Get Over It... Or End Up Here

Hello, gentle readers. Today, I'd like to introduce to a new little segment called Momma Pug's Mail Bag. I'm going to share with you some of the hate mail that I've received so I can publicly deconstruct it and analyze the author's shortcomings. Join me in the fun!

MommaPug,
Your post re: the homeless man that you drive by on the way to your office is offensive. You should consider that he is someone's son and might have mental illness or some other health problem that has forced him into this dire situation. Perhaps instead of passing judgment you could assist the gentle into some of the local charities or other resources. Think before you type!
Peace,
ScarLet

Dear Scarlet,
Gee, that's a nice name. Is that your real name or something you adopted at your first Habitat-for-Humanity meeting? Regardless, I don't think anything could be more appropriate, unless of course you called yourself Red. (Get it, because you are commie touting social programs.) Also. What's with the capital L in your name. Does that symbolize your solidarity with the Little People? Whatever, dude. I'll make a deal with you. You get the 288/Binz Bum to sell his fucking iPod for food and then I'll consider calling the shelter. Otherwise, go fudge yourself, ScarHo. Your judging me is just as bad as my judging the bum. Actually, no it's worse. I don't think the bum is an idiot – just a conman with a taste for vodka. You, my dear, are a dumbass.

Madam:
While I applaud your adopting dogs in need of a home, I do feel I would be remiss if I didn't call you out for the clear mistreatment of your pets, specifically the pug. Once you wrote that your dog consumed over 100 menthol cough drops before you were able to intervene. You stated that you found half-eaten candy in his skin folds for days afterward. This is a mistreatment of that poor dog. As I'm sure you are aware, pugs are susceptible to infection that originates in the moist crevices of their face. This can lead to blindness and breathing problems. I suggest you stop laughing long enough to consider the long term ramifications this could have on your pet. Remember, being a dog-owner requires commitment and dedication.
Always,
Bob, Mission City

Bob:
Did you happen to miss the other blogs where I mention the hubs and I have spent more than $7,000 on Sonny The Pug in the last year. Any time he fucking sneezes we run to the vet. It's gotten so bad that the vet is all like: Dude, he's a pug, they snort, calm down. Also? How can you NOT find it hilarious that a wrinkly little dog managed to open a sealed bag of cough drops, unwrap each individual pieces and consume 100 of them within 15 minutes. THAT is impressive, Bob. Now, its up to you but I suggest calling Guiness World Records and seeing if that's a qualifying time. Otherwise, send an e-mail to PETA and invited them over to dinner tonight – we're having steak. Over a nice bottle of wine (Bartel and James 08), we'll hash out our differences and you can see for yourself how loved the STP is. And then at the end of the night, we'll club you over the head and let the pug have his way with you. Because, yes, I am nice enough to my pug that I don't mind helping him bust a nut, even if that means anally raping you. Dinner is at 7. Don't be late.

Okay, there are two more, but I think I'll save them for a little later. You know, spread my rage out. Oh and let me know if you want to email Scarlet or Bob, I'll be glad you share their emails with you. But for now I must go, I have to sign them both up for kiddie porn and Readers Digest.

The Most Exciting Thing To Happen Since...

... the alleged spotting of Jerry Clower buying gas on the way to Sunday school.*

THIS is what I'm talking about.

And I'm not proud, but part of me wants to jump up and scream: See there Internet, THAT is where I am from!

I was raised there. Those are my roots being blasted all over the World Wide Web. Yes in deed, McComb, Mississippi has made the big time.

And the saddest part of it all? If I had been shopping in Wal-Mart that day, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have even noticed the knocked-up younger-Spears-gal. Why? Because she'd blend in with all the OTHER STUPID PREGNANT TEENAGERS in Southwest Mississippi.

Back home she ain't nothing but another statistic.

*No, you're not supposed to know who Jerry Clower is, unless you are from my neck of the woods OR named Madge. For those of you who just can't stand not to know, Jerry Clower was a good-ole-boy country comic, not unlike a young Andy Griffith. And -- shamefully -- Madge finds his humor hi-larious. Within the last year she has made me listen to Jerry Clower on a CD in her car. And the scariest part? Her five-year-old clone, Madgette, was laughing harder than she was. Clearly, this constitutes some form of child abuse.

Strangest Thing Today, So Far

I work with a deaf lady. She's not completely deaf, but deaf enough that she has been known to do things like answer the phone on your desk and say: "Well, hello! Oh, yes I do like cheese!" Then hang up abruptly and whisper to herself: "My, my, that way a strange question." Something of this sort happens every single day – to the point that it has become an office joke and is thoroughly enjoyed by all, including her.

Well, today, she said the strangest thing to me in all the years the years we have been working together: "Arie, I believe there is a body upstairs by the bathroom. He may be dead."

"What?" I asked.

"Someone is either dead or completely passed out upstairs by the bathroom door."

It actually takes me a minute to realize that this isn't a product of her faulty ears. This is something she has SEEN. Realizing that this person may need help – but not being stupid enough to forget strange things happen in the fourth largest city in the U.S. – I tell her to call the cops and I grab a large umbrella and head to toward the door.

But I am cut off by our Fearless Leader.

(Whew. A sigh of relief. They don't really pay me enough to wrestle with homeless people or check the pulses of corps. This is certainly something for middle management.)

Before we can ascend the stairs to where the body has been spotted, Fearless Leader is met with a staggering, slightly dirty man wearing a white t-shirt, tan shorts and flipflops.

"Can I help you?" Fearless Leader asked.

"Uh, I fell asleep…. I'm leaving now."

Then he proceeded to wobble down the four flights of curved, marble steps.

I was still gripping the umbrella – I figured if he attacked Fearless Leader I could beat the guy until the cops arrived. Or spear him in the eye with it. Or protect us from a sudden down pour or rays of the hot sun. Alas, my weapon wasn't used since the cops arrived and proceeded to follow the guy into the library. We all watched from the class windows along our balcony. One of us might have even pulled out the trusty binoculars to watch the whole scene unfold in high-def.

We're not sure what became of the young man. I'm pretty sure he'd not broken any laws or rules – aside from scaring the crap out of a bunch of women. What I do know is this: Yes, I would pick up my coworker's umbrella and use it to poke a dead body because its dirty, possibly homeless and I don't want scabies. And if it isn't dead, but just a wayward soul, lost in the halls of academia, smelling of last night's beer – I will repeatedly whack them with a giant umbrella until they flee my area.

In the Catagor of Yuck

I just realized -- after I started chewing a piece of gum -- that the reason the pack was hard to open and kind of squished is because Sonny The Pug had been chewing on it.

And despite this, I'm still chewing my piece of gum.

Hello Darlin', Its Been A Long, Long Timmmmmmeeeee....

Hello, Internet.

It's been too long, I know. It's just that after my beloved MacBook Pro forsook me last week, I've been going through a lot – a bit of a grieving process, if you will. A lot of coming to terms with things and what not.

But I am back. Back in black. And ready to rock you like a hurricane, Internet.

First order of business – the Wilsons came for a long over due visit this weekend. And it was wonderful, aside from an unfortunate incident at Gringos Mexican Grill. (But, alas, that shall be an entire post in itself. Tomorrow, perhaps.) It was wonderful seeing my mom, dad, sisters and brother-in-laws, and meeting my niece – Peyton, a chunk of fuzzy Shih Tsu.

Secondly, I have contracted the Black Death of the Nose, Throat and Lungs. I'm not sure if it's allergies or hay fever or a summer cold. (Yes, it is May, but I'm living in Houston and its 97 degrees out so I can call it summer.) I slept propped upright on the couch last night so I wouldn't drown in my own mucus. And I was so loud and restless that at about 1 o'clock in the morning Ripken jumped down from the couch in disgust, gave a very disgruntled sigh and went to sleep in the other room with Sonny The Pug – who so loud when he sleeps you'd think he was the love child of Darth Vadar and a potbellied pig.

Last item on the agenda: My broke ass car. I just got the Trailblazer out of the shop – the AC had gone out. And now, not a week later, part of the bumper has broken loose and is dragging the ground FOR NO REASON AT ALL. There wasn't a curb incident or accident or off-roading. None of my usual antics! Yet, there I was, snotty and sneezy and weezy climbing under my car in the faculty/staff parking lot trying to determine what had happened to create such a noise.

This led to a phone call to Hubs, in which he asks me things like: "Does it appear to be attached to the axel? Where there any vibrations? Is it a clean break? Is it part of the under carriage or bumper? Is part of the fancy-expensive-part-that-you-won't-
remember-the-name-of-later- when-writing-on-your-stupid-blog?" The conversation ended with my screaming: "I don't know! I'm not a fucking mechanic!" Followed by: "Hubs, did this happen when you took my car to Beaumont yesterday on business?"

FYI: Not the right thing to ask your husband when he's all the way across town and you're trying make him diagnose the problem, quote you a magical estimate AND then call the dealership for you – all because I'm OCD and sick and not in the mood for the car to die AGAIN. No. Not one of my finer moments.

In conclusion, I leave you with this – my new title for my yet-to-be-penned memoirs. I heard on the radio this morning about a club/bar that was raided and more than 100 people arrested. It was the name of the club and the fact that it was raided that I took for inspiration:

"Raid On The Pink Monkey: The Story Of Momma Pug."

I think there is a ring to it.

P.S. Can you tell from the rambling that someone's been in the meds?

A Plea For Help Brought To You By Sonny The Pug

My sister-in-law has asked us to spread the word about a dog that has been rescued and needs a new home quickly.

Our babies are rescues and my heart breaks when I see sweet animals that need homes. However, my husband has decreed that we cannot under any circumstances start the Momma Pug Wildlife Refuge and Preserve, so I am asking you guys for help. More importantly, Sonny The Pug asks for your help. No one wanted STP. In fact, he was going to be put down and then he came to live with us. And it changed our lives.

If you think you might can help this dog in any way, e-mail achandler6446@yahoo.com if you are interested in Shiner!

~

This sweet dog was found out at the lake about 3 weeks ago by a few of my friends. I was suckered into taking care of him for the past 2 days but now it is time for me to say my good byes! They named him Shiner (imagine that). He was, still kind of is, terribly skinny. I don't have room for a 3rd dog and I either need to find his owner or find him a new owner. His info is:

• Lab Mix (about the size and color of a yellow lab, head more of a retriever)
  
  
• Male, neutered
  
  
• 55 lbs, but skinny, should probably be closer to 70
  
  
• Yellow/blonde
  
  
• 1 and half years old according to the vet
  
  
• Hazel eyes
  
  
• He had a turquoise collar on, but no tags. He appears to be very healthy (other than being under weight) and is extremely friendly. Slightly food aggressive, but I would be too if I was as hungry as he was/is. Very friendly with my 2 dogs, too... loves playing with them.

He really deserves a good home and I really don't want to have to take him to the pound.

Its Over

Well, I'm sad to report that I am going through a painful breakup. And though I don't blame anyone – these things happen – I must admit I was a little blindsided by it all.

I mean, we've had our problems. God knows we come from very different worlds, but I had just gotten comfortable in our routines, confident in what we were to each other. Last night, I went to bed thinking all was fine. We'd had a very public spat earlier in the day. My entire office watched as I cursed at screamed and was met with a series of grunts and sighs. But in the end, we both settled down and things went back to normal.

But when I woke up this morning things had changed. I don't know, maybe there was a lot of thinking over night. Maybe I had misjudged the seriousness of our disagreement. Because when I was having my first cup of coffee this morning, I noticed that anything I did was WRONG. Nothing I said seemed matter. There was one really nasty message to me, pointing out the many errors of my ways.

Before I had time to react, my Mac Book Pro had packed all its shit, moved out and changed the locks. And so I am left trying to pick up the pieces of my life, wondering what's next. Honestly, I'd thought we'd stay together for the software and accessories. Where do I go now?

Two Words: Dessert Buffet

Allow me to set the scene for you – me and the Aggie having dinner at the newly built Golden Corral. (Side note: We were shocked when it turned out to be really good and much less scary than anticipated.)

After a meal of pot roast, fried shrimp and a variety of other nonrelated yet equally yummy foods, we sat for a few moments to let the hodge-podge digest. Smartly, I had saved myself for the cornucopia of post-dinner treats.

A few minutes later, I approached the dessert buffet and piled my plate with a sampling of just about everything they had. Chocolate cake, fudge, peach cobbler, blue berry pie, some red-ish cake (perhaps red velvet), a coconut thingy and various cookies and puddings. (Don't judge me.) Anyway, before returning to the Aggie I had a final mission – ice cream. Cleverly, I sat my plate atop the ice cream machine and proceeded to fill cup with frozen goodness.

That's when it happened.

Something was off balanced and my plate-o-dessert came sliding off. And landed? Pretty much on my head.

I looked up in horror as the entire restaurant stared at the FAT LADY covered in desserts. Now, there aren't many ways to come back from this sort of social failure. So I just pretended like it didn't happen and proceeded to add caramel and hot fudge to my ice cream – the lone survivor of the Pastry Incident of 2008.

And that ice cream? Was totally worth it.

One Question Q&A

Q. What is worse: Ignorance or apathy?

A. I don't know and I don't care.

Don't Drop Acid Then Do This

A Few of My Favorite Things

This morning Ripken insisted on going OUTSIDE NOW. And because he takes Deuce everywhere with him, the Silky did his duty and followed Ripken out. Exactly three minutes later it started rain. So Ripken was DONE with that adventure. DONE. But Deuce? Was too busy yapping at the neighbor's dog to be bothered with coming in out of the rain. So while I am wrangling him in Gertrude decides to make a break for freedom. And because Sonny doesn't want to be left out of this clusterfuck he decides to CHASE THE CAT. And I? Chased the pug that was chasing the cat across the super slick deck and was totally wishing I had a taser.

Finally, I manage to restore order to the asylum and settle into watch some television while I catch up on my work e-mails. Much to my delight, "Animal Cops Houston" was on. I like to watch people who are more screwed up than we are and remind myself that I am really NOT A BAD MOTHER.

Today's edition was brought to us from the community of Alvin, a scant five miles from my own home. The close proximity to our Casa de Pug and the fact that they are rescuing animals from a trailer park only heightened my excitement. Just when I think it can't get any better, the SPCA agent turns dramatically to face the camera, totally breaking the third wall, and utters these words: "It looks like we have a primate situation on our hands."

Okay, take that in for a second. I don't think you are fully grasping the situation: They are in a trailer park, not very far from my house AND THEY ARE CHASING A MONKEY. Oh, sweet baby Jesus. THIS is why the good Lord invented television. Also, it is with the trailer-park-monkey revelation that I close my laptop and redirect 100 percent of my attention to the program. Oh, and I start praying that the monkey's owner is a midget. Or at the very least hump-backed and missing all their front teeth.

And it keeps getting better and better… They reveal that there is a child home alone – completely by himself with a monkey, 19 cats, numerous dogs and three donkeys. Oh… and a crucial detail that I nearly left off – the monkey is wearing a diaper. After the SPCA folk befriend the child and, eventually, the monkey, they are able to confiscate the animals with little trouble. Everything gets loaded up into horse trailers and carted back to Houston.

OH! And yet another fun detail! At the entrance to this particular trailer's driveway there was a spray painted sign that looked like it had been scrawled by Charles Manson. It simply read: Pettin' Zoo. I had NO IDEA that a couple of donkeys, mangey dogs and ONE MONKEY IN A DIAPER constituted a "pettin zoo."

Well, to shorten this gloriously looong story, the vet finds that the only thing wrong with the animals is that there are so many of them. After a brief moment of panic – they feared the monkey had Super Scary Contagious Monkey Hepatitis – they discovered the little fellow was well cared for. He was in great shape… for a diaper-wearing-trailer-park-monkey. So a judge ordered the monkey's return! To the trailer park "pettin zoo."

And I? Sat stunned into silence and couldn't help but think that poor monkey was the least strange thing about the whole situation. And as I set among my sleeping brood, fresh in from their adventure in the rain, I couldn't help but feel like understood how that monkey felt. I bet he wished he had a tasor too.

---

I ALMOST FORGOT: During the commercial break, I called my husband and was all like YOU WON'T BELIEVE THIS. And he was all like I'M IN A MEETING BUT GO AHEAD. And I'm all like THERE IS A TRAILER PARK MONKEY ON ANIMAL COPS HOUSTON! And he with curiosity peaked but yet still maintaining his professional voice is like PERHAPS YOU SHOULD SET THE DVR TO RECORD THAT SO WE CAN DISCUSS LATER. Which in his nonprofessional voice means SWEET!

A Mentor Gone

I just found out that one of my favorite college professors died on Tuesday.

Though I took several courses from Dr. Art Kaul, my favorite was Journalism Ethics. The first day of that class, he opened with theses words:

"What do you call a ethical journalist?"

We all stared back at him with empty brains and slack tongues. After a couple of seconds, a mischievous smile took over his lips.

"Its okay, I don't know either," he said. "Personally, I've never met one!"

Then he laughed from his belly and turned and wrote his name on blackboard and the course number underneath.

Dr. Kaul smoked a pipe, which he carried around in his mouth even when it was unlit, and he always smelled of the sweet scent of fresh tobacco. He wore button up cardigans year round and would take smoke breaks on the stoop outside his office. He once saw me puffing on a Marlbro Light before class and whispered so only I could hear him: "That shit'll kill you, Wilson." Then he winked at me and asked me what I was going to write about in the paper that week.

At the end of my final year at Southern, I went to interview former President Shelby Thames about turkey hunting. No, I do not jest. He said I could ask him three questions, so the first one was about his inagural year in office. The second was about the turkeys. The third one, which I smartly saved for last, inquired what he thought of the Student Printz and the student media presence on campus.

As it turns out, Dr. Thames didn't think much of us journalists in training. In fact, he said that if it were up to him he'd sue the paper for slander and shut it down. Being young and brave and completely unaware of how the real world worked, I stood up to the short, round, red-faced man and politely explained to him the difference between slander and libel. (Slander is usually spoken and libel is mostly in print.) So technically he couldn't sue for sland.

Boy, let me tell you, THAT was NOT the thing to say to him. He turned red like a little cartoon character and for a moment I thought smoke would come pouring out his ears. Immediately he dismissed me from the his office and I hurried back to the newspaper office where I penned the first in a series of stories about the president of USM threatening to shut down the student paper.

That afternoon I went to Dr. Kaul's office, where he pulled me in amongst the piles of law and ethics books and stacks of student papers. He read my story but refused to offer any advice on the matter. He sat silently for a minute or so, then turned to me and said: "You know what to do. I will not interfere in anyway," he said, then noticed the shock on my face. This was the man I came to for insight.

"If I did tell you what I thought I'd be as bad as someone who wanted to censor the paper to begin with," he explained. "I've got tenure, I don't give a damn what anyone thinks of me. But I won't interfere. I won't stoop to that level. No man should."
Then tears started pouring down his face.

He said it hurt him to see a place of scholarship, research and learning come under such rule. That's not what education is, he said. He wouldn't stand by and watch the freedom of speech disappear from a public institution. But he'd fight his fights in other arenas, not in the student newspaper, then he told me to get out my pen and write down a quote. We were going on the record.

He gave me a professional, simple quote. Something witty about how he hoped the president would elaborate on the way the journalism department had failed in the education of the students. Then he told to me to always be true to myself. Never compromise what I knew was right and if it ever came to that then it was time to walk away.

As I left, for the first time I noticed a sign on Dr. Kaul's cluttered desk. It said: "If you're not pissed off then you're not paying attention."

And so it is five years later, I am married now and very much a different person than that idealistic girl who was convinced she could change world. My life took a different path than I ever anticipated. I worked for a couple of newspapers, and I hated it. I found that I wasn't willing to sacrifice myself for things I didn't believe in. So I took the best advice I've ever been given and I walked away.

I don't know if Dr. Kaul would be proud of me and what I've done with my career. I don't know if he'd understand the reasons I walked away from what I had spent my entire life swearing I wanted to do. But I have always been true to myself and my beliefs -- even if they are vastly different from what they were those many years ago. I think that was the lesson he really was trying to teach us, and if that is the case, Art Kaul was the most successful educator I have ever had.

In memory of Dr. Arthur Kaul, a gentleman and teacher.

PHOTO COURTESY OF SEBE DALE IV

Her Majesty

I wonder if anyone other than me ever feels a little bit like they're living in a zoo. Specifically with the chimps and orangutans. Where there is poo flinging and banana eating. Sometimes I feel like I am Queen of the Monkeys, the alpha female that keeps the monkey business wrangled in to a certain level of acceptability.

That's how it feels today – like I'm holding it all together by a very thin thread. And it's not a tough kind of string. Not at all like that wire used for deep sea fishing. No, my thread is the cheap stuff from the sale bin at Wal-Mart that you don't realize is dry rotted until after you get home. But you don't return sale-thread because it only cost 25 cents. My god, Gas is $3.50 a gallon! It wouldn't make fiscal sense. So you cut your losses and forget about it. You shove it in a drawer or toss it into a basket or something and let it go. I don't know why you don't just throw it away. Maybe because it feels wrong to put something you just purchased into the garbage can. But – of course! – you don't do the LOGICAL thing and toss it.

You keep it in a junk drawer for months. Until one day you think: I'll sew the button back on your favorite black pants. You never remember that day you brought the thread home, tried to use it and discovered its weakness. No, you smile and sew the button on and go on with your day just fine. Until after lunch at the point of the day that your belly is expanding to it's maximum capacity and then as you sit down to your first meeting of the afternoon IT HAPPENS. The rotted thread gives way to the pressure and the button shoots across the conference table like a rocket and hits your boss right between the eyes.

And your pants? Are attempting to fall to your ankles. So you beg a safety pin off a coworker and walk to the bathroom holding the zipper closed so the entire office doesn't see your junk. And then? Then you are sitting in the bathroom, fixing your pants, in near tears over your own fatness. That's when you remember: It’s the Wal-Mart thread that was on sale! It is at this point you are so mad you curse the grave of Sam Walton himself and vow to never purchase another item from Satan's chain store.

But do you go home and throw that thread away? No. No, you don't. You thank god for safety pin and the crisis that has been averted. You go back to your meetings and back to the work until you're too tired to hold your head up. Thread is the last thing you're worrying about at 5 o'clock when you get in the car and head home. So it completely slips your mind. The next thing you know six months or so have passed and you have decided you need to fix a tear in a skirt. And you even think about the trauma that thread has already caused… Until you are surrounded by coworkers and squatting to get into a low-riding car. That's when you hear the sound: Riiiiiip! And then you remember the entire sage. After it's too late.

You know what's trouble with being Queen of the Monkeys? You might be wearing a crown, but in the end, you're still a primate.