Getting the Party Started

The Aggie's company gave him four tickets to a Houston Astros' exhibition game for his birthday. Which happen to be one row up and five seats over from the former President Bush's personal seats. So he – for reasons I'm not entirely sure of – decided to take me and my two girl friends to the game. I don't think I have overstate the quality of these seats. We were so close to the opposing team (the Detroit Tigers) and their dugout that you couldn't really whisper without them turning around to stare at you. And I think you all know that I really don't have and "inside voice." So there were a lot of stares and stink eyes tossed our way. The experience was indescribable. We stayed all nine innings then waited around for the Friday night fireworks display, which was also totally worth it.

Admittedly, three women probably weren't the best companions for a serious baseball watcher such as the Aggie, but I think that even he will admit that we – Momma Pug, Texas Barbie and Jenn – were a lot of fun. (Actually, lets not quiz him on that. We may not have been as funny as we think we are.)

Highlights from the experience are as follows:

Two words -- $20 parking. (There is something to be said for parking across the street from the stadium and NOT watching 10 blocks just for the privlage of climbing 10 stories to your seat. Now that we know how the upper echelon lives, I don't think there's any going back.)

Watching Texas Barbie take away free Astros merchandise from a flock of teenage boys WHILE taking on two phones, straddling a row of stadium chairs AND without wobbling in four-inch stiletto heals. (I think I get the assist on this one though, as I was the one screaming and flailing my arms wildly at the hopes of being thrown a plastic, beanbag in the shape of a baseball that was probably manufactured in Mexico for 12 cents.)

Waving madly at too-hot, too-overpaid baseball players. Most of them thought we were sweaty, insane girls. Apparently Jenn and I didn't perfect what Texas Barbie calls "The Wave." If executed properly, no only do you get to exchange a really nice moment with a professional athlete, you might also ruin their batting game. For the entire game. (Just ask Pudge.)

Fireworks display set to "Deep in the Heart of Texas." (Really, does it get any more Texas than drinking beer, watching things explode in the sky and singly wildly along to an instrumental version of the unofficial Texas anthem? Maybe add some barbeque and some cattle roping and you've got it.)

And, listening to the Aggie scream to the field, "Hey Sheff, you owe me $20 bucks," every time Gary Sheffield went up to bat. Apparently, back when the Aggie was working in Georgia and Sheffield was with the Atlanta Braves, the two made a bet over a boxing match, which Sheffield lost. And stiffed the Aggie on the $20. So every time the dude came to bat, the same thing was yelled. Every. Single. Time.

Seriously. Who wouldn't want to go to a game with us?

The Aggie Speaketh

It is I again, here to hijack Momma Pug’s blog. Why would I do such a thing, you ask, when you consider that I have not one, but three blogs?

The answers are simple: 1) two of them are devoted to specific topics and 2) none of you read them anyway.

Besides, this post has more to do about Momma Pug than it does me.

Over the past week, you’ve been hearing about Stop the Fat!, and I wanted to give another perspective on it. It’s like Shock and Awe at the start of the Iraq war: it’s real, it’s happening and it’s much more impressive than you ever thought.

It’s not an easy thing when you have to sit down, assess a situation and say, “Ok, this is bad and there’s nobody else to blame but me.” Momma Pug has done that, but instead of getting depressed and feeling like there’s no hope, she’s decided that some things are worth the struggle and has taken to this diet head-on. It’s early on, but her devotion to it has been really impressive to watch.

But her quest to defeat this nemesis is more than impressive—it’s inspiring. It’s given me the belief that I can address a few of my major shortcomings and succeed, where I don’t really know if I would have been honest enough with myself to really do what was necessary before. If Momma Pug can take on a burden she’s dealt with all her life and is kicking its ass, why can’t I keep my desk clean?

I’ve seen a few messages of support on here for Momma Pug, and I hope they keep coming. Every little bit of inspiration helps; I can see that every time she reads a new comment. But, even if they do stop, I’m going to continue to do the best I can to help her and to follow her lead in making myself better too.

I can’t tell you how proud I am of my wife.

Thanks for the time, have a nice weekend and Gig ‘em.

Motivation

Well, gentle readers, Stop The Fat! continues onward. And I'm doing okay so far. Not cheated. Not swallowed a single piece of candy in the office. Actually, the thought of eating what I shouldn't hasn't really crossed my mind at all. It's been pretty easy.

I think in the past I haven't had the motivation to do it myself. It's that simple. I wasn't motivated to actually exert the willpower. I was thinking about it today and it occurred to me that I never was really looking at the future before when I was dieting. Oh it's almost comical! I was so busy thinking, "This sucks," that I never considered how glorious the rewards could be.

So what's changed? I guess I have. Honestly, there is one thought that keeps going through my mind. And that is the fear of not being able to live a full life with my husband. Sometimes I feel like my weight has held me back. I can think of one moment in particular – it was our honeymoon and I was so big I couldn't fit on a rollercoaster in Busch Gardens. The Aggie acted like it was nothing. Pretended not to notice and just proclaimed he didn't want to ride after all. He saved me from embarrassment. And while I love him so very much for doing that, I don't think its fair to him to be married to Jabba the Hutt.

The future -- the fragility and uncertainty of it -- are great motivators. There are so many things I've yet to do and I don't want to be trapped by my body, unable to accomplish dreams. Unable to spend 30 years married to my best friend because a heart attack takes me out just after my fortieth birthday. No. I shall not go quietly into that good night. If surgery is what it takes, I will do it. But right now, the casualties are still light and I'm not calling in the reinforcements until I have to.

Now I'm going to eat a salad with my husband and be glad about it.

Something Very Special From Texas Barbie

From time to time, I've invited friends and family to contribute to http://mommapug.com. Well, this time I was actually approached by a very good friend of mine who had something she'd like to share. Please welcome Texas Barbie. She's a coworker of mine and truly fantastic gal. And despite the fact that she is a yankee AND a 12 on a 10-scale, I still hang out with her because she is a total and utter klutz. Physically and verbally. (Don't worry, she's knows.)

Seriously though, Texas Barbie has a heart of gold. Wait. Better than gold. Her aorta pumps liquid platinum. Yeah, platinum AND diamonds. She's a certified baby-holder at the children's hospital and a true champion for people who need her help. She also doesn't shy away from a keg stand, which I find equally endearing. So without futher ado, please give my good friend Texas Barbie a warm howdy!

(Cue applause.)

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The question was simple enough on our team member page: Why do you relay? If you know me at all, sarcastically referred to on this site as Texas Barbie, you know that I am rather long winded.

If you prefer to just donate and not read, go here (your dollars are for Momma Pug's effort to support her dear friend Brenda).

I feel like this should be some eloquent mission statement or a passionate advocacy letter. That it should be something that grabs you, shakes you and doesn't let you go until it has thoroughly worn you out. I want to make you laugh, make you cry and make you think of a book you once read or a moment you once lived through.

But let's face it, that's not my job this time around. My job is to raise money for the Relay for Life. That, I know I can do (with the help of you).

Then there's the other part of my job. One that I don't know if I'll ever be able to do justice to, particularly in an email or on a Web page. It's the part where I tell you why I relay, or more precisely, whom I relay for.

To put it simply it's for my family, those loved ones who have suffered, are suffering or will suffer. No one should have to suffer.

My grandma had cancer for seven years before she told anyone, at least that's the way I remember it. If I'm wrong, don't correct me. I like thinking of her this way, fibbing to my grandpa about where she was, being independent and smiling the whole time. She smiled a lot. And laughed. She had quite the cackle. I don't even know how old I was when I found out she had cancer, but I remember thinking, "It can't be that bad. She doesn't act sick."

And life moved on and the family grew and she got sicker. Only I, being the self-involved high school kid, didn't know the difference. That changed when I visited her in the hospital one winter and saw her look sick for the first time. She laid there, this spirited mother of nine and grandmother to -- well, I'm not sure just how many cousins I have, but it's a whole lot. She could barely lift her arms to hug me.

That's when I understood: this cancer thing is no laughing matter. It's dead serious.

I started visiting her on Wednesdays after that, never for long, just enough to tell her what I did with my day and what I was going to do with my life. I was going to be a big deal, you see. I was going to make her so very proud. She let me talk on and on and on again, never interrupting, never tuning out (which, if you know me at all, you know my talking can outlive any attention span). She told me I could do anything I wanted. She said I'd pass them all -- Barbara Walters, Katie Couric, Diane Sawyer and the whole gang. Not one to lie to a child, she never said I'd be bigger than Oprah.

Always the journalist (read: curious but thoughtful busybody), I asked her about her life, her loves and her secrets. And I asked her the big one, "Are you ready … to go?" She wasn't ready, who ever can be really, but what she said got me. It got me good. "I'm not ready to go or leave all you guys, but I think I'm ready to be with my Jesus."

I guess that when you live life so well and your heart is so full and you've given this world everything you have and a stupid disease has beaten your body, then it's time to say goodbye. Even if it means missing people. Even if it means letting go.

But that's the thing about Grandma. She still hasn't let go, not really. She has a hold on each one of us (40+ grandkids, 9 kids, 1 husband) and that hold is deep. I'm crying right now writing this. (Perhaps that's not the best measure though. To say, "I cry easily," is like saying "It's humid in Houston" or "I think my dog Sampras is cute" -- a bit of an understatement.)

She was someone who could grab you, shake you and not let you go, especially when you were thoroughly worn out. She taught all of us, at least 50 people, how to live the golden rule, give gifts of silver boxes of kindness and appreciate the random rainbows. That's what she did.

I see her all the time, too, so I know she hasn't let go. I see her in my aunts and uncles, my dad, her first born, and my mom, whom she always considered a daughter. It makes me think about the influence one person can have. I know my dad is who he is because of her, and he is phenomenal. There has never been a day when I haven't felt fully loved and supported by him. Never been a day when I haven't felt him beaming with pride.

When I moved out (I think I was going to Boston that time), he stashed away a note that said "You're Dad is always thinking about you." And I know he is. He thinks about me the same way Grandma always thought about him. Every night, every night, she prayed and asked for special blessings for each of her kids and grandkids.

Those kinds of bonds are sacred and they aren't created overnight. And they extend beyond life as we know it. But if only we could have them, live them, love them in life as we know it a little bit longer. If we could just keep our loved ones with us a little bit longer.

So that is why I relay, I guess. For one more Wednesday afternoon. For one more cackle laugh. For the hope that I never have to see my own mom or dad or sister or brother laid up in a hospital bed looking sick.

I relay for my family.

You too can relay, with me, Momma Pug, the Aggie and the whole gang, just click here.

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P.S. If you want to know what we call her Texas Barbie, read about it here. And yes, I am the "friend" in question.

The Dress

This dress haunts me. I bought it a few months back online in pretty much the largest size the company makes. I just knew it would be TOO BIG. Imagine my surprise when my boobs were crushed by the gold lamé and the armholes nearly split.

If I'm going to be honest about it, this was the moment that made me start to think I had to take responsibility for myself and do something to Stop The Fat!

And well, frankly, this is turning out to be kind of… dare I say it… FUN.

But I'm getting a head of myself. Allow me to explain:

Our dear friends from Georgia, the Bensonjews, have invited us to Las Vegas this Fourth of July to witness the renewing of their vows. Of course, we gave the 'rock out' hand symbol and jumped on board that opportunity. I've never been to Vegas, but I suspect I like it. I mean, it's an entire town built on indulgence. What's NOT to like?

So in preparation for this even – and wearing THE dress (nothing says Vegas wedding like gold lame) – I am going to lose 50 pounds before my birthday, which just so happens to fall on July 3. Convenient, I know. But get this. Not only are my sweet husband and extended family being super supportive, but the Bensonjews have also embraced this challenged, as they are fatties too.

Sir Bensonjew, being a very wise and noble Jew, had a brilliant idea – to make this a little competition. He and I are teaming up against Lady Bensonjew and the Aggie to see which team can drop the most. Me and Sir Bensonjew have set our goal at losing a cool 100 pounds between the two of us. Crazy, right? Yes, but also brilliant, as we are some of the most competitive people on the face of the earth.

And you know what else? I'm wearing that fricking gold dress. And I'm going to look hot. Well, hot for a pushing 30, portly, married gal. But it'll in comparison to Today's Momma Pug, the Fourth of July Momma Pug is going to be smoking.

Stand back, you don't want to get burned.

Twitter? Don't Mind If I Do

So Twitter is what I like to call short-blogging. You just write one or two sentences -- it has to be 140 characters or less. And it appears instantly. I kind of love it. I'm going to do it in addition to the longer blogs. I'm even going to add a link on the right so you'll know what to look for. But until then: http://twitter.com/mommapug.

Stop The Fat! -- Two Hours In

I have survived my first temptation on day one of Stop The Fat! (Have I mentioned that's what I'm calling it? Stop The Fat! Capitalized and with the exclamation point. Too much? No, I didn't think so either.)

So I'm here at work. Two hours fresh out of bed and what is the FIRST thing my fat mind sees after I huff and puff up the stairs? Why Easter leftover goodies, of course! And what does my body impulsively want to do at 8:45 a.m. on a Tuesday morning? Eat a delicious, double chocolate freaking brownie. THAT is not the logic of a normal person. Healthy people don't indulge in chocolate before noon. It's like alcohol. (Unless it's your birthday. Or unless you've just GIVEN birth, then you can eat whatever you desire because you just CREATED HUMAN LIFE.)

But back to me – me who has not done anything so grand as birthing a baby. Back to plain old Momma Pug and her cravings and how wrong it is to want to eat that much sugary goodness right after you've drank orange juice and brushed your teeth. For now, I have resisted. But the day is young and I cannot promise I will not cave. But, oh, how I shall try to remain strong. I think that I've got to figure out with how to cope with food being around me that isn't good for me. It's kind of like taking an alcoholic to a liquor store and saying, "Okay, don't mind the booze. Just sit here and concentrate on solving the Pythagorean theorem. By the way, your life depends on it."

Suggestions for not being a glutton? Ideas for resisting the URGE to eat? Coping mechanisms for being surrounded by delicious, sweet, tempting treats?

Comments, criticism etc. are welcome.

A Long Conversation With Myself

It's no secret that for several months now I've been considering taking some rather drastic measures to lose weight. Specifically, I've been thinking of having gastric bypass or the Lap Band procedure. The idea of doing this first came to me about three years ago. And I went through the entire process only to be told, "Oops, looks like your insurance won't cover this after all… Can you write a check for $25,000?"

Cue Momma Pug's first true breakdown. I mean, these people had put me through more medical tests than you can image. (Sleep study, allergy testing, x-rays, MRIs, blood work, and visiting a counselor, nutritionist, reproductive endocrinologist etc.) It was an awful, demeaning and costly experience that stretched over nearly a year. And frankly I felt betrayed when it turned out to be all for naught. I felt abandoned, alone and guess where the fatty turned? Food. Yeah, for the past year, I've done nothing to help myself. I've ate and ate and not really tried hard enough.

How'd 12 months of gluttony work out for me? Not well. And that's not to say I was overeating. I just wasn't following the dietary plan that I have to follow in order to not balloon up. My metabolism is shot and carbs hate me. It's just a fact – one that I tried to ignore because I was depressed. And where did this journey of self-neglect take me? To about 20 more pounds than I was before. I realized when I looked in the mirror that I didn't recognize the woman that was staring back at me. She looked tired and old and used up. To quote my high school band director, "Like 10 pounds of sausage in a five pound bag."

So I made a self-diagnosis: Crap, I look and feel like shit. Then I let the professionals make their guess. I visited with my beloved Dr. B – who never, ever has made me feel bad about myself, God bless her. She worked with me for the last few weeks to help me get to feeling better. She's gotten my fibro under control and my blood pressure is not spiking anymore.

I was at an 8 on the Feels Like Crap Scale. Now I'm closer to a 4. I actually felt like going grocery shopping on my own for the first time in months. More importantly, now there are no excuses. I can now move around without screeching in pain and I'm not swollen like a Christmas turkey.

So here goes. I'm giving it everything I got. I'm joining Weight Watchers and I'm implementing a daily workout regiment. I'm starting by walking to the mailbox and back. You know, baby steps. Unfortunately for you, dear readers, I'll probably be bitching and moaning about having to eat healthy and actually work out. Hey, that's got to the be at least as interesting as my dog stories.

Honestly, this is a plea for motivation. I need help. And I need support. I'm like a crack addict going cold turkey. And this ain't the sort of addiction they make a patch for. So forgive me if I bore you and feel free to ask for a return of the dog stories – should my bitching get out of hand.

My goal isn't to lose the 150 pounds I need to. I can't approach it like that – looking at one ginormous number. So I've broken it down in pieces. My first goal is to lose 50 pounds by birthday – July 3. I'll be 28 years old and I hope that I take a little less baggage into the next year of my life. Wish me luck. And pray for the Aggie – I'm taking him down this path of healthy living with me.

Why G and H?

Why are you being fuckers and sticking????

And The Winner Is...

Well guys, there was a write-in candidate, and surprisingly it won! I guess sometimes you can't see the forrest for the trees. I was trying to find something catchy and detailed, but I think sticking to our roots really is the best. So without farther ramblings. Here is the winner:

Thanks to everyone who emailed, or posted comments with there opinions. Your feedback really helped. And picking a winner was proving to be very difficult, so I went to a random number generator and let it pull a number for me.

Elsbeth, you were the lucky number! E-mail me your address and as soon as we get shirts made, yours will be the first sent!

Thanks for everything, guys!

100th Post!

Wow, 100 posts in just over four months. I must talk a lot. More importantly, thanks for reading.

So I guess this is a milestone, right? And what better way to celebrate than hold a little contest!

Currently we are trying to select a design to go on Pug Off T-shirts. Submit your pick in the comments section. Everyone who participates will be entered to win a free shirt.

I'll select the winner at random on Saturday morning and as soon as they T-shirts are in, you'll receive yours in the mail.

Good luck!

Roses Are Red

The Aggie drove all the way across town – an hour-and-a-half journey – to surprise me by bringing me flowers and taking me to lunch today. It was a sweet, simple, wonderful gesture and it so touched my heart.

I wont go too much into the details for fear of setting off gag reflexes across the nation, but I'd like to tell you what he said these flowers symbolized.

The yellow tulips are a combination of my favorite color with my one of my favorite flowers and the roses represent a year of our marriage.

The red rose is for the passion that we found in our first year.

The pink, blossoming rose is for how our relationship thrived and bloomed during our second year.

The white rose is for the purity of the friendship we have uncovered in our third.

Next year, he said, he will add a fourth. And I can't wait to find out what our marriage gives birth to during the next 12 months.

I say all this in order to reaffirm what I said earlier – I am the luckiest woman in the world.

On This Day in 2005

Today is our anniversary. The Aggie and I have successfully maintained our marriage for three years. It is also the second anniversary of our adopting Ripken.

And I have to say, marrying the Aggie and adopting the Big Fuzz were the two best decisions of my life. (Particularly marrying the Aggie.) There are so many things about myself that he has helped me discover. His love and faith continually make me want to be a better person.

I don't have big plans for our anniversary. I don't even have a true gift this year. We've been busy and sick and just trying to keep the wheels turning. For that I am sorry, next year I'll proclaim my love with a better assortment of gifts.

For now, though my public profession will have to do:

Thank you for the best three years of my life. Thank you for loving me in ways I never thought possible. Thank you for your support, understanding and kindness.

Oh, and thanks for all the sex.

And now, I'd like to regale you with a list of other events that occurred on March 19.

1687 - Explorer Robert Cavelier de La Salle, searching for the mouth of the Mississippi River, is murdered by his own men.

1916 - Eight American planes take off in pursuit of Pancho Villa, the first United States air-combat mission in history. (I know the Aggie will appreciate a good historical/aviation related bit of trivia.)

1918 - The U.S. Congress establishes time zones and approves daylight saving time.

1931 - Gambling is legalized in Nevada.

1953 - The Academy Awards ceremony was televised for the first time, with comedian Bob Hope serving as host.

1955 - Bruce Willis, American actor, is born.

1987 - Televangelist Jim Bakker resigns as head of the PTL Club due to a brewing sex scandal; he hands over control to Jerry Falwell

2003 – War in Iraq begins.

And my personal favorite. Today is Saint Joseph's Day, celebrated and named for Saint Joseph of Nazareth, spouse of the Blessed Virgin Mary, father of Jesus. St. Joseph is also the patron saint of Belgium, a good death and carpenters.

It’s the "good death" part that amuses me.

After School Special

If you are the person selling crack to my dogs, please stop. Crack is bad and so is meth. If you are their supplier, stop it. They are handicapped enough simply by living with us. They don't drugs messing with their brains.

And if you're like, "What the hell is Momma Pug talking about?" Then you've never tried to work from home with three dogs and one very disgruntled cat.

In Other Business

There are two facts:

One -- A group of teenagers are renting the house down the street and are out in the yard drinking beer and carousing all hours of the day. They are aggressive, little emo-like snots that like to yell at cars passing and play their music loud. Everyone on our street hates them.

Two -- Our car was broken into this weekend and the Aggie's work laptop was stolen. Which really ruined our weekend. We called the cops, which only took an hour and a half to come by to fill out a police report. Nothing says romantic anniversary weekend like a little B&E.

Even though we KNOW who took it -- we even heard the little cretins say "return it before it gets worse" -- there was nothing the cops could do because they lacked probable cause.

Bare in mind that theses kids have only been here on the street for one week. And already the neighbors are grabbing pitchforks and forming an angry mob. Our lives have enough shit in them without the introduction of these little dorks to the mix. Housewives have joined arms to put a stop to their fuckery.

Lets just say that vigilante justice is best served at 10 o'clock on a Monday morning in the suburbs. And that's all I'll say for now. Perhaps when the statute of limitations runs out, I'll tell you all more. But until then, just know -- karma is a bitch, especially to punks terrorizing our street. Hell hath no fury like a minivan-driving-soccer-practice-attending-housewife... Or Momma Pug.

Would You Like Fries With That?

Ronald McDonald is dead to me.

Yes, you heard me correctly. I'm breaking up with Ronny McD. We've had a good run -- been together for about 25 years. That's a long time and a lot of memories. But time comes when you gotta move on, you know. Breakups aren't easy, so I think that's why we need a clean split – just rip it off like a band-aid, quickly and painlessly.

Even though my heart told me it was time to part with Micky D's, I just didn't think it would really happen so soon. Today, when I spent 25 minutes in their drive through I should have seen the signs, turned away and left. But no, I waited. Waited like I have for so many years. Waited and waited.

Imagine my surprise when Novashellsha (swear to god, that was her name), refused to take my debit card.

"But why?" I asked. "When didn't you tell me 20 minutes ago when you took my order that you couldn't take my credit car?"

"I did."

Wrong answer, Novashellsha. Wrong fucking answer.

"No, no you didn't. Why isn't there a sign up? Why would you let people sit in that line during their lunch break and then refuse to serve them? Why, Novashellsha, why?"

This is when Javier the Manager appeared at the window. Speaking broken English.

"Sorry, miss, okay, but cards machine it is down. Sorry, miss. Move a head, please, okay, miss."

"No, Javier. Its not okay. Why didn't your girl Novashellsha tell me that you couldn't take my debit card when I was ordering? Why didn't you put a sign up? Huh? WHY?"

"Oh, good idea, miss. Have a NICE day. Pull ahead. People with cash waiting."

Dear baby Jesus in Heaven, it was the word nice. It made me snap. I totally lost my shit in the drive through line at McDonalds. And I'm too embarrassed to repeat what I said to old Javier. But I'm not too ashamed to paraphrase it. It went something like this:

KISS MY ASS AND LEARN ENGLISH, JAVIER. YOU HAVE NICE DAY, ASSHOLE.

As I was pulling away from the window, I heard Javier yell that I "am not welcome" back to that particular McDonalds. And he threatened to call the cops. Which is actually a surprise, considering there was an actual murder there a few weeks ago. You'd figure the manager would have the stones to stand up to an angry housewife? Right? No. Apparently not.

Thus, Ronald McDonald is dead to me. I think I'll miss the fries most.

Perhaps, This Is Why We Don't Make New Friends Easily

There are things about the Aggie and myself that make us well suited to be each other's spouse. This includes a love of history and dogs, enjoying a nice afternoon watching baseball and, of course, writing/sharing stories about each other and our pets on the Internet. Not to mention that we genuinely are friends and enjoy each other's company. (Well, there are many, many more reasons we are compatible, but this is a PG-13 rated blog and if I were to go there it might shoot us on into the NC-17 category. So we'll stop short of that.)

There are ways we are a lot alike. We are both hotheaded and kind of dramatic. Both of us are very sentimental and get our feelings hurt easily. We both like a good fart joke and I guarantee you we will both laugh uncontrollably at someone else's expense, even if that person is mentally handicapped, or a child or even – and know this might buy us a one-way ticket to Hell – the elderly. If someone does something funny like say accidentally getting their wheel chair stuck to the front of an 18-wheeler and ends up being pushed down the interstate at 70 miles-per-hour, we'll probably laugh ourselves into an asthma attack over it. And not feel bad about one bit. Its just how we roll.

Oh and we're fiercely competitive. Lets not skip over that one.

Which brings me to our current dilemma. The Aggie and I have been invited to a night of wholesome family fun playing board games with Madge's family and our childhood friend Catfish and her husband. When we accepted this invitation, I don't think either of us really thought through the ramifications of playing board games with our friends. I mean we can be kind of… what's the word… intense. Yes, lets go with "intense." That sounds better than us being "fuckers." Because that’s just about the only other descriptor that's coming to mind.

I mentioned this fact to Madge last night on the phone, who cackled at the thought of this, then became very, very serious when she said: "Oh and I invited a girl that's over the science labs to come too with her husband."

"So you know us? Right? We've met before. Why on Earth would you do that?" I asked, only half joking.

"Ah, it'll be fine. You'll like 'em a lot."

"I don't doubt that… but… you know… Madge, we'll run them off. Forever," I said. "Like this woman may start avoiding your calls, even when it's JUST work-related."

Madge may have to change her name, go underground and resurface in a couple of years with blond highlights and a Midwestern accent just so the American educational system will let her work with children again. Unfortunately for Madge, she has known me literally my entire life, so she's kind of impervious to my behavior.

And what could we do that would be so awful? Oh, I don't know like maybe openly, blatantly cheating our way through a heated game of Cranium. Then, when we – shocker! – actually win, we jump up to publicly claim our victory and do so by pointing our fingers in their faces and screaming: "Suck it, Losers!"

It's happened before. It will happen again. Probably tomorrow night.

There Are Times When He Only Belongs To His Father

"No, mama, hims didn't go near the mud in the yard. Why do you ask?"

They'd Throw Me Under The Jail

At what point are police -- or in this case Wal-Mart security -- overstepping the bounds of safety and simply sticking their nose in where it doesn't belong?

Read the story of an Illinois mother charged with child endangerment for leaving sleeping infant ten feet from her in a warmed, parked car during a sleet storm while she allowed her other child to donate her change to the Salvation Army outside a Wal-Mart.

This scares the shit of me. I've done so much worse. Recently, the Aggie and I kept our god-daughter Madgette for the weekend. She's five years old, but let me tell you: You can't keep up with them every single second. You just can't.

Just ask the mother of Baby Jessica. Remember her? The kid that fell in the well and every single television station -- all three of them -- broke into our regular programing to cover that shit live. I missed the Fresh Prince of Bel Air AND Blossom over that stunt.

I'm just saying, where does it end? At what point are we becoming a police state? I'm curious to what Madge and the fellow mothers out there think.

A Note To The Pug

Dear Sonny The Pug:

You and I need to talk.

Last night when you were sitting on the love seat with me and violently, without warning, attacked the throw pillow in my lap, you know your half-toothed chomps mostly missed the pillow and mostly struck me. You were biting that pillow, shaking it ferociously and it didn't bother you one bit that you were shaking my hand like a rag doll and biting my leg. You knew it was happening. In your mind Mama = throw pillow. Equally good for the gumming and shaking and de-stuffing.

And despite my repeated attempts to get you to please stop, you ignored me and continued to bite and shake and growl and play like you were a brand new baby puppy just home for the pet store. While it was a beautiful, sweet moment to get to watch you play like that – so free and happy and youthful – it was not okay that you made me your giant chew toy/bitch. I think the worse part is that you knew what you were doing and you didn't even care in the least bit about any pain or discomfort I may have experienced.

People are going to say: "Why didn't you just put him on the floor?" Well, I did, gentle readers and surly pug. I threw your pudgy ass down on the plastic/woodlike flooring, but that's not the way Sonny The Pug rolls. No, no, no. You're too smart for that. If I put you on the floor then try to ignore you, immediately and unrelentingly you will start chewing my shoelaces or pulling the blanket off my feet or start eating a Wii remote. So rather than divert my attention to solely watching you terrorize the game room, I chose to throw your little butt up on the couch with me. Puggo, I look at it as taking the lesser of two evils.

It took about an hour – a solid god damned hour of this abuse – before I finally made your daddy stop working on his laptop and put you on the couch with him. And, of course, you curled up and went to sleep with your head on this leg and I'm left slobbered up and probably infected with some kind of incurable disease that I caught because you bit me repeatedly with those nasty, rotten three teeth of yours. As my mind is processing this and surveying the damage to all my throw pillows, the Aggie, pets your ears gently, the way you like it and has the nerve to say to me through a devilish smile: "Gee, don't know what you're griping about."

It was at this point that I realized Deuce was sitting still, being stroked in your Grumpy's lap and that I usually don't notice what you're doing because usually I'm busy trying to distract the Silky from tearing curtains from the window or eating the crown molding. You, Sonny, are old and sneaky and really, really bad in your own right. And sometimes because we live in the loony bin, I don't even notice your antics -- which are considerable since you're an old, fat Pug. (Oh, and I'd be doing you an injustice if I didn't congratulate you on your ever-growing hatred for the cat. Really, its quite impressive how much you loathe her.)

But I digress... I think the point has gotten lost somewhere here in all this is that I'm not your personal stinky pillow, I'm your Mama and sometimes I wish you'd love me as much as you do your daddy. Sometimes I wish you'd just give me the stinky kisses not bang me around like a screen door in a hurricane. Think we can work on that? Just a little bit?

Love,
Momma Pug

A Plea

Hi there my loyal readers (both of you):

Well, I'm writing with a heavy heart today. I just got home from visiting my dear friend Brenda, who I work with at the university. Brenda and I have worked together since my arrival in 2005 and she's been a very good friend to me. Unfortunately, Brenda is suffering from an aggressive form of Stage 4 bone, lymph and liver cancer.

Seeing her today was heartbreaking. My friend looked older, skinny and she was obviously in a HUGE amount of pain. Brenda – always the last to complain – actually admitted that she was dreading a procedure she must endure this week – the draining of fluid from her lungs.

More heartbreakingly, she said that all the drugs they have her on to control the pain has made her unable to focus and she has now lost the ability to pray. I don't know what or if you believe, but the thought of losing faith and hope is extremely depressing to me.

The one thing that seemed to bring her comfort was the thought of people coming together. Another friend I work with has organized a Relay for Life Team in honor of Brenda and in the ONE day that its been online, the response has been tremendous.

Please help me honor my friend and donate to myself or the Aggie, as we are gearing up to participate in the April 18th event. I know that you probably get solicited quite a bit for things like this, and I apologize for putting anyone on the spot, but I am asking that you give something – if only $1 to help me honor my friend.

Our team's name is Chemosabe – Team for Brenda. Visit that Web page here:
http://main.acsevents.org/goto/chemosabe

Click here for Momma Pug's personal page.

To donate to Momma Pug, click here.

OR support the Aggie by donating here.

Thank you so much for all your help.

Love,
Momma Pug

Sword Swallowing Silky

This morning, the Aggie was talking a shower when he turned around to find Deuce standing behind him, enjoying the pulsating water beating down on his Silky terrier head.

This is Deuce's newest thing – getting the in shower and bathing with the Aggie. Every single morning.

After the Aggie finished he woke me up for my turn in the loo. Just as I'm suds-ing up, the Aggie rushes in with what looks to be the remains of my Venus razor.

It appears that when Deuce was shooed out of the tub, he took a little souvenir with him. Then proceeded to chew it up, finally depositing it on our bed.

The Aggie spent the entire morning trying to locate the actual razor blade component of the device, but his searches were unsuccessful.

We can only assume the little bastard ate it.

So for the next hour we stared at Deuce wondering if he was going to shit razor blades. His behavior would indicate that nothing is wrong. The Aggie and I, during our surveillance, had a long discussion on the merits of taking a perfectly healthy dog to the vet for something he may or may not have done to himself. We decided to go with God and just left for work.

I think I wouldn't be so convinced he ate the blades, if just last week he hadn't pooped out a solid glass eyeball he had ripped off a toy and swallowed. In fact, there are countless things he's ate and then pooped. Including, but not limited to: dental floss, aluminum foil, the nose off a Care Bear and one of the beads of a necklace I broke.

Lets all hope he's not take up a hobby akin to sword swallowing. Momma Pug can't afford that sort of vet bill right now.

A Warning To My Healthcare Provider

UPDATE: It has been pointed out to me that it HAS been SEVEN days -- not six! Does this prove I have a brain problem? Or that I wasn't a math major?

Dear Prestigious College of Medicine (you know who you are):

If my MRI results have been lost, tainted or kidnapped by the Taliban, I am going to be soooo pissed.

This is day six and I've nary a peep from my doctor – who ALWAYS delivers test results in a timely manner.

Six days doesn't seem that timely to me. Timely ended day four when I was being driven back to Texas by my wonderful mother.

As you well know, I started my e-mailing campaign on day five. And – much to my utter amazement – have heard: Nothing. Zilch. Nada.

I know. I know. It was probably hard finding my brain. Or... perhaps there was nothing there at all. (I've heard all the jokes. So save it.)

I started calling today and I even managed to be "nice" to the poor souls answering the phones. (Something my momma taught me about catching more flies with honey.) And they were just as confused as I was. It was like they'd never heard of this new fangled procedure called an MRI.

So I ask you publicly, where are my fucking test results?

Sincerely,

The Fat, Surly, Impatient Patient

Lakes, Tornados and Babies, Oh My

The county in which I grew up has built a lake.

Actually, not the county. The Feds built the lake. If the county had built it then it probably wouldn't hold water. Or fish. Or have levies. Or possess a myriad of other lake-related things.

So Franklin County has a lake – and Okhissa is its name.

This weekend, Granny and Poppa Pug took me over see the 4,400-square foot creation. It was right at dusk and the beauty of the rolling hills, pines and dogwoods surrounding the body of water was breathtaking.



The crickets were chirping, I was with my family, which I hadn't seen in three months and suddenly all felt right and calm and perfect. As I sat there, I thought to myself: "I'm so grateful God let me be raised by good people, in a warm, sheltered place…"

Just as I was composing a blog of sorts on the importance of heritage and family -- and that one day the Aggie and I could share this place and culture with our yet-to-be children -- I saw this:



Only in sweet home Mississippi do you bring the washer and dryer to the lake with you.

It sounded like a choo-choo train

On my final night with my family -- which was WONDERFUL, refreshing and just want I needed to rejuvenate my soul (have I mentioned that?) -- we were hit with several strong thunderstorms.

My Pops turned the television on to the local NBC station to see if we were under a severe weather warning, so we could determine whether we should go ahead and barbeque under the covered patio or if we should gather all the dogs and cats and get in the hallway under a mattress. (Grilling won out, for those of you wondering.)

On WLBT out of Jackson, Miss., we were greeted by an extremely pregnant "meteorologist" named Barbie, who was not only giving updates on the weather, but also taking calls and answering weather-related e-mails on live TV.

Allow me to share my favorite. (And I swear to God, I am NOT making this up.)

Barbie: We have just gotten an e-mail from Norma Jean in Montecello. Norma Jean says, "Me and six of my babies are in a trailer that's not tied down. What should I do?" Well, Norma Jean, you should definitely ABANDON that trailer. Leave that manufactured home. Perhaps go to a nearby neighbor who's home is brick, or at the very least, wood. And stay there until this passes. If you are in a trailer park, I suggest you leave immediately. But I don't know where you'd go because all your neighbors are in manufactured homes. Perhaps a family member has more stable housing?"

I wish you could have seen the concern on Barbie's face. She was very worried about Norma Jean in that untied down trailer with six of her babies.

Frankly, I was left wondering a couple of things that I wish Barbie would have cleared up for me. First, why in Sam Hill isn't the trailer tied down? Secondly, she said "six of my babies". Does that mean there are more? (Good lord, woman, its vagina – not a clown car.) And third, why are you asking the camera questions. I don't think you can hear Norma Jean's answer if she is screaming them over the sounds of the tornado that is surely about to suck her "manufactured housing" up into a giant funnel cloud.

Also, "Borat" already duped you guys into putting him on live television, which he included in the movie. So putting the super-pregnated weather girl on live television reading e-mails from a concerned mother with six of her babies in a trailer during a tornado outbreak isn't the best way to break stereotypes.

(Cue shaking of head.)

God bless this place that reared me.

Deep In The Heart Of Texas -- Finally!

Hello, Pug-Offians!

Well, Momma Pug has returned from the land of her youth – Mississippi. And though it was a wonderful trip, I am glad to be home.

And oh the stories I have to tell about getting here.

For the first time in my life, I decided to leave the laptop at home and travel sans communication with the outside world. I figured that I'd been a little too connected lately – working and emailing from home and while on vacation. And since I know how I am, I decided to leave it all behind me.

Which was a great plan. Until my last night in Mississippi and I realized I didn't have a return ticket boarding pass for my flight to Houston.

I thought, "Oh, well, I'll call ahead and find out the time of my flight and then they can issue me another one."

So I called.

And waited on hold while a series of devastating storms began blowing through southeast Mississippi.

Finally, a very nice lady from Continental informed me that the reason she couldn't confirm my flight was because I had book it for April.

Come again?

April.

Oops.

So I think I'll just move it to this week, right?

Sure! For $612.

(Cue crying.)

Fortunately for me, Granny Pug -- always the pillar of strength -- told me to suck it up and save my tears. Turns out she was up for a road trip.

Yesterday morning, my dear mother and I loaded up her brand new Dodge Durango and headed to the Lone Star state. Thank god she's retired and doesn't mind an eight hour car ride.
Round Trip Plane Ticket: $96
Pack of gum at the airport: $2
Realizing minutes before leaving for the airport that you accidentally purchased a return flight for the right day, but WRONG month: PRICELESS.

More Mississippi stories to follow…