I got home, half expecting him to be waiting at the door for me. He wasn't. I went into my room and set my backpack down. I could have sworn that I heard a little squeak from somewhere under my bed, but didn't want to stress him by looking for him.
I went into the kitchen to get a bowl of cereal and heard his little bell ringing. He came bounding into the kitchen and came to rub up against my legs. I reached down to pet him.
He's got these sharp little front incisors (I'm not sure if they're called incisors on a cat) but he had to have one of them removed because it was fractured. So he's got a funny, sort of wonky little grin. His nose is black and his snout is almost squashed into his little face. He has intense eyes. They're wide and golden. They give him a wild look, sort of.
But then I look and see him rolling around on his back, going from side to side as we play and I see his lovable side. I lay on the couch this afternoon and left him a spot should he have wanted to come and snuggle, and sure enough, he did. He came and laid with me for a little while, and when I woke up, he was gone.
I looked around and saw him sitting in the bowl chair, taking up the whole middle of the chair. He just raised his head and looked at me. As I was getting ready to go to night class tonight, he ran around the house with me as I got ready. When I went into my room, he came in with me, jumping on my bed and sniffing around. When I was washing my face in the bathroom, he laid on the rug outside the door, stretched out.
I feel as though he feels comfortable with me. I'm hoping he does. The adoption won't be finalized for two weeks. This morning, I was sitting thinking, Shit, why did I get a cat? But then I realized I've already put some money into him and also, I did something that no one else was willing to do. I gave him a home. As I was thinking this, I watched him eat his cat food and I realized that while I may not have made the smartest decision, I made the best one for him.
So just so you know Mom, I am well aware that this is not an easy decision. I could still give him back and only be out $150. But how could I turn him down? I can give him a home and love him.
So there. If you like, consider it the beginning of my social work career.
I'll add pictures to this post. I've got some good ones. I still can't believe I got a cat. I am impulsive, it's true.
I've got my first babysitting gig, finally. Valentine's Night. So that's some money coming in that will go directly to cat care.
I've applied to LIFT Chicago to do volunteer work. It may not be paid, but its social work case work, so that could be a good thing in the long run.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Cat!
I went to the shelter yesterday to look, just to look, and saw him. It's a great place: no cage and no kill, so all of the animals have plenty of space and plenty of toys and love. Quarantined in a room with just one other cat, he was sleeping on a large pillow. I went in with a volunteer and he was immediately a fan of me, friendly and curious. So I said, I'd like to see some other cats. But the other cats weren't him.
They named him York. I think we'll keep it.
He's all black but his coat is full of random little white hairs. He's probably about 14 pounds and when he stretches, his eyes peek up over my bed. He's a bunch of cat without being too fat.
He's about two, they think, based on his teeth, but they aren't sure. He was a street cat until someone found him and decided he'd make a great pet. His tail must have been broken at some point, it bends right near the tip and sometimes he just wags the end of it. One of his ears has been cut too, that's what they do when they neuter a street cat.
But of course, that's not all. He has FIV, or in English, cat HIV/AIDs. Whereas his infection won't ever lead to cat AIDs (sort of), he'll have health problems later and could get sick very easily. And that's why no one wanted to take him home and love him. And so of course, I did.
The staff was all so excited that I was taking him. They told me that he's something of a celebrity around PAWS ( www.pawschicago.org). We joked last night about naming him "Philadelphia" or "Tom Hanks" after the movie, but it just didn't fit. And I want to name him Salem or Binks, but they're all just too melodramatic. His collar (oh he has the cutest collar) reads York, but maybe I'll name him Hades just for fun.
Nah.
He's too sweet to be a hell-cat. Instead of being shy and nervous when he got home, I opened the crate (he's too big for a cat crate, I'm going to have to buy a small dog carrier) and he went right out. He loves under my bed (so much to squeeze around!) and my closet. Last night, he came and snuggled next to me for part of the night, so I'm excited about that. He found his litterbox and food right away. He looks really funny when he eats for some reason. He sort of throws his neck around and gulps.
This morning, as soon as I was out of my shower, he came and jumped on my bed and nuzzled me for a good five minutes. He loves the blanket that Mike got me for graduation (it's a traveling blanket with two sides).
I know this is bad timing. I'm about to graduate from college. I don't have a job. Hell, I don't need a cat. But I saved him and I'm going to love him.
We call him "SpEd Cat" sometimes. Because he's special needs.
Also, don't make jokes in a shelter about adopting a cat and then making cat soup. They may not think you're very funny.
Monday, February 08, 2010
Abort! Abort!
Ah, abortion.
I've posted links to my Facebook account questioning the veracity of the Tebow ad that appeared during the first quarter, but I thought I'd throw some more opinion to the internet. Why not? I've got time and space.
This came about because of Black History Month, which I am so against (more on that at some point later). We were talking about it the other night and of course, the subject of everyone having differences came up. Mine? Adoption. I get "oh you're adopted" jokes every now and then and although it isn't anything compared to racism, it's still something that sets me apart.
My genetic history is a giant question mark. I always joke that I'm a grab bag of potential disease and ugly children. It's true. Not that I'll have ugly children, but you never know.
People ask me, "How can you be pro-choice if you're adopted?"
It was a choice. I wouldn't have known, I was a mass of cells. I'm obviously glad I made it past cell stage and became a person, but for me, it's not a question of when the cells become a life, when the life is viable or any sort of combination of the two.
Do you honestly think that someone who doesn't want to become a mother is going to be a good mother if they're forced to carry, birth and then raise a child they didn't want? Do you honestly think that some people can afford to pay to raise a child when they can barely keep a roof over their heads?
Adoption is a feasible option, sure, but it's not for everyone. Kids born to alcohol and drug-abusing mothers aren't going to have a great start and the difficulties they face may be insurmountable.
Abortion isn't the best option but it's an option that needs to be preserved. As women, we have the rights to our own bodies and we should be able to choose what's right.
Personally, the thought of an abortion terrifies me. I'd never do it. I am too important of a person to have been killed and I'd never be able to live with myself if I went through that. All I'd think is, how old would my baby be today? and stuff like that. It'd be one un-ending thought loop that would consume me.
But I understand why people choose to do it and I do not fault them.
I feel like everyone gets one free pass. One abortion. One oops, we made a huge mistake and it won't happen again. But abortion is not birth control. It's not hard to not get pregnant. (I understand that conversely, it's very easy to get pregnant.) Abortion should not be used in place of birth control. Yeah, condoms are expensive, but so is abortion, so is childbirth, so is the eighteen years spent tethered to a child, so is the emotional pain of giving one up.
Sacrifice. It's the most beautiful thing someone can ever do. To give a family who desperately wants (not needs, wants) a child the thing they want most is the most stunningly selfless act. To trust them with your life, with the life you've created is insane. I don't know if I could do it.
But people do it. That's why Mike and I are here.
And if you don't believe in fate, look long and hard at my family. I am my mother's daughter. I was meant for her. She is my mother, she has been. She loves me unconditionally (I know this because I've tested all the boundaries of love that possibly exist and we're still alright). Fruitypants was meant to be my little brother. We were meant to be a strange mix of family and crazy and look at us. We fit so well together.
It's hard work, all of it, and someone has to do it. The birth and the raising. It can be two different people. There's enough love to go around, I promise.
Mike's graduation party. All of the women were gathered, his birth mother included, near the front door. Grandmothers, aunts, mothers (two of them, both his). They were all crying. It was the most joyously heart-breaking thing I've ever seen. They had watched this little boy grow up into a young man together, each in their own capacity. Strength on all sides and so much love you could feel it surrounding everything.
Hug a birth mom next time you see one. They're better people than you could ever imagine.
Post script:
Don't hate on Planned Parenthood. Just don't. They are some of the kindest, most compassionate people I've ever met. Don't think for a second that if I was rich I wouldn't give them tons of money in donations. You can uphold your Catholic/Christian ideals, but please do not hate on Planned Parenthood. There is so much other work that they do besides killing babies (my god, don't get me started on the people who think this way) that makes them an organization worth supporting. When your daughter is 16 and her pediatrician won't give her birth control, where is she going to turn? You'd damn well better hope there's a Planned Parenthood in your neighborhood. And you'd damn well get her a doctor who understands not only your daughter but the legal system as well. And you'd better thank god (or whomever you pray to at night) that she has an option. Because a lot of people don't have those options. So when she's scared out of her mind and sitting in the waiting room by herself, just wanting some birth control, you'd better thank your god that there are people who know exactly what she's going through and who are willing to help. And when she walks out of there feeling respected and comforted, you'd better wish that you had been there to support her.
But then again, that couldn't be your daughter, could it? That doesn't happen to "good" people like you.
I've posted links to my Facebook account questioning the veracity of the Tebow ad that appeared during the first quarter, but I thought I'd throw some more opinion to the internet. Why not? I've got time and space.
This came about because of Black History Month, which I am so against (more on that at some point later). We were talking about it the other night and of course, the subject of everyone having differences came up. Mine? Adoption. I get "oh you're adopted" jokes every now and then and although it isn't anything compared to racism, it's still something that sets me apart.
My genetic history is a giant question mark. I always joke that I'm a grab bag of potential disease and ugly children. It's true. Not that I'll have ugly children, but you never know.
People ask me, "How can you be pro-choice if you're adopted?"
It was a choice. I wouldn't have known, I was a mass of cells. I'm obviously glad I made it past cell stage and became a person, but for me, it's not a question of when the cells become a life, when the life is viable or any sort of combination of the two.
Do you honestly think that someone who doesn't want to become a mother is going to be a good mother if they're forced to carry, birth and then raise a child they didn't want? Do you honestly think that some people can afford to pay to raise a child when they can barely keep a roof over their heads?
Adoption is a feasible option, sure, but it's not for everyone. Kids born to alcohol and drug-abusing mothers aren't going to have a great start and the difficulties they face may be insurmountable.
Abortion isn't the best option but it's an option that needs to be preserved. As women, we have the rights to our own bodies and we should be able to choose what's right.
Personally, the thought of an abortion terrifies me. I'd never do it. I am too important of a person to have been killed and I'd never be able to live with myself if I went through that. All I'd think is, how old would my baby be today? and stuff like that. It'd be one un-ending thought loop that would consume me.
But I understand why people choose to do it and I do not fault them.
I feel like everyone gets one free pass. One abortion. One oops, we made a huge mistake and it won't happen again. But abortion is not birth control. It's not hard to not get pregnant. (I understand that conversely, it's very easy to get pregnant.) Abortion should not be used in place of birth control. Yeah, condoms are expensive, but so is abortion, so is childbirth, so is the eighteen years spent tethered to a child, so is the emotional pain of giving one up.
Sacrifice. It's the most beautiful thing someone can ever do. To give a family who desperately wants (not needs, wants) a child the thing they want most is the most stunningly selfless act. To trust them with your life, with the life you've created is insane. I don't know if I could do it.
But people do it. That's why Mike and I are here.
And if you don't believe in fate, look long and hard at my family. I am my mother's daughter. I was meant for her. She is my mother, she has been. She loves me unconditionally (I know this because I've tested all the boundaries of love that possibly exist and we're still alright). Fruitypants was meant to be my little brother. We were meant to be a strange mix of family and crazy and look at us. We fit so well together.
It's hard work, all of it, and someone has to do it. The birth and the raising. It can be two different people. There's enough love to go around, I promise.
Mike's graduation party. All of the women were gathered, his birth mother included, near the front door. Grandmothers, aunts, mothers (two of them, both his). They were all crying. It was the most joyously heart-breaking thing I've ever seen. They had watched this little boy grow up into a young man together, each in their own capacity. Strength on all sides and so much love you could feel it surrounding everything.
Hug a birth mom next time you see one. They're better people than you could ever imagine.
Post script:
Don't hate on Planned Parenthood. Just don't. They are some of the kindest, most compassionate people I've ever met. Don't think for a second that if I was rich I wouldn't give them tons of money in donations. You can uphold your Catholic/Christian ideals, but please do not hate on Planned Parenthood. There is so much other work that they do besides killing babies (my god, don't get me started on the people who think this way) that makes them an organization worth supporting. When your daughter is 16 and her pediatrician won't give her birth control, where is she going to turn? You'd damn well better hope there's a Planned Parenthood in your neighborhood. And you'd damn well get her a doctor who understands not only your daughter but the legal system as well. And you'd better thank god (or whomever you pray to at night) that she has an option. Because a lot of people don't have those options. So when she's scared out of her mind and sitting in the waiting room by herself, just wanting some birth control, you'd better thank your god that there are people who know exactly what she's going through and who are willing to help. And when she walks out of there feeling respected and comforted, you'd better wish that you had been there to support her.
But then again, that couldn't be your daughter, could it? That doesn't happen to "good" people like you.
Sunday, February 07, 2010
Lake Shore Drive (the reprise)
There are only so many places in the world you'll randomly see police cars dotted along a stretch of road, sometimes doing something, most times doing nothing. But that's rare enough.
Lake Shore Drive is an infamous place. Think of the film "Ferris Bueller," the scene where they've taken Cameron's dad's car and are flying down Lake Shore Drive toward the city. It's a feeling much like that and I get to do it most days, anytime I like and sometimes for no reason at all. It's full of scattered traffic, slow cars to weave in and out of, faster moving cars to catch up to or to let pass. It's the only place I've ever been passed, and I mean PASSED, while going twenty miles an hour above the speed limit.
It's curvy and sleek, repaved in parts and rocky in others. You get so much of the city, from Soldier Field on the south end (where it hits I-55, toward Midway airport) to Michigan Ave to the end, to Loyola, to my apartment. You get the beach and the waves, crashing against the cement, crashing up over it, spilling Lake Michigan onto the shore. You get a decorative middle, the trees sometimes maintained by the city. Lights.
Night driving on LSD is my favorite thing. The lights, the open space, the road awaiting you. Simon loves it. For a 4-cylinder, he can accelerate. And accelerate we do. I merge seamlessly, pushing my foot into his gas pedal and we fly. He hugs the curves, especially the last one where the road ends and we have to turn. I fly, never braking and he's with me. I trust him, knowing when he's reached his road-gripping limit and I ease up, slowing slightly and throwing my body into the turn. We're a great team, really.
Emily and I, when we had first moved into the apartment, before school had started that year, used to drive the same loop most nights. We'd throw in some music, usually ABBA (I wish I was joking, but I'm not) to begin and we'd drive past Loyola to turn onto Lake Shore and then head south. We'd pass Michigan Ave, Navy Pier, crossing the river, going along Grant Park to take Michigan back up to Lake Shore and then home. Windows down, arms out the window (it's a compulsory act, there's no stopping it), night around us and above us, we'd pass the shops and museums, sliding by buses and around taxis.
Taking in the city when you're passing through it reminds you why you live here. It reminds you why there's no greater place to pass through. It's a cement wonderland, built on industry and fed by sweat and corruption. It glitters in the night, a soft promise of what might be. It's joyous and freeing, to realize that everything is only transitory. The light of day brings new everything, a fresh feel to a tarnished ideal, but by night everything is stark, illuminated and hidden by the cloaking darkness and the neon signs.
It's beautiful to me.
I remember the first day. There have been so many first days, but the day that we drove up from St. Louis to Chicago, the car full of crap I now wish I'd never thought I needed and our eyes wide with excitement is the particular first day. The keys to the apartment weren't quite mine yet, the lease hadn't been signed. We drove up, stuck in traffic, and were swept up in the feeling that is Chicago. It's fast paced, relentless, anxious, angry, unethical, illegal, amazing. It is a place I've never been before and I place I'll never stay.
Lake Shore Drive is Chicago for me. It epitomizes everything that could be and is. There is nothing lovelier than a short drive, doing 65 in a 40 and knowing you're not alone. There is nothing worse than being packed in, red lights ahead of you and all around, edging, no, inching toward your goal.
(Can you tell I did a bunch of driving today?)
I scratched some of the paint off with my keys. I need to get to it, I know, but for some reason I'm hesitant. It's strange, but I'm comforted by the fact that no one would dare steal Simon, not now. He's looking so much worse for the wear and I can't believe it's only six months until I get to bring him back to Denver and file an insurance claim and get EVERYTHING fixed. He'll look brand new.
Also, can we do St. Patrick's Day early while I'm home? I do have a huge pot but for some reason, no one here likes corned beef and cabbage and I'm not going to make it if no one is going to eat it. While plane tickets have not yet been purchased, I'm coming home that Friday (the 5th?) and will be home until the 14th or 15th. So mark your calendars!
March is going to be entirely unproductive academically for me. I'm aware of this. I need to make sure my grades are high so there can be a bit of a buffer for me. Spring break, then that ending weekend and into the next week, Katie will be in Chicago visiting. That Friday night, Maddie and I are going to Boston to party with her aunt and I won't be back until Tuesday night. Yes, missing school to party. I know. It was cheaper. It's mediocre rationalizing but I'm sticking with it. It's going to be amazing. I've never been to Boston and when I got the invite, there was no hesitation. Also, Aunt Judy and I are kindred spirits. Here's to traveling, something I don't do enough of and hope to spend the rest of my life trying to do.
By the way, I think we were in Haiti at some point. Think about that. To have been there. I will find a journal entry, I'm sure I have one somewhere, that discusses it. Because I think I remember striking poverty and exploitation, but I don't want to comment on it until I have my information/travel memory correct. I have a caption on a picture that reads "Haiti?" which makes me remember being there.
Also, I want to go back to Jamaica. (That was a completely unrelated thought)
Lake Shore Drive is an infamous place. Think of the film "Ferris Bueller," the scene where they've taken Cameron's dad's car and are flying down Lake Shore Drive toward the city. It's a feeling much like that and I get to do it most days, anytime I like and sometimes for no reason at all. It's full of scattered traffic, slow cars to weave in and out of, faster moving cars to catch up to or to let pass. It's the only place I've ever been passed, and I mean PASSED, while going twenty miles an hour above the speed limit.
It's curvy and sleek, repaved in parts and rocky in others. You get so much of the city, from Soldier Field on the south end (where it hits I-55, toward Midway airport) to Michigan Ave to the end, to Loyola, to my apartment. You get the beach and the waves, crashing against the cement, crashing up over it, spilling Lake Michigan onto the shore. You get a decorative middle, the trees sometimes maintained by the city. Lights.
Night driving on LSD is my favorite thing. The lights, the open space, the road awaiting you. Simon loves it. For a 4-cylinder, he can accelerate. And accelerate we do. I merge seamlessly, pushing my foot into his gas pedal and we fly. He hugs the curves, especially the last one where the road ends and we have to turn. I fly, never braking and he's with me. I trust him, knowing when he's reached his road-gripping limit and I ease up, slowing slightly and throwing my body into the turn. We're a great team, really.
Emily and I, when we had first moved into the apartment, before school had started that year, used to drive the same loop most nights. We'd throw in some music, usually ABBA (I wish I was joking, but I'm not) to begin and we'd drive past Loyola to turn onto Lake Shore and then head south. We'd pass Michigan Ave, Navy Pier, crossing the river, going along Grant Park to take Michigan back up to Lake Shore and then home. Windows down, arms out the window (it's a compulsory act, there's no stopping it), night around us and above us, we'd pass the shops and museums, sliding by buses and around taxis.
Taking in the city when you're passing through it reminds you why you live here. It reminds you why there's no greater place to pass through. It's a cement wonderland, built on industry and fed by sweat and corruption. It glitters in the night, a soft promise of what might be. It's joyous and freeing, to realize that everything is only transitory. The light of day brings new everything, a fresh feel to a tarnished ideal, but by night everything is stark, illuminated and hidden by the cloaking darkness and the neon signs.
It's beautiful to me.
I remember the first day. There have been so many first days, but the day that we drove up from St. Louis to Chicago, the car full of crap I now wish I'd never thought I needed and our eyes wide with excitement is the particular first day. The keys to the apartment weren't quite mine yet, the lease hadn't been signed. We drove up, stuck in traffic, and were swept up in the feeling that is Chicago. It's fast paced, relentless, anxious, angry, unethical, illegal, amazing. It is a place I've never been before and I place I'll never stay.
Lake Shore Drive is Chicago for me. It epitomizes everything that could be and is. There is nothing lovelier than a short drive, doing 65 in a 40 and knowing you're not alone. There is nothing worse than being packed in, red lights ahead of you and all around, edging, no, inching toward your goal.
(Can you tell I did a bunch of driving today?)
I scratched some of the paint off with my keys. I need to get to it, I know, but for some reason I'm hesitant. It's strange, but I'm comforted by the fact that no one would dare steal Simon, not now. He's looking so much worse for the wear and I can't believe it's only six months until I get to bring him back to Denver and file an insurance claim and get EVERYTHING fixed. He'll look brand new.
Also, can we do St. Patrick's Day early while I'm home? I do have a huge pot but for some reason, no one here likes corned beef and cabbage and I'm not going to make it if no one is going to eat it. While plane tickets have not yet been purchased, I'm coming home that Friday (the 5th?) and will be home until the 14th or 15th. So mark your calendars!
March is going to be entirely unproductive academically for me. I'm aware of this. I need to make sure my grades are high so there can be a bit of a buffer for me. Spring break, then that ending weekend and into the next week, Katie will be in Chicago visiting. That Friday night, Maddie and I are going to Boston to party with her aunt and I won't be back until Tuesday night. Yes, missing school to party. I know. It was cheaper. It's mediocre rationalizing but I'm sticking with it. It's going to be amazing. I've never been to Boston and when I got the invite, there was no hesitation. Also, Aunt Judy and I are kindred spirits. Here's to traveling, something I don't do enough of and hope to spend the rest of my life trying to do.
By the way, I think we were in Haiti at some point. Think about that. To have been there. I will find a journal entry, I'm sure I have one somewhere, that discusses it. Because I think I remember striking poverty and exploitation, but I don't want to comment on it until I have my information/travel memory correct. I have a caption on a picture that reads "Haiti?" which makes me remember being there.
Also, I want to go back to Jamaica. (That was a completely unrelated thought)
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