Welcome Friends

Well, well, well. I am shocked at the number of new readers that I have gotten emails from this week. I suspect this is due to my newly acquired Facebook account. Truth be told, I only joined Facebook so I could do research and download pictures of the university I work for. However, I would be remiss if I didn't acknowledge the fact that I have not only found myself interested in the whole buddy/friend/wall concept, but I am actually enjoying it.

The only thing that bothers me a bit is that I have -- perhaps foolishly -- signed up for Facebook with my real name, thus revealing the true identity of Momma Pug. Not that I was hiding it. But there is something to be said about total anonymity. There's a certain freedom of saying what you feel without the fear of someone being offended. And I really do try and careful of what I say about friends and family. I know I've accidentally offended loved ones at least once before and I've tried to be conscientious of what I write about since then. I promise, you don't have to fear my using this medium to spread your deep, dark secrets to all of the World Wide Web. I will, however, write a detailed blog about how you busted your ass in Gallery Furniture. Or our antics getting bad a wax jobs. Or tell everyone about the time you were crawling on the floor to retrieve a dropped toy and ending up getting humped by a giant dog. (Names will be changed, of course.)

Inevitably there are people who don't like what I write or have a difference of opinion. Feel free to disagree with me. I do love a intellectual argument. I'm an open-minded person and I'm always open to new ideas. However, if you call me fat, stupid or a bad mother to my fur balls, I will post your hate mail on this blog for everyone to see. I may also be so inclined to call you Pig Whore and dismantle your poorly written diatribe line by line. Then all my friends will probably mock and berate you in the comments section. Don't say I didn't warn you.

So, I bid you warm salutations, friends. Tell everyone you know to come read Momma Pug. We like to laugh a lot 'roud here. Sometimes we even cry a bit. Not everything will be heartwarming. Some of it will be profane. Usually it'll be happy, but occasionally I get the blues -- or even the mean reds. Regardless, I promise to always share those emotions with you in an entertaining fashion. Allow me to officially welcome you to my Web site and introduce myself. My name is Arie, I'm a Cancer, enjoy long walks on the beach, read good books, am married to a wonderful man and live in an amazing city.

My friends call me Momma Pug, and I am very pleased to meet you:

An Open Letter To The National Hurricane Center

Dear National Hurricane Center,

Hi! We've not met, but I feel as though we know each other. You see, I've spent my entire life living in various parts of the southern United States that are affected by tropical weather. Because of that, every hurricane season for 28 years you have blown into my life, providing warnings, forecasts, and flood and wind damage reports. Mostly useful stuff, right? Well, that's what I thought until I figured out you are responsible for naming the storms.

My curiosity was peaked for the first time this year when Tropical Storm Edouard blew through Houston. Being in the public relations business and having to issue releases that mentioned the storm made me take a closer look at spelling and consistency. I sat in no less than two meetings with top-level executives trying to figure out what the correct spelling was. "Eduard," one argued. "But the Chronicle has it as Eduardo," said another, holding up the newspaper. "No, they spelled it wrong," the highest ranking person said, "Its Edouardo."

They were all wrong. Even the Houston Chronicle, which serves one of the largest markets in the U.S. A market – might I add – that is largely Hispanic. And if the spelling of your Hispanic-sounding name confuses the Spanish-speaking locals, then perhaps you should reconsider. What the hell is wrong with Edward? Just plain old Edward. No fancy "o" and "u" spelling.

And I had hoped all that was done with. I'd convinced myself that this hurricane season was winding down without so much as a Category One hitting the Gulf Coast. Oh, but no! How wrong I was! Now I find myself watching the Weather Channel, hoping and praying Hurricane Gustav makes a turn toward the Yucatan, thus sparing me from a potential loss of power and what will no doubt become countless meetings on the correct spelling of the storm's name.

And frankly, I'm tiring of storms with fruity names. When someone says, "Gustav will likely hit the Houston/Galveston area," I picture a temperamental Austrian composer/violinist violently whacking the Galveston bay with their horsehair bow and screaming: "What did mummy tell you about wire clothes hangers!" But that's not even the saddest thing! Gustav isn't even the fruitiest name on the list!

No that honor is brought to you by the letter "N."

I'm sorry, but who is going to respect Hurricane Nana? That's like saying, "Florida is bracing for Hurricane Grandma, which is expected to make land fall early tomorrow morning." How much trouble can he feeble old storm cause with her walker and bingo cards? Is this Hurricane Nana going to wear depends and sometimes forget which George Bush is president? Is the storm going to wear dentures and nap most of the day?

Below is the official 2008 Hurricane Names List (and my commentary):

• Arthur – Nothing wrong with the name, but it does make think of "King Arthur and the Sword in the Stone," a fine Disney cartoon.
  
  
• Bertha – Again, nothing wrong with the spelling of the name. However, I find it conjures up the image of a scary massage therapist who likes to thrust her elbow into unsuspecting patients kidney just to hear them yelp.
  
  
• Cristobal – Another of the really fruity names. I am compelled to call it: Crystal Ball.
  
  
• Dolly – You should have seen the tits on this storm.
  
  
• Edouard – Disscussed above.
  
  
• Fay – I have nothing snarky to say on this one.
  
  
• Gustav – See above.
  
  
• Hanna – Makes me think of Hannah Montana, which I would like to see be swept away by a catastrophic event.
  
  
• Ike – The first in presidential names, perhaps? I suggest we stop naming the nuclear warships after our presidents and instead honor them through the names of hurricanes and venereal diseases.
  
  
• Josephine – I'm rather fond of this name, actually. Just not for a hurricane.
  
  
• Kyle – Sounds like a member of the Backstreet Boys.
  
  
• Laura - Honoring the first lady. Be only the lookout next year for Hurricane Hillary. (Get it, because she want me president?)
  
  
• Marco – Polo.
  
  
• Nana – From the namers of Memaw, Nanny, Yaya and Grams.
  
  
• Omar – Was the name of the tent maker in one of my father's favorite jokes.
  
  
• Paloma – Is this a type of horse breed?
  
  
• Rene – A French hurricane. It actually surrenders before landfall.
  
  
• Sally – Makes me think of a girl in a poodle skirt.
  
  
• Teddy – Even less frightening than Nana.
  
  
• Vicky – I have never met anyone named Vicky that I liked. So perhaps this is a good one?
  
  
• Wilfred – Who cares, we rarely get this far anyway.
  

I think you can see, National Hurricane Center, that you need to work on your naming conventions. Might I suggest next year's list be stupid baby names that celebrities give their children? This list could be generated by Angelina and Brad's children alone. Just something to consider.

Sincerely, a loyal follower,

Momma Pug

The Second Time I Accepted A Bribe

The second time I openly, unapologetically accepted a bribe from my grandfather occurred a mere three days after the Grand Canyon Incident of 1988. We had left Arizona and we were in Mexico, enjoying pleasures you can only find south of the border – like as under-priced leather good. (Not donkey shows, you perverts.)

Less than an hour into our adventure, Papaw had ditched my grandmother and his daughters and taken me – an 8-year-old – into a cantina. He ordered me a glass-bottled Coke, something I'd never seen before. Then he ordered himself a cerveza. We sat on barstools at the old wooden counter and sipped our drinks silently. Papaw had positioned us in the two seats closest to the door. A television played a Mexican newscast behind the bar. A long line of older Mexican men watched intently and Papaw spoke to them in fluent Spanish. I don't know what he said, but the men all laughed in unison with him. One even patted him on the back like they were old friends.

"What's that on the television about?" I asked.

"They're talking about the election," he said.

"The what?" I asked.

"The election for the president of Mexico," he said. "They are having an election next week."

"Oh," I said, not understanding but satisfied with his response.

"How's your Coke?" he asked.

"Its good. It tastes different. Its sweeter," I said. "Want some?"

"No, honey," he said. "I've got my own."

"What are you drinking?" I asked.

"Cerveza," my grandfather replied.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Beer, seniorita," the men standing behind the counter said through a heavy accident.

We left the cantina after he finished his second beer and walked over to a market across the street. Papaw looked through silver jewelry for his daughters while I admired a pink, native fiesta dress. The $50 was burning a hole in my pocket. Among the poor villagers selling their goods I was a millionaire. I bought the dress for $7 after Papaw haggled on my behalf.

"What's beer seniorita?" I asked as we walked through the stalls of the market.

"Well, 'beer seniorita' is two things. The word seniorita is like being called 'young lady,'" he said. "And beer is something Mamaw doesn't like the taste of. So just don't say anything to her, okay?"

"Oh."

"Is beer like buttermilk?" I said. "I don't like how that tastes."

"No, its nothing like that," he said. "Beer doesn't come from a cow."

Then Papaw offered me another $50 to "forget" I'd ever heard the word beer. Figuring that total pull of $100 was like winning the lottery, I gladly took his 50 bucks and never mentioned a word to my grandmother, who I would learn later was an obnoxious teetotaler. My confidentiality was purchased and the cerveza was forgotten.

The years passed and my grandfather was declining rapidly. Cancer, in his lungs, they said. Nothing that can done, the doctors proclaimed. Every day became special. Sunday dinners lingered longer than before. One particular Sunday afternoon my grandmother pulled out family videos and we sat in their living room and laughed at the 1980s hairdos and awkwardness of our childhood.

The second video we watch turned out to be of that trip to Mexico nearly a decade earlier. We all remembered it so fondly. My mother wore earrings she'd been given by my grandfather, she said. And I suddenly recalled the incident in the cantina, my stubby little legs hanging off the stool and my grandfather swigging down cerveza.

"Papaw, do you remember going into that bar that day," I said?

"Yeah, you wanted a drink. It was the first time you'd seen a glass-bottled coke," he replied.

"And you spoke to those old men in Spanish!" I said.

"I don't remember…"

"And you drank beer!" I exclaimed. " Remember, you said you hadn't had one in twenty years, and we sat there and watched the Mexican news."

"Honey, I didn't drink a beer," he said smiling nostalgically. I opened my mouth to disagree. To protest the memory – what I knew had transpired. But there was a look in his eyes that told me not to say anything else. Something that said he did remember. He knew what'd happened. He drank that beer. Then I glanced over to my grandmother, her disdain for booze glaring through. She was so much of a prohibitionist that she would have held him responsible for a "crime" he committed a decade earlier. Her hatred for the bottle was so great that she wouldn't have granted him a reprieve even though he was dying of cancer.

"No, I didn't drink a beer," he said evenly, showing no guilt to his wife.

"Maybe it was a root beer," I said, turning back toward the television. My grandmother smiled and all was ignored.

Later that day, as I was leaving my grandparents home, I went to kiss my Papaw's check and say my goodbyes. As my lips brushed his face, Papaw caught my hand and pulled it to his lips, kissing the back of it gently.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too," I replied.

Then he pulled my face down so only I could hear what he was about to say.

"You owe me $50,'' he whispered, recalling the terms of our agreement, which I had just violated by speaking of the that-which's-name-shant-be-uttered. Apparently, there was no statue of limitations on grandfather/granddaughter bribery. Then he winked at me and let go of my hand.

Thirteen days later he was dead.

My grandfather has been gone for 12 years and sometimes I miss him so much it hurts. He was a large, powerful man, but he possessed a humility and meekness that I have never experienced in anyone else. And as much as he affected my life and my heart broke the day he died, I suspect I never really knew him at all.

Annyong and Mysterious Death of Lucky the Cat

Remember how I was going to tell you all about Annoyong, the Korean exchange student, and how her American family's cat went missing?

Well, Madge beat me to it. And while I love making the-exchange-student-
killed-and-ate-your-cat jokes, I just can't bring myself to do it BECAUSE MADGE PLAYED DIRTY and posted this picture of the orphaned babies she found in the shed:

I particularly like the looks of the one on the bottom left. He's all: HA! I turn my back to you - kiss my tiny kitten ass!

It makes me want to rub my face against the back of his head and nestle him in my neck. But, alas, I cannot be his mommy because Deuce -- who was visiting at the time -- tried to eat one of the kittens. Plus, Gertrude made me sign a no-second-cat clause in our pre-nup.

Anyone interested in adopting a homeless, orphaned kitten that is being bottle-fed by Madge and her family? Contact Madge for details.

The Time Pawpaw Bribed Me With $50

When I was a little girl, I worshiped my maternal grandfather. The man hung the moon in my eyes. It's still impossible for me to see him as just man, capable of mistakes.

Now that I'm older and can assess things with a bit more insight, I have to admit that my devotion to the man can predominately be attributed to one thing – bribery. Papaw bought and paid for my undying affection, and I was a willing and obedient customer. It started because I was his first grandchild and, bless his heart, he would give me anything I wanted. Unfortunately for him, purchasing my loyalty didn't come cheap. By the time I was in high school, it had cost him a car.

Blackmail and bribery aside, my grandfather was a truly amazing man. He was a veteran of World War II, where he manned a large gun on the deck of the U.S.S. Washington. By the end of the war, one too many deafening attacks by Japanese dive-bombers left him barely 19 years old and with only 25 percent of his hearing intact.

He was 16 when he joined the Marines, lying about his age so he could defend his country. As he boarded a train for Camp Pendleton, he told my then-13-year-old grandmother to wait for him. He would be back, he said. He loved her. She would be older and they would get married, he promised. Then he disappeared onto the train and my grandmother stood weeping with his mother on the platform until the train was completely out of site.

For the next three years, Mamaw would run to the mailbox every day, hoping for a postcard – or if she were really lucky – a letter with very little of the content blacked out by censors. He would put little clues in the text of the letters so she would know where he was.

One such letter reads: "Tell the neighbor Miss Pearl that Mr. Harper sent his regards." There was so no neighbor named Pearl or a family friend named Harper. She read it twice before she fully realized it was another clue. Then Mamaw's heart would flutter and her hands would shake a little as she unfolded a map of the World on her bed and circled Pearl Harbor. She knew that by the time his clandestine message reached her that his ship had sailed on to another battle, but having their secret made her feel closer to him and that left her with the resolve that she could make it a little longer without him.

His letters never told of the danger he was in or the death he witnessed. In stead, he filled them with descriptions of the world he was seeing from the deck of a battleship. "Japan is the most beautiful place I have ever seen," he wrote. "When this mess is over we'll travel. I want to go out west. That's where we'll go first."

The years passed slowly, but Papaw was true to his word. He returned home to her -- a real-life hero -- and he took his new bride many places. On their honeymoon, they went to the New Orleans. A picture of them outside the zoo shows two teenagers, madly in love. With his arm around her waist and huge smile on her face, you would never know that they hadn't spoken in-person for years, having been separated by a war that consumed half the World.

After he returned, the years passed quickly. A first child was born, a daughter. Then another baby girl – my mother – came one day shy of five years later. They both worked hard, Papaw at an asbestos plant and Mamaw in a factory sewing women's under garments. They saved and invested and were able to do the traveling they spoke of.

By the time the girls had grown up, gone to college, married and had children of their own, Papaw was ready to show the World to the next generation. Which brings us to the crux of the story: Papaw bribing me for the first time.

I was eight years old and we were standing at the overlook of the Grand Canyon. For the last 24 hours I had been asking questions about this place. Was it deep? How deep? How did it get made? A river? But then why aren't they a bunch of Grand Canyons if there are a bunch of rivers? There's a bridge that goes over it? NO, I don't want to go on it. You can ride a mule to the bottom? (This is where my grandmother told me to take three big steps back from the guardrail and informed my grandfather that NO member of our party was going down the canyon on the back of a mule.)

This moment was the first time in my life that I can remember thinking: Man, the old lady is dragging us down. Papaw and I wanted to ride the mule! Clearly, there would have to be a diversion if we were going to violate Mamaw's three-foot rule and actually experience the Grand Canyon up close. My grandfather, having had fifty or so years experience diverting my grandmother's attention, saw what would turn out to be the savior of the day: A gift shop. If there was one thing in this world that superceded the safety of her husband and grandchild, it was her passion for shopping.

Watching my grandmother stalk off to spend money like a drunken sailor, my Papaw said: "That ought to buy us an hour or two. Come on."

And with that he grabbed my chubby little hand and led me down a path marked: DO NOT ENTER - Park Service Only – NO VISITERS.

"Are the mules this way?" I asked.

"No," he said. "Mamaw won't be gone long enough for us to do that. Lets just go down the trail here instead."

Marching down a dirt and clay path that descended from the ridge of the Grand Canyon, my grandfather held my stubby hand tightly and warned me to watch where I stepped. After about ten minutes of climbing downward, we arrived at a small cave that was indented into the side of the canyon. The path went farther down, but clearly became gradually more perilous. My grandfather said we wouldn't go any farther because it looked too dangerous, instead he led me to the edge and showed me the Colorado River below. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. He stood beside me for several minutes, silently studying at the reds and oranges of the canyon walls. I snapped pictures with my pink camera.

A little while later we began the descent to the top of the canyon. I can remember my Papaw holding to the canyon wall with one hand while his older hand held tightly to my arm. His right knee hurt him -- an old injury he'd said. He tried to pretend it didn't really bother him, but I could tell he struggles sometimes, like the day in canyon. When in pain, he walked slow and and always held to something steady, just as he was doing on our hike out. As we rounded the last corner on our way up, Papaw pulled me close to him and asked me if I heard people talking and where the voices were originating. I told him the sounds were coming from around the bend. What are they saying, he asked? Park stuff, I answered. I think they're park rangers, I said.

An instant later he had tugged me onto a side trail, which looked even more precarious than the one we were on. Lets go around them, he said. It never occurred to me until I was much older that we were in a place we shouldn't be and that my grandfather was avoiding the authorities. I trusted him implicitly and just assumed this was another grand adventure.

The new trail, he said, followed the other one, but was much closer to the edge of the canyon. Go slow and don't let go of my arm, he said. I can remember looking down and seeing about six inches between us and a sharp drop into the Colorado River. My heart fluttered a bit, but I knew he wouldn't lead me astray, so I pressed forward, one step at a time. About ten paces ahead of me and slightly to the right I could see the black guardrails that lined the public viewing area of the canyon.

As I neared the rails I spotted my grandmother in a tizzy. The sight of her clearly coming unhinged, panicked looking for us, caused me to stumble on loose rocks. My ankle twisted to the left and felt myself loose my center of gravity. Ever true, my grandfather's hand was gripping my arm and he pulled back to safety as we watched my lime green sunglasses tumble from my head and down into the canyon below. Involuntarily I had let out a scream and altered my grandmother to our location. As she snatched me over the guardrail, she began screaming at my grandfather.

"Daisy," he said in a slow, lingering way that always got her attention. "Daisy, she just slipped and fell under the rail. Its okay, I got her. We're safe."

"I told you to stay three steps back from the rail!" she said to me, near tears.

I eyed my grandfather. We both knew I hadn't slipped and fallen under the rail. He had led me down the path marked DO NOT ENTER. Yet, his eyes pleaded with me: Don't tell her, baby. PLEASE. You know how she is. It will be so much worse if we tell her the truth.

And so I wrapped my arms around my grandmother's legs and wailed: "Papaw saved me. I just slipped and fell and if he hadn't of grabbed me when he did I would have DIED!"

Then I turned my grandfather and hugged him tightly.

Under other circumstances, my grandmother would have seen through out little song and dance bit. She would have realized that there was no way for me to "fall" under the guardrail, much less have Papaw shimmy through in time to save me. But she was terrified and not thinking clearly so she just accepted it as truth. My grandfather, realizing his unbelievable luck, hugged Mamaw tightly and suggested she run to the restroom before we left. We'd meet her at the car, he told her.

As she walked off toward the visitor's center, my grandfather pulled his worn, leather wallet out of his back pocket. He pulled a $50 bill out and pressed it into my tiny hand.

"This is for you to buy some souvenirs in Mexico," he said. "Thanks for not saying anything. Sometimes its just better to not worry, Mamaw. Do you understand."

No, I didn't fully comprehend the delicate balance of having a good time and keeping my grandmother happy. I did, however, understand that 50 bucks was a FORTUNE to me and that simply not telling my grandmother about a rather amazing experience in the Grand Canyon was a small task that resulted in an incredibly high yield.

Coming To A Store Near You

This here one of a kind pug has cost us roughly $8,000 since we got him.

I am pleased to say he worth every penny.

The One In Which Catfish Slaps Me

Madge, Catfish and I, along with our spouses, took Madge's exchange student (Annyong) to Hooters on Sunday night for dinner. Do I need to even tell you that this was an unmitigated disaster or is it just implied?

I mean, we all knew it was a bad idea when we were picking places to eat. We just didn't think it would take the form of horrible service and five-year-old Madgette proclaiming, and I quote, "I want to be a Hooters girl! I like the outfits!"

No, we all thought it would end with us explaining to Annyong about the double meaning of the restaurant's name, which I had already determined could be summed up in four words: Less owl, more tits.

But alas, Annyong didn't even notice the scantily clad waitresses or their qualifications to work there. (And trust me, a couple of those girls had impressive resumes, if you get what I'm saying.)

It was the one-hour wait for our food to arrive that broke us down.

I mean, come on! An hour! Seriously? What were they doing? Genetically cloning a chicken before we could get our Buffalo wings? Honestly, I'm pretty sure I have ADD and I can only sit still for so long in one place before I HAVE to find ways to entertain myself. Last night, I thought shooting spitballs at Madgette from all the way across the table was the funniest thing I have ever done in my entire life. I wasn't a very good shot, but it didn't matter. I was so annoying that I thought the child was going to come across the table, grab my face in her hands and in a mom-voice say: "Look, it is time we settled down. DO? YOU? UN-DER-STAND?"

But before Madgette could seek revenge, I made a fatal mistake. While blowing out an exceptionally wet spitball, I accidentally crop-dusted Catfish in the face, mouth and arms with my spittle. Catfish – who is a longtime GERMAPHOBE – took this rather well. There was a time in her life when she would have had to burn the clothes she was wearing and boiled herself in a vat of bleach to get the germs. I don't know if she's taking up a new mellow Rastafarian lifestyle or what but the way she handled it made me think she was ready for a direct assault, not an innocent ricocheted ball of spit.

So I put an entire lemon wedge in my mouth and started smiling at her like I was showing off my newest set of dentures. I could tell by the look in her eyes that the mere thought of my putting the entire lemon, peel and all, into my mouth was horrifying. No telling what kind of bacteria lurked there. Despite her heart wanting to panic, Catfish hung in there, not running away screeching. And having not pushed her completely OVER the edge, I decided to swoop down into a full on lemon kiss right on her mouth – a true test of her strength.

That's when SlapFest 08 started.

It only took 25 years, but Catfish finally got enough of my shit and resorted to physical violence. She was so fast and catlike that I didn't even have time to blink before she had raised her hand and delivered the faithful bitch smack across my cheek.

And the Aggie's only response to my lifelong friend, slapping me in a crowded restaurant with scantily clad women and one confused Korean exchange student: "You totally deserved that."

Touché, Catfish. Touché.

--

Coming this week to mommapug.com:

Annyong and Mysterious Death of Lucky the Cat
Why Michael Phelps Rocks Out With His Cock Out
and
Childhood Memories: The Time Pawpaw Bribed Me With $50

Headline Writers of the World, UNITE!

Sometimes I really, really miss the newspaper business.

The Funniest Thing I've Seen Today

Apparently, this circulated the Internet a couple of years ago, but this the first time I've seen it.



I had to watch it three times to get the full effect because the first time the sneeze actually scared me because it was so loud and didn't come from the panda that I expected. The second time I watched it I was laughing so hard that I couldn't fully appreciate the mama panda's reaction. Oh but the third time of watching it was glorious. Its one of those videos that are so good that you can't figure out what exactly it is that you love about it. Then it hits you -- its the way the mama panda freezes dead still from eating her bamboo and throws her hands up like a gun shot has gone off and she has surrendered. And then, a heart beat later, goes right back to eating like she didn't just shit herself a nanosecond earlier.

Paint It Black -- Or White If That's What You're Into

I have googled a lot of strange questions in my day, and yet the Internet never disappointments me with the bevy of answers it provides.

Today, I thought: "Ah ha! I have a question no one would ask."

To which the Internet said: "What you talking 'bout Willis?" Then prompted bitch-slapped me.

The question I asked was, "Can I use paint thinner on my dog?"

And, much to my chagrin there were was a Yahoo! Answers page addressing the subject.

As it turns out, no you shouldn't dip your pooch in a vat of acetone.
This question and answer series has been brought you by the gaping hole that was in our ceiling and my husband's paintjob while repairing it. In addition to on various parts of Sonny the Pug, paint turned up in my underwear drawer (which was closed) and the ass of the Aggie's dress pants (which were hanging in the shut closet.)

We realize that it's not out the realm of logical thought that Sonny covered himself in the paint while serving as his daddy's faithful assistant. And the drawer that holds my unmentionables is located practically under the splatter area. But what baffles us is the pair of pants hanging in the closet with the smear across the butt. How the hell did we get paint from one room into another without opening the door?

Clearly, the only explanation is that our bedroom sits on the Bermuda Triangle of Texas.

The Aggie responds to Joyce K.

Dear Joyce,

I would like to thank you for writing Momma Pug. It's nice to have the opportunity to kick the rhetorical shit out of a moron who plainly deserves it after a lousy day at the office.

For one thing, we don't have to ask what would happen if someone called my wife "ugly and fat and stupid." You did it, which makes you an utterly hypocritical bitch. Also, my wife is no "trained beauty advisor" who actually looks like Dracula's somewhat annoyed stepmother.

I really hate Internet pontificators, which is why I avoid bullshit websites like The Huffington Post. When they come to casa de Pug, I find it to be intrusive. I would not come into your house (or blog) and tell you how to act. But, since you stopped by, I'll take this opportunity to do it anyway.

It takes a lot of nerve to come out and show your "superiority" in the fashion you did. In this case, "nerve" comes from the French, and can translate to "incredible Fing stupidity." You sound like a person who has enough time to surf obscure Web sites because you have no friends because, oddly enough, everyone hates your freaking guts. Can't imagine why.

Nobody likes a snitch. Nobody likes a whiner. Nobody likes a holier-than-thou attitude. You're a whining snitch with a holier-than-thou attitude, which means that, if you have children, they probably hate you. I guess that means they have something in common with yours truly.

Judge not, lest ye be judged. Well, since you have already bared your (probably ample) ass, I'll take the opportunity to judge you. You suck. And I'm not even the Russian judge.

Hope to hear from you again,
The Aggie

Some Hate Mail For Your Entertainment

Hi,

You say in the title of your last post "no fat jokes" and yet you are making fun of that poor lady in the one before it. How would you feel if someone took a picture of you and put it on the internet and said you were ugly and fat and stupid? Seems to me that you shouldn't judge lest ye be judged.

Joyce K.

Dear Joyce:

1. The "No Fat Jokes" part of the title is what you call IRONY.

2. If I allowed a poster-size photo of me to be displayed in a public place that was, shall we say, less than flattering then I wouldn't be surprised when some asshole (such as myself) put it on the Internet. Because I believe that, like you, the World Wide Web can suck my figurative balls.

3. Actually, I like your Old English ending and feel inspired.

For soothe, Joyce, if yon painting of ye I did possess, I would gladly place it on thy site henceforth and proclaim throughout the kingdom: Here ye is pictured the grandest of foes, behold douchebaggery at it's finest, the lady Joyce.

And then there would be giant picture of you. With a sharpie mustache and blackened out front teeth. In fact, if you send me a jpeg I could show you.

Looking forward to your next love letter,
Momma Pug

I Think I'm Growing (No Fat Jokes, People)

This weekend I went over to Madge's house to help her get ready for the arrival of her foreign exchange student, a lovely 16-year-old girl from Korea. For the past few months, Madge's family had been engaging in what can only be described as guerrilla warfare home improvements, which were running behind schedule because of two things: Her having to return to teaching a week earlier than anticipated AND rescuing my family from the Toilet Disaster of '08. Obviously, I was there with bells on to help her anyway I could. And I could tell she needed it. It was one of those moments when you know someone you love is about to FLIP THE FUCK OUT. She'd just dropped off her hubs at the airport and Madgette was completely hysterical because HER DADDY HAD GOTTEN ON A PLANE AND LEFT.

The mere fact that Madge had driven 20-minutes out of the way to my house pick up a kennel for her very bad but cute little dog told me that she needed support, even if it was just of the emotional kind. So I hopped in her car and we were off to attack her house by cleaning, organizing and decorating. My responsibilities included two things – laundry and Madgette's bedroom. Now these might not sound like large tasks, but you really would have had been there to understand the amount of laundry we're talking about. I mean, Wang from Foo's Dry Cleaning would have been like: SOWWY, WE NO HAVE THIS IS IN BY 9 OUT BY 5. Cinderella would have said, "Screw it. No prince is worth THIS." It was THAT much clothing. By the time we finished folding and hanging and putting up, we took a short break before Madgette and I entered her room.

Now Madgette's room was a daunting just for the fact that she is five-years-old and been playing in there for an entire summer and because she has enough toys to fill Santa's workshop crammed into one bedroom. In addition to the normal mess, there was a gi-normous box of books still unpacked and sitting in the middle of the room. Since Madgette had been given to me as slave labor, I determined that I'd start by requesting she pull out everything from under her bed. THIS did not go over well, as Madgette was convinced that stuffing things under her bed was how you were supposed to cleanup and my insisting to do the exact opposite was INSANITY. She even went to her mother to confirm that I was in fact NOT a nut job and fully authorized to give her orders. And while I must admit she made a convincing argument -- and may very well be smarter than me in addition to quite the con artist -- I am proud to say that Madge did send her back into her room with an understanding that I was a general and she was private. So we DID remove the contents from under bed.

It was during this process that we discovered that I had lost my glasses. Totally lost them. So I was blind-cleaning, which is really funny considering that I don’t really clean that well to begin with. Ironically it was because of my impaired vision that I failed to notice that there were two gigantic cages filled with hamsters. For those of you who have known me for a long time, know that I HATE rodents. ALL RODENTS. NO EXCEPTIONS. It is an unnatural fear, I admit. Nonetheless, I am paralyzed by terror when I encounter anything from a squirrel to mouse. (Well, perhaps paralyzed is the wrong word, as I once beat a rabid squirrel that was chasing me across campus.)

But I digress.

If I hadn't lost my glasses, I doubt I would have been able to stand being near the monster rodents. At the very least I would have had to cover them up with a blanket. By the time I noticed the critters, I had been with them for hours. HOURS! And they hadn't harmed me in anyway. In fact, one of them named Casey was actually kind of cute. Just a little fur ball – kind of like a Persian kitten. So I reached out – and TOUCHED IT. Twice. And I didn't have a panic attack or catch the plague.

Lets recap the sacrifices, shall we: I cleaned up/did laundry, forced Madgette into child labor and touched a rodent.

And you know why I did those things? Because everyone in this world deserves someone who will drop what they are doing, come on over and rescue from the bottom of the giant pile of crap. Be it a pile of laundry, a caving ceiling in or a bottle of tequila that needs to be pried from your clinched fists. Sometimes you need a friend to remind you of how strong you are. I feel really sorry for people who don't have that or think they do, then find out suddenly, when it matters most, that they don’t.

Oh, and Madgette found my glasses. Surprisingly, they were not under the bed.

Inner Booty

The Aggie and I were in the local pharmacy near our home when we ran across an easel with a gigantic portrait on it. The picture is of the makeup department's "trained" beauty professional. Instinctively I went to grab my camera from my purse. Curses! I had left it at home! But this was too good to pass up. So I had to beg the Aggie for his camera phone and have a talk with myself about whether it is right to post a picture of someone on here that's not famous or myself in order to mock it. I think we all know that my more sinister side won out. Be thankful that I am shameless, tactless and heartless:


I apologize for the poor quality of the photo. Like I mentioned, it was snapped with my husband's camera phone.

Her name is Barbara and she bills herself as a "Trained Beauty Advisor." Now you tell me, is this someone you would go to make you pretty? I think what bothers me most is the mouth. Its like she has an endless supply of lip liner that she stole from Jack Nicholson when he was filming the original Batman movie. Sorry Barbara, but the only thing you make me want to buy is anti-ghoul cream.

Also, Internet, please don't send me hate mail. Yes, I know that its mean. Yes, I know that I'm fat. Yes, I know all about sticks and stones breaking bones. So you don't have to lecture me on being a better person because I know how to behave. I choose not to. And I also choose to laugh at this picture. Its funny and scary all at the same time. And, just for those of you trying to save my moral soul, you will be comforted to know that on the way out of the pharmacy I donated $10 to a church youth group going to camp. So there, I paid my penance and my conscious is clear.

This Feels Wrong, But I Think I Agree With Paris?

Its a sad day when Paris Hilton is the only one making any sense to me.

Also. McCain should hire her PR guy to do his campaign.

Reporting Live From My Back Porch

This dramatic footage tells you all you need to know about hurricane Edouard:



Okay, okay, this wasn't wasn't actually shot from my back porch. I just wish I had thought of it because this kid's weather report is hi-larious. (Thanks for sharing it, Ruth!)

I think that this footage of Tropical Storm Edouard only cements the fact that it is the most devastatingly named storm of this hurricane season. Seriously, NOAA, can't we just call it Edward, Ed, Eddie or, if you're felling multicultural, Eduardo? I could have gotten behind any of those spellings? But what's with Edouard? You literally had all the names in the English language that start with the letter E and THAT is what you come up with? Its hard to respect a storm that sounds like his parents were high when they named him. And as a result you get the smartass kid from Pearland doing his best Jim Cantore impression. Try harder, Mother Nature.

Eye of the Storm

Tropical Storm Edourad has formed overnight in the Gulf of Mexico and is heading toward Houston. Worse case scenerio is for it to hit as a Catagory One hurricane. Aside from having a STOOPID sounding name, Edouard is also greatly inconveniencing Sonny the Pug, as he likes to know well in advance when to expect a power outage. We fat, surly types like to make plans to be somewhere with airconditioning at all times. Its how we roll.

Since our office is closing early to allow us to prepare for the storm, I will take the opportunity to go by the grocery store and buy ice, candy bars and booze. Oh, and doggy treats. However, if we loose power, Sonny the Pug and I will be evacuating to the closest area that has electricity. Even if this means sleeping in the car with the A/C going.

In my heart I know this storm SHOULDN'T be strong enough to result in any serious destruction. However, I am irony's bitch, and the gravity of the situation would not be lost on me if a Edouard launched a large palm tree through our roof of our house, thus resulting in ANOTHER gaping hole in the ceiling. Let us all pray it stops with the much needed rain, no one sweating their balls off and the Pug family NOT having to file an insurance claim.

Flushed

Toiletgate is OVER!

Not only have we have persevered over the human waste receptacle, but the giant gaping hole in the bedroom has been fixed!

And the tiles in the bathroom are down and are as cute as Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitts's uber-children.

Next on our homeowners to-do list is hang the second curtain in our bedroom. After all, its only been ready to go up for eight months. By the time we get it up, the one that's already hanging will have faded to a whole other shade of chocolate brown. Thus, I remain irony's bitch.

Bob Villa and Martha Stewart Don't Live Here

But the jackasses that do managed to tile a bathroom smaller than a prison cell in just over five hours. In fact, the hubs and I spent every single one of those hours together in closer proximity than Elton John's chin to balls. That, my friends, is what you call teamwork, especially considering one of us had atrocious gas. (Sorry about that, hon.)

Here is what the bathroom ended up looking like with the new crapper and tiles.


The detailing around the tub and door frame will be finished tomorrow, as will the patching of the gigantic hole in the ceiling. Can't you just feel the excitement?

A Small Moral Victory

The toilet -- I say that word disgust equal to that of Seinfeld saying 'Newman' -- is finally installed and functioning.

Tonight I have a date with two strapping men, a gimp and self-proclaimed princess. We are going to remedy the gaping hole in our bedroom ceiling. While the men folk focus on that, I intend to drink margaritas and finish tiling the bathroom floor with Madge and Madgette. Poor Madge is broke from her trip to Gallery Furniture (note: click that link and read so you can fully appreciate what might very well be the best pun I've ever executed.) So I think tonight will be a good trial run in what will be the first of Madgette's many educational lessons on Bringing Auntie A Fresh Drink. We might even make chocolate chip cookies while I teach Madgette how to work the blender and the explain the importance of three fingers worth of tequila verses the standard shot.