Misunderstood

I am a woman

who yearns to be heard,

but despite my nerve

and the validity of my words

I defer to your hurts

and process your blurbs

and remain:

misunderstood

My Fat Kitty Playing

My Adorable Guinea Pig

The Demise

There are certain situations when it really hurts to be an animal lover.

Today, like most days, I went outside to do laundry. We are lucky enough to share free laundry facilities with our two neighbors, and the wash machine is by the carport. Right as I go to enter the shed that houses the wash machine and dryer, a bird goes zooming by my head and I hear something fall. I already know that there are many nests in the eaves of the carport, and I am hoping that my worst fears aren't going to be realized.

But there he is, an adorable baby bird laying in a halo of blood on the cement. Apparently the bird that flew so quickly by my head was the mama bird, and in her haste she pushed the baby out of the nest. Most likely I startled mama bird and she took me to be a predator. She is long gone and has abandoned the baby to the forces that be.

I am not ready to believe that mama bird isn't coming back, and even though birdie's eye has popped out of his head, I carefully deposit him in the nest without touching him because I've heard if you touch the baby with your hands the mother abandons it. I go inside for a while desperately hoping mama bird will come back because I don't know what to do. She doesn't return.

Now I am sobbing under the nest looking at his little chest rise and fall. I cannot leave him there to die and I feel responsible as a witness. It's a marvel the bird is still alive, and it seems that his will to live is pretty strong, but his head is what took the fall. There is no nursing him back to health.

I go back inside and call the local humane society and ask them what to do. The woman on the line tells me she knows the perfect place to take him, and gently warns me that they will probably euthanize him. So, I call the wildlife rescue center, and they agree to take him. I scour the house for a cardboard box and poke holes in it with kitchen shears. Then I put tissues in the bottom instead of paper towels because they're softer as if it really matters.

This time I pick him up with my hands. He is still soft and warm and he is breathing. And it breaks my heart. I leave the lid open when I place him on the passenger seat of my car because I have this compulsion to keep checking if he is still alive. Even though I get slightly lost, and it has been an half an hour since his fall, he is still alive and struggling when I arrive at the wildlife center. I close the lid as I walk to the facilities in an effort to maybe pretend I am less attached than I am.

When I arrive, they quickly whisk him away and give me paperwork to fill out. I write in my information and attach a five dollar donation in thanks. I ask the woman when she returns if they are going to euthanize him, and she tells me yes. She tells me that it's really good that I brought him in because it can take a long time to die from the kind of head trauma he sustained. I thank her and leave, and as soon as I am out the door I burst into tears.

I call my boyfriend to update him on the situation and he tells me all the reasonable things there is to say in such a situation. But I cannot embrace reason. The birds demise is senseless, as so much of life is, and that is why it hurts so bad.   

Tease of the Tea

I used to be one of those classy, worldly tea drinkers. I worked in a Taiwanese tea house by day alternating between a plethora of bitter and sweet tastes. I learned to appreciate the elixir elicited from charcoal purified water heated to exactly 180 degrees with the addition, and subsequent removal, of 100 dollar per pound Jasmine Pearls.

I should have paid attention to my mother, for whom Jasmine Pearls held no allure. When she came into the teashop, she would order a frothy Chai tea that developed from a powder base. Or she might order a black tea, but only if it was sweet and creamy.

A few years after the end of my employment at the Taiwanese tea house, I became more British in my tastes. Today, I drink dark Breakfast teas with a heaping spoonful of sugar and a torrent of cream. But, even that description sounds more charming that reality.

The reality is two Lipton tea bags tossed into a stained coffee mug doused in some filtered water from the tap. Next, the coffee mug gets put in a faux-wood sided microwave that is as old as I am. After everything is heated for 2:22, a time selected for the numbers' proximity to each other, I pinch the tea bags out of the scalding water and try to squeeze as much concentrated liquid out of the bags as possible, all while simultaneously cursing the pain sensors on my finger-pads and their propensity towards second degree burns. In haste, I toss the tea bags towards the garbage to sooner relieve my blistering fingers, and the last remaining moisture splatters in an arc over the cabinets, floor, and trashcan lid. Next, I grab my Tupperware container of sugar from the pantry, while pulling a spoon out of the silverware drawer. In a synchronized move, I then stir the sugar into the mug as I kick open the refrigerator door to my right. Out comes my carton of Half and Half which I pour until the tea seems to be a medium beige color.

This morning, however, I kicked open the refrigerator door and remembered that I finished the Half and Half off when I drank a necessary jolt of tea yesterday evening at 9:30. I considered walking a few blocks to the nearby drugstore CVS, but given my malnourished state, the journey seemed too great. Then I remembered the corner store, a mere block away, at which I buy Mexican pastries and thanked the benevolent powers that be.

Haphazardly throwing my hair up and pulling on a sweater, I rush out the door with ten dollars shoved in my back pocket. I pinpoint the location of the all important milk substance and narrow in on the “best by” date. It will only be good for four more days, which is not very long. However, I'll probably drink at least two cups a day, so I will get eight cups out of the carton. That is not so bad. Besides, I could barely buy a coffee at Starbucks for a dollar forty-nine. Okay, I am getting it.

My internal debate completed, I select a pastry and pay for my breakfast. Back at home, I gingerly remove the teabags from my now tepid cup of tea, stir in some sugar, and eagerly top it off with my newly purchased Half and Half.

Instead of looking upon the glassy surface of perfectly sweet and creamy tea, I am met with little clots of cream sitting like cellulite on the back on an otherwise tan and unblemished thigh. Disgusted, I try to pour the surface defects into the kitchen sink, but the floaters are wily and refuse to obey. Before I know it, I have emptied the entire cup into the sink in what can only be described as an act of rash stupidity.

Reflecting on the obvious shortcomings of my technique, I decide to make another cup of tea, but this time, if there are any clots of cream, I will skim them off with a spoon.

Success will be mine.

Birthday Flowers

On my birthday, my boyfriend surprised me by coming home with flowers on his lunch break. I was still in bed, so it was a wonderful way to finally wake up. He said it was the quickest trip to a flower shop ever. He walked in and the florist said I think you'll like these, and my boyfriend said, "Yes, I think she'll like those." And I do! I have a great distaste for cheesy flowers, and these aren't. Thank you stars for aligning on my birthday!

Romance is Dead

The rose fell off the bookcase right next to him, so he decided to attack the intruder. Do note that my cat is so lazy that he won't actually get out of his new kitty bed in order to defile my Valentines Day rose.