Death to Chachie?

As I drove home from work Monday I felt pretty good. My Dad being back in the hospital for his heart was downer, but for the first time in quite awhile I felt pretty good about things. I got a decent raise at work a couple of weeks ago, and while I continue to be in the employ of the raving mad, I didn't feel bad about where I was professionally. At least not on Monday, anyway. I found myself bop-bop-bopping in the car listening to my MP3s all the way home. But alas, these moments of happiness and satisfaction can only last so long...

Kim decided we were going to have dinner in the dining room versus the living room and in front of the t.v. mode we have gotten used to. I objected at first, but agreed that it was a good idea. I grilled some pork chops, she took care of the sides, and we sat down to eat. The Man Zachary smashed his way through his dinner, and all seemed well. Then, Zachary started pointing behind my chair and grunting at our one cat, Chachie. Chachie was behind my chair, squatting and peeing on the baseboard of the dining room. After buying the house, the previous owners said that they had issues with their cats and the dining room. We have cleaned our carpets numerous times - and have attacked the dining room more than that - due to pet-related odor that emanates from one of the corners. I was mortified a few months ago during poker night when I, and then my guests, noticed the smell. So, here is my cat - the good one - squatting right in front of me and marking his territory, as it were! Right in front of me!

I love our cats, and Chachie tends to be the nicer or the two (Big Mac is self-serving, loud and sometimes evil). Our immediate fear is that we might have to take Chach to the SPCA. I'd hate to do that, but I also refuse to have areas of my house smell not unlike the homes of lonely old cat-ladies. A few months ago I was mortified to whiff the air in my dining room during poker night to smell Eau de Cat Urine. It was embarrassing. I refuse to go through that again. We have been meticulous in our carpet cleaning since buying the house. The previous owner said that their cats used to have issues with the corner of the dining room, so that is somewhat peculiar. In a small townhouse with wall-to-wall carpeting, there is no room for a cat that refuses to use the litter box - no matter how sweet he is. We have a vet appointment scheduled for tomorrow afternoon, so we will see.

I left The House That Chach Soiled after dinner (and cleaning) to go visit my Dad in the hospital. My visit seemed to lift his spirits, so that felt pretty good. With this being his 4th or 5th visit to the hospital in the last year or so with no clear-cut answer as to why he keeps ending up there, he is scared and I am as well. And frustrated. My completely-failing-to-prepare-for-the-future parents have found themselves in a bad place medical-insurance-wise. They have no savings, they have very little income. They have drifted for the better part of the last 10 years. This is a cause of major stress for me - and in times like this, for them. It became apparent to me while sitting there with my Dad that I have to take a very active role with getting my parents straightened out - especially now that the Gabby adoption has been finalized. Another thing that occurred to me was that I need to make a serious life-change as far as how I eat and exercise. While sitting at my Dad's side chastising him about the changes he was supposed to make after the first hospital visit, I realized that it isn't just him that has to straighten out. My Dad weighs all of 148 pounds. He is a rail. And yet, here he is - in the hospital AGAIN for heart-related ailments. If my 148-pound father has heart disease, what does the future have in store for his 260-plus-pound son? Granted, my Dad has smoked since his early teens - and I have never put one of those filthy things to my lips. However, I have exhibited the eating habits of a ravenous tapeworm-afflicted mongoloid for almost two decades. So, here I am lecturing my Dad about his smoking and such - making me a hypocrite who eats like a tapeworm-afflicted mongoloid.

Speaking of my eating habits... I decided I would be nice on the way home from the hospital - so I stopped to pick up ice cream. While eagerly awaiting a couple of Blizzards to be whipped up, I took a gander at the nutritional information posted on the wall. A large peanut butter cup blizzard is 1015 calories. ONE THOUSAND AND FIFTEEN!!! I am so dead. I was downing three of those things a week while my wife was pregnant! I should probably just stab myself in the heart with a spork and save God the trouble.

On Tuesday I was called into the boss' office where he and his wife (who is supposed to be my supervisor) were waiting for me. They told me to sit down and told me that they had an issue with the vacation request I submitted. According to their records, even though I have been here 15 glorious months, I haven't accrued enough paid time off to take my vacation. I couldn't believe it. After trying to interject some logic into the discussion - they began to shout at me. My asking them why they were yelling when all I had done was ask a simple question ranks in the upper-echelon of Vince workplace hall-of-fame moments. They are used to bullying people around here, and I am finished with that mess for good. Their math-logic is one for the boss insanity-meter record books. Apparently, prior to the first of this year, this company had no such thing as sick or personal days. So, when my son was born, the days I took apparently came off of next year's accrued vacation. I swear, my workplace is un-fricken-believable sometimes. As you could probably guess, I have no plans of dropping this issue without a fight. None whatsoever. Hey, at least they gave me a raise. That helps in dealing with the abject silliness. Sometimes.

[Currently Listening: The Transplants - "Romper Stomper"]
"I wanna know...can I count on you when its time?"