First of all -- there is no new news regarding the brain scan. Thanks to those of you who have written and cared (specifically Madge, Baby C, my fellow work peons and, of course, the Aggie Nation.) You are the people who got me through it so far. Yall, and my husband, of course. Currently, we don't know when the result will come back, but I suspect not until next week.
Second of all -- I'm heading out in the morning for four days with the Pug Family in Mississippi. My passport expired last year, so I'm not sure they'll let me in. We'll see, maybe they can an exception. Since I'll be living it up with Granny and Poppa Pug, I might not blog until I return to the Lone Star state. Unless the hijinks and shenanagans are too much to keep inside until I return. Then, of course, there'll be bloggage.
Third of all -- or thirdly, or lastly (call it what you must) -- I feel compelled to tell you all that this will be the longest trip I've had away from my husband since we got married. Five days/four nights. I'm not sure how that happened. We used to be so independent and unattached -- now we rarely travel without one another. And we're horribly, sweetly codependent. And I'm going to miss him and our babies so much it makes part of me not want to go unless he and the menagerie are in-tow. I'm just a better, stronger person when he's with me. And I don't even care how that makes me seem.
Catch you on the flip-side, Internet.
2/29/08
2/28/08
My Own Personal Guantanamo
With the MRI brain scan complete, I'm pretty confident they wont find anything. Its just a gut feeling I have. (Insert your empty-head joke here.)
The experience went down pretty much like I expected -- horribly.
Basically they put your head in a Darth Vader helmet, strap it to a concrete block, then shove in a tube so tight you can't move your arms.
Then they inform you that you have to be absolutely motionless.
Halfway through the 30-minute torture session, they pull you out, refuse to let you up and try to shoot your veins full of dye.
This would be where Momma Pug unintentionally derailed the torture train.
Chuck and Larry -- my very sweet, very comforting MRI techs -- couldn't find a vein to save their lives. And they were pitifully sweet and apologetic about it.
I was stabbed with what they swore was a "butterfly" needle about seven times.
The seventh stab sent me into hysterics. Full-on hyperventalation, complete with flailing arms and sobs.
I pretty much lost complete control of myself -- all functions.
I was ready to admit to being a member of al Quida. Anything to make it stop.
"Stop. I can't do anymore! Why don't yall just waterboard me!"
(Cue hickups AND machine-gun farts.)
Chuck and Larry began to giggle. Undoubtedly this is the strangest display they're ever seen from an adult.
After a call to the doctor, they determined that the test could be completed without the dye. Especially since they weren't looking for cancer or something like that.
Twelve more minutes in the tube of death and I was done.
It was literally the worst medical procedure I've ever had done.
Now we sit back and await the test results.
And, honestly, after all that if there isn't something jacked up in my brain I'm probably going to be pretty pissed.
More to follow...
The experience went down pretty much like I expected -- horribly.
Basically they put your head in a Darth Vader helmet, strap it to a concrete block, then shove in a tube so tight you can't move your arms.
Then they inform you that you have to be absolutely motionless.
Halfway through the 30-minute torture session, they pull you out, refuse to let you up and try to shoot your veins full of dye.
This would be where Momma Pug unintentionally derailed the torture train.
Chuck and Larry -- my very sweet, very comforting MRI techs -- couldn't find a vein to save their lives. And they were pitifully sweet and apologetic about it.
I was stabbed with what they swore was a "butterfly" needle about seven times.
The seventh stab sent me into hysterics. Full-on hyperventalation, complete with flailing arms and sobs.
I pretty much lost complete control of myself -- all functions.
I was ready to admit to being a member of al Quida. Anything to make it stop.
"Stop. I can't do anymore! Why don't yall just waterboard me!"
(Cue hickups AND machine-gun farts.)
Chuck and Larry began to giggle. Undoubtedly this is the strangest display they're ever seen from an adult.
After a call to the doctor, they determined that the test could be completed without the dye. Especially since they weren't looking for cancer or something like that.
Twelve more minutes in the tube of death and I was done.
It was literally the worst medical procedure I've ever had done.
Now we sit back and await the test results.
And, honestly, after all that if there isn't something jacked up in my brain I'm probably going to be pretty pissed.
More to follow...
The Walls Are Crashing In
The title says it all.
I'm off to have an MRI on my brain, and I'm not even in the stupid machine yet, but I already feel like I'm ready to crawl out of my skin.
Before this is over, who thinks I'll:
a. Cry like a baby.
b. Have to interupt the test to pee.
c. Fall asleep in the machine.
d. Cry myself to sleep in the machine and then wet the bed.
(Here's a hint: There is no wrong answer.)
P.S. I pity the MRI tech on duty right now.
I'm off to have an MRI on my brain, and I'm not even in the stupid machine yet, but I already feel like I'm ready to crawl out of my skin.
Before this is over, who thinks I'll:
a. Cry like a baby.
b. Have to interupt the test to pee.
c. Fall asleep in the machine.
d. Cry myself to sleep in the machine and then wet the bed.
(Here's a hint: There is no wrong answer.)
P.S. I pity the MRI tech on duty right now.
2/27/08
A Special Daily Dog
I think most of you have notice we have a new feature -- Daily Dog -- that's been added to the right menu bar. Every day it updates with a new picture and short blurb about friend, family and readers companions (and they need not be canine.) Email me a picture if you want your furry buddy included.
Well, today I ran across a story that really touched me and I felt was the perfect addition to Daily Dog.
But when I got ready to post it, I thought it deserved a little more attention, so I'm putting it here.
Enjoy!
Nubs was rescued in Iraq by Marine Maj. Brian Dennis (the guy squatting with him). Poor Nubs had been stabbed and living in the Iraqi desert in a war zone his entire life.
Shortly after being rescued and brought base to the base Maj. Dennis was told to either get rid or kill Nubs. Having formed a special bond with Nubs, Maj. Dennis did what any of us dog-lovers would have done -- he begged for help getting him back home.
If you are like me and can't resist an opportunity to cry, read the rest of Maj. Dennis and Nub's story here: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/23295271/. It really is touching.
And if you don't have time to read the rest of the story, just know this: Sometimes the good guys win, sometimes things do work out the way they should and some times there really is a happy ending.
Maj. Dennis and Nubs will be reunited on American soil when the Marine returns from the war in March.
Well, today I ran across a story that really touched me and I felt was the perfect addition to Daily Dog.
But when I got ready to post it, I thought it deserved a little more attention, so I'm putting it here.
Enjoy!
~~~
Meet Nubs: Today's Daily Dog
Nubs was rescued in Iraq by Marine Maj. Brian Dennis (the guy squatting with him). Poor Nubs had been stabbed and living in the Iraqi desert in a war zone his entire life.
Shortly after being rescued and brought base to the base Maj. Dennis was told to either get rid or kill Nubs. Having formed a special bond with Nubs, Maj. Dennis did what any of us dog-lovers would have done -- he begged for help getting him back home.
If you are like me and can't resist an opportunity to cry, read the rest of Maj. Dennis and Nub's story here: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/23295271/. It really is touching.
And if you don't have time to read the rest of the story, just know this: Sometimes the good guys win, sometimes things do work out the way they should and some times there really is a happy ending.
Maj. Dennis and Nubs will be reunited on American soil when the Marine returns from the war in March.
Insane In The Membrane
Yesterday was kind of shitty.
No really shitty – pooptastic, even.
Shit-terrific. (In fact, if you want the usual light-hearted Pug Off fodder, then I suggest just not reading this one. Skip it. Happy Momma Pug'll be back tomorrow.)
It all began with a long-scheduled doctor's appointment to address what I thought was fibromylagia-related pain and ended with me nearly stroking out in the exam room.
Before I could really tell them that I have been falling down at least once a week and now have god-awful pain radiating from my left ankle/foot, I had what I like to call – as a southern lady – the vapors.
I got really hot and dizzy and when they checked my blood pressure it was 180 over 110.
Dr. B, my hero and lady-crush, said: "We've got to give you some medicine to get your BP down now! I need you to lay …"
And that is the last thing I remember before waking up to tiny little Dr. B standing beside me with a glass of ice water.
Apparently, in that rather blurry-dark period of 15 minutes while I looked like a carton character with steam coming out my ears, I took a small green pill that turned out to be my salvation. When I came to, my vision was restored and I didn't feel like my brain was going to burst free of my skull via my ear canals.
(Consequently, this why I also nearly pitched to my death down a flight of stairs at work last week. Yeah, in front of my entire office, I got veclemped.)
As it turns out, one of my fibro medications was picking on a weaker, nerdy-er pill, resulting in blood pressure irregularities. Both medicines have been removed from my daily repertoire and replaced with very different, much safer alternatives. And even though I'm only one day into the new stuff, I can tell that they changes are significant.
Aside from peeing 17 times last night because of all the diuretics that little doctor pumped into me, I felt better than I have in two months.
However, passing out in your doctor's presence isn't without consequences.
At 6 p.m. yesterday – an hour after the office closed – Dr. B was sitting with me in a radiologist waiting area. She wanted to see X-Rays immediately. (Turns out the foot isn't broken, but I do have a nasty case of tendonitis and will have to wear shoes that serve an orthopedic – rather than snakeskin faux finish – function.
And, just to make it more fun, on Thursday at 5:30 p.m., I'm having an MRI of my brain.
Sense my excitement.
Dr. B wants to rule out any kind of brain malfunction that might be causing me to constantly fall down, thus injuring myself.
And, much to my amazement, apparently I've never had my pituitary gland checked. (Note: I didn't even know that was in my head. I thought it was in your neck, but it turns out that's the thyroid, which – ironically -- I have had checked.)
According to the good doctor, the pituitary gland can do a myriad of things including but not limited to making me clumsy and fat.
Just think, two birds one disease!
Could I be so lucky?
And is it really lucky to wish for a brain disease?
See. That's what struggling with being overweight for the entirety of your life does to you. It makes you hope for a brain problem so you finally know what the fuck's making you fat.
That's insane thinking. And probably not the most crazy thing I've to try and loose weight.
A short list of my failures:
I've been fighting with my employer since 2005 to cover the surgery in our insurance program. Alas, they consider having gastric bypass – even if you're 200 pounds over weight and in serious risk of dying from fat complications – a cosmetic surgery. Funny that they don't deny cancer patients chemotherapy or claim a triple bypass is superficial, rather than lifesaving.
Which brings me back to my brain. If it is a brain problem then maybe insurance wouldn't tell me that the $50,000 to treat it is an "out of pocket expense" and my responsibility.
Maybe they will man up and do the right thing – help save my life.
Or maybe that's just the insane ramblings of a fat-ass with an inflamed brain.
No really shitty – pooptastic, even.
Shit-terrific. (In fact, if you want the usual light-hearted Pug Off fodder, then I suggest just not reading this one. Skip it. Happy Momma Pug'll be back tomorrow.)
It all began with a long-scheduled doctor's appointment to address what I thought was fibromylagia-related pain and ended with me nearly stroking out in the exam room.
Before I could really tell them that I have been falling down at least once a week and now have god-awful pain radiating from my left ankle/foot, I had what I like to call – as a southern lady – the vapors.
I got really hot and dizzy and when they checked my blood pressure it was 180 over 110.
Dr. B, my hero and lady-crush, said: "We've got to give you some medicine to get your BP down now! I need you to lay …"
And that is the last thing I remember before waking up to tiny little Dr. B standing beside me with a glass of ice water.
Apparently, in that rather blurry-dark period of 15 minutes while I looked like a carton character with steam coming out my ears, I took a small green pill that turned out to be my salvation. When I came to, my vision was restored and I didn't feel like my brain was going to burst free of my skull via my ear canals.
(Consequently, this why I also nearly pitched to my death down a flight of stairs at work last week. Yeah, in front of my entire office, I got veclemped.)
As it turns out, one of my fibro medications was picking on a weaker, nerdy-er pill, resulting in blood pressure irregularities. Both medicines have been removed from my daily repertoire and replaced with very different, much safer alternatives. And even though I'm only one day into the new stuff, I can tell that they changes are significant.
Aside from peeing 17 times last night because of all the diuretics that little doctor pumped into me, I felt better than I have in two months.
However, passing out in your doctor's presence isn't without consequences.
At 6 p.m. yesterday – an hour after the office closed – Dr. B was sitting with me in a radiologist waiting area. She wanted to see X-Rays immediately. (Turns out the foot isn't broken, but I do have a nasty case of tendonitis and will have to wear shoes that serve an orthopedic – rather than snakeskin faux finish – function.
And, just to make it more fun, on Thursday at 5:30 p.m., I'm having an MRI of my brain.
Sense my excitement.
Dr. B wants to rule out any kind of brain malfunction that might be causing me to constantly fall down, thus injuring myself.
And, much to my amazement, apparently I've never had my pituitary gland checked. (Note: I didn't even know that was in my head. I thought it was in your neck, but it turns out that's the thyroid, which – ironically -- I have had checked.)
According to the good doctor, the pituitary gland can do a myriad of things including but not limited to making me clumsy and fat.
Just think, two birds one disease!
Could I be so lucky?
And is it really lucky to wish for a brain disease?
See. That's what struggling with being overweight for the entirety of your life does to you. It makes you hope for a brain problem so you finally know what the fuck's making you fat.
That's insane thinking. And probably not the most crazy thing I've to try and loose weight.
A short list of my failures:
I don't know, maybe falling out in front of the doctor was a good thing. She seems motivated to help me do what I need to do – which is have a bariatric surgery.
- The Potato Diet
- The Cabbage Soup Diet
- Atkins
- South Beach
- The Zone
- Low Carb
- No Carb
- No Fat
- Anorexia (My most miserable defeat. I lasted exactly one day.)
I've been fighting with my employer since 2005 to cover the surgery in our insurance program. Alas, they consider having gastric bypass – even if you're 200 pounds over weight and in serious risk of dying from fat complications – a cosmetic surgery. Funny that they don't deny cancer patients chemotherapy or claim a triple bypass is superficial, rather than lifesaving.
Which brings me back to my brain. If it is a brain problem then maybe insurance wouldn't tell me that the $50,000 to treat it is an "out of pocket expense" and my responsibility.
Maybe they will man up and do the right thing – help save my life.
Or maybe that's just the insane ramblings of a fat-ass with an inflamed brain.
2/25/08
Girls Just Want To Have Fun
Just some snippets of our day out....
The Houston Children's Museum has a television station complete with costumes, tele-prompters and cameras.
Madgette has taken the persona of "Stormy Weathers," Houston's very own cheerleader-meteorologist.
Note the yellow rain hat and purple fru-fru dress.
After partying hard at the museum, we went and had a mani and pedi at Momma Pug's favorite spa spot, Leon Nail.
It was just about at this point that Madgette said: "Hey, can Mulan do my nails?"
And if you're wondering if a drunk face painting clown got a hold of her, the answer is no.
That cat-face work of art is courtesy of Momma Pug.
I also constructed her a balloon hat that we all agreed looks like something the Pope would wear during mass.
After our beautification, we went over to martini bar and swilled down a couple of extra dirties. Just another day in our fabu lives.
Seriously? Who wouldn't love to hang out with me.
The Houston Children's Museum has a television station complete with costumes, tele-prompters and cameras.
Madgette has taken the persona of "Stormy Weathers," Houston's very own cheerleader-meteorologist.
Note the yellow rain hat and purple fru-fru dress.
After partying hard at the museum, we went and had a mani and pedi at Momma Pug's favorite spa spot, Leon Nail.
It was just about at this point that Madgette said: "Hey, can Mulan do my nails?"
And if you're wondering if a drunk face painting clown got a hold of her, the answer is no.
That cat-face work of art is courtesy of Momma Pug.
I also constructed her a balloon hat that we all agreed looks like something the Pope would wear during mass.
After our beautification, we went over to martini bar and swilled down a couple of extra dirties. Just another day in our fabu lives.
Seriously? Who wouldn't love to hang out with me.
---
Okay, stop sending me hate mail. Of course I did NOT let her drink.
What kind of person do you think I am?
It was a joke, people!
Besides, after two of those martinis I was snockered. So someone had to be sober enough to drive.
What kind of person do you think I am?
It was a joke, people!
Besides, after two of those martinis I was snockered. So someone had to be sober enough to drive.
2/24/08
Heard From The Mouth Of A Five Year Old
While getting a manicure and pedicure at the Asian lady-run spa:
"Hey, can you tell Mulan I want her to do my nails?"
After Momma Pug fell face-first in the kitchen over two little, bad dogs:
"Oh. My. God. Your face, like, just HIT the ground. I thought it might like BREAK the ground."
Upon watching Deuce and Lady Belle wrestle wildly on the living room floor:
"Demons. They are demons, I say!"
While watching "Star Wars" and seeing the Death Star for the first time:
"Hey, Darth Vader's going to his office!"
"Hey, can you tell Mulan I want her to do my nails?"
After Momma Pug fell face-first in the kitchen over two little, bad dogs:
"Oh. My. God. Your face, like, just HIT the ground. I thought it might like BREAK the ground."
Upon watching Deuce and Lady Belle wrestle wildly on the living room floor:
"Demons. They are demons, I say!"
While watching "Star Wars" and seeing the Death Star for the first time:
"Hey, Darth Vader's going to his office!"
2/22/08
T-Minus 8 Hours
At 6 p.m. our goddaughter Madgette arrives to stay at Chateau du Pug for the weekend while her parents attend a hopelessly boring education conference.
To this weekend of magic and fun, Madgette is bringing her cooking kit (complete with pint-sized cookie cutters and apron), iron-on gemstones and a t-shirt (can anyone say Bedazzler!) and her two doggies -- Blaze and Lady Belle, the miniature Schnauzers.
The Aggie and I are soooo happy to have our little buddy with us this weekend, however, we are less excited about her traveling companions.
And not so much Blaze as Lady Belle.
You see, every family has a Lady Belle. There's always that one kid or dog or person that just can't behave, no matter how hard they try.
Deuce is our Lady Belle.
AND.
No shock here: Deuce thinks Lady Belle is G-R-E-A-T.
They are tight. Bosom buddies. Like a modern day Stalin and Hitler – you know, before the backstabbing.
But instead of world domination and purifying races, they are more interested in pooping on the floor, then rolling around it, then trying to give you kisses.
I wish that were an exaggeration.
So the Aggie and I have been steeling ourselves for the doggy der Furer's arrival.
Deuce – sensing that his super-playmate/girlfriend is near – is already channeling various leaders of legions of doom. He woke me up this morning by battling a rebel insurgent, also known as the cat.
Across my face.
At 4 a.m.
Meanwhile, Madgette is already awake and packing for her trip.
Her mummy tells me it went something like this:
Check.
To this weekend of magic and fun, Madgette is bringing her cooking kit (complete with pint-sized cookie cutters and apron), iron-on gemstones and a t-shirt (can anyone say Bedazzler!) and her two doggies -- Blaze and Lady Belle, the miniature Schnauzers.The Aggie and I are soooo happy to have our little buddy with us this weekend, however, we are less excited about her traveling companions.
And not so much Blaze as Lady Belle.
You see, every family has a Lady Belle. There's always that one kid or dog or person that just can't behave, no matter how hard they try.
Deuce is our Lady Belle.
AND.
No shock here: Deuce thinks Lady Belle is G-R-E-A-T.They are tight. Bosom buddies. Like a modern day Stalin and Hitler – you know, before the backstabbing.
But instead of world domination and purifying races, they are more interested in pooping on the floor, then rolling around it, then trying to give you kisses.
I wish that were an exaggeration.
So the Aggie and I have been steeling ourselves for the doggy der Furer's arrival.
Deuce – sensing that his super-playmate/girlfriend is near – is already channeling various leaders of legions of doom. He woke me up this morning by battling a rebel insurgent, also known as the cat.
Across my face.
At 4 a.m.
Meanwhile, Madgette is already awake and packing for her trip.
Her mummy tells me it went something like this:
- Princess costume. Check.
- Stuffed animal named "Sonny the Pug." Check.
- Finger nail polish. In three colors. Check.
- Disney Princesses DVD Volume 872. Check.
- Hannah Montana underwear. Two pairs. Check.
- Disney's High School Musical. (Oh, muh gawd Zach is FINE.) Double check.
- Beg Momma Pug to take me to the Children's Museum because she might have mentioned it in passing three years ago, but I have a memory like an elephant. Check.
- Also, mention that we may have rushed by the Hello Kitty story in the Galleria once, but it was closed and now it MIGHT be open, so I'm going to coerce Momma Pug to take me back. Puhleeeeez! I'm not above water-boarding. Check.
Check.
2/20/08
What Do Hunter Pence and Deuce the Silky Terrier Have In Common?
I mean, aside from both being cute, living in Houston and liking to play with balls.
Both dove head first into a sliding glass door this week.
Hunter – who was returning to the hot tub from a pee break – actually shattered the glass, cut himself pretty bad and is on the DL for a week.
Deuce, on the other hand, paused momentarily, considered the situation, then shook it off and tried again.
Cue the second floor-shaking GONG!
Rip just stared at him like, "You’re an idiot, brother." And the Aggie hurried to open the door before Deuce went for the hat trick.
The moral of the story? This is what happens when you drink too much beer in the hot tub OR when Momma Pug Windexes the sliding door for the first time in 18 months.
How is this:
Linked to this:
Both dove head first into a sliding glass door this week.
Hunter – who was returning to the hot tub from a pee break – actually shattered the glass, cut himself pretty bad and is on the DL for a week.
Deuce, on the other hand, paused momentarily, considered the situation, then shook it off and tried again.
Cue the second floor-shaking GONG!
Rip just stared at him like, "You’re an idiot, brother." And the Aggie hurried to open the door before Deuce went for the hat trick.
The moral of the story? This is what happens when you drink too much beer in the hot tub OR when Momma Pug Windexes the sliding door for the first time in 18 months.
2/19/08
Anyone Remember "MXC: Most Extreme Elimination Challenge"?
All I can say is that I wish that I could be on the creative team responsible for coming up this show.
Just think, the civilization responsible for launching the invasion of Pearl Harbor also thought up this marsh mellow/rubber band game show.
That, dear readers, is not a mind to be messed with.
Just think, the civilization responsible for launching the invasion of Pearl Harbor also thought up this marsh mellow/rubber band game show.
That, dear readers, is not a mind to be messed with.
2/18/08
A Puppy In Need
A plea to all Momma Puggians:
I'd like to introduce you to a very handsome and lovable man named Einstein.
Einstein is a 90-pound Golden Retreiver. He is a VERY good, housebroken boy. He's funny, sweet and great with children and other pets.
But unfortunately his mommy and daddy are getting a divorce and because of private matters related to their particular situation, Einstein will either have find a new home with the next few days or be shipped off to a shelter.
A little background
Einstein was originally adopted at 10 months and is about one and a half years old old now.
This gentle giant is current on all vaccines and is used to romping a big back yard.
He has double dew claws on the back paws so he probably has a bit of Great Pyrenees in him – which makes him even more loyal and protective.
He loves kids and is very friendly to all, can be goofy and LOVES TO PLAY BALL. He is housebroken.
His only bad habit is he likes to jump up on people – but that can be easily trained out of a dog.
He is smart and funny, a great family dog. He does not need to have any more traumas at a shelter.
Come on people, Momma Pug is beggin'
If you want to adopt Einstein, call Barbara at 713-933-7633.
Lets find Einstein a home.
I'd like to introduce you to a very handsome and lovable man named Einstein.
Einstein is a 90-pound Golden Retreiver. He is a VERY good, housebroken boy. He's funny, sweet and great with children and other pets.
But unfortunately his mommy and daddy are getting a divorce and because of private matters related to their particular situation, Einstein will either have find a new home with the next few days or be shipped off to a shelter.
A little background
Einstein was originally adopted at 10 months and is about one and a half years old old now.
This gentle giant is current on all vaccines and is used to romping a big back yard.
He has double dew claws on the back paws so he probably has a bit of Great Pyrenees in him – which makes him even more loyal and protective.
He loves kids and is very friendly to all, can be goofy and LOVES TO PLAY BALL. He is housebroken.
His only bad habit is he likes to jump up on people – but that can be easily trained out of a dog.
He is smart and funny, a great family dog. He does not need to have any more traumas at a shelter.
Come on people, Momma Pug is beggin'
If you want to adopt Einstein, call Barbara at 713-933-7633.
Lets find Einstein a home.
2/15/08
Road Rage
Yesterday, something happened to me that has never happened to me before.
I experienced road rage.
Just to be clear, it should be stated that I have witnessed road rage in the past. (After all, I live in the fourth largest city in America and I am married to the Aggie.)
In fact, I'm totally against such stupid behavior. I'm always that person who says: "Why are you so upset? Its just traffic?" Or "Just calm down. Getting mad makes you just as bad as they are!" (Ask the Aggie, he will be more than happy to confirm that I'm a side-seat-driving-nagger.)
On the way to and from work, I drive through the Medical Center AND Museum District every single day, dodging doctors staring at their Blackberries, hoards of school children traipsing to exhibits and the occasional bum wandering into traffic.
For a while there I carpooled with my dear husband and witnessed daily profanity laced rants -- including the one he learned from his father at the tender age of two: "Go get 'em, asshole!"
Despite all that, I have never BEEN the rager.
Until driving home from work yesterday.
But before I continue, there are two thing you should know about me:
1. Having rear-ended more than person going at high rates of speed, I am now overly cautious about running up behind people, especially in traffic. I always leave two to three car links between myself and the person in front of me. This may be considered annoying, but it is safe and makes me considerably less likely to run into the person ahead of me.
2. If my cell phone rings in the car, I will answer it. Heck, I might even make a call if necessary. And guess what? I still drive the exact same way – leaving two to three car links between me and the car in front of me.
So yesterday I was having a brief conversation with my mother (Granny Pug) about a visit I will be making to Mississippi to visit in Early March. Just as the conversation was ending (less than five minutes) I notice that I'm being tailgated by a large Lexus SUV. It appears that this woman is making hand gestures, like she's speaking in sign language to someone.
It takes me a couple of minutes to realize what this lady is doing – she is trying to make a point. She is mocking my use of a cell phone and is trying to signal me to hang up, and, thus speed up, removing the mandatory three car links in front of me.
I mention to Granny Pug that I'm being mocked in traffic and that a whore in a power suit with a $200 haircut is trying to give me a moral lesson about cell phone use in automobiles.
We both laugh, talk for a couple of more minutes, naturally finish our conversation and hang up.
But the fact that I am off the phone and STILL -- oh the nerve of me -- not speeding up to remove those three car links is driving this lady crazy. She starts up with her hand signals again, this time trying to tell me to speed up.
I keep my pace, car links and all, and continue on towards my nearing exit.
The road-whore now tries to pass me on the inside, but fails. It seems that lo-and-behold I am actually going the speed of traffic.
I casually signal my way over to the right and begin to take my exit. Finally, the lady is out of my line of sight.
Or so I thought.
Now, mind you, for the entirety of this I have not acknowledged her existence. I have gone on about my driving, unaffected by this woman, who now has been harassing me for about 10 minutes.
As I'm going down the exit to my neighborhood, I notice a speeding vehicle that looks strangely similar to the road-whore. As I proceed half way down the single lane exit, I am nearly clipped as someone passes me in the single lane. Guess who it is? The road-whore!
It is at this point that something inside Momma Pug snaps.
I don't know why, but I suppose I'd had enough. For some reason, when I was supposed to be turning left to my house, I found myself turning right, thus following the path of the road-whore.
And you know what, tailgating her felt good. Really good.
Its not until she was turning left at the CVS pharmacy into a very affluent neighborhood that she realized that I – the one she has tormented – was behind her. The moment of recognition in the rearview mirror was priceless.
And just to make sure there was no doubt that it was I – her victim – I rolled down my window and started to wave furiously.
Road-whore sunk into her seat.
I made the turn behind her, bumper to bumper, ignoring my three car link rule (I mean, she HATES it after all) and I followed her to the stop sign. Where I again waved at her out the window, all the while smiling ear-to-ear.
As she turned onto her street, I thought she might have to stop and vomit. Oh the beautiful look of fear on her face.
I'm not sure what possessed this woman, perhaps hoping for safety her home, but she continued on to a gigantic, manicured, lakeside house.
I waited for her to exit the vehicle and pulled up in front of her house. She was fumbling with her keys franticly.
"Look, road-whore. I get it: You disapprove of people driving on their cell phones. Thanks for the lesson. Now allow me to return the favor…" I said, pausing dramatically. "Don't fuck with crazy people. You never know when they might follow you home."
And with that, I rolled up my window and drove back to our working class neighborhood and awaited the police.
I was pretty certain she would be calling me in for harassment.
Well, since I'm not in the clink, I suppose she really was what I though – a bully that wouldn't know what to do when confronted. Fear of having her ass kicked by a fat woman that shops at Wal-Mart, probably rendered her physically unable to write down my license plate number.
And, for the record, I do realize how stupid my actions were. You don't have to send me hate mail. Yes, it was stupid. And, yes, I am embarrassed by my lack of control and behavior.
But you know what?
I scared the shit out of someone who's not used to be not getting her way, even from strangers in traffic.
And. It. Felt. Good.
I experienced road rage.
Just to be clear, it should be stated that I have witnessed road rage in the past. (After all, I live in the fourth largest city in America and I am married to the Aggie.)
In fact, I'm totally against such stupid behavior. I'm always that person who says: "Why are you so upset? Its just traffic?" Or "Just calm down. Getting mad makes you just as bad as they are!" (Ask the Aggie, he will be more than happy to confirm that I'm a side-seat-driving-nagger.)
On the way to and from work, I drive through the Medical Center AND Museum District every single day, dodging doctors staring at their Blackberries, hoards of school children traipsing to exhibits and the occasional bum wandering into traffic.
For a while there I carpooled with my dear husband and witnessed daily profanity laced rants -- including the one he learned from his father at the tender age of two: "Go get 'em, asshole!"
Despite all that, I have never BEEN the rager.
Until driving home from work yesterday.
But before I continue, there are two thing you should know about me:
1. Having rear-ended more than person going at high rates of speed, I am now overly cautious about running up behind people, especially in traffic. I always leave two to three car links between myself and the person in front of me. This may be considered annoying, but it is safe and makes me considerably less likely to run into the person ahead of me.
2. If my cell phone rings in the car, I will answer it. Heck, I might even make a call if necessary. And guess what? I still drive the exact same way – leaving two to three car links between me and the car in front of me.
So yesterday I was having a brief conversation with my mother (Granny Pug) about a visit I will be making to Mississippi to visit in Early March. Just as the conversation was ending (less than five minutes) I notice that I'm being tailgated by a large Lexus SUV. It appears that this woman is making hand gestures, like she's speaking in sign language to someone.
It takes me a couple of minutes to realize what this lady is doing – she is trying to make a point. She is mocking my use of a cell phone and is trying to signal me to hang up, and, thus speed up, removing the mandatory three car links in front of me.
I mention to Granny Pug that I'm being mocked in traffic and that a whore in a power suit with a $200 haircut is trying to give me a moral lesson about cell phone use in automobiles.
We both laugh, talk for a couple of more minutes, naturally finish our conversation and hang up.
But the fact that I am off the phone and STILL -- oh the nerve of me -- not speeding up to remove those three car links is driving this lady crazy. She starts up with her hand signals again, this time trying to tell me to speed up.
I keep my pace, car links and all, and continue on towards my nearing exit.
The road-whore now tries to pass me on the inside, but fails. It seems that lo-and-behold I am actually going the speed of traffic.
I casually signal my way over to the right and begin to take my exit. Finally, the lady is out of my line of sight.
Or so I thought.
Now, mind you, for the entirety of this I have not acknowledged her existence. I have gone on about my driving, unaffected by this woman, who now has been harassing me for about 10 minutes.
As I'm going down the exit to my neighborhood, I notice a speeding vehicle that looks strangely similar to the road-whore. As I proceed half way down the single lane exit, I am nearly clipped as someone passes me in the single lane. Guess who it is? The road-whore!
It is at this point that something inside Momma Pug snaps.
I don't know why, but I suppose I'd had enough. For some reason, when I was supposed to be turning left to my house, I found myself turning right, thus following the path of the road-whore.
And you know what, tailgating her felt good. Really good.
Its not until she was turning left at the CVS pharmacy into a very affluent neighborhood that she realized that I – the one she has tormented – was behind her. The moment of recognition in the rearview mirror was priceless.
And just to make sure there was no doubt that it was I – her victim – I rolled down my window and started to wave furiously.
Road-whore sunk into her seat.
I made the turn behind her, bumper to bumper, ignoring my three car link rule (I mean, she HATES it after all) and I followed her to the stop sign. Where I again waved at her out the window, all the while smiling ear-to-ear.
As she turned onto her street, I thought she might have to stop and vomit. Oh the beautiful look of fear on her face.
I'm not sure what possessed this woman, perhaps hoping for safety her home, but she continued on to a gigantic, manicured, lakeside house.
I waited for her to exit the vehicle and pulled up in front of her house. She was fumbling with her keys franticly.
"Look, road-whore. I get it: You disapprove of people driving on their cell phones. Thanks for the lesson. Now allow me to return the favor…" I said, pausing dramatically. "Don't fuck with crazy people. You never know when they might follow you home."
And with that, I rolled up my window and drove back to our working class neighborhood and awaited the police.
I was pretty certain she would be calling me in for harassment.
Well, since I'm not in the clink, I suppose she really was what I though – a bully that wouldn't know what to do when confronted. Fear of having her ass kicked by a fat woman that shops at Wal-Mart, probably rendered her physically unable to write down my license plate number.
And, for the record, I do realize how stupid my actions were. You don't have to send me hate mail. Yes, it was stupid. And, yes, I am embarrassed by my lack of control and behavior.
But you know what?
I scared the shit out of someone who's not used to be not getting her way, even from strangers in traffic.
And. It. Felt. Good.
2/14/08
New Pug Off
Well, what are yall thinking of the new, professionally done site?
I'm liking it better, I think.
Still has some tweaking to be done.
Have you guys noticed the new feature, "Daily Dog"?
If you have a picture of your pet send them. I know it says "Daily Dog" but we aren't haters, cats are cool too. And fish. And birds. Anything pretty much that qualifies as a pet.
Send it to mommapug@gmail.com and we'll feature your pets too!
I'm liking it better, I think.
Still has some tweaking to be done.
Have you guys noticed the new feature, "Daily Dog"?
If you have a picture of your pet send them. I know it says "Daily Dog" but we aren't haters, cats are cool too. And fish. And birds. Anything pretty much that qualifies as a pet.
Send it to mommapug@gmail.com and we'll feature your pets too!
2/13/08
Why I Married The Aggie
Reason No. 6,732: Because he sends Valentines Day flowers the day BEFORE, thus surprising his wife AND setting the bar pretty high for the wife's fellow office-flower-receivers.
---
Yes, this is a small glimpse into my world. Notice the array of pictures of loved ones, a half-empty bottle of generic Tylenol Arthritis and (if you look really, really close) a nearly-empty plastic bear that once contained honey.
Judging by this photo alone, one would assume that an photo-loving, arthritic Winnie the Pooh works in this cubical.
Give yourself a thousand points if you can find Waldo.
2/11/08
An Uncomfortable Moment
Do I need to even point out all the ways this is funny?
No. I didn't think so.
No. I didn't think so.
2/9/08
Blah Is The Only Word
I face planted in a VERY expensive, VERY high-end jewelry store in the Galleria today.
The Aggie had taken me there to get some ideas on replacing my wedding band/engagement ring set. (His idea, not mine. I know, ladies. He IS the greatest.)
We looked at over 3,000 different rings. I know this because by the time I had narrowed it down to my top three picks, the guy helping us -- a small, Indian man (dot, not feather) -- informed me of the number of rings that I had just scrutinized.
After discussing price (a lot) and size stone (gigantic), we took all the information and a business card and proceeded to leave. (I insisted on comparative shopping.)
But before we left, I needed to stop by the bathroom. The can in this here joint was pretty extravagant. Imported leather chairs, fresh flowers and actual cloth towels to dry your hands on.
Now mind you, I'd just been draped in about three karats of diamonds so I wasn't thinking clearly. So when I tried to make a mental note that marble floor looked slick, it obviously didn't register. Or, perhaps, by the time I tinkled the platinum john and used a steamed towel, I'd forgotten about the warning I'd given myself not two minutes before.
In fact, I nearly made it out without catastrophe.
I was but three feet from the door when my tennis shoes slid on the slicker-than-wet-ice marble, sending me into a sort of split, which turned into a belly flop as I went top heavy and careened face-first into the fresh cut begonias.
I suppose that I was trying to catch myself, but went down too quickly, as my elbows both hit the floor just after my face grazed the flowers (they did smell delightful). Literally, every inch of my body smacked the floor in some way. Nothing way spared.
After about five minutes of just laying there, crying on the what is probably the most expensive floor my face has ever touched, I decided that the intensity of my robust frame crashing down must have not been strong enough to shatter any jewelry cases, as no one came running to my aid.
So I crawled over to the Italian leather chair and pulled myself up into it to survey the damage. As usual, I was not seriously injured, just battered and bruised. I took a few more minutes to collect myself, then proceeded to meet the Aggie at the elevator (no sense risking a climb down stairs.)
All I can say from this little foray into the world of the rich and diamond-clad, is that... well, frankly, I might be a total fucking klutz, but I look good in three karats.
The Aggie had taken me there to get some ideas on replacing my wedding band/engagement ring set. (His idea, not mine. I know, ladies. He IS the greatest.)
We looked at over 3,000 different rings. I know this because by the time I had narrowed it down to my top three picks, the guy helping us -- a small, Indian man (dot, not feather) -- informed me of the number of rings that I had just scrutinized.
After discussing price (a lot) and size stone (gigantic), we took all the information and a business card and proceeded to leave. (I insisted on comparative shopping.)
But before we left, I needed to stop by the bathroom. The can in this here joint was pretty extravagant. Imported leather chairs, fresh flowers and actual cloth towels to dry your hands on.
Now mind you, I'd just been draped in about three karats of diamonds so I wasn't thinking clearly. So when I tried to make a mental note that marble floor looked slick, it obviously didn't register. Or, perhaps, by the time I tinkled the platinum john and used a steamed towel, I'd forgotten about the warning I'd given myself not two minutes before.
In fact, I nearly made it out without catastrophe.
I was but three feet from the door when my tennis shoes slid on the slicker-than-wet-ice marble, sending me into a sort of split, which turned into a belly flop as I went top heavy and careened face-first into the fresh cut begonias.
I suppose that I was trying to catch myself, but went down too quickly, as my elbows both hit the floor just after my face grazed the flowers (they did smell delightful). Literally, every inch of my body smacked the floor in some way. Nothing way spared.
After about five minutes of just laying there, crying on the what is probably the most expensive floor my face has ever touched, I decided that the intensity of my robust frame crashing down must have not been strong enough to shatter any jewelry cases, as no one came running to my aid.
So I crawled over to the Italian leather chair and pulled myself up into it to survey the damage. As usual, I was not seriously injured, just battered and bruised. I took a few more minutes to collect myself, then proceeded to meet the Aggie at the elevator (no sense risking a climb down stairs.)
All I can say from this little foray into the world of the rich and diamond-clad, is that... well, frankly, I might be a total fucking klutz, but I look good in three karats.
2/8/08
There Are Days...
... when I think quitting my wonderful job that I love to be a greeter at Wal-Mart would be perfectly justified.
And, really, does that seem so bad? No. No it doesn't.
Here's how my day would go:We'll end it there. I think you get the basic idea.
"Hello, welcome to Wal-Mart."Put one of those stupid smiley-faced stickers on a kid.
"Hello, welcome to Wal-Mart."
Force a buggy on someone.
"Hello, welcome to Wal-Mart."
Place a pink sticker on a to-be-returned item.
"Hello, welcome to Wal-Mart."
Take my mandated-by-law 15 minute break.
"Hello, welcome to Wal-Mart."
And, really, does that seem so bad? No. No it doesn't.
2/6/08
Puggy Gras
Sonny the Pug: Hey, there Sugar Lips! You want some beads? Then show 'em, lady.(Girl flashes.)
STP: I lied, you whore. I'm keeping the beeds.
(Moves on through the French Quarter.)
STP: Hey! Lady, you like muh nice big beads?...
(Girl flashes.)
STP: Call me French, but I give 'em a FOUR. Next!
(Waddles on with his beads in tow.)
STP: Well, hello there, dah'lin. Would you like to sample muh beeds?
(Girl flashes.)
STP: Tell Dr. Rubenstein he does excellent work.
(Tosses girl single strand of beads. The plastic kind.)
STP: Its good to be king.
2/5/08
Irony
From the Associated Press' story on the stupid/UNCONSTITUTIONAL ban on obese people eating in restaurants:
"I was trying to shed a little light on the number one problem in Mississippi," said Republican Rep. John Read of Gautier, who acknowledges that at 5-foot-11 and 230 pounds, he'd probably have a tough time under his own bill.
What a fucking dumbass.
Really? The No. 1 problem in Mississippi?
Not poverty? Not lack of health care? Not a below average educational system? Not farmers and logger that are losing their shirt because of the price of timber and cattle? Not a Gulf Coast that is still suffering post-Katrina? Not child abuse? Not teenage pregnancy?
Really? Being fat is the WORST problem?
Well, excuse me, I guess I just got schooled.
You know, I get it. He was trying to make a point. That's great. But it NEVER okay to introduce ANY kind of legislation that represses someones human rights.
"I was trying to shed a little light on the number one problem in Mississippi," said Republican Rep. John Read of Gautier, who acknowledges that at 5-foot-11 and 230 pounds, he'd probably have a tough time under his own bill.
What a fucking dumbass.
Really? The No. 1 problem in Mississippi?
Not poverty? Not lack of health care? Not a below average educational system? Not farmers and logger that are losing their shirt because of the price of timber and cattle? Not a Gulf Coast that is still suffering post-Katrina? Not child abuse? Not teenage pregnancy?
Really? Being fat is the WORST problem?
Well, excuse me, I guess I just got schooled.
You know, I get it. He was trying to make a point. That's great. But it NEVER okay to introduce ANY kind of legislation that represses someones human rights.
At Least 100 Things
1. Actually, I probably don't actually have 100 interesting things about me. Oops. Oh, well, the first thing you should know about me is that I'm generally unapologetic. Especially for the strange/dorky/politically incorrect things I like.
2. For example, I have an unabashed love for George Michaels songs.
3. And Reba McEntire, especially her older songs and the television show.
4. Also, I have made jokes about and will laugh at Natalie Holloway, JonBennette Ramsey, and Chandra Levy.
5. I have also said inappropriate, but humorous, things about the death/demise of Britney Spears, Anna Nicole Smith and Heath Ledger.
6. No, I don't have a gauge that tells me if it's "too soon."
7. Nor do I give a shit who it offends.
8. That's why I like Kathy Griffin. She says what most of us think. And she's not naturally pretty. She's normal ugly.
9. I like normal ugly – people don't look like magazine photos. Be normal. Be yourself. Be ugly.
10. Having said that, I wish I were skinny, tall and didn't snore.
11. I also wish I had normal feet – not feet that would indicate my father was Fred Flinstone.
12. About 75 percent of the people in the entertainment industry, politics or journalism really piss me off.
13. Andy Rooney is an ass-maggot.
14. Rosie O'Donnell is crazy, but I think she does care about kids and gives a lot of money to charities. But she's also crazy. I'm on the fence with her.
15. Star Jones and Melissa Peterman were way more likable when they were fat.
16. Dane Cook pisses me off. He used to be unapologetic. Now he's a sellout. (Yes, a Jessica Simpson movie makes you a sellout.) The world needs more people who are willing to tell it like it is.
17. I also hate Tom Brady. He's pretty and he knows it. And that Stetson ad he did makes me want to vomit.
18. Furthermore, I believe that it should be mandated by Congress that beautiful professional football players only get to bonk one supermodel. After that, if the relationship fails, the stud athletes should only get to date ugos and fatties.
19. But even though Tom Brady pisses me off, he is really hot and I'd probably do him. Especially if that Congressional act I'm lobbying for goes through.
20. And I think my husband would let me do him if that meant he could hang out with Giselle-I'm-A-Giant-Brazilian-Goddess.
21. Everyday I fall more in love with my husband.
22. He doesn't care that I'm surly, or fat or kind of mean. He thinks I'm witty and charming totally ignores that fact that I'm overbearing and loud. And I find knowing those things incredibly liberating.
23. I met my husband while I was a working as a writer for a newspaper.
24. Being a journalist has been my lifelong dream.
25. So I got a degree in communications and set off to be a reporter.
26. My first job was at the Albany Herald in Georgia – that's where I met the Aggie.
27. It took about one week for me to realize that I hated being a reporter.
28. Yet, I'm stubborn and only had a journalism degree, so I went from there to another newspaper.
29. This time it was in Texas.
30. Which is far superior to Georgia, or so I think.
31. It took me about three years and at least three breakdowns to realize that being a writer and being a journalist were two very different things.
32. What's the difference, you ask? Integrity and morals.
33. Journalists are scum suckers. And I'll never return.
34. Now I work for a university doing PR and I love it.
35. Generally, I only have to write for pleasure.
36. I'm really bad at segways. (See.)
37. I have three dogs.
38. And a cat.
39. One dog loves the cat.
40. Two don't.
41. The cat may smother me in my sleep to show me that she thinks I've ruined her life by acquiring the dogs.
42. I wouldn't blame her. She is oppressed.
43. Our youngest child (read: dog) is the antichrist, or at the very least, has Satan-like tendencies.
44. Ripken is a puss, but he's wonderful and I wouldn't change anything about him.
45. Sonny is funny. Like people funny.
46. Gert my become dictator of Cuba after Fidel dies.
47. I love my little suburban home. Even if it does smell like dog occasionally.
48. I hate banana trees.
49. And people who don't pull far enough up in their driveway so they block the sidewalk.
50. I also hate it when kids play in my front yard. This goes back to my grandmother being convinced that if a child is injured on your property – even if you don't know they're there – that you will immediately be sued and lose all your Earthly possessions, including your house.
51. Perhaps, on more than one occasion I have considered sedating a hyper person in my office by slipping a Mickey into their coffee.
52. If I won the lottery I wouldn't donate to a church, or the college I attended or to disaster victims.
53. I would, however, be very generous with my family and friends.
54. Midgets amuse me. A lot.
55. So do reality-based medical shows.
56. Thus, I heart Discovery Health.
57. I'm a HUGE fan of Scrubs.
58. I did drugs in college. I mean, if you count smoking pot.
59. I do not smoke pot now.
60. Pot makes me lazy.
61. I am lazy enough without any added help.
62. I collect teapots, tea sets and china cups.
63. Ironically, I'd describe myself as a bull in a china shop.
64. I also love Barbies.
65. And I like crosses and angels.
66. Cheese might be my favorite food.
67. I have two diseases that affect my every day life – fibromyalgia and Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS).
68. I am something of legend at the endocrinologist's office. When I was diagnosed with PCOS, the doctor told me I had "elevated levels of testosterone," I asked her, and I quote: "How much testosterone are we talking about here? Grow a dick or grow a beard?" She laughed herself into an asthma attack.
69. Lucky for me it was just a beard. I pluck daily.
70. Fibro makes me hurt so bad some days that I can't get out of bed without assistance.
71. PCOS means my ovaries have water cysts – in addition to the facial hair – and this makes me infertile.
72. But there are treatments – a pill that promotes ovulation! And the Aggie and I can have kids one day.
73. It is extremely likely that we will have a multiple-birth.
74. And if I have a litter, I'm going to name them after cheeses: Brie, Sakura, Brimsen, Havarti, Ricotta, Pepperjack and Provolone.
75. The word "monkey" makes me laugh.
76. So do nicknames for genitals: Bajingo, Good Girl and Ta-Ta, being my personal favorites.
77. I have a really, really bad temper.
78. But I rarely lose it.
79. I cry a lot.
80. I also laugh a lot.
81. No, I'm not manic; I just express a lot of emotions.
82. I cuss like a sailor, but am trying to improve that.
83. I am extremely dedicated to my job and probably obsess over things I shouldn't.
84. I get that from my mother.
85. We are both professional perfectionists, but not so much home-wise.
86. In fact, my husband is a much better housekeeper than me.
87. If he didn't do the laundry, I would have ran out of clean underwear a long time ago.
88. I really like to travel and I want to go back to Europe soon.
89. I LOVE jewelry. (Also, something I get from my mother.)
90. I have kidney stones. (Something I get from my father.)
91. And I my teeth suck. (Also from dear old dad.)
92. Yellow is my favorite color, but pink is my favorite to wear.
93. I like my hair and lips.
94. My eyes are hazel and I wear glasses.
95. I fall down a lot. Usually, in public.
96. Sometimes I really miss the country, but I don't think I could go back to living there.
97. I once fell asleep at work, only to wake up with the patter of the keyboard on my face and to the laughter of my coworkers.
98. The Houston Astros suck, but I'll be going to games anyway. Even though they are dead to me.
99. I'm really good with kids and animals. Its adults that I can't stand.
100. I pee a lot. Like 15 times a day.
101. I like to draw and I used to be kind of good at it.
102. I'm an Anglophile.
103. My husband and I share a love of history, food and sex.
104. I love to chew gum.
105. My cellphone is pink. (No, I don't care how stupid you think that is because I like it.)
2. For example, I have an unabashed love for George Michaels songs.
3. And Reba McEntire, especially her older songs and the television show.
4. Also, I have made jokes about and will laugh at Natalie Holloway, JonBennette Ramsey, and Chandra Levy.
5. I have also said inappropriate, but humorous, things about the death/demise of Britney Spears, Anna Nicole Smith and Heath Ledger.
6. No, I don't have a gauge that tells me if it's "too soon."
7. Nor do I give a shit who it offends.
8. That's why I like Kathy Griffin. She says what most of us think. And she's not naturally pretty. She's normal ugly.
9. I like normal ugly – people don't look like magazine photos. Be normal. Be yourself. Be ugly.
10. Having said that, I wish I were skinny, tall and didn't snore.
11. I also wish I had normal feet – not feet that would indicate my father was Fred Flinstone.
12. About 75 percent of the people in the entertainment industry, politics or journalism really piss me off.
13. Andy Rooney is an ass-maggot.
14. Rosie O'Donnell is crazy, but I think she does care about kids and gives a lot of money to charities. But she's also crazy. I'm on the fence with her.
15. Star Jones and Melissa Peterman were way more likable when they were fat.
16. Dane Cook pisses me off. He used to be unapologetic. Now he's a sellout. (Yes, a Jessica Simpson movie makes you a sellout.) The world needs more people who are willing to tell it like it is.
17. I also hate Tom Brady. He's pretty and he knows it. And that Stetson ad he did makes me want to vomit.
18. Furthermore, I believe that it should be mandated by Congress that beautiful professional football players only get to bonk one supermodel. After that, if the relationship fails, the stud athletes should only get to date ugos and fatties.
19. But even though Tom Brady pisses me off, he is really hot and I'd probably do him. Especially if that Congressional act I'm lobbying for goes through.
20. And I think my husband would let me do him if that meant he could hang out with Giselle-I'm-A-Giant-Brazilian-Goddess.
21. Everyday I fall more in love with my husband.
22. He doesn't care that I'm surly, or fat or kind of mean. He thinks I'm witty and charming totally ignores that fact that I'm overbearing and loud. And I find knowing those things incredibly liberating.
23. I met my husband while I was a working as a writer for a newspaper.
24. Being a journalist has been my lifelong dream.
25. So I got a degree in communications and set off to be a reporter.
26. My first job was at the Albany Herald in Georgia – that's where I met the Aggie.
27. It took about one week for me to realize that I hated being a reporter.
28. Yet, I'm stubborn and only had a journalism degree, so I went from there to another newspaper.
29. This time it was in Texas.
30. Which is far superior to Georgia, or so I think.
31. It took me about three years and at least three breakdowns to realize that being a writer and being a journalist were two very different things.
32. What's the difference, you ask? Integrity and morals.
33. Journalists are scum suckers. And I'll never return.
34. Now I work for a university doing PR and I love it.
35. Generally, I only have to write for pleasure.
36. I'm really bad at segways. (See.)
37. I have three dogs.
38. And a cat.
39. One dog loves the cat.
40. Two don't.
41. The cat may smother me in my sleep to show me that she thinks I've ruined her life by acquiring the dogs.
42. I wouldn't blame her. She is oppressed.
43. Our youngest child (read: dog) is the antichrist, or at the very least, has Satan-like tendencies.
44. Ripken is a puss, but he's wonderful and I wouldn't change anything about him.
45. Sonny is funny. Like people funny.
46. Gert my become dictator of Cuba after Fidel dies.
47. I love my little suburban home. Even if it does smell like dog occasionally.
48. I hate banana trees.
49. And people who don't pull far enough up in their driveway so they block the sidewalk.
50. I also hate it when kids play in my front yard. This goes back to my grandmother being convinced that if a child is injured on your property – even if you don't know they're there – that you will immediately be sued and lose all your Earthly possessions, including your house.
51. Perhaps, on more than one occasion I have considered sedating a hyper person in my office by slipping a Mickey into their coffee.
52. If I won the lottery I wouldn't donate to a church, or the college I attended or to disaster victims.
53. I would, however, be very generous with my family and friends.
54. Midgets amuse me. A lot.
55. So do reality-based medical shows.
56. Thus, I heart Discovery Health.
57. I'm a HUGE fan of Scrubs.
58. I did drugs in college. I mean, if you count smoking pot.
59. I do not smoke pot now.
60. Pot makes me lazy.
61. I am lazy enough without any added help.
62. I collect teapots, tea sets and china cups.
63. Ironically, I'd describe myself as a bull in a china shop.
64. I also love Barbies.
65. And I like crosses and angels.
66. Cheese might be my favorite food.
67. I have two diseases that affect my every day life – fibromyalgia and Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS).
68. I am something of legend at the endocrinologist's office. When I was diagnosed with PCOS, the doctor told me I had "elevated levels of testosterone," I asked her, and I quote: "How much testosterone are we talking about here? Grow a dick or grow a beard?" She laughed herself into an asthma attack.
69. Lucky for me it was just a beard. I pluck daily.
70. Fibro makes me hurt so bad some days that I can't get out of bed without assistance.
71. PCOS means my ovaries have water cysts – in addition to the facial hair – and this makes me infertile.
72. But there are treatments – a pill that promotes ovulation! And the Aggie and I can have kids one day.
73. It is extremely likely that we will have a multiple-birth.
74. And if I have a litter, I'm going to name them after cheeses: Brie, Sakura, Brimsen, Havarti, Ricotta, Pepperjack and Provolone.
75. The word "monkey" makes me laugh.
76. So do nicknames for genitals: Bajingo, Good Girl and Ta-Ta, being my personal favorites.
77. I have a really, really bad temper.
78. But I rarely lose it.
79. I cry a lot.
80. I also laugh a lot.
81. No, I'm not manic; I just express a lot of emotions.
82. I cuss like a sailor, but am trying to improve that.
83. I am extremely dedicated to my job and probably obsess over things I shouldn't.
84. I get that from my mother.
85. We are both professional perfectionists, but not so much home-wise.
86. In fact, my husband is a much better housekeeper than me.
87. If he didn't do the laundry, I would have ran out of clean underwear a long time ago.
88. I really like to travel and I want to go back to Europe soon.
89. I LOVE jewelry. (Also, something I get from my mother.)
90. I have kidney stones. (Something I get from my father.)
91. And I my teeth suck. (Also from dear old dad.)
92. Yellow is my favorite color, but pink is my favorite to wear.
93. I like my hair and lips.
94. My eyes are hazel and I wear glasses.
95. I fall down a lot. Usually, in public.
96. Sometimes I really miss the country, but I don't think I could go back to living there.
97. I once fell asleep at work, only to wake up with the patter of the keyboard on my face and to the laughter of my coworkers.
98. The Houston Astros suck, but I'll be going to games anyway. Even though they are dead to me.
99. I'm really good with kids and animals. Its adults that I can't stand.
100. I pee a lot. Like 15 times a day.
101. I like to draw and I used to be kind of good at it.
102. I'm an Anglophile.
103. My husband and I share a love of history, food and sex.
104. I love to chew gum.
105. My cellphone is pink. (No, I don't care how stupid you think that is because I like it.)
2/4/08
Suffering Fools
Yeah, I'm a bit hung up on the Mississippi legislature voting on a bill that would ban the obese from eating in restaurants. (If you don't know what I'm talking about, read my previous blog.)
Well, just to give you a visualization of who would be turned away from eateries. This comes courtesy of Kate Harding. Go to this Website and watch to see who is classified as obese, over weight and normal. Its shocking.
http://kateharding.net/bmi-illustrated/
Well, just to give you a visualization of who would be turned away from eateries. This comes courtesy of Kate Harding. Go to this Website and watch to see who is classified as obese, over weight and normal. Its shocking.
http://kateharding.net/bmi-illustrated/
2/3/08
A Post-Christmas Miracle
Today, in the land of the East (Texas) a miracle has occurred.
Angels we heard singing (our dogs, actually.) Shepherds were watching their flocks (Gert, judging us from her perch atop the entertainment center.) And three kings (annoying Jehovah's Witnesses) from distant lands (Katy and Humble) visited our simple little manger (our house.)
Very truly, I say unto you, THIS is a holy day.
For today, on the third day of February in the year of our Lord two-thousand-and eight, our Christmas tree has finally come down.
(Cue Hallejuah chorus.)
Why has this miracle befallen our abode, you ask? Because the Aggie got sick of looking at it and figured that he couldn't very well haul the couch that's been living in the garage for 18 months up the stairs if the tree was sitting there in his way, taunting him.
As usual, all good clean things that happen around here occur because of the Aggie. (He's also cleaned the entire house today by himself, as Momma Pug is down in her back.)
Back off, ladies, he's taken. But he does have a single brother. (Let me know if you want his number.)
So good people of Pug Off, go forth and enjoy this fine day the Lord has given us. (We hear there is some sort of football game on later.)
Peace be with you...
Angels we heard singing (our dogs, actually.) Shepherds were watching their flocks (Gert, judging us from her perch atop the entertainment center.) And three kings (annoying Jehovah's Witnesses) from distant lands (Katy and Humble) visited our simple little manger (our house.)
Very truly, I say unto you, THIS is a holy day.
For today, on the third day of February in the year of our Lord two-thousand-and eight, our Christmas tree has finally come down.
(Cue Hallejuah chorus.)
Why has this miracle befallen our abode, you ask? Because the Aggie got sick of looking at it and figured that he couldn't very well haul the couch that's been living in the garage for 18 months up the stairs if the tree was sitting there in his way, taunting him.
As usual, all good clean things that happen around here occur because of the Aggie. (He's also cleaned the entire house today by himself, as Momma Pug is down in her back.)
Back off, ladies, he's taken. But he does have a single brother. (Let me know if you want his number.)
So good people of Pug Off, go forth and enjoy this fine day the Lord has given us. (We hear there is some sort of football game on later.)
Peace be with you...
2/1/08
Mississippi To Ban Fat People From Eating
First, dear readers, I beseech you to read the following paragraph – brought you courtesy of The Smoking Gun:
But not today.
No, today this hits a little too close to home.
This is not only the most retarded thing I've ever heard in my life; it is also a blatant violation of a person's civil rights.
You CANNOT ban a person from an establishment that provides goods or services based on the fact that they are fat.
That would be like saying a black person has no right to ride a city bus or denying a woman the right to vote.
Or have Mr. Mayhall, Mr. Read and Mr. Shows forgotten that discrimination in this country is not only unacceptable and immoral, but, more importantly, illegal?
You know, I jokingly say: "You need passport to go back home to Mississippi." Well, this is an example of why!
Now, I have no doubt that this little piece of legislation will be voted down faster than those old farts can say "white supremacist," but the fact Mississippi even has this kind of lawmakers in power is frightening.
The mindset that you can mandate by law that an eatery turn away an obese person based solely on their size, is the same type of mentality that says its okay discriminate against different races and sexes.
Yes, Mr. Mayhall, Mr. Read and Mr. Shows, I'm talking you. If you're not a racist and a sexist, then at the very least you're a bigot.
Either way, I think you'll fit right in with Adolph Hitler and Nathan Bedford Forrest -- hell is keeping a seat warm for you.
I encourage you to write these guys. Their official Web pages have been removed from the Mississippi Legislature's Web site, no doubt because of public outcry.
Lucky for you, I'm a Web maven and tracked all the info down:
W.T. "Ted" Mayhall
Capitol Address:
P. O. Box 1018
Jackson, MS 39215
Home Address:
8417 Cedarbrush Drive
Southaven, MS 38671
(662) 393-2069 (H)
(901) 734-9540 (C)
E-mail address: tmayhall@mail.house.state.ms.us
Capitol Address:
Room: 201 - NC
P. O. Box 1018
Jackson, MS 39215
John Read
Home Address:
1500 Park Drive
Gautier, MS 39553
(228) 497-9852 (H)
(601) 359-3340
(228) 497-4090 (W)
E-mail address: jread@mail.house.state.ms.us
Bobby Shows
Capitol Address:
Room: Basement – NC
P. O. Box 1018
Jackson, MS 39215
Home Address:
P. O. Box 373
Ellisville, MS 39437
(601) 477-9225 (H)
(601) 477-3956 (W)
E-mail address: bshows@mail.house.state.ms.us
FEBRUARY 1--Mississippi legislators this week introduced a bill that would make it illegal for state-licensed restaurants to serve obese patrons. Bill No. 282, a copy of which you'll find below, is the brainchild of three members of the state's House of Representatives, Republicans W. T. Mayhall, Jr. and John Read, and Democrat Bobby Shows. The bill, which is likely dead on arrival, proposes that the state's Department of Health establish weight criteria after consultation with Mississippi's Council on Obesity. It does not detail what penalties an eatery would face if its grub was served to someone with an excessive body mass index.Okay. I am enraged – it is rare that a piece of legislation – no matter how ludicrous -- makes me so angry. (Usually, I leave political rants to the Aggie.)
But not today.
No, today this hits a little too close to home.
This is not only the most retarded thing I've ever heard in my life; it is also a blatant violation of a person's civil rights.
You CANNOT ban a person from an establishment that provides goods or services based on the fact that they are fat.
That would be like saying a black person has no right to ride a city bus or denying a woman the right to vote.
Or have Mr. Mayhall, Mr. Read and Mr. Shows forgotten that discrimination in this country is not only unacceptable and immoral, but, more importantly, illegal?
You know, I jokingly say: "You need passport to go back home to Mississippi." Well, this is an example of why!
Now, I have no doubt that this little piece of legislation will be voted down faster than those old farts can say "white supremacist," but the fact Mississippi even has this kind of lawmakers in power is frightening.
The mindset that you can mandate by law that an eatery turn away an obese person based solely on their size, is the same type of mentality that says its okay discriminate against different races and sexes.
Yes, Mr. Mayhall, Mr. Read and Mr. Shows, I'm talking you. If you're not a racist and a sexist, then at the very least you're a bigot.
Either way, I think you'll fit right in with Adolph Hitler and Nathan Bedford Forrest -- hell is keeping a seat warm for you.
I encourage you to write these guys. Their official Web pages have been removed from the Mississippi Legislature's Web site, no doubt because of public outcry.
Lucky for you, I'm a Web maven and tracked all the info down:
W.T. "Ted" Mayhall
Capitol Address:
P. O. Box 1018
Jackson, MS 39215
Home Address:
8417 Cedarbrush Drive
Southaven, MS 38671
(662) 393-2069 (H)
(901) 734-9540 (C)
E-mail address: tmayhall@mail.house.state.ms.us
Capitol Address:
Room: 201 - NC
P. O. Box 1018
Jackson, MS 39215
John Read
Home Address:
1500 Park Drive
Gautier, MS 39553
(228) 497-9852 (H)
(601) 359-3340
(228) 497-4090 (W)
E-mail address: jread@mail.house.state.ms.us
Bobby Shows
Capitol Address:
Room: Basement – NC
P. O. Box 1018
Jackson, MS 39215
Home Address:
P. O. Box 373
Ellisville, MS 39437
(601) 477-9225 (H)
(601) 477-3956 (W)
E-mail address: bshows@mail.house.state.ms.us
Picture of the Day: Mommy's Little Helper
If you haven't considered taking an mind-stabilizing drug, then you obviously aren't a member of my family.
Holla?
Seriously, though, there are people out there who need medication to help them live a normal life. Just look at Britney Spears. There's nothing wrong with that girl that a little lithium and shock treatments can't cure.
On an entirely different level of crazy, I have suffered from anxiety my entire life. Even since I was a little kid. It wasn't until I found a doctor that took me seriously and I met the man that would become my husband that I was brave enough to do something about it.
My question is this: Why is there a social stigma about being treated for mental health issues?
Isn't it better to get some therapy and take a pill than drown your babies in a bathtub or OD on sleeping pills or drive cross-country to stalk your ex's new girlfriend?
Talk amongst yourselves.
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