That Darn Cat.

This is Sammy.

Sammy is a long-haired tabby cat, whose age is undetermined.  He is at least 15 years old, though.  Sammy came to live with us in December of 2003 (or rather, to live with the Mister, as we were still dating at the time) after Shelby, the Mister's newly acquired chocolate Lab, escaped out the garage door left open by him or his roommate.  We had gotten her the week before.  The Mister was so upset about her disappearance that for Christmas, his aunt bequeathed Sammy to him.  Sammy originally belonged to the Mister's cousin, but he had recently moved out of state to an apartment and could no longer keep him.  So that is how we got Sammy.

Sammy and I have had our ups and downs.  When we first got married and lived in our first little house, I hated him.  He puked giant hairball turds all over the hardwood floors and shed like a mofo.  At some point, a switch flipped and I loved him so very much.  I think my biological clock must've started ticking or something, because I loved him like a baby.  I would pick him up and snuggle him, he would sleep right beside me in the bed, and he had to be near me all the time.  I loved him so much that at one point when he was sick and not eating or drinking and I thought he would die, we took him (a 15-year old cat) to the emergency vet and ended up spending $600 to unclog his butt plumbing.  And when he pooped on the vet's exam table the next day, I was so happy I could have danced a jig right there.  He has ended up costing us several hundred more dollars over the past few years, but I gladly paid because I loved him so.

That love lasted until I was about 25 weeks pregnant.  Around that time, we had new hardwood floors put in our house.  They are a beautiful dark walnut, and I was so happy to have that tired carpet ripped out.  And then Sammy puked on them.  At that moment, the switch that flipped the love on turned off, and I have harbored feelings ranging from cold indifference to violent hatred for Sammy.  Now that I have a toddler walking around?  Hate.  Blinding hate.

Reasons I hate Sammy:

1.  He still pukes everywhere.  Yes, I know that's par for the course for long-haired cats, but it is still annoying.  He pukes hair, he pukes food, and sometimes he pukes bile just for the heck of it. All over the house.  On the wood floors, on the carpet, in the bathroom, on the stairs, no floor surface is safe from cat puke.

2.  He pees on the kitchen floor a lot.  There is no reason for him to do this.  He does it out of spite.  We have taken him to the vet to have him checked out for urinary tract infections and other ailments that may cause this behavior.  He is perfectly healthy.  He has a clean litter box that he still poops in.  He is just a crotchety old man that likes to piss me off by peeing on the kitchen floor.  So that means I have to mop at least once a day, and sometimes more than that.

3.  He pees on the baby's stuff.  Sammy and the baby do not get along.  Or rather, Sammy hates the baby.  CJ loves Sammy and wants to show him affection, but Sammy is having none of it.  Last Saturday he swatted CJ in the face just for standing too close to him.  I thought the Mister was going to throw him against the wall.  I understand protecting yourself when you're threatened, but the kid was just standing there looking at him.  Today we set up a foam mat in the playroom.  While I was upstairs taking a nap with CJ, Sammy peed on the mat.  His litter box was literally 10 feet away in the bathroom downstairs.  And even if he didn't want to go in the litter box, why couldn't he just go upstairs and pee on the kitchen floor?  I'd rather him do that than piss on something my child plays on.  But he did it just to show me that he does not like the child.

4.  He covers the house in hair.  'Nuff said.

I realize that his world was turned upside down when I brought home that baby.  I have tried to show him the same amount of affection that I did previously, even though he makes that exceedingly difficult by exhibiting such douchebag behavior.  Things have changed for him, and he is not pleased about it.  I get that.  But what he needs to get through his stupid head is that HE IS EXPENDABLE.  The child is not.  So if I were him, I would start behaving myself before he goes back to being an outside cat.  Winter's coming, and he's led a pretty charmed life in our house.

I'm not going to get rid of him, because when we take in animals we realize they are lifetime commitments and they will live with us until they pass away.  And I feel bad for hating the cat so much.  I really do.  He's an okay cat when he's not hating on CJ.  I just want him to use the litter box I have provided for him.  It's clean.  It's roomy.  It's in a private location.  If he would just stop peeing and puking all over the house, life would be so much better for all parties involved.

Sigh.  How long do cats usually live?

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One and done?

First things first: see that little Facebook widget over there?  I'd love it if you'd like me on Facebook.  I know that most people are on Facebook every day (myself included), so liking The House of Burks on Facebook would be an easy way to keep up with our goings on.  You know, if that's something you're interested in doing.

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This is something that has been passing through my brain space fairly often lately.  The concept of CJ being an only child.  I have no idea why.  I've always seen myself with at least two or three kids.  The family portraits in my head are of me, my husband, and kidS.

But for some reason, the thought of CJ being our one and only child doesn't really sound so bad.  In fact, it sounds pretty darn good.  CJ was and is a relatively easy baby.  He slept well, nursed well, and has always been very happy and friendly.  The good times have always been really good.

But the bad times.  Oh, the bad times.  I remember those times vividly.  Momnesia has not seemed to hit me yet.  I can still remember the pain in my pelvis during the third trimester of pregnancy.  I remember the heartburn.  I remember the contractions.  I remember puking after my C-section.  I remember the hellacious recovery period.  I remember the painful nipples from nursing.  I remember my eyes feeling like they were going to start bleeding from lack of sleep.  I remember the torturous day I had to go back to work.  Late night pumping sessions, thousands of bottles washed, pumping three times a day.  Ear infections, fevers, colds, doctor appointments, urgent care visits.  It is definitely wearing on a person.

Even as CJ gets older, it doesn't become altogether easier.  Sure, some parts are so much easier.  He sleeps well, eats regular food, and while I'm still nursing him, I no longer have to pump.  He can play independently and walk.  He is not shy, rarely cries, and is very adaptable to changes in schedule.  But he also gets bored more easily, gets into everything, makes a huge mess with his food, and pitches fits sometimes.  He is clumsy and gets hurt a lot, which results in screaming.  He never wants to take naps because he doesn't want to miss anything.  So while some things have gotten better, others have gotten worse.

And honestly, at this point in time, I'm not thrilled about the thought of pressing the reset button anytime soon.  I am enjoying my child, even the parts that aren't so great.  I love the freedom of having a toddler as opposed to an infant.  We can go anywhere and do anything.  His schedule is more flexible now.  He can stay up later without any sleep disruption.  But he is a handful most of the time.  He is quite, um, exuberant, for lack of a better word.  A force of nature.  You cannot stop him, you can only hope to contain him.  The thought of having another child right now with the same zest for life as CJ is, in a word, terrifying.

Now, I can hope that my next child is a sweet little demure girl.  Or a meek, mild-mannered, not quite as rough-and-tumble boy.    Or we could wait a few years for CJ to be more manageable.  In the end, this is probably what we will do.  Although we aren't necessarily preventing right now (I deem it unnecessary, considering the lengths I had to go to to get pregnant with CJ), I'm fairly confident that I am unable to get pregnant without medical intervention.  Which is somewhat nice, I guess.  If everything goes like the first time, I would be able to decide when I wanted to become pregnant again.  Of course, there's always the possibility that the protocol that worked for us last time won't work again, resulting in a choice: further medical intervention, or being happy with CJ being our only child.  But that is something that will have to be discussed if and when the situation arises.

But I will say that for now, I am happy.  Perfectly happy being CJ's mother and only CJ's mother.  If I'm meant to have more children, then I'm sure my feelings will change.

But really, how do you improve on perfection?

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Today in Review

  • I hate going from the Macbook Pro to the netbook. I am too reliant on the MBP's trackpad. #
  • Rear-ended someone. Waiting for police. I am trading in my car for a bus pass. #

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Today in Review

  • Dear molars, please stop making my baby so very sad. #
  • Off to the grocery store! Kroger has some great 10 for $10 specials this week. Funny the things you get excited about when you're an adult. #
  • My husband the grillmaster strikes again. #

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Today in Review

  • Oh Drumline. How I love you so. Don't judge me. #
  • @AccustomedChaos Bless your heart! in reply to AccustomedChaos #
  • Can a blogger get some fans, please? #
  • Hook a sister up with some votes, and I'll stop shamelessly promoting. http://picketfenceblogs.com/vote/143 #
  • Tonight I'm going to my first girls' night since July of 2009. Momma needs a break. #
  • I swear. What is it about electrical outlets that is so attractive to a 14-month old boy? And how do I keep him away from them? #
  • @Lins610 HAHAHAHA!! That just might work. in reply to Lins610 #
  • I have a lie bump on the tip of my tongue. I don't recall telling any lies recently, though. #

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Today in Review

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Today in Review

  • At the emergency room with hubby. Most likely a kidney stone. He feels like he is about to die. #
  • Kidney stone is now in the bladder. The worst is over. He has requested an ice cream cone. #
  • I've finally made a fan page for the blog! Please like it. I crave validation. #
  • I posted 6 photos on Facebook in the album "The Boy" http://fb.me/tXnT6JY9 #

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Not Your Typical Thursday

Today started out like any other normal day.  I actually got up and was feeling a little fancy, so I decided I would wear a dress to work.  Me.  A dress.

I KNOW.

So I got in the shower a little earlier to shave my legs, got out, and put on my fancy dress.  It's really pretty.  Cocktail length.  Off white, with a black flower pattern, wide straps, and a sweetheart neckline.  I bought it for my BFF's wedding a couple of weeks ago, and it looks really cute on me.  I've only worn it once, and I wanted to get some more mileage on it before the cooler weather comes (if it ever comes, because Manischewitz, it is hot outside).  So I got ready, put on my pretty dress, and off to work I went.

I got to work my standard 7 minutes late, got my workstation up and running, ate some breakfast, and then began my morning routine.  E-mail, tasks from e-mail, open document management system, open browser, open Talk, open Trillian.  Check Facebook, Google Reader, the Drudge Report, Twitter, and the Atlanta Journal-Constitution.  Do some work.  A little before 9am my workmate arrives, so I chat with her for a few minutes before settling back in to my morning tasks.  This is basically how every morning goes.  Day in, day out.  It's nice to know what's coming next.

Today, however, my (fancy, amazing, gorgeous, brand new awesome) cell phone rang at 9 on the dot.  It was the Mister.  This was not out of the ordinary, as he usually things of something he forgot to tell me before I left for work.  So I answered the phone.  "I need you to come home," he said.  Um, what?  It's 9am.  I've been at work for only an hour.  "I'm having back and abdominal pains like I've never felt before."  "Do you need to go to the hospital?"  "Yes."

This, my friends, was serious.

The Mister is a pretty stoic guy.  He is a man's man.  Tough, grizzled, hardened.  He deals with pain very well and can generally power through it.  So for him to tell me that his pain was bad enough to warrant a trip to the hospital?  This was bad.  So I told my boss that I needed to go and why, sent an e-mail to the office manager, and bolted for the parking deck.  NASCAR had nothing on me today.  I broke no less than 20 traffic laws, I'm sure.  Speeding, super-speeding, changing lanes without signaling, following too closely, using the HOV lane improperly, you name it, I did it.  I got to my exit in record time.  As I pulled off the interstate, my phone rang again.  It was the Mister again calling to inform me that he had called 911 to send an ambulance out to the house.

Oh.  My.  Lord.

An ambulance?!  Now I was worried.  I told him to hang on, I'd be there in less than 10 minutes.  The ambulance and fire truck were in front of the house when I arrived.  I waded through the sea of smoking hot EMTs into my house, where my husband was face-down on the couch attached to various machines to monitor his vital signs.  One EMT told me that they were about to take him down through the garage and load him up onto a stretcher, so I ran upstairs to change clothes (hey, if I have to sit at the hospital for God knows how long, I'm at least going to be comfortable) and give the dogs some more water  since they had knocked theirs over with all the commotion going on in the house.  Away we went to the hospital, which luckily is only less than 5 miles from our house, with me following the ambulance.  The ambulance wasn't in a huge hurry, so I took that as a good sign that the Mister wasn't on his deathbed.

When we arrived at the hospital, I was able to get a good look at the Mister for the first time since all this started.  And he was definitely in pain.  His gorgeous face was contorted with pain, he couldn't straighten his legs, and his hands were shaking.  They rolled him into the emergency room and straight back into a room.  The EMT gave me the rundown on what was going on and what would happen.  I asked him what he thought it was.  He said judging by what the Mister said he was feeling, it was more than likely a kidney stone.  And he was right.

Poor Mister.  They say that passing a kidney stone is on par with birthing a child.  I wouldn't know, because I got an epidural and got cut open so I was numb from the sternum down for a good 14 hours.  But judging from the way the Mister was acting, I doubt I will attempt natural childbirth on purpose.  He had no patience for the EMT, for the doctor, for the triage nurse.  He wanted pain medication and he wanted it NOW.  I felt so bad for him as he was writhing on the hospital bed, IV in place and oxygen line running.  They finally gave him some Dilaudid for his pain and he started to calm down.  He went for a CT scan eventually, and the doctor came back and told him that the stone had passed from the kidney and into the bladder, and now he just had to pee it out.  They gave him a couple of sifters to pee into to catch the stone.  Gross.  Then he has to send it to a urologist.  Ew.  Not a job I would want.

All told, we were out of there in under three hours.  I'm actually a little glad that he called an ambulance, because if we had just walked in the emergency room we would have likely had to wait in the waiting room.  Coming in on a stretcher seems to get you to the back faster.  But all's well that ends well, and he seems to be back to normal.  Well, as normal as he gets.

I have come to the conclusion that narcotics and my husband are a hilarious combination.  When he had a colonoscopy a few weeks ago, he was HILARIOUS coming out of the anesthesia.  And today, after he got the good drugs coursing through his veins?

He asked for an epidural.

My husband, ladies and gentlemen.  And I wasted a cute dress on an hour's worth of work.

And days like today make me thankful for having a very understanding employer, easy access to medical care, the ability to pay for said medical care, and really cute EMTs.

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I've started a fan page on Facebook for The House of Burks!  If you're a follower or a reader,  I'd appreciate it if you'd like my page on FB.  Because you can never be too connected.

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Today in Review

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Way Back Wednesday!

Welcome to Way Back Wednesday, hosted by The Adventures of Goober Grape & Monkey Man, The Life of a Sippy Cup Mom!, The Scoop on Poop! and The Nerdy Katie!  This week's topic is "your first car."  Well, my first car was a real piece of work.  I present to you my 1986 Dodge Aries station wagon!

(Not my actual car.)

I loved this car.  LOVED it.  I have no idea where the fondness for this car came from.  My parents bought it new when I was a child, and after a year or so it started giving them nothing but problems.  That was not of any concern to me.  This was the car of my childhood.  Trips to the beach, to Tennessee, Georgia, Florida, this car took us there.  I remember the Tetris match my father used to play in the cargo area packing the car when we would get ready to go to the beach.  He prided himself on getting everything in the back and getting the cargo cover pulled over everything.  Suitcases, beach stuff, a cooler, all packed with precision and care.

My mother ended up buying a 1988 Nissan Sentra from my aunt when I was almost 16, and told me that it was for me.  But there was a catch: it was a stick shift.  I had never driven a stick shift and had no intention of learning.  So she said okay, then you can drive the wagon and I'll drive the cute little red car, thinking it would persuade me to learn to drive a manual so I could have the newer car.  Her plan backfired, though, because I jumped all over the chance to drive the wagon.  She agreed, and my first car became "mine."  I went about my business personalizing it.  Stickers on the windows, various accoutrements hanging from the rearview mirror, steering wheel cover.  When it was time to get new tires I begged my dad for whitewalls, but he said no.

The wagon had plenty of room for me and my friends, and all of the stuff I needed to carry around for my various sports and activities.  There were speakers everywhere, great for blasting Nirvana and Soundgarden and Pearl Jam.  Plus it was different.  Nobody else drove a car like mine.  People knew when I was coming because of that car.  I always like to make my cars a bit distinguishable, even to this day.  The silver Chrysler 300 I drive now is fairly ubiquitous, but MY 300 with the limo tint and the Pirelli tires makes it mine.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, and the Aries went to that big junkyard in the sky shortly before my senior year of high school.  And then I was stuck with the stick shift Sentra.  Luckily for me, I learned how to drive it because one summer day my mom had to take the wagon to work for the cargo space, and she told me that if I wanted to go anywhere that day I would just have to drive the stick.  I'll show her, I thought.  And I did.  And I became the stick shift guru among my friends.  I taught many people how to drive a stick in that little Sentra.  When it became MY car, I loved it.

Up until December of my senior year of college, when the engine exploded while I was driving down the interstate.

Seriously, there was a trail of flames in the dead grass behind me as I pulled off the road.

Let's hope that doesn't happen ever again.

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