White Trash Bash 3

To my dear, sweet wonderful friends who came to my surprise party tonight -- THANK YOU FOR A GREAT TIME. The night started with the hubs taking me to Vic and Anthony's Steakhouse. While I do enjoy a nice hunk of meat -- pun intended -- tonight's selection of crab cakes (appetizer), prime strip steak, wild mushrooms, and potatoes augratin were TREMENDOUS. Oh, and I'd be remiss to not mention the flour-less chocolate cake. It was by far the BEST birthday dinner of my life. It was delicious, romantic and absolutely perfect. Thanks, Aggie! I love you so much and I thank god every day that I get to experience my life with you. I don't know what I did to be so lucky, but I am grateful and hope you know how much you mean to me.

After dinner, the hubs took me to our usual hangout -- the Mezzanine -- for an after-dinner drink. As far as I knew, we were meeting the McEffers. Imagine my surprise to run into Jussy in the parking lot. It was only after every single person that mean anything to me showed up (except for Cathfish, who was on family/babysitting duty) that I realized what the Aggie had done. He had contacted Jussy and Tree and planned a night out of debauchery. (Ladies, it was wonderful.) There was cake, booze and GIFTS! A girl couldn't have asked for more. I am so fortunate to have friends like you.

OH! But I would be remiss not to mention the ABSOLUTELY BEST PART OF THE NIGHT: FREE STUFF. It was a slow night at the bar and so upon hearing that it was my birthday celebration, the beer girls schlecking booze samples HOOKED US UP. We were given more drink tokens than we could use, Harley Davidson bandannas and more than 60 scratch off games to win tickets to the Astros. Since it was my birthday -- and life is serendipitous -- I WON ON MY FIRST ATTEMPT. Two tickets to the coveted Astros-Cubs game. Then the Aggie won some tickets. And then, after 54 failed attempts, Madge FINALLY managed to win some tickets. Our little Madgette will finally get to see her FIRST PRO-BASEBALL GAME.

Needless to say, it was good night. The kinds of night where stars align and everything works out in your favor. As you get older, those moments are farther apart and fewer between. It makes the ones you do get to experience even more special.

For now, gentle readers, I shall bid you adeu. I have a 7:20 a.m. flight to catch. I'm going back to Mississippi for a visit with the family. While I am excited, I have hyped up from the booze and chocolate and general discomfort of leaving the hubs for a four-day period. I must go an settle myself down. More booze perhaps? Can anyone say: HUNGOVER ON THE PLANE. I can! I can!

OHHHH! THE BEST PART! I almost forgot!

As I walk up to the bar tonight -- mind you, AFTER I have just ate at one of the classiest places in Houston -- a GIANT proclaims that tonight is: WHITE TRASH BASH 3. Which gave me two thoughts: First, what if I go in and the bar patroons are all OH MY GOD, THAT LADY WINS THE WHITE TRASH BASH! (And I wasn't even trying.) And secondly: If this is White Trash Bash 3, that means there have been AT LEAST two others, all of which had to be successful enough for them to have them again. While I fear I am rambling drunkenly on, I feel compelled to tell you that our waitress was wearing a fake pregnant belly and had teeth blacked out. The table centerpieces were white balloons tied to CANS OF SPAM. My only regret? That the Aggie wasn't wearing his wife-beater.

What Is Failing Upward?

Failing Upward is the new site the Aggie and I are launching.

Don't worry, its not replacing Momma Pug's Pug Off or the Aggie's The Mark Up. Its just something new that we are doing together. We're going to talk about the rollercoaster that is life -- from being young, stupid and in debt to getting fired, getting promoted, being fat, losing weight, and all kinds of other things that we have experienced during our first four years together.

Oh, and there will be humor (some of which you'll probably feel guilty for laughing at.) We are unapologetic, but we are also real. Come on over, you know you want to.

Why, yes, Momma Pug, I would like to check it out!

Whatdayathink?

The old girl got a face lift. 'Bout time, I think.

I'm just a little concerned that it might be a bit much.

Is the update becoming or does it make the site look like a tranny, pretty but garish. I'm thinking

I think I really like it, but I might feel different after I wake up next to it in the morning.

15 Things It Takes Years To Learn

(Server issues coupled with the fact I am taking 10 days of vacation - yes, in a row - have turned my workweek into a mad dash toward impending deadlines. I fear that I might have a couple of early days and late nights in my future, but I am absolutely positive that it will be totally worth it. In fact, I'm so committed to NOT worrying or working for 10 WHOLE DAYS that I have vowed not to answer a single work-related email while I am on vacation. Scandalous, I know! So until I manage to catch up, I thought I'd share with you some of my favorite blogs, posts, saying, images, etc.)

1. You should never say anything to a woman that even remotely suggests you think she's pregnant unless you see an actual baby emerging from her at that moment.

2. The most powerful force in the universe is gossip.

3. The one thing that unites all human beings, regardless of age, gender, religion, economic status or ethnic background, is that, deep down inside, we all believe we are excellent drivers.

4. There comes a time when you should stop expecting other people to make a big deal about your birthday. That time is age 11.

5. There is a very fine line between "hobby" and "mental illness."

6. People who want to share their religious views with you almost never want you to share yours with them.

7. If you had to identify, in one word, the reason why the human race has not achieved, and never will achieve, its full potential, that word would be "meetings."

8. The main accomplishment of almost all organized protests is to annoy people who are not in them.

9. If there really is a God who created the entire universe with all of its glories, and He decides to deliver a message to humanity, He will NOT use, as His messenger, a person on cable TV with a bad hairstyle and too much make-up.

10. You should not confuse your career with your life.

11. A person who is nice to you but rude to the waiter is not a nice person.

12. No matter what happens, somebody will find a way to take it too seriously.

13. When trouble arises and things look bad, there is always one individual who perceives a solution and is willing to take command. Usually, that individual is crazy.

14. Your friends love you anyway.

15. Nobody cares if you can't dance well. Just get up and dance.

Guest column! Guest column!

(EDITOR'S NOTE: For those of you not reading my blog -- in other words, ALL OF YOU -- it has been linked to by some other, very prominent blogs and has earned dozens of repeat visitors. Try it. You might like it.)

Hi. The Aggie here, with this message:

Don’t make me angry.

You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.

Ask around. My nickname at work, I kid you not, is “Lord Vader,” and I haven’t even lost my temper with anyone at work. In fact, I’m quite mild-mannered.

Ok, except that one time when I used the Force to hurl a stapler at the back of my boss’ head. But he had it coming.

There are a few things that make me angry: the continued existence of the Texas Longhorns and Dallas Cowboys, the concept that the incredibly naïve and unqualified Barack Obama might be president and the idea that the Weather Channel now hires global warming lunatics instead of MEGABABES to do their forecasts amongst them.

Another sure fire way to piss me off: insult my wife. And that (see below), is what “Jane,” or “Pig Whore,” has done.

Cue the loud mechanical breathing. But, before I strangle this bitch with my Jedi mind trick, I’ll let you read an E-mail I sent her.

Dear Jane:

For starters, what the hell kind of name is “Jane?” Was your daddy pissed that you were an alleged chick, because then he couldn’t call you “Tarzan?” It must suck knowing that, from the day you came out of your disgusting mother’s womb, you were hated.

Well, let me continue to confer the joy of hatred upon you, because you have pissed me off. If you were a guy, I would, in the words of the immortal Jake Taylor, “cut your nuts off and shove them down your fucking throat.” But, since you aren’t, I’ll just limit myself to informing you of what a subhuman whore you are.

It’s so very pleasant to see that you find insulting someone who might be chubby amusing. I have a similar joy – I love to insult gutless sluts who talk big behind computer screens. Look, Jane! For once, you’re a winner! I know that being too stupid to spell certain words, like, say, “impassioned,” must make it a drag going through life, but some of us do have to work the graveyard shift at Walgreen’s, smoke Kools and adjust the clothes hanger you use as an antenna so you can watch Oprah over at the double-wide.

(Oh, use a metal hanging, you damned bimbo. Plastic don’t work too good.)

There are descriptors for people like you, none of which are flattering. As a result, I’ll use a few. You’re a callous moron, a despicable waste of human flesh and evidence that, hey, the best part of you rolled down your momma’s leg. Oh, and I called her – she’s ashamed of you too.

PCOS and Fibromyalgia are both serious, well-documented diseases. My wife suffers with both of them on a daily basis, which means, simply, she doesn’t need your wonderful missives that you write while drooling on your keyboard. I would suggest you find a better thing to do, like complete your GED or find out where Jamie Lynn Spears is registered so you can get her little kid a present. And no, they won’t accept food stamps.

If you feel that I’ve been insulting, degrading and maybe a little over the top, good. That’s the intention. I want you to know that some things don’t change in life – if you screw with a good person, someone with the hammer is going to pound on you. The good person is Momma Pug. And now? Stop, Hammer Time.

I guess, dear Jane, that I could have summed this up more succinctly: fuck you and I hope you die painfully. But that’s no fun, now, is it? Let’s just leave it at this – write my wife again and you’ll be the possum in the middle of the road when I come through with an M-1 tank.

(In case you didn’t know, those are real big and real heavy.)

Love and Kisses,
The Aggie

Something Of An Update

Hello, my illustrious non-readers (and Madge).

I've gotten a couple of nasty emails wondering why I've gone so dark lately. Well, sorry about that, guys. I've been doing this little thing called WORK. For four weekends in a row. I know, very unlike Momma Pug to be soooooo… what's the word... dedicated.

Fear not, gentle readers. My motivation only gets me so far before I'm back on here discussing such life-altering the merits of paper, plastic OR new reusable green canvas bags. (In case you are wondering, I do like the idea of saving the environment with by using canvas bag at the grocery store. However, I do not condone charging people $1 PER BAG! That's just ridiculous. I'm talking to you HEB and Kroger!)

Actually, I've been focusing my creative energy on something that I'm both proud and terrified of. Brace yourself, folks, for these are words I have uttered nary a day in my life (cue dramatic lighting and an extended drumroll): I am ATTEMPTING to write a book.

Operative word being attempting.

Madge, are you listening? Did you get all that? You have been telling me for years to stop effing around and do it. So I am. And it’s the single hardest thing I've every undertaken in my life. WAIT! Not true. Trying to Stop The Fat! is the hardest. Let us hope that this endeavor turns out far more successful that my botched weight loss attempts.

Oh, and on that note, I'd like to share one particularly heated exchange between myself and reader named Jane. (Oh, and every time she says her name I've replaced it with the affectionate term Pig Whore.) Enjoy:

From Pig Whore – June 18 – 1:13 p.m.

MP -- Should we assume your half assed going on a diet is over? You have not talking about it much. What happened? Did you give up? I figured you would. Most fat people do. If fats had the will power to lose the weight, then they wouldn't be fat in the first place. Even if you did fail, and we know you did, then it would be better to acknowledge that rather than just ignore that you said anything to begin with.
Thanks, Pig Whore

From Momma Pug – June 18 – 3:57 p.m.

Pig Whore,
You are correct. My "half assed diet" isn't going so well. I have only lost nine pounds in the last three months. The doctor thinks its because I have Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS). That's this disease that makes you infertile, retain water, grow a beard and gain weight. It’s a hormone thing. And it's horrible. I also have something called Fibromyalgia, and there are days that my body hurts so bad that I can't get of the bed. Fibro also causes migraine-like headaches and irritable bowel syndrome. Chronic diarrhea is only slightly more inconvenient than the unsightly facial hair. OH! And both of these disorders cause depression. So if you're not feeling bad enough about looking like Big Foot and shitting like a goose, then you also get the privilege of being manic. I know you probably didn't know all that, Jane. In fact, you are probably a very nice, compassionate person in real life. The thing about the Web is that computers take the element of personal contact out the equation. People forget that they are talking to someone who is just like them – full of emotions and feelings that are easily hurt. So while I'm sure you are a very nice lady, its nearly impossible for me to see you as anything but a hypocritical, snobby bitch with bigoted ideas about people who have weight problems. Would you write a cancer patient and tell them the reason they are sick is because they are lazy and if they weren't lazy they wouldn't be sick anymore. So the cancer is their fault???
You are welcome,
Momma Pug

From Pig Whore – June 19 – 12:14 a.m.

MP, Nice of you to send an empassioned note. Must have hit a nerve, huh? I understand you have some very serious medical problems. Even more reason to loose the weight. Have you tried Weight Watchers? Also, I would never say such things to people with cancer. Its probably just bad genes. They can't help what they have inherited.
Pig Whore

From Momma Pug – June 19 – 8:05 a.m.

Pig Whore, wow. You are one clueless piece of work! Pig Whore, are you a robot? Or just an idiot? (Also? Empassioned is not a word. Its impassioned.)

From Pig Whore – June 19, 2008 – 8:29 a.m.

MP, I am not a robot.

From Momma Pug – June 19 – 9:15 a.m.

So that makes you an 'empassioned' idiot?

From Pig Whore – June 19 – 10:47 a.m.

I guess, if I'm not a robot and that's the only other option, then I am an empassioned idiot.

From Momma Pug – June 19 – 2:09 p.m.

Well put, Pig Whore. Well put in deed.

My Little Texas Tornado(s)

UPDATE: Sooooo, there were actually TWO tornados that came down OVER MY FREAKING HOUSE. The first was rather skinny and is in the first video and the second was more formed and wider and is in the second.

A tornado descends into our neighborhood on June 21, 2008.

Yesterday at about 6 p.m., Ripken tried to pull me from lounging off the couch and herd me into our bedroom closet.

I was all like: Dude, cut it out, mommy's trying to watch Ninja Warrior.

And he was all: LOOK, YOU AREN'T DOROTHY AND I AIN'T TOTO, SO GET IN THE FUCKING CLOSET BEFORE WE GET BLOWN OVER THE RAINBOW.

And I was all: Calm down, its just a little wind and rain.

Then Ripken was all: FINE. SUIT YOURSELF, IDIOT. I'LL BE IN THE CLOSET WITH THE SILKIE!

Not an hour later my carpool partner/coworker text messaged us with pictures of the tornado that roared through our neighborhood while the hubs napped with the pug and I enjoyed the antics of Japanese men in sumo thongs laboring through an impossibly difficult obstacle course.

My coworker was on the adjacent golf course when it happened and was able to snap some video from his camera phone. His video was even featured on the local news.

And our neighbor caught this:


But this is the best video and was taken RIGHT BEHIND OUR HOUSE. Sorry about the sideways angle. The personal shooting it chose to go at it sideways:
Tornado in Pearland, TX


And what have I learned from this little exercise in emergency weather preparedness? That Ripken has more sense than I do, and that the Hubs and pug could sleep through a 747 landing in the bedroom.

"I find your lack of faith disturbing."

Sorry, but Momma Pug has been working crazy hours for the last month and I know I've been slipping on the site updates.

Truth is I've been working on a site project for a couple of weeks now and when I'm happy with how its coming together I'd like to share a taste of it with you guys and get your opinion.

But for now, I'll be vague and wishy-washy about it all, as its not nearly to the place I want it to be before I dispense it for real-world consumption. Its still raw and unpolished and not worth your time. Soon, though, I promise I will have something for you. I just don't want it to disappoint. Give me another week or so, okay?

Until then, posting might be kind of light, but you can expect daily updates of some form. Perhaps even a guest column. Now who doesn't loving that!

What I've Been Doing All Freaking Day

And I my vice president called it "stunning" so I suppose my efforts were worth it. You have to understand that she never gives compliments like that. I am so happy with her reaction that I can die now. DIE, I tell you.

Check it out.

A Long Night Ahead

Our web content management system (CMS) is DOWN. And, personally, I don't see any quick fixes.

This translates to my not being able to post stuff on our school's web site. Nor send out e-newsletters.

Which means? I get to monitor the situation! And try to push out all our newsletters before midnight! LUCKY ME!

Basically, I'm a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. And so far, I'm not fairing so good.

I'm Loving It

On the way to work every morning I stop at McDonald's. WAIT, don't judge me. Every morning I purchase a 32-ounce Premium Roast Sugar Free Vanilla Iced Coffee. They only have 120 calories and are totally worth every single one.

I find that living in Houston, Texas, you only have about three days out of the year that are cold enough for sweaters and steaming hot drinks. Literally, drinking a cup of coffee will make you sweat in the months between March and September – which isn't too bad if you are in a highly air conditioned place. However, if you are on the go and like me – sitting on leather seats – the last thing you want is some that will make you hotter than you already are.

Ta-dah! Allow me to introduce you to my new BBF, the iced coffee:


Now, I'm not much for the shameless promotion of mainstream products, and I'm certainly not for making the rich any richer, but I'm going to make a hypocritical exception (because its my blog, right.) Go try this. With tax a giant one costs $2.15 and its totally worth it.

Note to self: Exercise caution when inhaling these drinks. I've been off of caffeine for a about six months so imagine my surprise when my heart jumped out of my chest, plopped down on my desk and exploded from the rush. I'm high as kite right now, but da-da-ta-da I'm loving it.

Oooooooh, the Right Stuff...

Soooo… there was time in my life when I wore my hair short and fully crimped, teased my bangs to within an inch of their life and considered wearing pink and blue eye shadow a style MUST.

I owned leg warmers and wore them. In the summer. With tight-rolled jeans. And neon pink shoelaces on my Keds. This look was completed by three items things: my dangly heart earrings, a bright green slap bracelet AND my pink New Kids On The Block t-shirt with Joey McIntire's face plastered over my 10-year-old chest.

For those of you wondering, the shirt looked something like this:

And I? Looked something like this (and yes, this a drawing that I did):


I think this describes my look pretty well.

No, I'm not "proud," per se. But I do recognize that I totally rocked out 1980s glam. (Special thanks to my mom for the home perm and instilling a huge amount of self-esteem.) And while that was a glorious time and all, I'm quite happy to be here in the present -- and (thankfully) crimpless.

Imagine my surprise today when I realized that my first true obsession – New Kids On The Block – were reforming after a two decade-long breakup AND planning a reunion tour that stops in none other but Houston, Texas!

I once owned posters, magazines, stickers, button pins, notebooks and lunch gear that all screamed NKOTB in giant block letters. I was such a fan that somehow I managed to convince my parents to purchase concert tickets for me and my sister. And we went in full NKOTB regalia to the arena in Jackson, Mississippi. My parents were actually cool enough to let us sit by ourselves in the better seats while they sat together with our baby sister several rows behind us. We were 7- and 10-years old and completely unattended. We were the envy of all the screaming girls around us.

It is only now – 18 years later – that I realize we were under the sharp and watchful eye of the parental unit all along. They monitored us with binoculars and we were but one good leap away from them, but you'll have to trust me on this, at the time we were THE SHIT.

But I digress, I think it goes without saying that I will not be attending. What? You're shocked? I seemed so enthusiastic about it just two paragraph before! I know, you're right. I had a moment of excitement, but don't worry Stephen Spielberg managed to kill any and all nostalgia that I manage to still possess after George Lucas raped my soul with Star Wars Episodes I, II and III.

You see, "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull" made me feel old, as in grown up. It all hit me while watching a geriatric Dr. Jones snap his whip and climb slacks of precious artifacts. (No, I'm not even going into the completely unbelievable aspects of the movie, such as flying monkeys, nuclear explosions and gratuitous use of aliens.) No, what got me was how different Harrison Ford was. He was gray-haired and wrinkly – and though still hot, don't get me wrong – it just wasn't the SAME Indy of my youth. And THAT was a sobering disappointment.

So while there is temptation to dust off my NKOTB albums and bust out the slap bracelet and pink eye shadow, I don't think I have it in me to go watch my fellow late twenty- and thirty-somethings (who, I would be remiss not to point out, now drive mini-vans and have school-age children). I'm just pretty sure I don't want to be among the throngs of ladies throwing themselves at five balding, once-adored men that are on the cusp of MID-LIFE CRISISES.

Like Indiana Jones, it just isn't the same. I'm not 10 anymore, and it seems very wrong for groupies to have mortgages, infants and jobs. After all isn't that the whole point of entertainment -- an escape from reality. And therein lies the problem: How many unrealistic aspects of it can you ignore? I can't seem to get past Grandpa Jones and balding former-teen idols. For me, at least, the escape is lost. And if that is the case, then what's the point?

---

P.S. To My Mom and Dad

Dear Momma and Daddy,

Jeez, I was such an ungrateful turd as a child. I'm so sorry for everything I did from age nine onward. Thank you so much for being the sort of parents who actually sacrificed themselves to a New Kids On The Block concert so I wouldn't be the ONLY girl in the fifth grade that didn't get to go. If yall hadn't taken me, it would have been social suicide, which I think we all know I was dangerously close to for the entirety of my adolescence (what with the kinky hair, fat ass and glasses.) I don't know if I'll ever properly be able to repay you for the torture you endured while raising me. But I promise to vote AGAINST sending you to the old folks home. I don't have anything else to offer, but I promise you that I will cast that vote in your favor. And I promise to make my sisters the bad guys and make them feel guilty no matter what is "best" for you. I do solemnly swear that, Momma and Daddy. I swear to be the worthless child who visits on major holidays and acts like my siblings are crappy primary caregivers. I do this out of love and appreciation for you.

The World Is A Vampire*

(*Award yourself one billion points if you recognized this as the first words from Smashing Pumpkins' "Bullet With Butterfly Wings." Deduct five bajillion points if you thought this was a reference to an Anne Rice novel.)

Today. Ah, today. Today I am wearing my giant turquoise ring, which the hubs bought for me in a little antique shop in charming Salado, Texas. Its one of my favorite pieces of jewelry and there's something about wearing it that kind of brightens my outlook on things, ya know. Okay, yeah, that might of sounded shallow or vain, but that's not how I mean it. It's just that I like my turquoise ring and it makes me happy to put in on my finger. And isn't that what gets us through the day, really? The small pick-me-ups -- the details that only you yourself can appreciate. Well, today it's my turquoise ring.

Yeah, I'm feeling kind of dark and life seems messy today. But not the kind of mess I'm used to, which is something along the lines of a dog pooping on the kitchen table. (Messy, yes. Strange, certainly. But I know how to clean that up. Clorox and paper towels and screaming at Deuce.) Today it feels kind of like I can't quite get things in the place they belong. There's clutter everywhere, and while it seems to be stacked neatly its still not put in the place it belongs. I'm not an organizer. I just don't know how to do that. I'm like a blind person in a paint store and I can't seem to pick shades that match. So instead of fixing things, I'm just making a bigger mess of it all.

People say money doesn't fix anything. Oh, but I disagree. I think that if I had a money tree growing in the backyard, that I wouldn't be so intent on the hubs keeping a job that smothers his soul. I wouldn't be horribly fat because the insurance refuses to pay for any kind of intervention – surgery, namely. My grandmother wouldn't be spending her twilight in an old folk's home. And my daddy wouldn't be crying over his babies living 1,000 miles away because it wouldn't matter that gas was $4 a gallon and plane tickets cost a fortune.

No. None of it would matter. It'd be easier. There'd be fewer dark and messy days. Fewer days of holding myself together based solely on the fickle happiness a turquoise ring provides or wishing that it was as simple as the dog shitting on the table.

A Shot Near The Mouth

So it's been one of THOSE kinds of weeks at work for both myself and the Aggie. You know, the sort of days when you wish you'd went ahead and bought that handgun when you had the chance because now that pesky three-day waiting period is slowing your urges down.

The details aren't important, as it’s the same story everyone in the world who's ever had a job of any kind would tell.

(For those of you unemployed or still in college, I goes like this: You -- the loyal worker bee -- buzzes around to find both creativity and motivation for the projects you are working. You end up working two weekends in a row, 70 hours a week, making shit HAPPEN. After putting so much of yourself into your job, you think: Yes, sir, I have done it, I have made a difference, this project turned out great! And just as those thoughts go through your mind and you're giving yourself a little mental pat on the back, the boss --- the queen bee -- comes fluttering out in a tizzy and rips your shit to pieces for not being PERFECT. Or missing something small and unimportant. Or -- and this is the most infuriating -- blames you for something you were not at all involved in any way!)

Yes, its been one of THOSE weeks.

To top it off, I broke off a fingernail. Into the quick. Which feels kind of like putting lemon juice on a cut on your balls. I borrowed my cubical mate's pointed-tipped nail file and began to work my broken nail into something less painful.

But the phone rings. And it was someone being a total dickhole. At the time it seemed small, like what the caller had told me didn't really matter and I went on about life. I didn't loose my shit. I just sat there filing my broken nail more and more aggressively. Before I had time recognized that my slow boil was about to bubble right out of the pan, I was found myself filing my nub within an inch of it life. But I was focused. The last thread was broken and all I could do is file. FILE. FILE. FILE.

The next thing I know, my hand slips from where I had been tending to my wounded nail and is careening toward my face. Then, I feel a sudden sharp thus near my mouth.

OH MY GOD. I had just stabbed myself. In the face. With a finger nail file.

Gentle readers, I tell you from the deepest pits of my heart that stabbing yourself in the face is a sure sign that it has BEEN A SHITTY DAY.

Rejected Baby Shower Games

"The Ugly Name Game" – Will the parents name it after great-great-aunt Minerva? Or will they go with something more modern like Saki?

"Guess What's Wrong With That Baby" – Shower attendees try and figure out what the mother did to cause a myriad of birth defect. Crack baby anyone?

"Pass the Fetus" – Sort of like Hot Potato but with much higher stakes.

"Name That Chromosome Deficiency" – It might look like Downs, but its really something much more obscure!

"Who's the Daddy?" – Everyone picks from a pool of family and friends. Whoever guesses the correct paternity wins. If the husband is the father of the child, then the mother wins.

And our personal favorite:

From the makers of "Operation" we bring you "Abortion." Instead of a tiny pair of tweezers to pull crap out, you have a tiny coat hanger.

---

(Okay, looks keep a sense of humor people. Its all in good fun. No hate mail, please. Or risk being the next person I disassemble piece-by-piece.)

Things That Make Me Want To Drink

Dear AT&T U-verse (our cable provider):

Consider this letter fair warning. Tonight is the season finale of Showtime's "The Tudors," and I have it on good authority (namely, history) that Anne Boylen gets her head chopped off tonight. Yes, I realize that its not much of a cliffhanger since we all know historically Henry VIII has six wives and, well, she's just number two. So its not that I'm not being left hanging in the dark if your services continue to malfunction. However, I do feel you should be forewarned that I am in the FUCKING MIDDLE of the program and the axe is about to come down on Anne's neck, that I will completely loose my shit if this is the instance you choose to LOCK UP yet again.

Oh, sorry, let me elaborate. By LOSE MY SHIT, I mean that I won't just call customer service. I mean, I WILL call them, but my tirade won't end there. Oh no. By the time I am finished every member of the AT&T U-verse family will feel my wrath – from the CEO down to the guy who cleans the shitters. No one will be spared. (And I dare not mention my methods of retribution for fear of violating international terrorism laws.)

I just want you to that you have been PUT ON NOTICE, AT&A U-verse. I'm tired of your shit and I'm on the verge of throwing all your clothes out onto the front lawn and changing the locks on the front door. Don't think I'm capable of it? Just ask the MacBook Pro. He'll tell you something like: "Yeah, man, that sucks. You should have totally signed a prenup." Then he'll recommend a nice lawyer that handled his sister's divorce.

So be advised. I'm waiting patiently for you to reboot, get your shit together and STOP ACTING LIKE A 13 YEAR OLD. Other wise, Momma Pug's midlife crisis is going to be an affair with Direct TV or Time Warner. Don't make me have this discussion with you again.