The Doomed Do-gooder

A few years ago before I was even thinking about having a child (also known as:  The Years When I Thought “Yo Gabba Gabba” Was a Hip-Hop Sorority), I was overcome by how fortunate I was and decided I wanted — nay, I needed — to give back.  So with my chest puffed out, thinking of all the “good” I was going to do, I proceeded to e-mail and call no fewer than ten organizations, primarily ones involving children.  I spent hours filling out on-line applications, volunteered to do things such as mentor kids from abusive homes and waited for the places to clamor for my OH-so-generous services.

Not a single one of them responded to my outreach.  I suspect it’s because any prospective volunteer with the name “Candy” is automatically placed on children’s organizations’ DO NOT WANT pile.  Either that, or my reputation precedes me.

But STILL…!  NO response?  Am I not even worthy of taking out the trash?  Hath not a woman named Candy eyes?  If you prick me, do I not bleed?  If you tickle me, especially my feet, do I not laugh like a goofy hyena? If you poison me, do I not insist that you NEVER make meatloaf again?  (Yes, I am looking at you, Mr. Candy’s Mom.)

To have my free work rejected by so many organizations and charities was, well, odd to say the least.  I ended up fulfilling my do-gooder need that year by volunteering at a homeless shelter on Christmas — a grand idea shared by, oh, five-hundred other Angelenos, so I was politely asked to throw my fast food gift certificates into a collective bucket and go on my way.  Merry Christmas, indeed!  Now Mr. Candy and I just sponsor a couple of kids with Save the Children and throw a buck into Daniel Baldwin’s coffee cup when we see him on the street corner.  My ego can’t handle any more rejection.

Don’t you just love how I make a story about charities a pity party for MYSELF?  Leave it to a (pseudo) only child!

But seriously, guys.  I am cursed.  You see, pretty much ever since Matty passed away, I have been searching for a new fluffy household member.  That may seem a little quick to some people — Mr. Candy couldn’t even handle thinking about another cat at first — but it is my way of dealing with the grief, plus… a way to extract the ball of fur that has been attached to my side ever since Matty died.  That’s right:  Marcy has been terribly lonely and I am eager to get her a friend.  Hopefully a friend who doesn’t, you know, terrorize her as Matty was apt to do when he felt like thumping his chest (BOYS — they’re all the same, I tell ya).  This time, instead of a breeder, we would like to get a kitty from a shelter or foster home.  Yeah, motherhood has made me go all soft.  So I have searched a ton of Web sites, e-mailed at least five foster homes and left voice-mails at two shelters.

Guess how many responses I have received?

*Sigh*  I seriously need to change my name to Mary.  No animal shelter could reject a prospective kitty mommy named Mary.  Or, better yet, Oprah.