't buy...
My mother buys multiples of things...sometimes on purpose and sometimes by accident. Her memory has more holes in it than a collendar...She opened a drawer in her bedroom to reveal a tray with probably 15 pairs of reading glasses....15 pairs!!!
She simply can't throw things away...the boxes of books and other items I had set aside for her to take to the thrift store still reside in the living room...heavily coated with dog piss and dust.
I try not to get mad or judgemental but the truth is...I'm afraid I will be just like that 30 years from now...that my house will make no sense...that it will be full of half-made promises and sorta good ideas that never came to fruition.
My mother lives in a fantasy land...she simply refuses to believe that she is not capable anylonger to do things...She is a woman of good intentions and grand ideas...she's creative and gifted...but she simply doesn't have the time or ability to do all those things she wants to do...how frustrating it must be...
I can't help but run through the mounds of craft supplies and how-to books that litter the closets in my house...the pillow I promised to make for Sean 2 years ago...the sewing machine hardly used...the 80 pairs of shoes...
Everything makes sense now...everything...
She has become very dependent on others...at times seems prematurely old...and so she is also overbearingly selfish...she spends more time talking about her various ailments and less time listening to others...everything...everything and everyone are reflections of her...and so her house full of hopeful projects that never get finished...laundry never folded...collections never started...are a reflection of her half-lived life...
I can't help but think...that Ryan's death destroyed my mother and this woman I see now is the phoenix from the ashes...or perhaps...she's just a woman with many ailments, a shitty job, who has lost a son tragically and is lonely...
And so...when she makes me cry (which she has several times so far and we aren't even a full week into my stay) I try to be forgiving...I try to pity her...I try to see that she isn't evil...that she isn't purposefully neglecting me...or herself...but that she is just a child that never was loved the way she wanted...and never was able to forgive her mother or herself. She never was given enough positive attention...and so she crowds herself with dogs and clothes and stuff...they are all her audience...
I will never go home unless I must reprise my role as caretaker...And when that happens...because it will...it will be one of the saddest days of my life.
I look at my mother and I try so hard...so hard to replace my dissappointment with sympathy...And all I can think of is how hard she worked...
My brother and I...we turned out to be great kids...and she did it almost fully on her own for years and years...she went to graduate school...worked a thankless job...and had two kids to care for...a home to run...
I should be more grateful...maybe I shouldn't try to pity her or sympathise with her, but simply I should be grateful for the roof over my head she gave me...the food...the clothes and all the wisdom. She taught me a lot and gave me lots of freedom and opportunities. She sacraficed for years...and while this fact does not excuse her faults or characteristics that drive me nuts...it does bring to light a very simple fact...
My mother is a good mother.
She never beat me bloody...she didn't passivly allow a man to molest me...she didn't neglect me...sure...she's a little batty and can be overbearing...
There by the Grace of God go I. I too am an overbearing, opiniated young woman full of piss and vineger. I'm bossy and often think I know best.
In short...the apple has not fallen too far from the tree.
She is a good mother...even with her faults...she is good...she is helping me with graduate school finances...she gives me lots of gifts...she has been there whenever I needed to call frantically or saddly...she took all my tear jerked phone calls when I was in the deepest depths of depression and she loves me very, very much.
And I love my mommy...I just wish she was healthier and happier...but then...that isn't my business...is it?
What to do...what to do?
I will have several weeks in California to fill...and not many of them can be spent shopping...I am going to go to San Louis Obispo to visit a gal-pal, my Uncle Ed and I will go on a speical "Uncle and Niece" trip at somepoint. I want to go to Los Angeles and stalk Jake Gyllenhaal (my movie star boyfriend)...Maybe visit the Redwood Forest...and visit Chris and Steven in Ridgecrest.
I miss my home though...I miss my stuff...my neighbors...the bars...the locals....they are what make my days full and colorful...
I am sure that I will appreciate Alaska so much more when I return...
THE END
Gee...I really never update this blog anymore...I have just gotten out of the habit...or perhaps...I'm past the need to broadcast various life adventures over the web and find tipsy tall tale telling to be more satisfying.
Anyway...my life has taken quite a turn in the past months...certainly since my last entry.
I am proud to announce...I'm a jobless, single, overweight woman with too many clothes and not enough credit.
And I love it!
Jobless? Jobless, you say? Yes...jobless. I left my job with The Mall last Thursday...the idea that I will never go into that office and I will never have to answer the phone in a psuedo-pleasant voice saying, "Northway Mall how may I help you?" is beyond bizarre to me. However, leaving was not only a necessity to my sanity but also inevitable. I'd spent 3 years at that job and had mastered every task to the point that I simply found no stimulation or pride or pleasure in any of it. I spent most my days gossipping over messenger and scanning websites. It wasn't much of a life.
I mean, how much pride can one take in being a sloven wreck for 8 hours a day and then go home to sit around and suck down glasses of gin & tonic. I'd certainly not earned my stripes...in fact, I was trading in my stripes so that I could take a 3 hour lunch break.
The boredom was not the only reason to leave...for come August, I'd simply be unable to work fulltime.
No, I am NOT pregnant. (thank gawd)
In August I will officially return to the world of pretension and ass-kissing...yes...I will return to school...(rolls eyes) dear lawd, I thought I'd never have to go back...
Why is it that I feel graduate school is somehow taking three steps back rather than two steps forward? I know, rationally, there is some prestige in the fact that I am attending graduate school...that I am sacraficing comfortable living so that I can get yet another "valuable" piece of paper...but...ugh...school? AGAIN???
I'll be attending the School of Social Work. Yeah...I took this test and it said my perfect career will involve pointless beaurocracy, low pay, frustration and sob stories...so of course, I thought "That's social work!!!"
Ha! No really...The fact is...I feel most alive when I'm helping other people...I love it. Even in the smallest ways...helping people feels good. I love it when someone asks me a question...when a person approaches me at a store and asks me if I work there...often, I lie and help them...just cus I know it'll make their day better.
That sounds sorta crazy doesn't it?
And there's so much to social work...it isn't just over-worked post-hippies with prematurely grey hair, organic cotten socks and sack dresses escorting abused kids from one foster home to another. Hell no! I can work in just about any arena...corrections, medical, government, military, private practice...you name it...
Sure, I won't be buying the seven bedroom house...I will no be wearing the latest glitzy fashions...but then...when have I ever?
WHen I told my father my decision, he reacted as if I was entering the convent. Geeze, social workers are not living in shanties for heaven's sake...they are middle-class...and sometimes higher...they are just as political and backstabbing as compeating ad agents.
Heaven knows...I'll experience plenty espionage and intrigue...
Are we really shocked that I...the poster child for talk therapy would end up working around therapists...really...this isn't THAT surprising.
I lived here?
So, between leaving my job and going to school, I'll be staying in California...soaking up the smog and cancer causing sun rays.
It's amazing how I've detached from Bakersfield. I walk into my bedroom and while it is familiar to me...it brings me no comfort to be there. I hunger to be sitting on my ragged couch in my funky smelling living room amongst my many creatures. Home just isn't home...it is just a location that I seem to know like the back of my hand.
It isn't even nostalgic to me...I've managed to just leave it behind...finally...after living in Alaska for nearly five years. The house now is so full of knik-knaks and junk purchased by my mother...that it doesn't resemble the home I knew before.
OH lawd...don't get me started on mother's shopping habits...
I was busilly trying to neaton up the kitchen and opened up the pantry door...
Hurry! Call Sally Strothers...I found all the food Somalia lost...
I decided to try and organize the pantry a little...if not, just make it so you can SEE what was in it.
SOME OF THE THINGS I FOUND:
- 6 boxes of geletin to make jelly and jams with that were purchased when I was a sophmore in HIGH SCHOOL!
- 3 boxes of oatmeal
- 12 cans of beans
- 2 packs of stuffing
- 5 bottles of ranch dressing
- 5 more bottles of other dressings
- 1 jar of mincemeat (wtf?)
- 1 package of breadpudding mix
- 1 basket full of canned crabmean
- 12 cans of stew
- 7 boxes of jello
...and that doesn't even cover the two middle shelves let alone the three other shelves in the pantry.
Sound familiar? Sorta reminded me of cleaning out my car...
Suddenly, I don't feel so bad for having a dumpster for a vehicle.
I want to make a list of everything my mother SHOULD NOT buy....as if she'd ever pay attention to that...and really, it isn't my place to tell her what she should and shouldn't buy...
My mother buys multiples of things...sometimes on purpose and sometimes by accident. Her memory has more holes in it than a collendar...She opened a drawer in her bedroom to reveal a tray with probably 15 pairs of reading glasses....15 pairs!!!
She simply can't throw things away...the boxes of books and other items I had set aside for her to take to the thrift store still reside in the living room...heavily coated with dog piss and dust.
I try not to get mad or judgemental but the truth is...I'm afraid I will be just like that 30 years from now...that my house will make no sense...that it will be full of half-made promises and sorta good ideas that never came to fruition.
My mother lives in a fantasy land...she simply refuses to believe that she is not capable anylonger to do things...She is a woman of good intentions and grand ideas...she's creative and gifted...but she simply doesn't have the time or ability to do all those things she wants to do...how frustrating it must be...
I can't help but run through the mounds of craft supplies and how-to books that litter the closets in my house...the pillow I promised to make for Sean 2 years ago...the sewing machine hardly used...the 80 pairs of shoes...
Everything makes sense now...everything...
She has become very dependent on others...at times seems prematurely old...and so she is also overbearingly selfish...she spends more time talking about her various ailments and less time listening to others...everything...everything and everyone are reflections of her...and so her house full of hopeful projects that never get finished...laundry never folded...collections never started...are a reflection of her half-lived life...
I can't help but think...that Ryan's death destroyed my mother and this woman I see now is the phoenix from the ashes...or perhaps...she's just a woman with many ailments, a shitty job, who has lost a son tragically and is lonely...
And so...when she makes me cry (which she has several times so far and we aren't even a full week into my stay) I try to be forgiving...I try to pity her...I try to see that she isn't evil...that she isn't purposefully neglecting me...or herself...but that she is just a child that never was loved the way she wanted...and never was able to forgive her mother or herself. She never was given enough positive attention...and so she crowds herself with dogs and clothes and stuff...they are all her audience...
I will never go home unless I must reprise my role as caretaker...And when that happens...because it will...it will be one of the saddest days of my life.
I look at my mother and I try so hard...so hard to replace my dissappointment with sympathy...And all I can think of is how hard she worked...
My brother and I...we turned out to be great kids...and she did it almost fully on her own for years and years...she went to graduate school...worked a thankless job...and had two kids to care for...a home to run...
I should be more grateful...maybe I shouldn't try to pity her or sympathise with her, but simply I should be grateful for the roof over my head she gave me...the food...the clothes and all the wisdom. She taught me a lot and gave me lots of freedom and opportunities. She sacraficed for years...and while this fact does not excuse her faults or characteristics that drive me nuts...it does bring to light a very simple fact...
My mother is a good mother.
She never beat me bloody...she didn't passivly allow a man to molest me...she didn't neglect me...sure...she's a little batty and can be overbearing...
There by the Grace of God go I. I too am an overbearing, opiniated young woman full of piss and vineger. I'm bossy and often think I know best.
In short...the apple has not fallen too far from the tree.
She is a good mother...even with her faults...she is good...she is helping me with graduate school finances...she gives me lots of gifts...she has been there whenever I needed to call frantically or saddly...she took all my tear jerked phone calls when I was in the deepest depths of depression and she loves me very, very much.
And I love my mommy...I just wish she was healthier and happier...but then...that isn't my business...is it?
What to do...what to do?
I will have several weeks in California to fill...and not many of them can be spent shopping...I am going to go to San Louis Obispo to visit a gal-pal, my Uncle Ed and I will go on a speical "Uncle and Niece" trip at somepoint. I want to go to Los Angeles and stalk Jake Gyllenhaal (my movie star boyfriend)...Maybe visit the Redwood Forest...and visit Chris and Steven in Ridgecrest.
I miss my home though...I miss my stuff...my neighbors...the bars...the locals....they are what make my days full and colorful...
I am sure that I will appreciate Alaska so much more when I return...
THE END
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
I live with a killer...
So...I finished my bowl of pasta, was sitting back ignoring the mounds of mail I had been intending to go through and was rather watching Party Monster for the second time when I noticed my cat was scratching at something metalic.
Looking around I found her face first pressed against the baseboard heater...she pulled away with a grey little mouse in her jaws.
This isn't the first time Lilu has caught a mouse. In fact, she's caught two but always when I was away. This was the first time I was to witness the massacre. At first I was really proud of her...awsome! My cat is my own personal vermin killer...but then...she was...playing with it.
I kept telling her to kill the damn mouse. But Lilu was having too much fun releasing it and chasing it down and catching it. At one point the mouse was hiding in a pair of my jeans I had on the floor to wash and I picked up the jeans to inspect the mouse being careful not to touch the animal. It was pretty damaged...the skin on its back was starting to deglove and its little paw was bleeding. It took a flying leap and fell on the kitchen floor and started twitching. The cat was still looking for it in the pile of laundry. "Lilu...Lilu here here HERE!!!!!"
She proceeded to chase it around more while I tried to figure out what to do. Catch the mouse and take it outside where it will only suffer and die? Figure out a way to wring its neck? Let the cat do her thing and just grab my keys and go back to work? I couldn't figure it out.
Lilu had chased the creature under my couch and I had to lift it up for her to get to it. The poor thing was really damaged by now and I thought of just dropping the couch on it and crushing it. But then I was afraid it would scream.
So...after about 10 minutes...Lilu was growing weary of the now barely mobile mouse. I didn't want the thing to be suffering any longer.
What to do?
Call Mom.
"Mom, hi...yeah I'm okay but I need your advice."
I explained the situation to her. "I think its time for me to step in and put the poor thing out of its misery but I've never killed an animal on purpose. I have no idea what to do?"
My mother very calmly said, "Pick it up with a paper towel and take it to the toilet and drop it in there and close the lid and flush it. But DO NOT LOOK AT IT!"
I of course did. I had picked it up after watching it stumble and twitch along the carpet. The little thing was in the worse way. With the phone pressed against my ear with my shoulder I walked into the bathroom and said, "I'm sorry little mouse. You are very cute...but I have a kitty and this is nature. I'm so sorry. But everything is going to be okay and you are going to God." And with that I dropped the pitiful bloody furball into the toilet and tried not to look as it started to paddle. I quickly closed the lid and flushed.
"Are you okay, Chelsea?" my mother asked.
"Yeah," I squeeked. "It's just sad. I just didn't want it to suffer. I know its vermin...that it carries disease but...it still can feel pain and suffering and its sad that sometimes...cute little things get hurt." I cried a little bit more. "I know this is silly but...I'm upset."
Lilu was upset too...but for a completely different reason.
So...I finished my bowl of pasta, was sitting back ignoring the mounds of mail I had been intending to go through and was rather watching Party Monster for the second time when I noticed my cat was scratching at something metalic.
Looking around I found her face first pressed against the baseboard heater...she pulled away with a grey little mouse in her jaws.
This isn't the first time Lilu has caught a mouse. In fact, she's caught two but always when I was away. This was the first time I was to witness the massacre. At first I was really proud of her...awsome! My cat is my own personal vermin killer...but then...she was...playing with it.
I kept telling her to kill the damn mouse. But Lilu was having too much fun releasing it and chasing it down and catching it. At one point the mouse was hiding in a pair of my jeans I had on the floor to wash and I picked up the jeans to inspect the mouse being careful not to touch the animal. It was pretty damaged...the skin on its back was starting to deglove and its little paw was bleeding. It took a flying leap and fell on the kitchen floor and started twitching. The cat was still looking for it in the pile of laundry. "Lilu...Lilu here here HERE!!!!!"
She proceeded to chase it around more while I tried to figure out what to do. Catch the mouse and take it outside where it will only suffer and die? Figure out a way to wring its neck? Let the cat do her thing and just grab my keys and go back to work? I couldn't figure it out.
Lilu had chased the creature under my couch and I had to lift it up for her to get to it. The poor thing was really damaged by now and I thought of just dropping the couch on it and crushing it. But then I was afraid it would scream.
So...after about 10 minutes...Lilu was growing weary of the now barely mobile mouse. I didn't want the thing to be suffering any longer.
What to do?
Call Mom.
"Mom, hi...yeah I'm okay but I need your advice."
I explained the situation to her. "I think its time for me to step in and put the poor thing out of its misery but I've never killed an animal on purpose. I have no idea what to do?"
My mother very calmly said, "Pick it up with a paper towel and take it to the toilet and drop it in there and close the lid and flush it. But DO NOT LOOK AT IT!"
I of course did. I had picked it up after watching it stumble and twitch along the carpet. The little thing was in the worse way. With the phone pressed against my ear with my shoulder I walked into the bathroom and said, "I'm sorry little mouse. You are very cute...but I have a kitty and this is nature. I'm so sorry. But everything is going to be okay and you are going to God." And with that I dropped the pitiful bloody furball into the toilet and tried not to look as it started to paddle. I quickly closed the lid and flushed.
"Are you okay, Chelsea?" my mother asked.
"Yeah," I squeeked. "It's just sad. I just didn't want it to suffer. I know its vermin...that it carries disease but...it still can feel pain and suffering and its sad that sometimes...cute little things get hurt." I cried a little bit more. "I know this is silly but...I'm upset."
Lilu was upset too...but for a completely different reason.
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