Artistic Fail, The Hurricane Ike Edition

When I was a little girl, I wanted nothing more to be an artist and fashion designer. I spent hours drawing and designing. When I got a little bit older, I started doing more outgoing things -- like actually crafting outfits for my Barbie dolls out of scrap material. I also made huge paintings and drawings and insisted they be hung throughout our home.

Until today, it was always beyond me why my parents discouraged me from being an artist. Then today I got a phone call. It was the local pottery place where Madge and I recently painted plates. You see, Hurricane Ike had beaten us down and we needed a little pick me up, so we decided YES, LETS PAINT A PLATE AND HAVE IT FIRE GLAZED. WITH A FIVE YEAR OLD AND A FOREIGN EXCHANGE STUDENT. WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG HERE!

To be honest, I knew that my efforts were not going so well when I started with the white swirls. It was supposed to -- in my mind, anyway -- look kind of like lace. Instead it turned out like tapeworms. I also forgot to paint Puggy's tongue pink. And the text all ran together. In short: Momma Pug's art? FAIL.



Here's Madge's plate. I think its adorable, but Madge will be the first to tell you that it didn't turn out how she'd planned. For one, at no point did she intend on giving it the chickenpox. However, i think yall can agree that the over all effort? NOT a fail. I think it will be SOOO CUTE hanging in Madgette's pink and purple room:



And how sick am I? Let me tell you. I am so sick that I physically couldn't let Madgette paint her softball on her own. She was painting like a five year old and I COULDN'T STAND IT. So I took it from her, while she begged to do it herself, and tidied it up so it looked like this (I think we can agree that I should have let the kid go on her own). Momma Pug artist direction? FAIL.



And now, I present to you the clear winner. Courtesy of the foreign exchange student from South Korea:



Note that not only did Annyong paint the mug perfectly AND also paint the letters clear and neatly IN TWO LANGUAGES, but she also put her initial in the BOTTOM of the INSIDE of the freaking mug.. No one likes a show off, kid:



And the saddest part? I am overwhelmed by the urge to return to the potery place and PROVE THAT I AM BETTER THAN THIS. I am an artist, by god. And I shall make something... pretty.

Hurricane Ike-Related Traffic Forced Me To Drive (Yet Again) Through The Medical Center And For Once It Was Totally Worth It

Every morning I drive to work through the Texas Medical Center, which is home to dozens of hospitals and clinics. The streets are crowded with doctors and nurses, all wearing their scrubs and stethoscopes around their necks and usually bustling from parking garages to their respective offices. Medical students crowd the entrances to the teaching hospitals and visitors file through the entrances waiting to see patients.

Recently, I spent 36 hours straight in one of the 50-story hospitals with my dear friend who was recovering from surgery (Hi Tree!). It was an experience like none other. The things you see in a hospital of that size are so amazing and varied. There is sadness and death mixed with happiness and rejoicing. One family goes there to say goodbye, while another welcomes the newest member. Until that experience with Tree, it never really occurred to me about how many life-altering experiences happen in that small patch of land. So many dreams realized. So many lives ending. So many lives saved.

This morning, I was driving by one of the hospitals when I came to a stoplight. I sat there for a few moments before I noticed an elderly couple standing outside one of the hospitals. Their faces were close together and it was clear that they were having a very serious, yet intimate, conversation. From what I could tell from body language, the old man was apologizing for something. The old lady kept shaking her head, as if in disbelief. There was something completely tender and raw about the moment.

The way the old man pulled her hand to his heart and brushed the hair behind her ear made me melt. They stood there like that for a minute, looking at each other and I could only imagine that there was a lifetime of unspoken emotions being shared between them right there in the middle of the sidewalk. Their eyes said things that words could never, ever do justice to.

The world seemed to stop around them as the lady lifted her face up to his and for a moment I knew they were about to kiss, deeply and passionately. My heart stopped for a beat and my ears flushed. I knew I was about to witness such a private, beautiful moment and that I should look away. But I couldn't. I was mesmerized by this couple, so I sat and stared and watched them as their lips came closer together.

And just when I knew the moment was unfolding as it should, the lady took one dramatic step backwards and in a swift, fluid movement lifted her hand and slapped the old man as hard as she could. She hit the old fellow so hard that he rocked back on his heals and I thought he might collapse. To be fair, I don't think this was just an ordinary slap. It wasn't like Scarlett O'Hara uttering "mercy me!" then smacking Rhett Butler. It was more like a pimp punching a whore with an open fist. Like 50 years of anger had just escaped her in that one moment.

By the time her arm came to rest by her side, the old lady seemed years younger. The lines on her face seemed disappear and for a moment I could what she looked like when she was a young woman. As the light changed to green, I glanced over one more time at the couple. The lady stood on her tiptoes and let her lips brush his cheek, the same one she had just slapped. Then she turned and walked away, leaving the man there motionless and stunned.

It wasn't until the car behind me honked twice that I managed to pull through the light and continue on my way. I watched the old lady in my rearview mirror until she disappeared behind me. Even in the distance I could tell that a smile still graced her lips. Part of me wanted to stop and buy her a cup of coffee. Then she would tell me what he had done to precipitate the clearly uncommon act of aggression. No matter what she said, I'd respond with: GIRL, OH NO HE DIDN'T! But for fear of scaring the old woman to death, thus risk my receiving any of her wrath, I kept on driving.

Nonetheless, I'm pretty sure that an older version of me or a younger version of her could have been very good friends.

Sour Girl

I suppose everyone has dark and tortuous days. Those mornings when you're driving to work and all you can think is THIS IS NOT HOW I SAW MY LIFE TURNING OUT. To be fair, I have to say that really there is not a damn thing is wrong in my life. Nothing like the gout. Or a basket of dead kittens. Or living next door to Jeffrey Dahmer. Still, there is an urgency that seems to be manifesting in the pit of my chest. Like a piece of me has broken off in there and gotten infected and now it's swollen up to the point of bursting out. But its an invisible infection, not one you can see and so you can't diagnose it, so it just keeps hurting and pressing against your ribs, taking your breath away.

And you know what's the worst part? I know I'm being a total wah-wah-boo-boo and I want to bitch slap myself for it. Do you know how frustrating it is to want to be all self-loathing, yet all be totally sick of yourself? It's practically impossible to throw a proper pity party when your guest of honor is too bored with it all to attend. It begs me to question what one does with herself in this sort of situation. Seeing as I'm someone who likes to hold her shit together and takes 75 milligrams of Prozac a day to ensure that this is the case, I’m thinking that clearly there is only one answer to my mental state and that answer is tequila.

My mama always said that if life gives you lemons you should make lemonade. Well I'm all out of sugar and water, but I got a shot class and plenty of salt. You might call that giving into my demons, but I prefer to look at as ingenuity. I think sometimes you just have to tie one on. And that that time might be right now.

An Open Letter To My Father

Dear Daddy,

I was shocked to receive your blistering email this week blaming me for your forgetting Mama’s birthday. Just to bring everyone up to speed, allow me to quote your little note:

Guess you forgot you have a poor ole daddy. Haven’t heard from you in awhile. I have three beautiful daughters that I dearly love. However not one of the three shits reminded me yesterday that it was mom’s birthday. Didn't have a hint till we were picking pecans, walking Pri-Pri and Monkey (the dogs) when I asked, “Heard from any of the three girls?” Yes was the answer. “All three called to wish me happy birthday,” she said. Needless to say I had to do some quick thinking. I told her the love man had something special for her. It could work out. It could happen.

First of all. Yuck. I don’t want to hear about “the love man” making visits to my mother. She is sacred to me, you pervert. Secondly, what do you mean “haven’t heard from you in a while?” I called and talked to you the night before you sent this email. Or did you forget that too? And lastly, I know you are going to give me hell about posting your email to me. Well, maybe you should have thought about that before you started a round of the Blame Game. I’ve used this Web site to call people a Pig Whore for much less.

I am truly sorry you had a brain fart and forgot Mama’s birthday on Thursday, but I think it is hardly my fault that you failed to remember. Also, I really do appreciate that you felt bad that it slipped your mind. It’s sweet -- in its own little way -- that you are remorseful over your gaffe. However, I don’t really see how you can blame myself or my sisters for not “reminding” you of this momentous occasion. After all, you have known her for two decades longer that I have, thus you have celebrated this event roughly 20 times more than we have. Considering that her sister’s birthday is the following day, then you have celebrated their collective birthday season a total of 117 times. I can’t believe that after an entire decade of partying down with the Jones sisters that you suddenly forget. Still, though, it’s not my fault.

In order to prevent future events such as this one from happening again, I will be signing you up for calendar reminders that will go to your email. This will include all major events – birthday, anniversaries and holidays – and will give you daily notification for 30 days before my own birthday, lest you forget the most important of all celebrations. This shall go into effect before your middle daughter’s birthday on Oct. 2. And trust me on this – Fwinney’s birthday is NOT one you want to forget. She is pregnant and hormonal and might have you killed. Are you prepared to die for forgetting your daughter’s birthday? No. I didn’t think you were.

Love,

Your “little shit” – Momma Pug

Upon My Mama and Aunt's Birthdays

My Aunt was born on Sept. 26. The year is not important. What is significant is that my mother was born exactly four years and 364 days later on Sept. 25. She was an early birthday present, my aunt told me once. For their entire lives they've shared their birthday. Now they are fortunate enough to live next door to each other and share their lives.

There are so many things I could tell you about these two women. Some of it happy, some of it sad. But I think that there is one story that pretty much sums up their relationship together. It's become something of folklore in our family, and unless they are in the right mood neither one of them will tell it to you. Perhaps it's because I have actually heard it from them so infrequently that it my favorite. And there is potential that they wouldn't want me to share it, but I'm going to throw caution to the wind.

My Mama, My Aunt and the Beatles

It was the middle of the British invasion and my mother and aunt were enamored by the original Fab Four. Every girl had a favorite Beatle and you can tell a lot about someone's personality based on which Beatle they align themselves with. This was very true for my mother and aunt. Not surprisingly, Mama preferred Paul, while my aunt most liked John. (Paul was the sweet one John was the rebel.)

On Sept. 16, 1964 the Beatles played the City Park Stadium in New Orleans, a two-hour bus ride from the town I grew up in. Mama was 11 and her sister was 16. It was less than ten days from their next birthday, and the one thing they wanted most in the world was to travel to New Orleans for this concert. But my grandparents refused on the grounds that it was being held on a Wednesday night in the middle of a school week and would take the girls away from their classes for at least two days. Plus the tickets were $5 each, a small fortune to country girls. So the decision was easy. There would be discussion. No bartering. The answer was no. They were not going.

This was basically a death sentence to my mom and aunt. They were heartbroken. This was a once in a lifetime chance for them. How could they miss it! The girls shared a room together and would stay up late at night discussing ways to convince my grandparents to let go. Nothing worked. No argument could be made to change their minds, so eventually they agreed to take matters into their own hands.

On the Wednesday morning of the concert, mama and auntie took the school bus to the school as normal. But instead of going to class, they walked a block over and climbed to the top of the county courthouse and watched as my grandfather park his truck in a nearby spot to meet up with the guys he rode to work with 40 miles away in Natchez. As soon as he was out of site, the girls climbed down from their perch and proceeded to his truck. There they put a note that read: Gone to New Orleans to see the Beatles. Will go to Aunt Jimmie's house afterward. Please don't be too mad. Love you and Momma.

Then they proceeded to catch the first bus to New Orleans. Two hours later they were downtown in the Crescent City, looking for City Park Stadium and sticking close together. They held their combined savings – a few dollars -- in my aunt's purse, the girls spent the day window shopping. That afternoon they ate an early dinner in the French Quarter. Just before 8 p.m. they were standing in line with thousands of other fans to enter the stadium. They didn't have money for tickets and even if they did, there were none left for the sold out show. So they waited until just before the concert and entered with the rush of girls their own age. Only one person stopped them to ask for their tickets and my aunt convinced them another concert worker had already taken them. They were admitted with no other questions asked.

They watched the entire show from the floor pressed up against hundreds of other screaming girls. They were so close to the Beatles that they could see the sweat on Paul's face and the calluses on John's fingers from strumming the guitar. It was a defining moment of their adolescence. Disobedience, trickery and theft never felt so good. At least until the show ended. At which point they were forced to return to the reality of what they had just done and seek asylum at their Great Aunt Jimmie's home in the city. It was a silent trip on the trolley to their aunt's home. When they arrived her parents were already there.

And that's where the story ends. I can't remember my mom or aunt ever saying what kind of trouble they go into, but you have to assume that it was significant. I guess that after you've had the balls to runaway from home to see the greatest band of your generation, everything after that kind of pales in comparison, even a punishment of epic proportions.

Once, when I was a little girl, my grandfather pulled a worn piece of paper from his billfold. It was the note his own daughters had written and he had kept it in his wallet ever since he found it on the dash of his truck all those years ago. I asked him that day what he did when he finally caught up with them after the concert. He paused, then smiled as he ran his fingers across the note. "I was just so happy they were okay…" he said. "But between you and me, I could have killed them."

When my grandfather died a decade later, that note was still in his wallet.

If you ever wonder where I get the fearlessness from, you need not look any further:

This picture was taken at my mama and aunt's birthday party in 1980. My mother was 28, the same age I am now. My aunt was 33. That's me in the middle. I'm not even going to comment on the fact that it looks kind of chilly and how I seem to be totally under-dressed.

Having An Off Day, I Blame Hurricane Ike

It is true when I say that we are all suffering from "hurricane fatigue." Not like those people digging through the mud and fish shit down on the coast (hi Jenn!). Those of us with minor damage and houses that are still inhabitable – yet broken -- are experiencing a different kind of fatigue. It’s the sort of thing that wears at you daily. One little thing after another happens.

Perhaps it’s a call from FEMA in which you repeat your storm damage story yet again. Or maybe it’s the mildly retarded lady at the Chevrolet dealership that has insisted your credit card has just been declined when in fact she is trying to run it through the machine upside down. When your dogs have escaped the temporary chicken wire fence you've constructed for the billionth time, the simplest things start to tear at your nerves.

Those people digging out the bodies in Galveston have turned off their emotions. They are doing horrible, disgusting, heartbreaking work. But they know this. They know its bad. It's what folks in that line of work do, so they are prepared. For the rest of us things have returned to something that vaguely resembles "normal." Its like we're living in some kind of alternative reality where doing everything from grocery shopping to driving to work in the morning has become a GIANT PAIN IN THE ASS.

The problem really is though that we truly believe that things are good. In our minds, we keep saying, "Yeah we've made it. Things are going to be okay." But things aren't okay yet, no matter how badly we all want them to be. And you start to realize this when and things start slipping completely outside your control. It’s a huge snowball effect and you're the tiny villager at the bottom of the mountain who's about to get its ass handed to it by an avalanche.

For us it’s the little things that have slowly worn us down. Stuff that when its slapped together feels huge. Like the loss of two weeks pay because the company my husband works for was effectively shutdown. Then the insurance company takes 21 days before they can even start to think about giving you money to pay for your repairs. And then your brakes go out on your car and you have to have them fixed so you can safely navigate the new hour-long commute to work daily, courtesy of Hurricane Ike knocking out every single stop light in Houston.

No wonder my mind is elsewhere and I'm finding it a touch difficult to focus. Perhaps that would explain why ignored protocol in our office bathroom and accidentally mooned the new guy. No, I'm not kidding. God, I wish I were. Not only did the poor man walk in on me taking a wiz – thus seeing my pink and shiny – but then I yelled at him like he was some kind of pervert that wants to finger-bang my cat. The poor man wanted to throw himself off the balcony. It was one of those moments where you know it should be an embarrassing situation both parties, yet the other person involved is clearly more uncomfortable than yourself.

I have apologized to him, both personally and via email. And while he says he's okay, I suspect he might need a counselor. He just looks absolutely horrified. And he physically can not make eye content with me. Which makes wonder, did a fat lady taking a piss in a tiny bathroom molest him as a child? And more frighteningly, what does it say about me that I'm not that moved by a coworker that I barely know seeing my bajingo?

Hurricane Ike: Dumpster Diving

Our neighborhood is in still in a rather sad state. The city has yet to make it over to our neck of the woods to collect storm debris. Every house on our street has a five-foot pile of limbs, fencing and garbage on their curb. And I'd be lying if I said we didn't slow down while driving by so that we can examine the neighbor's damage. (Side note: If a backyard had a swing set in it you can now find the attached slide in the debris pile, as slides did not fair well.)

Apparently, I'm not the only one who likes to nose around in the neighbor's garbage. Because Madge came running into my living room screaming: "COME ON RIGHT NOW! THERE IS A TABLE WE NEED ON YOUR NEIGHBOR'S CURVE!!!" So I jumped up and followed her down the street where a really pretty mahogany coffee table was sitting next to the dump pile. We couldn't determine for certain if they were throwing it out or if we they were moving it in, so Madge knocked on the door and had the neighbor confirm the table was, in fact, free for the taking. SCORE!

Madge was so excited over her find that she didn't allow us to go bring back some husbandly manpower or even car to haul it back down the street. No, instead, she insisted we hoist it onto our backs and walk it back to my house. And this method worked out just fine UNTIL MADGE DROPPED HER END AND IT CLIPPED ME IN THE BACK OF THE KNEES. And do you know what she said? Let me tell you what she didn't say. She didn't say: "Wow, dude. Sorry. My bad. We should have gotten help." No. She most certainly did not say that. Rather she said only one word: "Oops." The way she said it was all nonchalant, with no regard for my physical pain. "Oops?" I said, trying to recover. "That's all you're going to say is OOPS!" Then she told me to quit whining and keep walking. The table wasn't going to move itself.

But I got Madge's "oops" right here, folks. Because that table didn't go home with her. No sirree. It is in my living room, complimenting the one nice piece of furniture I own – a beautiful entertainment center with curio cabinets that took us two years to pay off. That table was someone's piece of trash and it yet it somehow matches my treasures perfectly. Pretty much, that is a metaphor for my life, I think.

After we had cleaned the table thoroughly and had been sitting around staring at our find, someone suggested driving around the neighborhood and seeing what else we could take from people's trash piles. And by someone else, it was either me or Madge or Tree because our husbands were totally disgusted at the thought of us digging through garbage for things we'd make them use/wear/fix. They had a hard time seeing this as the retail therapy it was. It was like shopping without ever breaking out the Visa. Now you tell me, isn't that the greatest idea ever!

Tree loaded us up in her Pontiac Vibe, dubbed the HMS Scooter 2. We scoured the neighborhood, garnishing a variety of reactions from homeowners as we inspected their piles. We even considered taking a bicycle that was on the curb. Not because it was being thrown away, but to teach the kid who owned it a lesson about leaving their belonging in near the road.

In addition to the table we salvaged the following items in new or BARELY used condition:

For Tree's baby, Preemie Donna we got the following:
Car seat
Baby walker
Baby bouncer
Baby rocking toy

For Madge and Madgette:
A giant box of teaching supplies (If I were a teacher I could tell you what all was in there. But I’m not, so I can't. I'm told, however, that is all very expensive, very nice teaching tools that are still in their wrappers and would cost like $1,000 if purchased.)
Metal garden décor
Hanging "welcome" sign
Rolling play cart
Set of plastic drawers

For me:
A really nice, brand new deep pan

Not bad for a hour of driving around in a hurricane devastated neighborhood. And let me tell you, there is something exhilarating about taking things from someone's front yard without permission and throwing it into your car and speeding off like you're the Bo and Luke Duke and Boss Hogg is hot on your tail. And the pride that accompanies this is indescribable. You should have seen us blown up like roosters when we carried our finds into the house. You also should have seen the looks on our husband's faces. They were largely silent until they realized who the items were for.

The Aggie, having been reassured that most of the items weren't staying in our home, was very agreeable about the whole process. Erstwhile, the Razorback was mentally calculating how much of the crap would actually fit into the car. When he realized that there was no reason all the baby crap would be going home with him, then he agreed that digging through the garbage was the best thing since the invention of toilet paper.

P.Daddy, however, was not so happy. In fact, he was convinced his newborn daughter would catch small pox from the car seat we salvaged. Which is just crazy talk. If Preemie Donna is going to catch anything from our trash finds, then it will be the fleas or chiggers. Small pox was eradicated in 1979.

Hurricane Ike: The Post Storm Chaos

So kids, this has been one hell of a weekend. Because of the power outages, Momma Pug North American Headquarters housed 16 sentient beings this weekend. Watch as I list them all out because that is how I roll.

Human occupants:

• Momma Pug
  
  
• The Aggie
  
  
• Madge (bosom buddy)
  
  
• The Razorback (her husband)
  
  
• Madgette (her clone/spawn)
  
  
• Annyong (their Korean exchange student)
  
  
• Tree (new mother/college friend/Katrina survivor)
  
  
• P.Daddy (her husband)
  
  
• Grump (father-in-law who was only present about half the time, but I think it still counts)

Animal occupants:

• Gertrude (our disenfranchised cat)
  
  
• Ripken (our giant fuzzy lapdog)
  
  
• Sonny the Pug (needs no introduction)
  
  
• Deuce (our Silky terrorist)
  
  
• Blaze (Madge's 10-year-old Schnauzer)
  
  
• Lady Belle (Madge's 1-year old toy Schnauzer/Deuce's girlfriend/antichrist)
  
  
• Boomer (Tree and P.Daddy's 's cat that hid under a Dallas church for an hour while they crawled around on their hands and knees begging for her to COME OUT RIGHT THE HELL NOW.)
  
  
• Rune (Tree's old, calm, mildly retarded cat/Katrina survivor)
  
  
• Clemy (three-week-old kitten that died in our house after the STUPID, CARELESS VET DROPPED HER)

I don’t' think I have to say this, but just for the record: I AM OVER HURRICANE IKE. O-V-E-R it. Over it like K-Fed is over Britney.

So many things happened during the last four days. Evil things that name shall not be spoken. It's too fresh... too raw to discuss yet. So why don't we focus on the parts that don't make me want to put my head in an oven.

I give you Part One of "Hurricane Ike: The Post Storm Chaos."

The Germ

Poor little Madgette was stricken with strep throat this weekend. She cried, puked and was feverishly miserable for two days. Everyone spent those 48 hours spraying Lysol in their mouths and bathing in Clorox. I couldn't help myself, though. Madgette was even CUTER when she was sick. Her momma and I threw caution to the window and allowed her to break the three-foot rule and come near us. That's not to say we didn't disinfect ourselves compulsively. Because one of us made the child go get a replacement straw for our drink after she put her tiny little germy mouth on it. And that person? Was not me.

And I would have felt WAY sorrier for Madgette if she weren't a total banshee to give medicine too. I know I exaggerate for the sake of a story sometimes, but you are going to just have to trust me on this: Madgette was a holy terror. Her mother and I literally had to throw ourselves on top of her, hold her nose and force the liquid antibiotic down her throat. That's about 500 pounds of surly southern woman on top of a 45 pound child. And do you know what? That little shit got the best of us for about an hour. Through her fever and puking she kicked and fought and assaulted us for the better part of a morning before we gave up. You should have seen the look on Madgette's face. It was all I HAVE WON. THEY ARE BEATEN. I AM GIRL, HEAR ME ROAR! GRRRRRRR!

It was during her excessive celebration that Madge and I locked eyes for an instant and totally knew we had her. She was off guard and if we struck together that we could over come her. So as Madgette spiked the ball and was snaking across the end zone doing her victory dance, I tackled her, wrapped my arms and legs around Madgette and held her to the couch. As she opened her mouth to protest, her mother clipped her fingers on the child's nose and squirted the medicine down the back of throat. Like you do for an angry cat. In the next instant Madgette had suddenly stilled and I though for a minute OH MY GOD WE KILLED HER. Then she looked up at us very sweetly – and I shit you not -- she said, "Well that wasn't so bad was it?" Like we were ones fighting her and she had just gotten us to take the medicine.

Now if you will, imagine you are the poor, sweet exchange student who had only been in the states a total of three weeks before descending into the madness of a bunch of southern women in the midst of natural disaster/caring for a sick child. And imagine you are sitting in the corner watching two large women wrestle this tiny, sick girl to the ground and pour drugs into her body while she screams like she's being water boarded. I know she must have been horrified. And I don't blame her one bit. Because I realize now that teaching elementary school children has prepared Madge for an excellent career manning the "interrogation" room at Guantanamo.

Hurricane Fatigue

Being an evacuee can be so draining. Sleeping on floors, eating MRE's and no access to the DVR sure does take its toll. No one has been effected as severely as Mr. Sonny T. Pug. (The 'T' stands for The.) Sonny has spent the last 48 hours recovering from his harrowing experience. He's devoted 90 percent of his time to R&R. The other 10 percent of the time he is chasing the cat. Or standing outside the door of the spare bedroom and barking because he just KNOWS the evacuees now staying with us have their two cats in their. And by god, no cat rests in STP's house.

The poor little fellow spent the past two days helping his daddy pull down all the fencing in our yard and disposing of wayward branches. Its practically a crime to be worked as hard a Sonny has been. Its a balmy 72 degrees out and how dare we ask Sonny to actually let his feet touch the grass in such unreasonable conditions. Also, we are on a Low Cheese Alert and STP is having to conserve his daily intake of dairy. This is not going over well. Perhaps someone should call the Humane Society and report the abuse.

Clearly this is a dog that isn't being cared for:


After five long days in exile, Sonny rests with his Daddy. Coordinating all that disaster relief is exhausting.


And this shot says it all: "Put down the camera, Hussy, and step away from my Daddy. We are restin'."

Real Death Toll In Galveston Could Be In the Thousands

That is the headline that you won't read or hear from any of the Houston media. Why? Because they aren't being allowed onto the devastated island. At all.

As recovering journalist, this gives me the mean reds.

I understand that the city, state and national government are trying to keep the aftermath of Hurricane Ike from turning into the post-Katrina apocalypse that New Orleans morphed into. Not only am I sympathetic to the urgency the government is feeling to avoid that debacle, but I also believe measures should be taken to keep Sean Penn and his shotgun off the streets.

It begs to ask: When does ensuring the safety of your residents cross the line and just become martial law? I don't know the answer to that question. I do know that the idiotic mayor of Galveston is making Ray Nagin look like a quantum physicist. Which leads to another question: is this marital law or sheer incompetence?

The only difference between Galveston's Mayor Lyda Ann Thomas and the aforementioned leader of New Orleans is the type of governor pulling their strings. Texas Governor "Slick" Rick Perry isn't exactly the best thing since sliced bread, but he's smart enough to realize that Thomas was one more press conference away from sending him to the same fate as Kathleen Blanco, the now former governor of Louisiana. (She got voted out mainly because of the handling of Katrina and has been replaced by the more than capable Bobby Jindal.)

But I digress.

I could go on and on about the way Galveston's local government is handling this tragedy. I want to focus a bit on the media being kept at barge pole's length from the site of the disaster. This had been on my mind for a while now – how there was very little actual reporting from the streets of Galveston. I also found it suspicious that they only have confirmed 25 or so hurricane-related deaths. And the press seems more than willing to take this at face value, when things don't add up.

This morning a little birdie told me something interesting. She said her brother is a fireman and participating in the rescue and body recovery effort. On average, her brother claimed he was pulling out about 20 bodies a day. Hold up, I said. That can't be! If he's pulled out that many bodies a day then the total count can't be 51. To which she replied: "It is far greater than that. They have brought in a mobile morgue and expect the final body count to be around 10,000."

Now I'm not implying that this is true. I suspect this is the exhaustion of a beleaguered rescuer. So keep in mind its just gossip that I heard. But there is another rumor floating out there -- that FEMA is running out of body bags. When you consider that the Bolivar Peninsula is largely untouched, even today, it's enough to make you cringe.

However, if the government (at any level) is keeping just 1,000 deaths from the public – then we aren't that different from China or Russia or Cuba. If this is the work of a stupid local and county government who screwed up by not demanding everyone leave well before Ike struck and is now trying to cover up their mistake, it's a criminal travesty. If the state and the federal government are assisting in this, then...this country is not what we take it to be.

And nobody's trying to get at the story. They'll pick at Sarah Palin's kids, but won't try to figure out what's going on on the Bolivar Peninsula or most of Galveston Island?

But don't get me wrong; this is not a statement that we've gone to hell and the Nazis now run America. The toll is probably magnified several fold by frustrated and exhausted rescuers. This is not an invitation for Sean Penn to bust out his weaponry and hire a skiff. I'm just saying that there is more than meets the eye going on here and very wise man once told me: "If you aren't pissed off then you aren't paying attention."

Are we paying attention? Or are we more worried about getting our power turned back on? And where the hell is the bulldog mentality that these arrogant, moronic reporters pride themselves on?

Returning To Our Version of Normalcy

Well, today is our final day in exile. The Momma Pug North American Headquarters will be reopening the home office later this afternoon and operations expect to return to normal status by Wednesday. We know we have electricity, but we are told that Internet connections remain sparse at best. I will be returning to my day job tomorrow and will perhaps be able to post an update on things before I head home from work. Otherwise, if you guys don’t hear from us for a couple of days it’s because AT&T Uverse is forcing a cruel, slow death on us by media and entertainment withdrawl. If things get desperate, we might be forced to use the DVD player or rely on the three local television channels for entertainment. Or bust out the Wii for some friendly cow racing. Failing that, we just might have read a book or have copious amounts of husband/wife relations. The key is to be creative and you’ll find that the possibilities really are endless.

While we are so grateful for the wonderful time the in laws have provided, we are also excited to be going home. I can’t wait to sleep in my own bed and take a shower with all my own products surrounding me. Any deposed ruler will tell you that it’s the everyday stuff that you miss most while in exile. What good is it to be queen if you have no kingdom to rule? So I’m relieved that we will be heading back to our realm. There are surfs and peasants to be flogged and feasts to be had. It’s good being royalty.

Also, I’ve decided that my sister -- who is pregnant and due in February – is having a little girl. I’ve come to this conclusion not based on instinct or gris-gris or even a sonogram picture showing a bajingo. Rather I came across a really cute pillowcase dress and I am overwhelmed by the urge to MAKE ONE NOW FOR THE BABY. And since we have no idea what sex it is, I’m just going to go ahead and throw caution to the wind and start sewing some up. Because I am crazy like that. So crazy in fact that now that I’ve gotten it my head, I can’t stop until I make Preemie Donna one too.


SERIOUSLY, is this not the cutest little dress ever!

Hurricane Ike Damage

The banana trees in our backyard did not fare well:


Next two photos are from our backyard:




As you can see, our neighbors took it MUCH harder than we did:




This is the main thoroughfare near our 'hood:




We are very lucky. It could have been so much worse.

UPDATE:

We just got a call! The neighbor says our power is back on! PRAISE SWEET JESUS!

On The Road Again

The husband and I are heading down to our house early tomorrow morning. Though initial reports about the status of our house are good, we figure we need to survey things for ourself and report any damage that wasn't apparent from inspecting the outside. The boys and Gert will stay in Round Rock with the in laws while we take our trip to Houston. There have been reports today of serious damage in our neighborhood because of an unconfirmed tornado. We're pretty sure our house only sustained minor damage, but we will know for sure tomorrow. I'll post pictures of the damage in our neighborhood when we get back.

On an unrelated note: Hampton (the in law's giant, sweet baby of a dog) just chased Gert across the kitchen table. Why? Because she had a Beggin' Strip in her mouth. He hasn't even so much as looked at Gertrude this entire time, but the second she toted off a Beggin' Strip he could no longer contain himself and went for the bacon-y goodness. Thank goodness he didn't catch her, much less hurt her, but he did manage to knock over my Route 44 Sonic drink into my laptop. Immediately I threw all he dogs into the yard, had the husband take the freaking cat upstairs and dried the computer out with my hair drier. And while it is nothing short of a miracle that my computer survived, I find it more impressive that Gert maintained possession of the Beggin' Strip. Then, and I shit you not, she ate the fucking dog treat.

Since such a bruhaha had just occurred I felt compelled to taste the morsel that initiated the incident. And do you know what? Beggin' Strips aren't half bad. As a hurricane evacuee, I can honestly say they surpass the deliciousness of an MRE.

I Like Sarah Palin, However This Is Funny

A friend of mine has a theory. (Hi Cheryl!) She said that she thinks John McCain is a big fan of the movie "Mean Girls" and that's why he chose Sarah Palin as his VP. And now I'm having trouble NOT thinking of McCain as a huge fan of teenybopper entertainment.

At first I was all like NO WAY DUDE! MCCAIN IS MORE OF A JOHN WAYNE FAN. But then I went and watched Tina Fey doing her impression of Palin on Saturday Night Live. While I disagree with the politics being pushed there, I must give SNL mad props for going balls out. Though I disagree with it, I am woman enough to admit that this is absolutely hilarious:



Okay, so anyone but me wondering if Sarah Palin and Tina Fey are like Clark Kent and Superman? Seriously, have you ever scene the two of them together? I'm just saying.

I Take It Back

Tonight we all sat down for family dinner with the hubs mom, dad and grandmother. We had a delicious ham, potatoes, baked apples and broccoli. It was simple and very good.

My mother-in-law made this giant ham so her little evacuees would have sandwiches to eat all week. So while she served about a fourth of it on the table, the rest cooled on the counter, waiting to be de-boned and stored.

Dinner went along well. We were chatting about how lucky we were nothing too bad had happened to our house. Then we talked about the beautiful grandbaby. It was at this point that my mother-in-law stopped mid sentence and screamed: "OH MY GOD, THE DOGS HAVE THE HAM ON THE FLOOR."

And then hilarity ensued as she tried to pry an entire cooked honey baked ham from the clinched jaws of a Silky terrier. No one saw how the ham got pulled off the counter, but our mystical powers of deduction tell us that only Ripken is tall enough to reach the counter.

So all that good behavior I praised a couple of hours ago? HAS GONE OUT THE WINDOW. Ike is gone. The house is standing. And the animals' behavior issues are baaaaaccccck.

Still Standing

Initial reports say that the Momma Pug North American Headquarters has survived Hurricane Ike! (Thanks Tree and P.Daddy for driving down and checking it out for us. You guys are so good to us!) We can't express the level of relief it is to know you’re your home is okay and the things have worked hard for and love are still there. The husband and I did pretty well this time around. We didn't panic, but we did leave – and within plenty of time to get out while avoiding horrific traffic jams.

Overall, our boys have behaved brilliantly. No one is more shocked at this than the Aggie and I. Moving our family really is a lot like packing up a circus train and hopping towns in the middle of night. And let me tell you, I couldn't be prouder of our little clowns and elephants. They haven't ripped up flooring (Deuce, Christmas '07), nor have they attacked the host's dog over cheese dip (Sonny the Pug, spring break '06.) It's been almost as if they called a meeting and were all like: OKAY, MOMMA AND DADDY ARE HOLDING THEIR SHIT TOGETHER BY A THREAD. ALL FOR WRANGLING OUR CRAZY IN SAY 'EYE'. OPPOSED LIKE SIGN. Then a show of hands was taken and it was passed it 3-to-4. (Deuce was the lone 'nay'.)

We're not sure how much longer we will stay in Round Rock. We need to get back and clean out all the food in the fridge. The possibility of going without electricity and water is just too much for me and the pug to take. If we go back any time soon, we might be buying a generator, window unit and an assload of gas. Since the city is reporting we have water, we'll open up the Momma Pug North American Headquarters as a shelter to our friends and family.

Its going to be like summer camp only we're too old to sleep on the floor with sleeping bag so we'll have to pull the mattresses into one room. And instead of telling ghost stories we'll share tales of our mortgages, which I think we all can agree is much more frightening stuff.

Its Just Not A Hurricane Without A Jackass In A Bear Suit

Its about 11 p.m. and the husband and I have bunkered down in our Master-Bedroom-in-Exile. We're reluctant to go to bed just yet. It's kind of hard to sleep when you know that your home is serious danger. I don't mean to sound dramatic. There are many, many people with homes in much worse positions than ours. But it's still hard to push those "worst case" scenarios out of your mind all together.

So the Aggie and I are holed up in his bedroom at his parent's home with three dogs and a cat. Gert – who honesty has been the BEST behaved of all our pets – has chosen to show her disdain for the situation in more passive aggressive ways. For example, she likes to wait until we are all piled into the room together to take a massive shit in her litter box. As she is pooping – and I'm not even kidding a little bit – she grips the edges of the litter box and balances so doesn't have to actually come in contact crap receptacle. As if this isn't bad enough, she then refuses to cover her turds up. Apparently she is the Monk of cats and can't bear the thought of getting her feet dirty.

I know, a lot of you out there are going NO WAY, THE CAT DOES NOT DO THAT. You'll just have to trust me. It one of the many weird and obsessive compulsive things she does. (Others include collecting water bottle tops and milk jub rings. Then sorting them – in a very Silences With Lambs kind of way -- into piles with equal numbers in each.) Her OCD behavior has been an ongoing issue for the seven years she and I have been together. And though she has gotten better about her idiosyncrasies, there are times when she just can't help herself and she starts going all Rain Man on us.

Bless her heart. I don't blame her one bit. If I lived with us I'd be batshit crazy too. The pug hates her and barks at her constantly (until we distract him with his stinky pillow or a treat) and she hasn't been anywhere but our house for the last three years. So this is like baptism by fire for her. Right now she is curled up towards the bottom of the mattress and resisting the urge to attack my feet when they move under the covers. The pug is snoring so loudly I can barely hear the music playing on my laptop (The Eagles, its mellow.) Deuce is lying with the husband and Ripken is stretched out by the door. The scent of cat shit is finally drifting away and we are dangerously close to having a peaceful moment.

The calm is here. Now we wait for the storm to pass.

Oh! And so this entry matches the title, I give you Jackass In A Bear Suit Dancing On The Galveston Sea Wall:

I like to think that the dude in the bear suit is a University of Houston student majoring in interpretive dance and that THIS is his way of fulfilling the requirements for his thesis. His real name is Bill, but he goes by Pierre and speaks with a fake French accent. He calls this peice, "Water Rape: The Accidental Crest," and it is his big F-you to oil industry. There is a particularly stirring part where he imitates a baby seal being clubbed. Pierre is also a vegan and doesn't believe in owning worldly possessions. He had to trade his last little bit of hash for a two-hour rental of the bear suit. After he finishes his masters degree, he plans on teaching dance to children in Darfur.

Don't Say We Ain't Got No Hurricane Preparedness

Well, this is day two of Momma Pug North American Headquarters in exile. We are still in Round Rock and its so bright and sunny that it is almost impossible for us to realize that anything is wrong in our world, the one we have fled from.

The husband was opposed at evacuating at first, but now he's glued to the Internet and very concerned that our house will no longer exist 36 hours from now. Ike's path seems to go straight through our living room. I don't know if its just fear-mongering, but the local TV folks are using words like "decimated," "catastrophic" and "annihilation." When you are 200 miles away and afraid of losing everything from your wedding dress to your grandmother's china, then its hard to not take stock in what they're saying. I think our fear also has something to do with Tree and P.Daddy and how we watched them rebuild their entire lives after Hurricane Katrina. They have been on my mind constantly since we evacuated. They are riding out the storm in the NICU with their new baby Preemie Donna.

Madge and her clan have gone north to their in-laws in Arkansas. Texas Barbie and the Carpool Buddy took their families to San Antonio. Jen and her husband backed up as much of their seaside home as possible and moved to inside the 610 Loop. Of all of us, she is mostly likely to loose her home. Catfish and her family are sticking to their Humble home, which certainly wont flood, but I am worried about the wind they'll take. For many of the folks we know, this is the first hurricane they have experienced. Tree, Carmen, Catfish and I are well-versed in tropical weather. We're just older now, live a lot closer to the water and have a lot more too lose.

Alas 75 milligrams of Prozac is doing wonders for keeping me from panicking. Nonetheless, I am ready for it to be over. I'm ready for Ike to blow through, do its thing and then lets us get back to life and rebuilding. Moreover, I have a list of pre-approved items that if Ike would like to destroy, thus helping up along in remodel jobs then that would be great. This list includes: All flooring, our master bedroom furniture, the seashell-shaped sinks/cabinets in our master bathroom, the stove, kitchen counters and ugly fireplace. So if you're reading my blog Ike, and deem that you have to tear our shit up could you please do us a favor and stick to that stuff?

~~~

Perhaps of everyone, Sonny the Pug has the best idea. He has sought shelter within our shelter, so I'm pretty sure he'll ride this storm out just fine.

Preparing for a disaster

(Crossposted from The Mark Up)

With the course of Ike moving very slightly to the east (out over Galveston Bay, as of 9:30 a.m.), it looks like our hometown of Pearland will barely, just barely, be on the less bad side of the storm. Having said that, we're going lose power, almost certainly, and I'm really worried about us losing windows and having problems with the roof. I've already kissed the satellite dish goodbye.

Now, this is child's play compared to what the people in Galveston are already dealing with. Towns like Kemah, Surfside Beach, Dickinson, Texas City and Clear Lake are going to hit by a massive storm surge. We're 16 hours out and the waves are already flying over the seawall in Galveston and I've seen indications that it's happening elsewhere too.

Some people, who left for Rita, have decided to stay. This may well be suicide. One woman in Galveston, with kids aged 5 and 7, are riding it out in the flood area in a one-story home. I would say it is highly likely that they are in the final 24 hours of their lives, and it hurts badly to say that because it's not hyperbole.

Galveston will be devastated by the storm surge. Places on the other side of the bay, like Port Arthur, Winnie and Beaumont, are being largely ignored right now but are going to get absolutely slammed. I'm afraid a lot of those people didn't get out.

Due to the utter incompetence of the Galveston County Judge and the mayor of the city of Galveston, a lot of people in the bull's eye have not recognized the danger they face and have stayed. It's estimated that half of Galveston's population of 60,000 have stayed. The surge that might hit Galveston could wipe out a lot of those people...as the city itself is already flooded.

ABC-13 is reporting that rescue teams tried to get some people in Surfside Beach whose house is already surrounded by water to leave. They refused. There's very little chance those people will get to change their minds. The authorities looked at each other, shook their heads and asked for their names and social security numbers to inform their next of kin.

Katrina is about to get some company, if not get knocked firmly to the sidelines. This will be a disaster of incredible proportions.

Evacuation Mandatory for Momma Pug North American Headquarters

As I write this I am sitting on my in-laws deck watching Deuce and Ripken run around in the backyard. They are glad its not 4 a.m. and that we are finally out of the car.

At about 8 p.m. last night they called for a full evacuation of Brazoria County, which initially irked the shit out of us because we are literally 500 yards from the Harris County line. After much debate, we decided to not throw caution to hurricane force winds and boarded up the house and headed out to Round Rock at about 1 a.m.

So in the Trailblazer we had Deuce (who refuses to sit in the back), Ripken (who doesn't make nary a peep the entire way), Sonny (who would protest his not sitting in my lap, but kept falling asleep) and Gertrude (who is riding in Deuce's stinky dog carrier.) Now this, my friends, is what you call a perfect storm. Sonny hates Gert. Gert hates Sonny and Deuce. Deuce is an asshole and Ripken hides, and that is pretty much all you need to know about our family dynamic. Basically our traveling as a family unit is akin to trying to diplomatically assign seating at Elizabeth Taylor's wedding reception.

Overall, it was one of our more successful trips -- no one shit themselves (Sonny, anytime he's in the car), or ripped upholstry down from the roof (Ripken attempted this during the Christmas travels of '06) or jumped out the window at a toll booth and tried kill the poor toll worker (Deuce about a month ago).

So Momma Pug North American Headquarters will remail fully operational even in exhile. I plan on spending the day glued to the Weather Channel and hoping our house doesn't get blown off. Normally, I wouldn't be worried, but just before we left Jim Cantore was reporting live from Galveston and that can only mean one thing: We are fucked. Where ever Cantore goes, so does the eye of the storm. Thanks, Jim.

For now I'm going to go drag the dogs inside for a bit and begin my obessive television/weather watching. Good luck to those in Ike's path. We'll be praying for yalls safety and homes too.

Carol Fowler's Comments on Sarah Palin are Unforgivable

Allow me to quote Fowler, the South Carolina Democratic Chairwoman. Fowler said McCain had chosen a running mate "whose primary qualification seems to be that she hasn’t had an abortion.”

As a woman, if you are not offended to the core by that then you a need a lobotomy. I hate politics. Hate it. But when I read things like this it makes me makes me so freaking mad, that I can't contain myself. It makes me wonder if the hatemongering that goes on between us as American women isn't far worse than what the rest of the world throws at us.

And before everyone starts attacking me, you should know that I am pro Choice. While abortion is not something I would personally choose, I don't think anyone should tell us (as women) what we can and can't do to our bodies.

Fowler, you are a sickening creature. How dare you imply that a woman who just gave birth to a special needs child made a bad choice by not terminating the pregnancy. Moreover, how dare you suggest there is something morally wrong with a woman who would rather have a child with a disability rather than take the easy out and ending it's life. To me, that sounds like someone who's selfless and giving – qualities that I would want in a leader.

So forgive me, but I'm not seeing the merit in your argument. Unless you are trying to say that conversely the only requirement for making Hilary (or yourself, for that matter) a democratic vice presidential candidate would be that you HAVE had an abortion. Which wouldn't be that surprising, now would it?

Carol Fowler, I believe in the right to choose, but I also believe that the best part of you ran down your daddy's leg.

Fetal Chicken Egg Syndrome

This weekend the husband and I went to IHOP for some delightful breakfasting. Now if you know me very well, you know that I get ridiculously excited over the prospect of pancakes, but only if they are smothered in Maple syrup. This is one my favorite things. Well, on Sunday morning I decided to throw caution to the wind and instead of buttermilk have apple crisp pancakes with a side of eggs and bacon. As soon as the waitress – a chatty girl named Sissy (seriously) – placed the food before us we dove in.

It wasn't until the last bite of eggs that I suddenly froze in horror. There was absolutely nothing wrong with the food, but I was overcome with panic. I couldn't put that last bit into my mouth. I was disgusted beyond words. So I sat my fork down and tried to assess the situation and determine what it was about the eggs that caused me to freak out. After a few moments of trying to act way cooler than I felt, I decided to not psycho analyze myself in the middle of IHOP and proceeded to forget the egg incident and continue to pancakes. (Side note: They were delish.)

It wasn't until this morning when I was recounting the tale of my irrational egg fear to a coworker (hi Jen) that it hit what had happened. After 23 years a very tramatic memory forced itself to surface. Okay, so stop right there, perverts. No, I was not molested by and egg. No one put an egg up my ass or anything like that. It was far more innocent that anything like that.

I can remember being about five or six and standing in a kitchen chair in my great grandmother's kitchen. We were making a cake, and she was especially good about letting me "help" her with the baking. I was wearing one of Nene's aprons and I was leaning over the edge of the counter cracking eggs into the mixing bowl. I was three eggs in when I noticed that the egg I was holding felt a little heavier, like it was hardboiled. Seeing the apprehension on my face, Nene prompted me to go a head and get to cracking. So I gently smashed the egg into the side of the bowl then held it over to empty the yellow and white contents.

The next few moments played over in my mind like a movie slowed down for dramatic effect. Instead of white and yolk falling from the egg, a fetal chick plunged into the bowl with a small "thump" and a poof of the dry ingredients going into the air. I froze, in horror at the realization that I was looking at a dead baby chicken in the bowl of chocolate batter. When I could move again, I stiffened, screamed and fell backwards to the floor taking the bowl and chicken fetus with me.

And then the memory ends abruptly. I can't remember what Nene did to calm me down or if we finished making the cake. Though I do suspect that if I regained my senses at all, I would have demanded a chick funeral and burial service. So I'm assuming this was just one of many events of my childhood my elders chose to "just not talk about." Besides, I was a fairly sensitive child and I'm pretty sure I chose to instantly repressed that memory, as Easter would have been ruined for me for years to come. And god knows any holiday that allows for costuming, messy egg dying and competitive gaming could NOT be eliminated from my yearly celebrations.

However, I am a very sick person and now that I've recovered this memory I cannot shake the panic that one day I might find another fetal chicken while making an omelet. Twenty-three years later, the fear of this happening a second time is nearly crippling. So to help put my mind at rest, I have spent the majority of the morning doing Internet searches on the current chicken farming industry in the United States. As it turns out, I am at very little risk for getting a chicken fetus now days. Apparently – and I'm not proud of my ignorance – chickens lay eggs even if they don't come into contact it with rooster, thus no fertilization takes place. And this is the case with chicken egg harvesting. They are unfertilized!

And this was very comforting for about ten seconds. Then my research took another unexpected turn. I now am a fan of something called "free range" farming. The conditions that chickens are kept in are deplorable. Many of them never even get to stand up, but instead live their entire lives in wire cages. It seems so cruel to me. So free range means that the chickens live happily out in the open on a farm and have their eggs the way nature intended.

Sounds GREAT, right?

Well, I’m now having a fight between the moral conviction that I believe buying local, free range food is the right way to do business VERSES my overwhelming panic that I might come into contact with a chicken fetus this way. Get it? When chickens are living on a free range farm then its not like they can keep the roosters from breezing in a going after some fowl ass. Thus the chances for fetal chicken egg syndrome to re-occur are greater. So I'm in a fight with myself over which is better: Dealing with yet another phobia or buying a much more environmental and moral product.

Sometimes being THIS crazy can be so tiring.

Getting Blown

So… Hurricane Ike? Is really starting to piss me off.

As luck would have it, this storm is not just the only hurricane of the 2008 with a butch sounding name, but it has targeted Texas for landfall sometime this weekend.

I know it’s a bit early to pack up and evacuate., I’m not doing anything that drastic, but being a coastal rat my entire life I have a finely developed sense for which storms to fear (Katrina) and which to say puhshaw to (Edourdo). Also, I HATE people who are all like: I AM 45 MILES FROM THE OCEAN, WE ARE GOING TO DIE.

I will admit, though, there’s something about Ike that kind of scares me. Perhaps it’s because its name makes me think of Pres. Eisenhower – as in the badass World War II general. I mean, the dude that led the free world’s military defense against the original Axis of Evil has to be one bad mamba jamba. I would seriously not screw with him, as no one wants to be steamrolled by the prevailing force of the greatest war of the last 100 years. Am I right?

And it’s not just a direct hit that concerns me. If Ike were to strengthen and hit a touch south of Houston, then this would put us on the dirty side of his fury. And since Houston LOVES to flood and I LOVE the creature comforts electricity offers, I suspect that if the cone of uncertainly continues to center on the Houston area then Sonny the Pug and I will pack our shit and get the hell out. NOT because it’s a hurricane and we think we are going to die, but because we are fat and do not like to sweat.

Frankly, all this planning ahead for a hurricane that may or may not blow through is a bit exhausting. The husband and father-in-law went to Home Depot to procure a couple of plywood boards tonight. Apparently, the better be prepared would-be hurricane victims had already scooped up all the cheap plywood. Thus the Momma Pug North American Head Quarters will be protected by boards that cost so much that the husband swears they are gold plated. They also will be hooked up to a generator supplying them with 10,000 volts, so looters beware.

The more we sit and talk about it, the less appealing the prospect of driving to Round Rock (hi in-laws!) with three dogs and one disenfranchised cat becomes. If it were up to Gert, we’d tie ourselves to the pillars on the front porch and face that bitch head on. Because THAT would better than her having to ride in a Honda Civic with Sonny the Pug for three hours. Part of me tends to agree.

So as I write – and feverishly stalk the Weather Channel – I am hopeful that Ike will suddenly long for a trip to Cancun. But until we get the all clear the husband will prepare the best way he knows – by nailing up plywood and filling the cars with gas. And I will react the only way I know how – by stacking all our personal treasures up to the ceiling of the back of the car and giving the dogs each half an Ambien for the road trip. Trust me, my disaster planning is important too.

My Friend Jaime' is Kind of a Big Deal

So our dear, dear friend Jaime' (hey James!) is a photographer for a newspaper in Jonesboro, Ark. This weekend he was shooting the Arkansas State University's football team, the Red Wolves, as they took on Texas Southern University's Tigers. ASU beat them into submission 83-10.

Which I really don't give a shit about, except that my friend Jaime' totally rocked out with his cock out and took two photos that were featured in the Houston Chronicle. He's credited as James Byard/AP, and his work was picked up accross the country. I mean literally his photos are in every major publication in the United States today.

Having working intimately with James -- four years ago at the Conroe Courier I was a writer and he was a shutter bug -- let me tell you that he sure has come a long way from photographing twin cows born on Valentines Day named Val and Tina. (I'm not even kidding a little bit.) And while Jaime's work has always been spectacular, its good to see him finally get the recognition he deserves.

One day I will be saying: Hey, that famous photographer James Byard. Yeah, he's totally one of my best friends. In fact, he's such a close friend that he took our family portrait for us -- probono, of course. And yes, I am the owner of the original print of his famous photo Two Cows, One Cup.

Seriously, James, I am so proud of you there just aren't words.

Just a thought...

Is Bristol Palin Juneau's Juno?

Stirring the Pot

Okay, so I'm not in the business of using Pug Off to push a political agenda, and I’m not prepared to start now. However, I do want to talk a little bit about something that has me absolutely transfixed – the VP candidacy of Sarah Palin.

To be clear, I do not really consider myself a member of either party. Just for the sake of full disclosure, I will say that a lot of my views align with Libertarian principals. Alas, this isn't a perfect world – all though sometimes people forget that its the best we got -- so I choose to vote for candidates that make the most sense to me personally.

Back a few months ago before things were decided, I was backing Rudy Guilliani. (And not just because I've met him and made him take a picture with me.) Rudy is more socially liberal and I can identify with that. I also happen to think Barak Obama is too inexperienced for the presidency. And, in my opinion, if its between him and John McCain, I'm probably going to lean more toward the elder gentleman. But that's just my opinion, and we all know what orifice opinions are likened to, so lets leave it at that.

What really intrigues me about this election, though, is how polarizing of a figure Sarah Palin has become. She is a former beauty queen from Alaska who married her high school sweet heart, has a special needs child and is about to be a grandmother to a bastard. All of these things make her an easy target. Bloggers are criticizing everything from her lack of experience to the way her hair is styled. She's a bad mother, some have written. Look at what politics have done to her family so far, they've said. She's McCain's trophy work-wife, they chide. Hell, she might be all of those things, I don't know. I'm not married to her and she's not my mother.

I do know that its not a far stretch to think she's in over head and that perhaps McCain should have chosen someone with less baggage. She's an easy target and she's taken so many hits that I swear she is made of Kevlar. In fact, there are many, many things I disagree with her on. (I'm pro-choice, for example.) And yet I find myself wanting defend this woman based on the reasons people are choosing to attack her. It all comes down to this: If she had a dick, no one would be saying anything about her abandoning her family to run off on the campaign trail.

Because of this, Palin has become representative of so much more than just the second woman to run for vice president. Women all over this country are paying attention. They are speaking out. They have opinions and they are sharing them. And this is the first time in so long that I've seemed women riled up and ready for a confrontation – be it for or against Palin.

Unlike so many other strong women (Hilary, I'm looking at you), Sarah Palin has gotten us talking, ladies. Love her or hate her, that is a big deal.
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Not political enough? Read the Aggie's thoughts on the matter.

Hey! We Resemble That Remark!

Wardrobe Malfunctions

This morning I overslept by about 15 minutes. You wouldn't think it, but 15 minutes makes a huge difference when you are running like a wild woman through your bedroom trying to remember to put makeup and deodorant on, find matching shoes and socks, and brush your hair and teeth. Now that I am trying to be environmentally conscious and have a carpool buddy (Hi Dave!), its even more imperative that I get myself together and out the door on time, lest I make him late too. On my best days I'm kind of like the Tazmanian Devil whirling through the house – the Aggie trying jump out of my path so he doesn't risk becoming part of my swath of destruction. So you can imagine how I fall apart when unforeseen, yet regular, wardrobing problems occur. Like when buttons pop off or zippers jump track, jewelry (that I have mentally planned your outfit around) disappears or a wayward strand of hair insists on making me look like Alfalfa's long lost sister.

Today it was a sizing issue. Every woman in American knows what that means. But for the men out there reading I'll explain: It’s a phenomenon that occurs when you are putting on familiar item of clothing (usually a staple of your wardrobe) and discover that something has happened in the last week to cause that article to no longer fit. Sometimes it’s a skirt that won't fit over our hips. Sometimes it's dress pants that suddenly give a giant camel toe. Sometimes item is just too small all the way around and requires we lay down flat on the bed and suck in our breath before the zipper will go up. Now, the sane part of us knows that this is probably just a water weight gain – a natural fluctuation. However, other 99 percent of our brain screams OH MY GOD YOU FAT ASS YOU HAVE GAINED MORE WEIGHT. Guess which part we listen to?

Rarely (and I can't express how rarely, but it's rare-rare) you run across the anti-phenomenon: Clothing that is unexplainably too big. Now, while this seems on the surface like a great problem to have, the timing of such an event can reek holy havoc on your morning routine. And that is precisely what happened to me today. I had pulled out a brand new pair of black gouchos to wear to work today. I had tried them on two days ago in the store and paid – brace yourself -- $2.95 for them. They fit like a glove. It was smart, useful purchase. Needless to say I was pretty excided about wearing my $3 pants. Imagine my surprise when I pull them up over my hips and they FALL RIGHT BACK OFF and puddle around my ankles on the floor. I was so shocked that I tried three more times to pull them up and force them to stay on my hips, but it was no use. They were huge on me – way too big. Like I could put them on and Cirque du Sole could still hold their matinee in those pants.

Thus the tone for my morning was set. I hurried, picked out something else to wear – another of my bargain finds, a $3 navy blue shirt. I paired it with my brown slacks, slipped the first matching pair of brown shoes I could find and quickly hurried out the door to meet my carpool ride. Then the morning progressed as usual. I went to work, did my job things, met with folks about projects, discussed upcoming deadlines, etc. I had dealt with about 10 people, most of who are colleuges or my superiors. When I had a spare second I ran to the ladies room and when I walked by my reflection I noticed that something wasn't quite right. I stood there staring at myself, adjusting stray hairs and smoothing out my lip-gloss. It took a full minute of staring at myself before I realized what seemed odd: My shirt appeared to be inside out.

Since the shirt was a new item I couldn't remember if it was one of those shirts with the seams on the outside so I reached behind my neck to feel where the tag would be. To my horror, my fingers grazed what was clearly the sizing tag, hanging out for the world to see. I had – for four hours – not only been wearing my clothing inside out but also broadcasting the reality of my largeness to all my coworkers. The only comfort I have is that my hair is long and was down, thus shielding my stupidity to some extent.

I think it says a lot about me that I'm way more upset over the folks I work with seeing what size I wear than being embarrassed that I went all over campus with my shirt inside out. Also this is yet another thing I need to add to my daily checklist before leaving the house in the morning. It will go right after "take happy pills" but right before "don't forget keys."

A Letter To Preemie Donna

Dear Preemie Donna:

Its Labor Day and you are not supposed to be born yet. A hurricane with a stupid, French name has just barreled through New Orleans, which is ironic because it was a hurricane that got us into this mess to begin with. Three years ago a ruthless bitch of a hurricane named Katrina took everything your momma and daddy had -- their jobs, their home, everything. A month later they washed up on the shores of Houston and our friendship was reborn. At the time of my writing this, I've known your mother a decade and she is more than a friend to me, Preemie Donna. She is my sister and I love her in the same way you will come to your sisters. It's a love that will take you years to fully understand and appreciate. You see, mother-daughter and sister-sister love are things that requires a bit of balancing. There will be times in your life when you want to kill your mother. This will be a special bond we share -- loving her so much and yet wanting to break her in half so badly. In the end, however, we will both surrender to her powers and charms. This a weakness she knows we have and will use against. And even though we realize it we will still fall under her spell. Because, dear Preemie Donna, that is how we roll.

As I write this, you are nestled into your "baby box" at Women's Hospital. You are growing like a weed, a very cute, cuddly weed. Every day your momma and daddy go to visit you, no matter if it keeps them from getting home until late at night. Without exception they come to you, to love and tell you they can't wait until you can come home. Apparently, you have taken these words to heart, surpassing all expectations. Two days ago your doctor tells us you will be coming home soon -- perhaps only a week from now. Your mommy was so excited when she called with the news she was nearly crying from happiness. A week, she says! A week! We'd thought it would be at least another month. But no, Preemie Donna, if there is one thing that we have learned about you thus far it is that YOU OPERATE ON YOUR OWN FUCKING SCHEDULE. So it shouldn't have surprised us when they said you were ready a full month early, but it did because - and this is something else to learn about us -- we don't always catch on quick.

It was a Saturday afternoon and your mommy and I were talking about all that had to be done before you can come home. After plans were made and the excitement settled to a roar, a strange thought hit us: THIS IS IT. Go-time was upon us. I know, I know, we really don't catch on fast, do we? I mean, how much more warning than two months of you in the NICU did we need? It's just that we were all so afraid something horrible would happen. You weighed two pounds for Christ's sake! TWO FREAKING FOUNDS. So we went one day at time, focusing on the sure things. Like when you would gain an ounce. That was something real to us. We could see you were getting better, bigger and stronger. But none of us were prepared for you being an uberbaby. "Nails." That is the nickname your incredible attitude and will to be earned you. You, a little two-pound creature, were tough as nails. So there we were -- completely excited, a bit unready and totally terrified that you were about to make your official arrival home. This is something that we will celebrate with a great party. There will be cake and punch and booze. (Again, this is how we roll.)

But on this particular Saturday that we were told you were ready. Nails is ready. We decided that we should go out and celebrate your homecoming in a grand way -- by going to a local Texas honky tonk-style establishment and watching a Hawaiian Tropics bikini contest. Which, your mother will tell you, only added to our excitement. We were basically as hopped up on life as possible. Nails was coming home and we were going to celebrate it by drinking copious amounts of Ziegenbock and heckling scantly-clad trashy women.

Thus our stories beings...

It was about 9 p.m. Saturday night and we couldn't stop talking about your homecoming. If fact, I had switched seats so I could sit with your mother and discuss you in great detail. Your mom and I had our heads together, laughing like insane women when a young man approached our table. He was about 21 or 22 and wore a University of Houston had backwards. His collars were popped and he wore flip flops. By the time you read this, Nails, I'm not sure if these things will still indicate anything, but in 2008 it should have told us that this dude was a frat boy douche bag. But you see, Auntie Momma Pug was so excited about you and so enthralled in conversation with your mother that I didn't really notice these things that closely. If I did, I was too happy for any significance to register. So, I innocently turned to this gentleman and listened while he began verbally assaulting me.

With a look of sheer honesty, this guy asked me: "Excuse me, but are you going to be in the contest?"

"What?" I asked. We had been talking and I had forgotten all about the Hawaiian Tropics girls.

He repeated himself, still with an earnest look on his face: "Are you going to be participating in the bikini contest? Because I am interested to that."

Nails, by the time you read this I hope that you won't understand why this line of questioning is so offensive. Hopefully I will have lost my excess weight and no longer be the butt of stupid frat boy jokes. I like to think you'll read this, then look toward me in amazement and be all like: BUT MOMMA PUG YOU ARE SUCH A HOTTIE, WHY DIDN'T YOU ENTER. And then we'll laugh and look at old pictures that show the old me -- the 100 pounds overweight me. Yes, I choose to think that is how the ending of this story will turn out. With you asking who's that fat lady that looks remotely like Momma Pug and your momma saying: WATCH IT KID, WE DON'T USE THAT F-WORD.

But I digress.

I am fat and perhaps I had opened myself up to it, as I was attending a bikini contest. But, Nails, another thing we will teach you is that EVERYONE deserves respect. And that no one likes a party pooper. These two pieces of advice will carry you far in life. This dude in question was both disrespectful and a party pooper. I can remember glancing up to see his friends looked horrified and that shocked me. They were looking at me and your mom as if to say: PLEASE FORGIVE US, WE JUST MET HIM AND HE IS OUR RIDE SO WE DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO.

Your mother was the only one close enough to figure out what was going on. And you should have seen the rage that washed over her face when she realized I was being made fun of by this piece of human shit. Now, Nails, you will learn that I do not let other people dictate how I feel about myself or affect my self esteem. This is something I will try very hard to instill in you. But on this particular night this young man managed to do something few rarely do -- he deflated me, knocked me and stood there strangling my pride to death. I sat stunned, but your mother was having none of it. She quickly informed your uncle, the Aggie, and your father that I was being accosted. Your uncle came across the table in my defense. Your father grabbed the bar manager. And you mother -- god bless her -- screamed at the top of her lungs: YOU ARE A PENCIL DICKED FUCKFACE! YOU HAVE NO PENIS. NO PENIS AT ALL!

This is something else you will learn -- if you wish to insult a man, tear apart the size of his genitals publicly. No matter his level of self-assurance, he will be hurt by this. Also, it's only affective if used sparingly, lest you become known as She Who Throws Dick Insults Carelessly.

So your mother, in the defending of my honor, slung an entire to bar to a halt. Drinks were brought to us. Tempers soothed. The gentleman, expelled. Or so we thought. A bit later your uncle would run into him in the bathroom and threaten him to within an inch of his life. And the dude would return to his table with an adjusted attitude. And your father would never say much about it. Just observe and make sure your mother didn't claw anyone eye's out because she can't go to the clink if you are coming home in a few days.

And so there we were -- four people sitting in a bar, drinking our dark beers and engaging in what is probably our last bar-fight. The next morning we woke up glad it was over. Glad of the life we were leaving behind. It was a like a sign from God that said: HEY GUYS, THINGS ARE CHANGING AND YOU ARE READY FOR IT. STOP ACTING LIKE YOU'RE IN COLLEGE. IT'S UNBECOMING. Nothing has ever felt so strange yet so right. Our lifestyles fluctuating and our future becoming clear.

It's Labor Day and you aren't supposed to be born yet, much less coming home. It was just a month ago I spent the night with your mother in the hospital as she cried and moaned in pain and fear, having just had you ripped from her prematurely and been told she was sick, very sick. Something happened that day that changed us all. We were suddenly human -- delicate creatures, easily broken and no longer 20-years-old and immortal. The fact is that we weren't ready at all. Not one bit. Just the day before your mom helped with a surprise birthday party for me. Your mother wore a crimson shirt that tied in the back and she was weepy and pale. Something was wrong but we couldn't see it. She'd been damaged since that first storm and not at all herself -- we never considered it might be something physical, much less diabetes. And the reality of it is that by coming when you did you saved her life. And we got our shit together. So I suppose what I'm trying to say is that we are ready Preemie Donna. Now we are ready and we can't wait to really meet you. The question is: Are you ready for us?