In The Category Of "Shit That Only Happens To Us"

Our youngest, the dear Silky terrier, has learned a new trick: He can now pull a chair out from dining room table by butting it with his head and use it to jump up onto of the table. Where he…??? What exactly does a small dog do on top of a dining room table? Hmm. Lets think…

Oh, I know. He takes a big piss right in the center, next to the salt and peppershakers. Then jumps down and looks at us like, "What? I didn't do anything… Oh, the pee. Yeah, about that… I was checking the table for WMDs and came across it. Strangest thing. I'd talk to the cat I were you." Then he storms off to torment Ripken.

And I struggle for the next 10 minutes to determine how much I really love him. Is my love for Deuce stronger than my urge to remove his limbs with of my favorite pair of tweezers one appendage at a time? Yes, today he lives.

But hear this, Deuce, your little testicles – the ones that cause you to hump and hike and act like a disagreeable pain in the ass – those nuts, they are not long for this earth. I've given up my delusions of breeding you in exchange for my sanity. So enjoy your ball now, little man, for soon they will be bronzed and I will be wearing them on a chain around my neck.

Something I Have Just Learned

Trying to talk to your husband about the possibility of renewing your wedding vows during the first round of the NFL Draft is NOT a good idea.

Not that the Aggie lacked excitement at the suggestion. But rather, he stared back at me blankly, as if he hadn't heard me at all. Then he smiled and said: "The best thing about draft is the strategy. I love it."

Sonny the Pug shook his head in shame... at me.

Perhaps it would be a more appropriate topic of conversation during dinner or the execution of other wifely duties. Just NOT. DURING. THE DRAFT.

Something I'm Very Proud Of

My dear friend, Jaime, just sent me a link to his portfolio from the last two months. Jaime left us here in Houston to go be a photographer for a newspaper in Arkansas.

His work -- as always -- is just breathtaking. I'm like a proud mama bear, except pug-like. I just had to share this with my non-existent vast readership.

Jaime one of the most talented people I know. In addition to being a GREAT photographer, he also sings, dances and plays the ukulele. And he's single, ladies.

Please visit his slide show. You won't be disappointed.

This is my favorite of the ones in his album:

Everything's Bigger In Texas… Even Bondage

Except this story doesn't actually come from Texas, but I didn't realize that until after I wrote the snappy title. So lets all pretend, shall we?

In a news story today, our local television station (the one that leans more toward murder and mayhem) reported on a wife who had bound her husband with panty hose, slapped a ball gag in his mouth and covered his head with a sack, leaving only slits for his nostrils. Then left him. Alone. For 20 hours.

When she came back nearly a full day later to resume her domineering romp, she found her husband dead. The coroner ruled that he asphyxiated. In other words, the dude smothered to death. And now his dirty mistress/housewife is charged with his murder.

While I appreciate the need for a little slap-and-tickle, I'm pretty sure I'm going to draw the line at being left bound, gag and deprived of air for 20 hours. It just seems a bit excessive. And, while accidents happen, how accidental is it when you tie up your husband and leave him in the closet with a ball gag duct taped to his mouth? Really?

Regardless, I'm pretty sure Suzy Ho-maker better start learning to enjoy an entirely different sort of punishment. The parochial kind.

If Looks Could Kill

Nothing against Hil, but this is hilarious. If you could read this little girl's mind, what do you suppose she'd be thinking?

And in this clip, I LOVE how the baby is eating his ice cream cone then stops and is all, "What you talking 'bout Willis?" He does it four or five times, but the best part is how he laughs insanely at himself afterwards.

Friend of the family hits the big time

Before Momma Pug met the Aggie, he worked for The Huntsville Item in Huntsville, TX. He covered the death penalty--including the executions themselves (by his own count, he's seen 37 of them). While there, he became very good friends with the District Attorney, David Weeks. In the years since, The Aggie's friend has become the family's friend.

On Saturday, the Dallas Morning News did a profile on him--or, more precisely, his support of the death penalty. Several of the cases mentioned in the story were covered by The Aggie and were as heinous as David makes them out to be.

(In case you're curious, The Aggie supports the death penalty too.)

We think David should run for Texas Attorney General. He refuses. Read the story and see if you'd support him.


HUNTSVILLE – David Weeks has sent eight men to death row.

His office sits a few blocks from the state's death chamber; his phone rings nonstop on execution days. Hordes of journalists descend periodically on the "death penalty capital."

Walker County DA David Weeks opposed the death penalty into college. When an inmate showed no remorse after stomping two people to death, his mind changed.
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"It's here in our back yard," says Mr. Weeks.

He says he's comfortable being part of the state's "death machine" because "it's the right thing to do."

Mr. Weeks, 57, has been Walker County district attorney for 17 years. He's also been an assistant DA in other counties and was a prosecutor in the prison system.

He thinks the death penalty is a deterrent and, "The ultimate punishment has to be there to make the rest of the system work. There are certain people that because [of] their crimes and who they are, can never be trusted."

He points to the recent capital murder indictment of two inmates accused of killing a guard while trying to escape. No one can argue, "Let's put 'em in prison, where they can't hurt anybody," Mr. Weeks says.

Pacifist upbringing

Mr. Weeks was raised in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, where his family attended the Church of the Brethren, which has a strong pacifist tradition. "My ancestors that lived on that land refused to serve in the Civil War," he says.

Mr. Weeks wrestled with questions about the taking of life while attending the University of Virginia. He opposed the Vietnam War, and with his family's history of pacifism and his perfect church attendance, he could easily have sought conscientious objector status. But he didn't because he says, "I felt there were times that you had to fight."

After he wasn't drafted, Mr. Weeks continued to oppose the death penalty in occasional intellectual discussions with fellow philosophy majors.

Mr. Weeks – who attended the University of Houston law school – envisioned himself as a defense attorney. He liked the way television's Perry Mason would "get out there and fight for people."

But in 1981, while working as an intern, an inmate who helped "beat and stomp" two people to death for a few dollars and a pair of boots changed his mind.

"Man, I don't need to spend the rest of my life in here," the inmate kept repeating.

"He had no remorse," Mr. Weeks marvels. "No remorse. It was all about 'me.'

"It made me sick."

He became a prosecutor.

By 1986, he was employed by the state's special prison prosecution unit and facing his first capital case.

Ramon Mata, already serving time for murder, confessed to stabbing a guard. Blood evidence tied him to the victim. "This was just clear cut," Mr. Weeks says. "You know, what am I gonna do – send him back to prison for more?"

A clear choice

Mr. Weeks says the choice has to be clear. He estimates that he opts for the death penalty in 10 percent of eligible cases.

But he disagrees with the Supreme Court decision that juveniles shouldn't be executed.

The court ruled that they are not fully culpable and standards of decency "that mark the progress of a maturing society" have changed.

In 1997, he prosecuted Raymond Levi Cobb, who was 17 when he robbed and killed a young mother and buried her 16-month-old child alive. "That crime was about as ugly a thing as I'd ever seen a human being do," Mr. Weeks says.

"My jury knew Cobb was 17 when he committed the crime," he says. "They knew what they were dealing with."

He was equally disappointed by the court's blanket ban on execution of the mentally retarded.

He prefers a case-by-case determination.

"There are many mentally retarded people that live good and productive lives and don't go out and kill and maim and hurt anybody. ... It's offensive to them to lump 'em in with these criminals."

He assisted in one of the trials of John Penry, one of Texas' most high-profile retardation homicide cases.

Mr. Penry was convicted of rape and murder in Livingston in 1979, while on parole for another rape. A few years later, the Supreme Court ruled that the jury had not been able to properly consider Mr. Penry's mental capacity. The case was tried three times. Each time, the lower court's death sentence was reversed.

In February, both sides agreed to commute the death sentence to three life sentences. As part of the agreement, Mr. Penry stipulated that he was not, in fact, mentally retarded. "Johnny Paul Penry deserved to die, should be dead. He's a dangerous man, and he has played the system."

One execution

Only one inmate Mr. Weeks prosecuted has been executed. Mr. Mata – who used to send Mr. Weeks Christmas cards – died in prison. The other cases also were reversed and retried, resulting in life sentences.

But when Billy George Hughes was executed, Mr. Weeks was there. "I felt that if I'm going to ask people to put someone to death that I should be willing to go there," he says.

Mr. Hughes was condemned for shooting a state trooper in 1976. Another officer witnessed the slaying.

Before the deadly chemicals were injected eight years ago, "Mr. Hughes was kind enough to make me feel very good about the decision I made," Mr. Weeks says.

"He started talking about ...'I didn't do anything. You're executing an innocent man.'... He never apologized for killing [the victim], he never showed any remorse, and he never took any responsibility.... I was furious this man is going to meet his maker with a lie on his lips."

Even the possibility that an innocent person may be executed doesn't shake him. "That's always a risk in the system," he says. "It's a human system, it's going to be fallible.

"Mistakes happen," he says. "People die by friendly fire... we have to work to make sure that the system works perfectly.'

He also is not swayed by seemingly sympathetic inmates such as Karla Faye Tucker, the soft-spoken, photogenic pickax murderess who seemed to have found religion and changed her life before being put to death in 1998.

"As a Christian, I'm happy for her," Mr. Weeks says. "But sometimes you have to pay for your deeds."

Mr. Weeks, now a Methodist, can quote the Bible with ease. He's familiar with the commandment not to kill and with Jesus' demand to turn the other cheek.

But, he says, "Jesus said, 'render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's.' And he forgave the thief on the cross – but he didn't remove him from the cross.'"

He believes in forgiveness, and redemption. He quietly helps some inmates, including murderers, upon release.

But his bottom line is this: "There are some crimes that are so far beyond the pale of human understanding that the death penalty is the only appropriate punishment.

"I never lose sight of their humanity," he adds, but "I never forget what they did."

Someone All Together Different

So there is a new student literary magazine on campus. The one-word theme of which is: Sex. Its cover has a girl holding a pencil with the school's logo seductively in her swollen, red lips. The contents are a filled with self-indulgent, naïve views of coitus – all in the form of poems, essays and short stories. Most of which were written in a way that says very little, but sounds pretty and like the author is experienced. Oh, and there are boobs. Nudity for the sake of shock with co-eds posing with same look in their eyes: "I am doing this because it is art."

It wasn't that long ago that I would have contributed to such a vehicle with the same adolescent clamor. I would have written about orgasms, body heat and passion – all topics I actually knew very little about. You'd never know that, though. For I would have researched and asked questions of my more worldly friends then put my words together in such away that sounded pleasant and alluring. But if you listened real hard would have meant absolutely nothing. Oh, but it would have sounded good. So good.

And would I have taken my top off and bared my breasts for the sake of art? Probably. As long as it didn't make me look as fat as I really was. And as long as it didn't show my face. Then, while I pose naked, sucking my gut in, I'd tell myself that when I was older I'd flip through that publication as read my words and see my bosom and think: "Look, there I am young, and so smart and uncompromised."

Now that I am a decade older than when I went to college and wrote my poetry, I know much, much more about sex, love and passion. Only it’s the realistic version without bellies sucked in and with legs that haven't been shaved in a week. And if I were to really look back at those poems and pictures I'd say: "Thank God, my mother never saw this. Huh, I don't remember being that thin? I felt so large and cumbersome then. I wish I'd known how pretty I was. Wow. My boobs looked great back then!"

Perhaps if I knew then what I do now my mental self-portrait would have been a little kinder.

“It sometimes happens that a woman is handsomer at twenty-nine than she was ten years before.” -- Jane Austen

Why We Never Went Overseas

And now I will thrill you with a list of major U.S. cities I have been lost in the ghetto of because of my father's natural directional ability:

• New Orleans
• Jackson
• Mobile
• Montgomery
• Birmingham
• Nashville
• Memphis
• Little Rock
• And, saving the best/most scary for last, Atlanta.

On any given family vacation during my childhood, there was always a moment – a point of no return – where things would take a turn, a very serious turn. And that turn would always lead us into the poorest, most degenerated part of a major city. The result of which would be my mother screaming for us to all lock the doors, sit down in the seats and not make eye contact with street thugs, beggers or would-be gangsters. My father, always the driver in these situations, would then speed toward (what he guessed) was the nearest major Interstate with a blatant disregard for speed limits and stop signs.

By the time we made it to our destination, we could always be assured we had already been through an adventure. Griswald style. And if by some fluke we actually missed our tour of the inner city, inevitably there would some crisis of equal – or possibly greater – magnitude. In Knoxville, for example, the car-top luggage carrier blew off the roof our station wagon, spilling our soiled laundry and sleeping bags across three lanes of roaring traffic. Somehow, my mother and father were able to gather most of our belonging and resecure the box atop the car. (Proof that Duck tape can fix anything.)

For 25 years I have been convinced that no one could come close to the antics of MY family. We are legendary. However, last night I was schooled. By my father-in-law. As we returned home from our weekly trip to the seafood restaurant, somehow we got onto the subject of vacationing. And for the next hour, Grumpy described the two trips he took my husband and sister-in-law on with his wife, Grummy.

The Aggie was eight and his sister five and my in-laws decided that an educational vacation through picturesque Germany would be a magnificent idea. So off they went, renting an RV and hauling down the Autobahn at 50 miles an hour.

Did I mention that this was in the height of the Cold War? 1983-ish? This is actually important, because the Aggie’s daddy is as directionally challenged as my daddy.

It’s just my daddy doesn’t take us behind the Iron Curtain.

During this excursion to Germany—WEST Germany—Grumpy got lost. He got off on a backroad, not too different from what you’d see in Franklin County. This was certainly not the wide, well-paved Autobahn. In fact, they weren’t sure what it was, or where it was.

Then, they came out of the forest and saw a very large chalet in front of them, with a large flagpole in front. The flag flying on it was not a German flag; it was red, white and blue.

But not American. Or Dutch, or French for that matter.

It was the flag of Czechoslovakia. Problem.

For those of you who don’t know, Czechoslovakia at that time was under Soviet domination. Grumpy had driven the family into the Communist Bloc!

The Aggie was the first to recognize the problem and saying astutely, “We’re in trouble.” Grumpy agreed and, not wanting to remake “Stripes”, hauled ass back down the road (at 35 miles an hour).

Once he got done telling that story, he got quiet. The Aggie said, “Well, what about the other one?”

“Oh yeah. East Germany.”

EAST GERMANY? ARE YOU KIDDING?

The very NEXT summer, the family went back to Europe—this time, with Mom-Mom and Grandma Duck in tow (ask the Aggie, I don’t know who named them). A little background—Mom-Mom is Grummy’s mom; Grandma Duck was Gumpy’s. Mom-Mom is liberal. Nobody else is (or was).

Once again, Grumpy gets lost. This time, he ignores the barbed wire along the side of the road (the wrong side, the Aggie points out) and the wrong flag (as the Aggie pointed out, it had some drawy thing in the middle, which means East Germany).

He started paying attention when three guards in green uniforms with AK-47’s started over to greet them. He hauled ass in the other direction, must faster than the year before.

Mom-Mom, the whole time, was blaming Ronald Reagan for the inconvenience. She stopped when she was told that if she said another word, she’d be left in Commieland.

So there you go, Daddy, you’re off the hook—the guys who chased our car only looked like they’d be carrying AK-47’s.

In Memory

Today I am writing with a heavy heart. This week was supposed to culminate with a Relay for Life event honoring our dear friend and coworker, Brenda. I had secretly hoped and prayed that she would be on the mend, walking the survivors lap this weekend.

But God had different plans. Brenda passed away just before midnight April 13.

Brenda – a devout Catholic – believed in miracles. At Easter, when she was at her lowest, she felt suddenly better. Brenda also didn't believe in God making mistakes. Her resolve and faith kept her from questioning her suffering. When others - like myself - were weak, Brenda remained strong, determined and always positive.

She leaves behind a husband who loves her, four children who adore her, sisters and parents who rarely left her side and a host of friends and coworkers that already miss her positive spirit and kindness.

Friday night, after the funeral mass, we will still gather for Relay for Life. And we will honor her memory and celebrate her life. If you haven't donated, but think you could give something in honor of my friend, your kindness will be remembered and appreciated.

Yes I want to donate! ☺

The Phone Rang Twice This Morning

This morning a company I have never had any interaction with called and offered me a rather plum deal to come and launch an e-newsletter and work with their content management. I have never been courted or offered a job in such a way.

About 10 minutes later, the phone rang again. It was news I didn't want to hear. The lady who pretty much taught me everything about content management has died. She was a young, devout mother of four. Shortly before midnight she lost her battle with cancer.

So rarely do two things happen in such a way that allows you to see the inter-workings of life so clearly.

Today, please say a prayer for my friends family.

And, no, I did not accept the job.

This Is Why I Married Him

This afternoon, the Aggie and I were dining at Freebirds World Burrito in Houston. As we were munching on our meals, we noticed that five servicemen and one servicewoman were waiting in line to get their food. The Aggie – ever the patriot and gentleman – asked me sheepishly if we could buy those six soldiers lunch, pointing out the badges on their uniforms that denoted they were all combat veterans. The Aggie discretely went to the cashier and told her to bring him the check for all of their food. Then he returned to our table quietly and went on about his lunch. He didn't intend for the staff to tell them who was responsible for picking up the meager $45 tab, but apparently she pointed us out. While we spent the equivalent of one evening of drinks, the looks on the soldiers faces greatly surpassed any monetary value. One by one, the came over to our table, shook the Aggie's hand and thanked him profusely. They were kind, grateful and very appreciative souls – not unlike my sweet husband.

My Morning

This morning, Rippy was all: "I got to go outside NOW! And if you don't let me out right this minute, I will pee on the couch. PUHLEEEZ open the door!" So I did.

But did he pee? No. He took three steps out onto the patio then turned and stared at me while barking from the other side of the sliding glass door. So then I let him back in.

And as he came in, Deuce ran out.

Then did the exact same thing, staring and barking. So I open the door to make him come back inside. And as I am mere inches from sliding the door shut, Gertrude runs out. And up a tree.
And refuses to come to me. (By they way, did I mention that I'm barefoot? Chasing the cat through briars?) Pretty much I would have done anything she wanted in order to get her down. Including sacrificing a fuzzy dog for her.

Finally, I sit down on the ice chest and start to tear up as my feet are prickly, I'm sweating from the humidity and about to be late for work. Just as the tears come, Gertrude decides to show me some mercy. She climbs down from her perch and joins me on the deck. Where she kisses and purrs. And as we taking a moment, making up, Gertie and I both turn to watch Ripken and Deuce wrestle violently into the dining room table, nearly pulling the table and centerpiece off,

Gert meows something along the lines of: "Sorry, dude. Its just that sometimes I need a break from the loony bin."

And the saddest part of all this? I don't even blame her one bit. Sometimes those two make me want to run out into the backyard and climb a tree too.

Top 10 Douchebags in U.S. History

Hello, gentle readers, it's The Aggie again. I'm here today to talk a little history, which, I'm told, I have a nasty habit of doing. Momma Pug and I sat down the other night and came up with a list of the 10 biggest douches in the history of our great nation, so I'm going to share them with you.

Why me, and not the lady you all pay nothing to read? She's doing something called "work." I know, novel concept.

Some of you may ask where certain people, like our current president or the guy before him, are. Well, there are two reasons they're not on here: I'M NOT PUTTING GWB ON THE DOUCHE LIST, EVER, SO THERE, and honestly, how can you judge someone like Bush or Clinton right now? Their story will be written by historians, not opinion columnists. Their time is not yet here.

Anyway, here's our list:

10: Richard Milhous Nixon, 37th President of the United States
Reason: Ever heard of something called "Watergate?" Nixon got up in front of the nation and said, "Your president is not a crook." Yeah, well he was. He was a paranoid jerk whose contempt for the law brought down a presidency that would have otherwise been well-regarded. After his resignation, he somewhat rebuilt his legacy, but the "douche" label stuck until his death.

9. Jane Fonda, actress/activist
Reason:Well, it has nothing to do with "Monster-in-Law" or her exercise videos. It has everything to do with what earned her her eternal nickname, "Hanoi Jane." Ms. Fonda, in the eyes of many, is a traitor. She went to North Vietnam during the height of hostilities between that nation and the United States and played the useful idiot for the communist regime, going so far as to call our POW's mass murderers and being pictured in an anti-aircraft gun ostensibly being readied to fire at U.S. aircraft. She said that our POWs were treated well (they weren't), that they were never beaten (they were), and called the U.S. a horrible, oppressive, fascist nation. Then she came back and made millions wearing spandex and married Ted Turner.
She has since said she's sorry--for being pictured on the AAA gun. Nothing else.
During Operation Desert Storm, I saw some F-4G Wild Weasel pilots wearing a shirt with their squadron's logo and the caption, "Fuck You, Jane Fonda." I couldn't agree more. What a douche.

8. John Walker Lindh, American Taliban
Reason: See above. You shoot at U.S. troops while they're trying to overthrow a regime who helped facilitate al-Qaida's plans for 9/11? And you're a U.S. citizen? You should swing from the highest tree. A long stay in Leavenworth isn't a bad enough punishment for you, douchebag.

7. Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, atomic spies
Reason: Julius and Ethel helped steal the plans for the hydrogen bomb, then turned those plans over to the KGB. This helped Stalin obtain a weapon of horrible destructive power and made the Cold War a whole lot chillier. Communist sympathizers, their treason not only breached the national security of the United States, but ended up being a major reason why trillions of dollars were spent by nations around the world in a mad arms buildup. They were executed in 1951, but nobody applied the "douchebag" logo to them--until now.

6. Nathan Bedford Forrest, Confederate General/Founder of the Klu Klux Klan
Reason:Like you need another? Forrest, a native of Mississippi (sorry, Miss. folk), was known during the war as a tactical genius and a scumbag who gave no quarter to surrendering Union soldiers. His men killed every single one of a unit of black Union soldiers during one massacre. He "improved" on this postwar, by starting the most horrible hate group in American history. Douchebag.

5. James Buchanan, 15th President of the United States
Reason: Not for what he did, but what he didn't do. Buchanan saw the Union fraying at the seams over the issue of slavery and did precisely nothing about it. He decided he'd leave that to the next guy, some fellow named Lincoln. His refusal to act helped lead the nation into the bloodiest conflict in its history, earning him high douchebag points.

4. John Wilkes Booth, actor
Reason: Shot a guy named Lincoln, ending any hope of a less-vengeful Reconstruction. It also meant the rise of hate groups like the KKK, measures against blacks that took nearly a century to repeal and bitterness between north and south that, to some extent, still exists today. He burns in hell now, with the added taunt of "douchebag!" following him all the while.

3. James Earl Carter, 39th President of the Untied States
Reasons:Myriad. Likely the worst president of all time, Carter's pathetic foreign policy led to the downfall of the Shah of Iran and the Iran Hostage Crisis, possibly the most humiliating period in U.S. history. But there was more than that--his abandonment of the Shah and the establishment of the Islamic Republic of Iran led to Shiite Terrorism, which gave the idea to Sunnis, who followed suit. It also led to the Iran-Iraq war, which led to the deaths of millions, the invasion of Kuwait and...well, you get the idea.
But he wasn't done; Carter did nothing to stop the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, oversaw an economy that went through the worst contraction since the Great Depression (while suffering through inflation!) and told Americans it wasn't his fault, it was theirs.
After getting beaten worse than any incumbent president in history by Ronald Reagan in 1980, Carter stopped being an idiot president and became an idiot public citizen. He has public supported Hugo Chavez, condemned Israel and will meet with the leadership of Hamas next month.
Oh, and he called Momma Pug "Little Lady" when she interviewed him. She's taller than he is, but she's not a douchebag. He is.

2. Aaron Burr, third Vice President of the United States
Reasons: Ego, vanity, and a good shooting eye. Burr served in the Continental Army (and then dissed George Washington, enough to get douche points from The Aggie immediately) and congress before becoming Thomas Jefferson's Vice President. He actually got as many electoral votes as Jefferson for the top job (things were different then), but some Federalist votes were switched to Jefferson by Alexander Hamilton. Hamilton hated Jefferson, but hated Burr more--a hatred that ended in a duel, when Burr killed Hamilton.
Charged but acquitted, both in court and in congress, Burr was kicked to the curb by Jefferson in 1804. So what he do? Tried to start his own Kingdom in (what was then) the Southwest U.S. and part of Texas! This qualifies as treason. He was acquitted due to a lack of evidence (more came later), but his arrogance made sure that everyone considered him a douchebag in his lifetime.

1. Benedict Arnold, U.S. General/British General
Reason: Need you ask? TREASON MOST FOUL! A talented general and one of Washington's favorites, Arnold felt that he was overlooked for the glory he deserved (he was) and for the criminal activities he undertook to pad his own wallet when he was military governor of Philadelphia (he wasn't). So, Bennyboy married a Tory, defected to the British and tried to turn West Point and General Washington over to the British. He failed. But he's still the greatest douchebag in our nation's history.

God Bless Natasha...

... for giving us these seats:

The Astros might not have won last night, but when you're closer to home plate than the pitcher its really hard to feel like like a loser.

Thanks Natasha! You made Momma Pug very happy!

Louder Than Words

Yesterday, the Aggie and I paid $908.12 for Sonny The Pug to have his ears cleaned out and two teeth pulled. I nearly peed myself in the vets office. $908.12! For an ear cleaning? I was a bit shocked. As it turned out, Sonny had an ear infection of unimaginable magnitude. The poor guy was in so bad of shape that his eardrums have completely disintegrated, effectively rendering him deaf. This apparently has been plaguing STP for a number of years. (And way before he came to live with us.) Well, clearly our love for STP exceeds $908.12. He's the Aggie's best friend and constant companion. And that's not something you can put a price tag on.

Looking back at all the times I was convinced Sonny was ignoring me, it does my heart good to know that the little booger was just unable to hear my pleads for him to STOP PULLING THE COVER OFF OUR BED while we are trying to sleep! And to LEAVE THE CAT ALONE! And to QUIT POKING AROUND IN THE LITTER BOX! To think that all those times I told him to stop begging for ham and stealing packages of meat from grocery bags I just brought home from the store that he wasn't being bad. He was deaf.

The vet, who is a sweet young Aggie, innocently tried to explain to me that we could teach Sonny sign language commands. I laughed until I snorted and nearly peed on myself a second time. When I pulled myself together, I apologized for my behavior, which was clearly due to sticker-price-shock. Then I explained that in the two years STP has been with us, that I haven't been able to teach him to NOT poop on the floor. So I seriously doubt -- especially since he's 10 pounds overweight -- that a hand signal alerting that its time to eat is necessary. No, we're not going to change a thing. We're going to love him hard and make him happy.

Sonny The Pug might be a little messed up, but then again, so are we.

~~~

In honor of STP, I'd like to show you a video of what I imagine Sonny would have been like when he was a puppy. It breaks my heart to know that if we'd had him the entire 10 years of his life, he wouldn't be in the shape he's in. The Aggie and I would have given so much love and care. Nonetheless, this is a very accurate demonstration of how much STP HATES cats, including his sister, Gertrude. Its a different pug and a different black and white cat, but the hatred is the same. (Also, at our house, the cat still wins.)

Surprise and Compromise

This weekend the Aggie surprised me with a trip to the tiny, arts town of Salado, Texas. This little village is situated on the Chisholm Trail and was a stagecoach stop for those traveling out West. The original stop is still in operation and is a popular bed and breakfast called the Stagecoach Inn. The Aggie took me there for a light lunch on Saturday and then we perused the shops for antiques, jewelry and art.

At the Stagecoach Restaurant, the wait staff dresses in pioneer garb and recites the daily menu to you just as they would have to the travelers stopping in 150 years ago. There is a pitcher of iced water already on the table (extra points for excessive us of Depression glass.) I had the cold salad plate, which included fruits, pickles, cheeses and chicken salad with tomatoes. Delicious! And the Aggie had beef stroganoff with mixed veggies. He said it was also very good. But the best part was the desert. Since we'd been saving out extra Weight Watchers points for this feast, we both had the peach cobbler. And let me tell you – it was worth the points.

After going through four or five shops and not buying a single thing, we opted to head back to Round Rock where we were visiting the Aggie's family for the weekend. It was by chance that we stopped in to more shops as we drove back toward the highway. The first store featured jewelry by Southwest artists. Since I've had a long fascination with turquoise, imagine my delight to fine a ring large enough to fit my pudgy fingers AND a matching oversized cross AND earrings to match. AND it was – are you sitting down – all 50 percent off!!!

I should have known it was going to be a glorious shopping experience when we parked next to a car with this bumper sticker:


Just went I thought things couldn't get any more delightful, the Aggie pulled me into one last shop, an antique store on the very end of strip. He was excited. Very excited. Which can only mean one thing: There is something sports, boobies or beer related that he wants. As it turned out, it was sports – precisely, an autographed George Brett jersey. At first I said no. Absolutely not. We just had six jerseys framed. There is not a single inch of wall space left in the Man Pit, so NO!

But then I saw IT – a turn of the century gossip bench. I swear I heard a chorus of angles singing. I could just see myself owning it. But NO! No, said the Aggie. We don't have another inch of floor space in which to put a piece of furniture. He was right. Offhand, I didn't know where we'd put it. Plus he'd just bought me $100 worth of turquoise. BUT, that was on SALE, I argued. Finally, when I didn't have a logical retort to his employment of my own tactics, I did what any woman would do. I pouted. A lot.

This is when the bargaining began. I could tell early on that the promise of soon-to-be-forgotten sexual favors wouldn't be enough to secure the bench. The shops owner came in during our little domestic squabble and clearly saw chaos that could be turned into an easy sale. So we brokered a deal of 25 percent off and now we are the proud owners of an olive-green, punch-upholstered gossip bench.

And a signed George Brett jersey.

~~~

P.S. Guess who got a new digital camera and ain't afraid of using it?

Whoa!

What is this? Am I being attacked by not one, not two, but THREE people? Madge, Tree and the Aggie all demand a recap of the hilarity that ensued during the Aggie's birthday celebration. Well. I do say, old chaps, I don't know really what to say about it. So I invite the three of you to contribute guest blogs addressing the event. No limits. No rules. Just let me know and I'll post it.

A Real Conversation Between A Husband And Wife

Recently I was trying to draw a diagram depicting the way I wanted pictures to hang on the wall. It was a very primitive piece of art, with varying sizes of boxes all drawn within a square. Though it made perfect sense to me, apparently it looked like something Picaso would have done on acid. Then burned from embarrassment after he sobered up.

The Aggie: What's that? (Pointing to a small rectangle.)

Momma Pug: That's the TV.

TA: Isn't that kind of small to be the TV?

MP: It’s a flat screen.

TA: Oh… (Pause.) Well, what's that? (Pointing to a much larger rectangle.)

MP: The couch.

TA: Oh… (Pause.) Well, isn't the couch bigger than that?

MP: I don't know… Maybe?

TA: What's that? (Pointing to a collection of four squares side by side.)

MP: That's the frames we're going to hang.

TA: But they're as big as the couch.

MP: Well, maybe my proportions are little off.

TA: (Long pause as he studies the drawing.) Honey, no offense, but I don't think you would have made a very good cave man.

And with that I hit him over the head with my big stick and drug him back to my cave.

What I Just Learned

Is pretty freaking cool. Click here.

And to be impressed even more, click here.

A Fun Looking Couple

I am holding the toy ball that was thrown into the stands because I was waving my hands like an insane person. Texas Barbie, however, was the one to actually grab the thing -- heals and all. You could say it was hard earned. Now, the ball is living in the cup holder of my Trailblazer. Eventually, one of the dogs -- probably Deuce -- will claim it. And love it to death.

I don't usually post pictures of us, as I'm mostly embarrassed by my fatness of late. However, I thought this merited a spin on the Web. I think that if our entire relationship could be captured in one shot, this would be it. Note, we have no idea how retarded we are. We are just completely enthralled in each other. To us, we are the funniest, smartest people alive. Rest of the stadium be damned.

Just look at us. The Aggie's arm draped over my shoulder. Smiling. Completely, totally in-love. Best friends. I hope everyone in the world gets to have one moment as wonderful as the lifetime I get to experience with him. And that they are equally unaware of how truly goofy they really look.

So I'm Taking A Class

And in that class I'm learning how to use Flash. For three hours last night we met to learn the basics, and as a result I am able to do this.

Pretty cool, huh?