Boo :(

We've been waiting for our first trick or treater for an hour.

None has arrived.

Last year, we had about 300 kids. Seriously. We ran out of candy and had to shut down early, and Sonny the Pug was PISSED. He LOVES trick or treating because he LOVES little kids. We always dress him up and let him give out candy. He's always a huge hit. This year, the Aggie and I LOADED UP on supplies, anticipating the same sort of turnout. We spent $35 on candy this afternoon. And now no one is coming!

Sonny the Pug has even shrugged out of his Halloween bandanna and is shaking it violently. I know how he feels.

Damn, kids. They don't know what they're missing. I don't give out crap candy. We only give out the really good stuff. You'd think I have one of those "no candy here/sexual predator" signs in my yard.

I won't forget this, children. No, you'll rue the day you didn't trick or treat at Momma Pug's.

Spirit Sticks

Lets talk about my friend Al. We went to college together, and he is one of my most favorite people in the whole wide world.

Al and I are very, very different people. He's a boy and I’m a girl. He's a skinny nerd and I'm a fat dork. He's liberal and I'm conservative. He's musically inclined and I cannot carry a tune in a bucket. He's a Yankee and I’m a Southern Belle. In fact, Al and I have absolutely nothing in common, except that we went to college together and lived in the same dorm.

Despite all those differences we are friends and we still genuinely like each other. And do you know why? Because we have something binding us stronger than diverse origins, political beliefs and talents. Al and I survived the undergraduate experience together and that creates a really strong bond. I think it's like surviving a plane crash with each other. You do what you gotta to you make it down that snow-covered mountain alive. As fate would have it, Al and I made it through the initial impact alive and after four or five days of starving, together we chose which crash victim to eat first.

That's how college bonds people. Even years later after we've recovered and moved on with our lives, we still find ourselves unexplainably tied to the few who shared those experiences with us. We know things no one else does about each other. Think of all the giant mistakes we made or terrific accomplishments that we experienced together. That was the time in our lives that defined our futures. The choices we made set in motion our very existence today.

And I don't know about you, but I sure am glad photos exist to document those mistakes:

PHOTO REMOVED BY REQUEST (SORRY AL!)

Oh, Al, I'm not sure how you're going to react to this. Part of me thinks you'll think it is the funniest piece of photography ever taken. Then you'll go through every image file on your hard drive until you find something of equal comedic value that I've done. The other part of me – the part of me that knows you're a grown up now and an honest-to-god professor at a top university is screaming in my ear. It's saying: HE WILL TAKE YOUR LIFE IN RETALIATION, BITCH. Before you drive to Houston and kill me, Al, you should probably know Everette was the one who shared this with me. It's entirely his fault that I couldn't resist the urge to put in on the World Wide Web. He knows I'm weak.

Also, please know that I'm sorry that I'm not a better person and that I can't help but share this. I really, really wish I weren't such an asshole. You are a wonderful friend and you deserve better. You know, I think I could have resisted posting this, if it weren't for your pose. I mean, you are totally selling me on the outfit. You make me BELIEVE that you are the peppiest goddamned cheerleader EVER. That kind of spirit just can't be held back. It must be shared with the world.

Give me an A!
Give me an L!
What does that spell?
Al!
Al!
Al!
Goooooooo Al!

The Mystery of the Vanishing Steak

My husband made a terrific dinner last night - mashed potatoes, green beans and grilled flank steak. I knew it smelled absolutely wonderful. Even the husband knew he'd done well, having cooked each item to perfection. I was sitting at the kitchen table cutting up bananas, apples and grapes for a fruit salad. My back was turned to the oven, as I sliced the fruit. The husband had stepped away for a moment to check the score of some game that was blaring on the television. As he was about to walk back into the kitchen, my father-in-law arrived home. They stood briefly in the living room swapping the pleasantries before entering the kitchen where I sat alone with my bowl of fruit, a cutting board and slightly dull knife. My husband's eyes met mine in what can only be described as a panic.

"What happened to the steak!" he exclaimed.

I turned to see the platter still sitting on the countertop, minus the four generous cuts of meat he had just prepared. A puddle of dark brown au jus was all that remained on the dish. Quickly, the husband began scouring the kitchen for the missing meat. He looked in the microwave and oven. He even opened the refrigerator, but his ministrations were to no avail. The steak was gone.

Realizing that he hadn't moved the steak, the husband's mind started wandering to other possibilities. Had someone broken into the house? Perhaps a homeless person been so overcome by the delicious smell permeating from our kitchen that he slipped in through the sliding glass door and napped our meat? Nothing made sense. Nothing seemed probable or possible. We all stood in silence for a few moments, waiting for an answer to appear to us. Again, the husband broke the silence:

"RIPKEN!!!" he screamed. "GODDAMNITRIPKEN!!!"

Our big fuzzy dog had magically disappeared from the kitchen. In fact, all three of our dogs were laying low. Instantly, things became very clear. As the realization swept over us, our eyes darted to the floor in search of traces of our missing dinner. Next to the stove there was the slightest smear of beef juice. Apparently, the husband had walking as the perpetrators were cleaning up the crime scene. The criminals were forced to flee before they were finished disposing of evidence.

We found our giant, fur ball in the living room, lounging between the couch and the wall. Rip's stomach was pouched out slightly and he actually burped in his sleep. Sonny the Pug lay nearby - traces of steak tucked neatly in the flaps of skin on his face. Deuce was sat on the edge of the couch and concentrated on being very, very still. Surprisingly, he looked totally innocent. I sat down next to him and he couldn't resist giving me kisses. His breath smelled of marinated flank steak. Ripken might have been the instigator, but he certainly did not act alone.

Just as rage was about to force my husband to spontaneously combust, my father-in-law suggested we bag it and grab some fast food. Ten minutes later we were at Chi-Fil-A.

"Do you know what really burns me up?" the husband asked.

"What?" I said.

"Ripken has such a sensitive stomach. You know that he's going to get diarrhea from eating all that steak," he said. "And I WILL BE THE ONE TO CLEAN IT UP! That's just adding insult to injury."



(Click on the image for a larger version.)

Vote Pug

In The Catagory of More Time And Money Than Brains

From our friends in Austin at the local NBC affiliate KXAN.com:

I couldn't give a lesser fart about this ladies political beliefs, but painting her grass for either candidate is simply nuts. If I was her neighbor it would really piss me off that she spray painted her entire yard. You can tell from her house that she lives in an upscale neighborhood, which are notorious for enforcing deed restrictions. Even in my little middle class subdivision we get nasty letters taped to our door that say stuff like CUT YOUR GRASS NOW! or YOUR SIDE WALK HAS A WEED! A WEED! or YOUR GARBAGE CANS ARE TOO CLOSE TO THE STREET! Then they threaten to sue us into submission and tell us to have a nice day. So, seriously, how has she not gotten any shit from her homeowners association? And has she even considered what that paint will do to her yard! She used spray paint. Spray paint! That's just going to kill the grass and what will she be left with then? An ugly, dead crop circle that looks vaguely like a peace sign. Her reasoning for do doing this? People were stealing her signs. Really, lady? My street has signs up for both McCain and Obama and I've yet to see a single act of sign theft, defacing or destruction. She strikes me as a tremendous dumbass.

FULL STORY

Dressing It Up

My morning started with my inability to find a single item of clothing in my closet that I didn't absolutely hate. Stuff that I love to wear all the time suddenly either didn't fit or was dirty or missing. An hour of negotiating with my wardrobe ended in a stalemate, which left me completely blind with rage. If I could have set my clothes on fire, I would have. Smartly, the Husband stores the lighter fluid and blowtorch out of my reach. Finally, after my will was crushed by a pair of black pants that wouldn't go over my hips, I settled on a green dress with wild blue and teal flowers.

The first time I wore this particular dress was to the baccalaureate service that accompanied my high school graduation more than 10 years ago. It was one of two presentable dresses I was able to take with me to college, and I have kept it not only because of the memories I attach to it, but because its one of those pieces that is always in style.

It's accompanied through some of the most significant moments of my life. I wore it when I received won top honors at the Southern Literary Festival and to a banquet where I received a writing scholarship. Five years ago I had this dress on when I told my then-boyfriend that has no choice but to marry me because was in love with him and I said so. There is hand stitching in the shoulders and bust where great-grandmother altered the dress for me. She's been gone many, many years now, but every time I put it on I think of her and feel like she's with me.

Today I'm wearing a new bright blue cardigan with it. The bosom is definitely more snug than it was a decade ago and the color must have faded a bit since then, but for the life of me I can't tell. It feels just as good as it did then, and I'm just as confident that I look good when I wear it now as I did in high school.

I suppose its human nature to be surrounded by so many new, wonderful things, but still return to that which we have relied for so long. That dress is like certain people in my life – Madge, my husband and family -- they never, ever fail to be there and they always fit perfectly.



We might not be perfect, but we're perfect for each other.

My Maserati Goes 185*

My good friend (hi Jenn!) and I were talking about addiction yesterday. Before I go any further, I suppose I should say that I don't drink, smoke or do drugs. That's not to say I have always been such an angel. After all, everything has a time and a place and for me that was college. For me, college was five years – yes, it took me an extra year – of too much fun and not enough studying. I can honestly say I never applied myself once. Not a single time. I always just breezed by, even if it was with a C, I just didn't care. I did what I had to do to finish up – and not a thing more. All that NOT caring left a lot of room for other extracurricular activities. And boy, let me tell you, I was what you would consider "committed" to those out-of-classroom endeavors.

Not only was I self-destructive, but also I was also very, very good at bringing company on my road trip to drunken revelry. Many a good roommate has woken up the morning after wondering: "What the hell did I do last night?" And I would always say, "I don't know, but we go get my film developed I bet we can figure it." Then a stop at the one-hour-photo later we're sitting in the parking lot saying things like:

"When did we drive to the beach?"

"Who's that guy in the sombrero?"

"Why did I take my pants off?"

You get the idea. We were fun, young and completely stupid. I was almost always the instigator, though I prefer to think of myself as the "events coordinator." And trust me, as such I was very dedicated to my work. Documentary evidence supports these statements. I give you myself and Tree with the once quazi-famed rapper Afroman:

Now you look at that picture – us with wet hair and squinty eyes -- and tell me if you think anything good could have possibly came from the activities that let up to that snapshot.

Lucky for my moral soul, I met my husband five years ago and settled down considerably. He was the straight arrow and I was an apple sitting onto of the assistant's head – once he pierced me that was it. I was suddenly still, unexpectedly calm. I felt like the thirst from a lifetime of restlessness was suddenly quenched. When those things inside me were relaxed, I no longer felt the need to burn a hole through every bar in the world. My needs shifted in ways I never knew were possible. I think all those years of being rowdy and tanked were my trying to fill up a space inside of me that felt so utterly empty. Something was missing. For some people I think its having a purpose. For others it's religion or work or children. For me it was having someone who understood me on every level – and actually liked what he saw.

This might be a load of shit – but I truly believe that most sane people engage in certain types of behavior for a reason. I don't think I partied like it was 1999 just because I liked getting loaded and puking in the bushes (hi Megan!). I think there was something missing and that lifestyle fulfilled it to a certain extent. You see, I come from a long line of people with addictive personalities. And, well, you can't exactly swim too far out of the gene pool, if you know what I mean.

Even now that I don't have to fill that personal void, there are other things I compensate for. Now this is going to come as a gigantic bit of irony to everyone who knew me when I was a student, but I am something of a workaholic. The husband and I were discussing this last night. I was telling him that I dedicate 110 percent of myself to my professional endeavors. I'm fiercely loyal. I make sure things are done correctly and if they aren't working right, then make sure they are fixed. Even if it happens during a personal trip, Christmas dinner or a hurricane evacuation. I don't work 9 to 5. I work 7:30 to 4, then when I get home I work some more. Don't misunderstand this. I'm no martyr. I do what I do because I love it and because I'm pretty darn good at it.

This is just such a change for me. I used to be focused on other things – I was more self-oriented, I suppose. Now I don't take care of the personal needs I should in favor of being devoted to work or family or friends. I'm very, very bad at addressing problems within myself. It seems that I am the one thing I can't seem to fix. And for someone who is problem solver by nature, this is VERY hard to come to terms with. So I don't. I just distract myself instead. Eventually distraction morphs into its stoned older cousin – addiction. My current addiction of choice is food and books. Sometimes enjoy these activities together, but they are not mutually exclusive. It's as simple as I like to eat and read, and I do both equally well. I read about three books a week, which gets expensive when you think about what the average book costs. That's like $1800 a year on books. ON BOOKS!

And what about the food? Well, I refuse to even attempt to calculate the amount of money that I have spent on various forms of chocolate.

That old saying is true: Men, chocolate and wine -- some thing are just better rich.


*Bonus points if you got the title. And, yes. Life's been good to me so far.

Why Fat People Shouldn't Sing On Cheaply-Made Coffee Tables

Week before last, I fell off a tram in Arlington National Cemetery. I'm pretty sure it was funny because my own mother laughed at me until she nearly wet herself. Don't misunderstand, it wasn't like she laughed WITH me. No, no, no, she laughed before she could even ask me if I was okay. However, I begrudge her not, as uncontrollably laughing at someone falling is a genetic defect the women in our family suffer from. Immediately after she stopped her initial laughing fit and made sure I was all right was call my father at work and try to tell him about my fall off the tram backwards. But she couldn't get the story out because she'd started laughing so hard again that she couldn't breathe, much less talk, so I had to tell my dad about how I wiped out. But because I am my mother's daughter I got the giggles so bad I couldn't finish what we were trying to tell him either. Not only do we laugh at the misfortune of others, but also sometimes our on.

Since I'd been the "victim" of such a myriad of falls, lets refocus that embarrassment to others, shall we. I find what I'm posting here is a particularly nice fall because the girl is trying to show off her bitching singing skills, standing what clearly is NOT a stable piece of furniture AND upon hitting the ground there is considerable rooting around on the floor and moaning. Bonus points for her being heavy. Fat people generally are more funny when they fall. Its just a fact.

The Crazies

I was just over at my dear friend Madge's blog. She wrote about depression today, and how going off the Crazy pills cold turkey is a bad idea. Poor thing! Girls, we all sympathize with her don't we? Because – and I'm being totally honest here -- those of us that suffer from a case of the chronic Crazies have all been in Madge's shoes. For one reason or another we have a lapse in judgment and think we don't need the Crazy pills anymore or either we have a mishap and forget to take them or pick up our refill. And then IT happens. If you don't know what IT is, then you clearly don't have a real, deep case of the Crazy. If you do know what I'm talking about, then you're sitting there shaking your head and thinking of the last time you went off the meds. (Also, I'm betting there's a 30 percent chance that your last episode corresponded with a holiday of some form. Christmas is the holiday of choice to go batshit in my family. That's why I have a special, enhanced version of the Crazy pills. I call it the Holiday Dose.)

But, as I am one to do, I digress.

While I've got your attention and before the voices in my head start distracting me, I'd like to share with you my last bout with forgetting to take my Crazy pills. It's not something I've written about before, but I think enough time has passed that rage and nutso behavior that accompanies the memory of this event has subsided. It was just a little over three years ago. The husband and I had just been married a few months and we were getting used to living in Houston. Our dear friends were staying with us after they lost their home in Hurricane Katrina. Everyone's lives were a bit upside down. Emotions were high as it was and on this particular day – Oct. 9, 2005 – I forgot to take my Crazy pills.

I remember the date so clearly because it was the final game in the National League Championship series. The Houston Astros were playing the Atlanta Braves in game that would go down in history because of its 18 innings. The Aggie and I were originally supposed to go to the game the night before, but because of a ticket mix up we ended up going a day later – and to what had become a much more important game. We were rushed getting ready in time to make it for an earlier first pitch than we'd realized and in my scurrying around I forgot to take my meds. I didn't realize this, of course, until it was an hour later and the Aggie and I had pulled over into an empty parking garage to yell at each other. I don't recall about what, but I do remember saying things completely ridiculous like: YOU DON'T LOVE ME! And WHY DID YOU MARRY SUCH AN UGLY PERSON! You know, things that there is NO right response to.

Eventually we made it to the game and I'd settled down a bit. The Aggie was walking on eggshells trying to appease the beast that is my Crazy. He was doing everything perfect – offering me the better of the two phenomenal seats, going to get me a Diet Coke every two seconds, fanning me with the program, etc. He was doing so good – so perfect – until he went to grab us a snack. He made the mistake of bringing us back footlong hotdogs. Instantly I wrinkled my nose and the color drained from his face. You'd thought he had just served me shit on a platter of turds. The poor man remained optimistic as he tried to hand me the offending hotdog. Rather than take it from him, I pushed him away, causing him to dump is $7 beer and screeched: YOU DON'T KNOW ME AT ALL. I HATE HOT DOGS! Which isn't even a true statement, people. But in that moment I believe I hated them and that my husband had just tried to hurt my feelings by offering me a wiener.

You could say that things were pretty low for us at this point. The Astros were in a slump and it looked like they were going to lose, I was a basket case and the poor Aggie was just beside himself. What had seemed like such a good idea and fun adventure had taken a horrible turn. What's worse is the Astros weren't just going ahead and dying gracefully. No! They were hanging on, gripping wildly toward survival. I began hoping they'd just hurry up and walk toward the light, if you know what I mean. Finally in the 16th inning my butt hurt so bad from sitting for what felt like 12 hours, that I demanded my husband take me home. When I made this request, a hush fell around us. People were all looking at me as if to say NO! DON'T MAKE HIM LEAVE. THIS IS CRUEL, EVEN FOR YOU. But because I had the Crazies, I just ignored the pleas of the entire ballpark and whined until the Aggie agreed to take me home.

As we walked the three or four blocks to the truck, the Aggie stopped suddenly when he heard the roar of fans from inside stadium. Something BIG had just happened and we'd just MISSED it because of ME. All the steadiness he'd managed to possess that entire day drained out of him. As our eyes locked I couldn't tell if he wanted to hug me, hit me or simply cry. Yet – and again I stress this was because of the Crazies – I ignored the warning signs and found it physically impossible to KEEP MY MOUTH SHUT. I said something to the effect of, "Babe, my legs are really hurting are we close to the car?" But it didn't come out like that. It came out like this: OH MY GOD, I AM IN TERRIBLE AGONY AND ITS ALL YOUR FAULT, YOUR HORRIBLE MEAN MAN! HOW MUCH FURTHER TO THE TRUCK IS IT. I DON’T THINK I WILL MAKE IT! SEE, I TOLD YOU WE SHOULD HAVE LEFT SOONER. WHY ARE WE STILL HERE? YOU DON’T REALLY KNOW ME DO YOU!? AND YOU DON'T REALLY CARE ABOUT ME EITHER?!?!

I don't really remember his response. I think I've blacked it out. It was the start of one of the worse fights of our marriage. And now that I’m fully medicated again I can honestly say: IT WAS ALL MY FAULT. The Crazies made me do it. The Aggie was so angry that by the time we got to the car and learned that the Astros had won by a walkoff homer from Brad Ausmus, he didn't even care anymore. I had just taken him away from one of the most historically significant games in baseball and there just weren't words to express this. We sat in silence for a moment as he tried to calm himself down enough to drive us home. And yet again I couldn't just SHUT UP. I had to have the last word, which turned out to be something along the lines of: JEEZ WHY ARE YOU SO MAD IT WAS JUST A STUPID BASEBALL GAME. Which caused my husband to slam in truck in reverse and rather than back out slowly careen wildly into the while Cadillac parked behind up.

Perfect. The perfectly crappy ending to a perfectly shitastic day. For the first time my super honest/super moral husband's life, he made a decision that probably saved my life. He simply put the truck in drive and drove away ignoring the damage to the car. (It was none to speak of, by the way. Just a small dent on the already dented fender. Plus they were illegally parked, so don't send us too much hate mail.)

As we drove home in silence, my husband reached over and took my hand. Then he uttered one question so softly that you'd had to listen carefully to hear it: "You didn't take your medicine today did you?"

"No," I admitted. "I forgot."

"Babe, don’t ever fucking to do that again, " he replied, squeezing my hand. Then he turned his attention back to the road and we hurried home.

And do you know what? I haven't ever fucking done that again.

A List of Couples Halloween Costume Ideas That My Husband Has Rejected

I take pride in making my costumes authentic and from scratch. My best effort ever was my 2005 rendition of Strawberry Shortcake. I actually won a real honest-to-god costume contest with that one. That year, the Aggie went as a fighter pilot, as he refused to dress as a fellow member of the Strawberry Shortcake universe. It violated Rule Number Four on his list of Things That Are Deal Breakers In Regards To Costuming.

The list includes:

1. No tights. (This includes but is not limited to ballet dancers, Robin Hood and super heroes that don spandexy type material.)

2. Nothing controversial. (This especially includes politics, religion and race.)

3. Nothing fruity. (As in literal fruit, drag or most cartoon characters for small children.)

4. Nothing that will make going to the bathroom or sitting down difficult or impossible.

5. No skirts, dresses or clothing that might be mistaken in dim lighting by a drunken reveler as feminine. (Such as kilts, togas or monk frocks.)

6. No face paint.

7. No wigs. (Unless it’s a manly wig. Hairpieces – such as mullets – are SLIGHTLY more acceptable.)

As if that's not hard enough to work with, he's added another rule.

8. Nothing Biblical.

Which you might be thinking: Now, Momma Pug, why is this an issue? Why would he add such a rule?

Maybe because I tried to convince him as Jesus and I as a pregnant Mary Magdalene (as in the theory from the DaVinci Code.) I thought it was BRILLIANT. He thought it was BLASPHEMOUS.

Other ideas he has already reject include:

Sara Palin and Barak Obama – Him in drag and me in black face. (Violates rule numbers 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and 7. I challenged two of those rule violations but he claims makeup is considered face paint and that having to wear pantyhose would make going to the bathroom difficult.)

Pregnant Nun and Dirty Priest – No gender identity issues here. Me as the nun, him as the priest. (Violates rule numbers 2, 5 and 8.)

Raggedy Anne and Raggedy Andy – Okay, after investigating this further, I agree with him that it is a bad idea. (Violates 1, 3,6, and 7.)

Elvis and a Peanut Butter and Banana sandwich – He claimed this one was "too obscure." So I lobbied for Elvis and a Pill Bottle, and though he proclaimed it a "better take" on the idea, he stood firm on not insulting the memory of the King.

Dayman, from Its Always Sunny in Philidelphia – Violates every rule except 8.

So we've settled on Charlie Brown and Lucy.



I know what you're thinking: Oddly appropriate. Right?

Wild Things

Hi! Its me again, the Annie Leibovitz of down-home-country-landscape photography. I've gotten lots of emails wondering I was serious when I claimed to have taken the shots of Cades Cove in the Smokey Mountains National Park. Firstly, YES, either the Aggie or I took ALL the photos. And secondly, REALLY is it so hard to imagine that my talents stretch farther than surly comments and photos of my pug??? I took those damn pictures and I’m proud of them. So there, you doubters. Let your hearts be still and know that those are all Momma Pug and Aggie Originals.

As far as the photo of the two deer together, I think my dear friend Everette summed that up pretty well with his comment:

The two deer photos look like the scene right before the video you see on "When Animals Attack!"

Funny you should mention it, Everette. In fact, I opted to SIT IN THE CAR whle the Aggie and Mamaw Pug walked up to the deer. At first there was just the larger fellow on the right. He was just hanging out doing what bucks do – chilling and eating grass. Then he suddenly became alert, not because of humans. No, no, no. Takes more than a pesky tourist with a camera to get those deers' attention.

Mr. Buck Number One had spotted Mr. Buck Number Two about 50 yards away and being the larger of the two animals, he decided to waltz up to the smaller dude and be all like HEY, MAN, WHAT UP? WHY YOU SNIFFING AROUND IN MY 'HOOD? HOMEY DON'T PLAY THAT.

The smaller buck was all WHAT UP DAWG? I'M JUST HERE WAITING ON MY COUSIN, LIL' MOE BOOTY. SHE'S A DOE THAT ROLL WITH HER POSSE 'ROUND HERE. I DON'T MEAN YOU NO DISRESPECT, MAN.

To which the older, larger buck was all OH, I KNOW LIL' MOE BOOTY. WE ROLL TOGETHER SOMETIMES, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. SO I GUESS WE COOL, MAN. I GOT NO PROBLEM WITH YOU.

And then they stopped bumping shoulders and started grazing together. Meanwhile, I am watching the Aggie, who's a bit of a city dweller. He had stalked right up to them and was kind of oblivious to the way the bucks were sizing each other up.

I kept praying that they weren't in rut and that a doe wasn't lurking in the edge of the woods. Because as docile and tame as these deer were, there is nothing like a nice piece of tail to send males of any species into a bit of a primal state. I knew that was safe in the car, unless those deer sprouted thumbs and could suddenly open doors.

However, I was smart enough to admit that I could NOT outrun a horny buck defending his territory. The Aggie, on the other hand, probably could scurry up a tree or something if he had to. So since I didn't really feel like getting gored with deer horns – and trust me, I so would have if I had walked up to the deer (remember I am irony's bitch) -- the Aggie is the one credited with the really cool pictures of the two bucks.

(Note that the guy on right is looking at the camera like WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT? YOU BETTER TURN AROUND AND GET BACK IN YO RIDE BEFORE I CAP YO ASS, BITCH.)



And just so you all know, Internet, I'm going to take your assuming that we couldn't have possibly been talented enough to take those photos as a compliment. After all, if you just assume that we weren't capable of capturing those images, then they must be pretty damn good. ;)

We're Back

Momma Pug and family arrived back in the great city of Houston today at 3 p.m. If you met a navy Trailblazer on I-10 with a man driving and a pug in the front seat with him and two fuzzy dogs in the back with a fat woman, then you saw us. Sonny the Pug pitched a hissy fit to sit with his daddy. But not in his daddy's lap. No sir. His tantrum was for him to sit next to the Aggie while Aggie drove. Now, let me just say that I do not think its sane behavior for someone to give up their seat in the car for a dog. However, after 24 hours on the road you become more open to such ideas --and not just for the sake of making your dog stop pouting with you for leaving him for 11 days. No, after 24 hours on the road you start to loose your will to go on. You start giving into to urges and taking the easier way out. Today it was just easier for me to sit in the back of the SUV, hold Deuce and Ripken and let Sonny have his way. I am exhausted and ache from fall off the tram. I just didn't have it in me to fight with the pug.

Ripken, god love him, hasn't pouted in the least. He's just so glad to have his people back and in his home again that he's practically thanking us for leaving him at the vets for over a week. When we went to pick him up, the vet came out and asked us exactly what kind of dog Ripken is. We honestly aren't sure, we told him. Ripken was adopted from the Houston SPCA. They thought his mom was a Cairn terrier. They have no idea what sired him. After we shared this story with the vet, he said, "Well, folks I have to tell you... Ripken is the most amazing dog I have ever seen. He's sweet, gentle and loving. He wants to make everyone happy. He was a joy to have and I hope he comes back soon. You guys should really consider making him a therapy dog -- you know to visit folks in the hospital. He'd be soooo good at that. His disposition is certainly one of a kind. He's just so amazing. I wish that I could have a dog just like him. He's wonderful."



Then the vet got down on one knee and kissed Ripken on the head and Ripken gave him a big lick on the face and a doggy sort of hug. Meanwhile, Deuce is climbing on top of his daddy's head and threatening to bite an elderly lady who is just trying to buy a small sack of dog food. Without missing a beat, the vet gives Rippy one last rub on the year and says: "I'll miss you so much Ripken." Then, as an afterthought: "Bye Deuce."



I think that pretty much sums up our family. Ripken is amazing. Sonny has to stay with Cussy because he's delicate and no one but us loves Deuce. And even we don't like him all the time. In fact, if he weren't so cute I would have murdered him by now. In the two hours since we've been home, Gertrude has tried to kill him. Twice. And that's taken some effort considering that she's spending more of time making us pay for leaving her alone with just the comforts of Grumpy for a week. I sense that tonight I will be bitten in the face for no particular reason while I sleep.



"When I am done with you, fucker, you will wish the fall off the tram in Virginia had killed you. Fucker."

Cades Cove

We are headed home from our trip to Washington and Richmond. We made it to Pigeon Forge, Tenn. at about 4 p.m. today. Just before dark, Mamaw Pug, the Hubs and I decided to drive out to Cades Cove in the Smoky Mountains National Park. We were really pushed for time, since the cove closes at dusk, but we hurried out anyway. Mamaw Pug had always wanted to see the leave turning colors in the park and we had a small window of opportunity so we took it. The Aggie and I took the following pictures. (The cool deer pictures are ALL HIM.) The Aggie climbed a fence with Mamaw Pug and followed these two guys. He was literally 10 feet from these bucks. I was in car because I'm still hurt from my fall from a tram in D.C. and thus not allowed to "experience" the wildlife. Nonetheless, It was one of the best experiences of my life. So beautiful, peaceful and natural. A perfect end to a wonderful trip.

When the Cat's Away

Nothing gets by this cat:



This is my preggo sister’s 17-year-old cat. Her name is JayJay and she spent the majority of her life living in the haunted closet of the house we grew up in. My sister and I shared a bedroom, which she should alone kept clean and orderly. In fact, I was such a bad roommate that JayJay preferred sharing the closet with the spirit of a creepy old lady that lingered there, watching over us as we slept. That should tell you exactly how bad of a roomie I must have been. (Catfish is the only other person who can attest to the “merits” of living with me and I fear she’d side with JayJay.)

Last year, JayJay took a flying leap and moved with my sister to her apartment while she was going to college. A year after that, JayJay moved with her Mama and Daddy to Virginia – a move that was farther away from home that I’d ever lived. Pretty big shakes for an old cat that spent her entire existence hanging out in a farmhouse closet. This week, the Hubs and I (accompanied by my mother, MawMaw Pug) have come to visit. And let me tell you: JayJay has moved on up to the Eastside, to a high-rise apartment in the skyyyy. Okay, technically its only the third floor, but let me tell after falling up a flight of wooden stairs, you find yourself feeling like you just scaled the Empire State Building.

But I digress.

Poor JayJay has done so well to us taking over her space. We have practically invaded her home in every way possible. We’re sleeping on HER couch, eating HER food and even had the audacity to move HER litterbox. And the old girl was totally taken it in stride. She hasn’t pooped in our luggage or popped the air mattress. Being the owner of Gertrude, needless to say I am shocked and pleasantly surprised by this. (Living with a cat that bites you on the nose in the middle of the night because you aren’t giving her enough room in the bed makes you appreciate the small things – like a cat that doesn’t naw on you while you sleep.)

Today my sister brought home a handful of tiny stuffed rats. JayJay instantly fell in love with them. She put them in a neat little pile and crawled on top them to sleep. She kissed them and rubbed her face on them like they were kittens. Then she shook them a little bit so they would know who is boss. I like a woman who puts her minion in place. Even if she doesn't exactly realize that one of her flock has been strategically placed on her forehead. If you were a 119-years-old in human years, you might miss a thing or two too.

Possum Huntin'

Sonny the Pug has been fully enjoying his vacation with Cussy. Last night, they went on an opossum hunt. And by that I mean that Sonny barked at an old, sad possum that comes up on the patio to steal dry cat food. Apparently, Cussy and Sonny kept their possum vigil for several hours.



Cussy tells us that, "If viewed carefully and in sequence, one can see that the Pug was momentarily distracted by the curtain and decided to give it a tug. Later he returned to hunting protocol." Oh that crazy Sonny, whipping window treatments into submission.



Meanwhile, I have been in Washington D.C. for less than 12 hours and I have fallen down. Three times. Once, from off a tram in Arlington National Cemetery. Backwards. Onto the Husband. Who broke my fall.

Somewhere, a Japanese tourist is sending video of an overweight American woman pitching backwards onto the pavement to their local television station's variety show. I will become an Internet sensation, much like this lady. Except I did NOT say: "Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. I can't breathe." No, instead I laughed at myself until I couldn't catch my breath. And my poor husband? Limped around like a fat woman had just fell on him.

The other two times I ate pavement included tripping over the edge of the base of a giant white Greek column (D.C. is full of them) and sliding down a hill on freshly fallen leaves (all though I challenge this because my ass never actually hit the ground.)

OH! And last night I tripped going up the 5,381 stairs to my sister's apartment. The tip of my shoe caught and I went down my knees. My preggo sister came running out from her home and said: "Oh no! Oh no! I heard a thump!" Then she said, "When I heard thump, thump I just KNEW that you'd fell."

Yeah, no surprise there, dude.

Vacation Day One -- Smokey Mountains

The Husband, MawMaw Pug and myself are currently in Pigeon Forge, Tenn. We're settling down in our hotel room for the night, and will continue on to my sister's house in Richmond, Va. in the morning. So far, MawMaw Pug and I have shopped ourselves silly purchasing copious amounts of Christmas presents and baby clothes. Then we took the Husband (who skipped out on the shopping in exchange for doing WORK) to the Old Mill Restuarant. Words cannot express how delicious the experience was. We definiately overate. I know, I know, big surprise there.

After our battle royale with dinner, we crawled back to our room and discovered that after one day -- not even a full day -- and found ourselves completely and utterly exhausted. I've turned the airconditioner to epic purportions of cooling and have almost managed to achieve an acceptable level of icyness. I tend to believe that if you are worn out and over heated that taking two Tylenol, putting a wet cloth on your face and laying in a cool dark space is the best cure. And boy do I ever need a quick recovery. We still have all of Virginia to cover and I'm pooped. I fear the Hubs is going to do a lot of looking at his watch and rolling his eyes while I stop and rest on benches when we are in Washington, D.C.

The three of us left Meadville, Mississippi at 5:30 a.m. I think this was especially tough after being so sick during our weekend of baby showering and birthday partying, I'm afraid I'll need another vacation to recover from my vacation. Sonny the Pug, however, could not be happier. He is staying with Aunt Pug and Cousin Pug (Cussy) while we are away. (Ripken and Deuce are in puppy prision -- being boarded.) Tonight, I am told, he went out on a very serious opossom hunt. I have yet to hear if he bagged anything. The husband is pretty lost without his sidekick, Sonny T. Pug. This is the longest they've ever been apart. I imagine we will return home bearing gifts -- many for Cussy for taking care of him and bribes to ensure a quick return to good graces.

---

A photo from my sister's baby shower. From left are Cussy, Hussy 2.0, Fussy (and her preggo belly), Fussy's best friend, and Momma Pug.

Note to self: Next time, leave back fat and double chins at home.

Call Me Barry Bonds

Oh, sweet steroids. My vile, yet beautifully dirty mistress.

I spent last night propped up the big comfy chair in the living room. I didn't sleep much because my heart was racing, ever muscle was twitching and my nerve endings were on fire. Sweat poured down my neck and pooled between my breasts, despite the fan that the Aggie had positioned to blow directly on me. The thermostat was on 67 degrees, yet my body reminded hot, as if I were lying in the sunny beach in July. At around midnight I still hadn't drifted off to sleep. My body was now physically shaking and I was pretty sure that my heart was about to sprout arms and rip its way out. The Aggie applied wet towels to my neck, forehead and chest. If I'd asked him to do this, I can't remember, but I'm sure glad he did. A few minutes later, my body began to settle a bit. The instant I stopped convulsing, my teeth started to chatter. I was suddenly cool, yet I continued to sweat. My heart was slowing, but it still jumped a once in a while. With each sudden flop, I feared it was the last beat my heart would ever make. Yet, I can remember looking down at my toes and wishing I'd had a pedicure this week.

Sometime around midnight I drifted off. I didn't awake until 4:50 a.m. when Deuce let out a shrill yelp to alert us to my father-in-law departure to work. Grumpy was sneaking around the living room taking care not to wake me. When Deuce barked, he turned and shone his flashlight toward the little monster's face that was sticking out of our cracked bedroom door. When he was sure everything settled and Deuce was quieted, Grumpy began silently gathering his things. As he was opening the door to leave, I called his name. He jumped three feet in the air and flashed his key ring light across my face. I had packed up a birthday present for our nephew and asked Grumpy to deliver it this weekend. He added the gift to his belongings as we talked for a bit. Within two minutes he'd slipped out the door and I had settled back into my chair.

My heart was racing again and I began to wonder how long it would take steroids to wear off. At that instant if you had dumped me in an Olympic pool with Michael Phelps he would have been eating my bubbles. I was pretty sure I could have lifted a school bus off a Volvo if I had too. I read once that Seasbiscuit was such an amazing champion because his heart was actually 10 times the size of a normal horse. His heart pumped 10 times as much blood and he could move 10 times as fast. And that's how I still feel – like my heart was moving my lifeblood through my body at an accelerated rate. Everything is in fast forward, like my body is moving a heartbeat sooner than the world around me.

On the other hand, I seem to be breathing out of my nose again.

My Ass Cheek Hurts, Otherwise Things Are Looking Up

Why, you ask? Because a very nice lady with the power to give out narcotics gave me a shot of Rocephin. Then she made me take 60 milligrams of Pretnozone while I was still in her office. AND then I got a bag full of free cough medicine and prescription for a Z pack. Her name was Dr. Annie and I am in love with her. Some of you may recall that Dr. B. broke up with me (and all her other patients) a couple of months ago. And why did she do something so selfish? Because she is a big shot geneticist and wanted to cut back on her clinic hours so she could do something as trite as trace various cancers to specific DNA strands. How rude of her, saving humanity. Since this tragic event occurred in July, I have avoided going to the doctor for anything. The thought of not having her was overwhelming.

Today, however, I couldn't avoid it any longer. I found myself incredibly sick and on the cusp of leaving town for two weeks. I just can't tote this illness around with me while the Aggie and go on vacation. Its just not fair. I realize I'm irony's bitch and all, but damn it, I do not want my time ruined by snot. The last time I felt this bad it was March 2000. I was about to leave for a mini-mester in London, and OF COURSE, I got sick. God bless our hometown doctor. He shot me up full of antibiotics and sent me on my way. I was still feeling pretty cruddy when we departed on the international flight. My good friend Wayne carried my bags for me and an old lady that was going on the trip sat with me and played nursemaid. I slept the entire flight and when I woke up in England I thought I might actually live. The next morning, I was improving by degrees and the trip was one of the best experiences of my life. Since then, if I'm going traveling, I don't dick around if I feel sick. I march my happy ass into the doctor's office and request as many drugs that are legal to prescribe. And that is precisely why I am now totally in love with Dr. Annie.

Tomorrow, the Aggie and I are heading out to Mississippi for my sister's baby shower. We found out last night she's having a little boy, and we couldn't be happier. I can't wait to get my hands on that little booger. There is something bittersweet about the Catertot's birth, though. I remember when my sister was an infant. I remember looking at her through the hospital glass and falling in love with her. She was long and pink. Her cheeks where huge and rosy. I wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch her. The first time my mother put her in my arms, I was in heaven. She was so small and wiggly, but I held on to her tightly. She never came close to falling. I remember watching her sleep in her crib. She almost always lay on her stomach with her arms stretched out beside her. You've never seen a more sweet, shy and sensitive baby. She was the exact opposite of me in every way. I called her Cheeky and the name stuck, and now my little Cheeky Baby is having a baby of her own. Where has the time gone?

After we do the baby thing, we're heading up to Virginia for a week, where my sister now lives with her husband. We're going with my mom and I can't wait. I'm just praying I feel better and my ass stops hurting. I don't know how I'll manage 24 hours in the car with sore buns. And when you say OH MY BUTT HURTS, people just look at you like you've spoken San skirt. It feels just like it did when I pinched a nerve in my hip. Sharp, shooting pain running down my left leg. But if this shot kills my crud, then I'm willing to sacrifice the wounded ass. Yes, I just typed those words, lets see how many perverts that Googled "wounded ass" get sent to my site

When I Write My Memoirs, An Entire Volume Will Highlight The Many Ways I Am Irony's Bitch

Gentle readers, today I had planned to tell you that I was going to be out of town for a few days. I was going to say I would try to post daily, but that if I seem to go incommunicado that its just because I'm burning a streak through the southern states for the next 12 days.

The husband and I will first travel to Mississippi, where we'll stop over for my sister's baby shower. Then we're picking up my Mama and heading on up to Virginia – by way of the Smokey Mountains. This is the longest time we've ever tried to travel before since we have the dogs, and I have to admit that we are apprehensive about leaving our boys for so long. Ripken and Deuce are going to stay with a local veterinarian, and Sonny the Pug is staying with Elle.

This entire week, the Aggie and I have been trying to get our shit together one bagful at a time. We've packed baby stuff for my sister's shower, dog stuff for their stay in "puppy prison," clothing for the trip, a crib and stroller I bought for Mama's house and enough clothes and underwear for 15 days. I am a list-maker. I write everything down then check it off twice – once when I pack it then once when it gets in the car.

This is procedure is my patented failsafe Momma Pug Packing Method. If it's on the list, then it makes the trip. No exceptions. I learned this from my own mother, and I've used this technique for years. It has never led me astray. It's gotten through trips all over the world – England, the American West, New York, Boston, and perhaps most harrowing, both Disney theme parks.

I realize it might seem like I'm a little Monk-ish when I pack, and this brings on taunting and ridicule. But you know what, ha-ha the jokes on you, suckas! When your thighs are chapping by the time we made it to Japan in Epot Center, I'll be right as rain because I have zinc ointment in my fanny pack. I might look like a walking first aid kit/concession stand, but I guarantee you I won't be the fucker with a red ass. Why? Because I made a LIST.

So last night I was talking to my Mama and she was all DID YOU MAKE A LIST. And I was all OF COURSE I MADE A LIST. And then I read it off to her. She was mostly silently as she listened to me ramble off all the items. When I finished, she paused as if she was mulling things over.

"Hey, is your medication on that list?" she asked.

I scanned my foolproof list twice. Then I it sunk in: I NEARLY LEFT MY CRAZY PILLS AT HOME. Okay, do you know how insufferable I would have been without Momma Pug's little helpers? The poor Aggie wouldn't have made it one day with me un-medicated. By the third or fourth day, I'd start finding hard to tolerate myself. By the end of the first week, my Mama would have forced an equally calming pill down my throat.

"For goodness sakes, DO NOT FORGET YOUR PROZAC," my Mama said. "In fact, go put it in your purse RIGHT NOW."

Ouch. Even my own mother thinks riding 24 hours in a car with me would be unimaginable without "tools" to ensure the maintenance of my mental health. I suspect this fear goes back to when I was a child and my parents took me to Disney World for the first time. I was banshee, and if they had any lithium they would have slipped some into my chocolate milk.

After I assured my mother that I would not come un-medicated, we said our goodbyes and hung up. And that's when it hit me. I was getting sick. I could feel my throat tightening and my sinus ached. SERIOUSLY? The last vacation we took – last Christmas – the exact same thing happened. I spent the entire time we were in the mountains sniffling and hacking. MISERY, my friend. MISERY. Not only am I struggling to get all my shit done before I leave, but now I'm doing it through watery, achy eyes and a stuffed up nose. I might have over medicated myself because now I can't seem to open my left eye and I keep falling asleep at my desk.

Irony has a bitch, and her name is Momma Pug.

Madge and Momma Pug Do the Texas Renaissance Fair

This weekend, Madge and I embarked on getting the girls costumes together for the Texas Renaissance Fair. If you don't know what I'm talking about, take a second to go to their site and look around. It's really indescribable and you just need to go see for yourself. I'll wait 'til you get back…

Texas Renaissance Fair

… Hi! Welcome back! Okay so you see what I mean about the Ren Fair being a big deal? Which isn't really surprising because Texas does everything BIG. (Hell, there is even an episode of King of the Hill that takes place at the Texas Renaissance Fair.

The Aggie and I lived our first year in the county that the Texas Renaissance Fairs calls home. We were given free tickets and almost didn't go. I mean, you would want to out in the woods and watch a bunch of Dungeon and Dragon geeks get wound up over turkey legs and knights with wooden swords? In a burst of boredom, however, the Aggie and I decided to throw caution to the wind and off we went. No one was more surprised that me at how much fun we had. We quickly discovered that it was like the Disneyland of renaissance fairs. The actors weren't just nerds, they were honest to god Shakespearian actors. The quality of the buildings, rides and entertainment was astounding. So when Madge brought up taking the girls to the fair I was ALL ABOUT IT.

Saturday we bought dresses at the Goodwill to turn into their costumes – yes, pretty much 75 percent of everyone that goes to the fair is dressed as something from the Medieval era. Well, Madge and I love an excuse to dress up, so we decided to live vicariously through the girls, who willing if not excited about the prospect. Poor Madgette had to stand still for an hour while I pinned material to her green velvet dress.

It went a little something like this:

Madgette: "Are you almost done?"

Momma Pug: "Yes."

Madgette: "Don't stick me with the pin, okay?"

Momma Pug: "Okay."

Madgette: "Is the Internet back?"

Momma Pug: "No."

Madgette: "Will it be back tonight?"

Momma Pug: "Probably not."

Madgette: "What about the TV?"

Momma Pug: "Nope, not coming back on tonight."

Madgette: "Ouch, you almost stuck me!"

Momma Pug: "Oh, shut up. Almost doesn't count."

(Madgette looks to her mother in protest.)

Madge: "Almost doesn't count. Be still."

Madgette: "Can I go play princess now?"

Momma Pug: "I'm trying to make you a princess dress!"

Madgette: "I think I'd rather just play princess."

Momma Pug: "Fine. Go."

We turned ourselves to the exchange student Annyong. She wasn't entirely convinced that we were making something that should be worn in public. In fact, she'd argued with us repeatedly that she didn't want to wear her costume to prom. She'd like a different type dress, she said. Prom, we asked? This has nothing to do with prom. No. No. No. Then is it for Halloween, she asked? No. Not for that either, we explained. She just wasn't wrapping her mind around what a Renaissance Fair could possibly be. Since there was no Internet connection (damn you Comcast) we couldn't just take her to the site. So we showed her pictures in the fabric store of costumes that would look like hers. Still her face drew a blank. But why would we do this, she asked? Because its fun, we said. Fun? This fun, she asked? She looked at us like we were the Rainman and Forrest Gump of Fun. We tried for three hours to clue her into what a we were doing and why it wasn't the sort of dress she'd wear to prom. Finally, we gave up.

"We'll just tell her on the day of to put the damn dress on," Madge concluded. Sounds like a plan, I agreed.

As we settled into our sewing, the husbands turned on the television to the one channel they can pick up with rabbit ears – PBS. America's Test Kitchen was on, so they watch intently as the chef blind taste tested different mayonnaise brands. A moment later it cut to commercial and low-and-behold there was a advertisement for the Texas Renaissance Fair. Praise sweet baby Jesus! Madge and I pointed and screamed and you would have thought we'd just spotted the naked ghost of Elvis. Madison perked up and watched intently. Annyong soaked in ever second of it. Their reaction gave us such hope. Then the commercial faded away and Madge and I watched the girl's faces intently. Madgette was already back to playing princess with her Barbies. Annyong only uttered one syllable: "Oh." Then she disappeared back into her teenage girl lair.

A moment later, Madge and I found ourselves with yards and yards of shiny material and accoutrements in our laps and not one kid that was appreciative of our efforts to make them into an authentic 16th century princess.

"I wish I had a Renaissance dress," Madge said.

"Me too," I replied.

Then we locked eyes.

Screw these ingrates. They will wear their goddamned dresses and they will like it. And Madge and I WILL DRESS UP TOO. Yes, that's it. We'll make costumes for ourselves. Because lets face it, that’s what this all about: Madge and I wanting to play dress up. We want to be princesses, damn it.

And so, in the name of all that is holy, it shall be done.

Madge's shall be silver. Mine shall be blue. And instead of making them for cheap like we are the kiddos, we're splurging and buying ours... for $29.99 each. Suckas.

Sonny Day

Oops. The Aggie and I made a huge mistake. We forgot Sonny the Pug's anniversary. I know what you're thinking. You're all judging us, wondering: "What kind of people celebrate dog holidays? Is she for real?" Yes, folks, I am for real.

It all started when we adopted Ripken. It was a Sunday afternoon and the Aggie and I had just returned from a bed and breakfast in Greune, Texas. We had been celebrating our first anniversary. Picking up our new puppy on the date of our actual wedding day seemed like an appropriate way to rejoice in having survived our first year together.

So every March 19, is not only our anniversary. It is also Rippy Day.

Seven months later – and after we bought a house so Ripken would have a yard to play in – we decided he needed a brother to torment. We looked around for another dog to adopt, but none of them felt right. Finally, the Aggie ran across Sonny the Pug. He was sitting in a crate in PetSmart, and the instant the Aggie showed him to me I was in love.

But appearances can be deceiving. Sonny looked adorable and healthy, but we soon discovered there was more than meets the eye. A local shelter that catered to Dalmations had found Sonny and been fostering for the past year. And they were getting tired of pumping money into a dog that didn't even qualify for their help to being with. Turns out, Sonny was what they called a special needs dog. He was over weight, had hip problems, was recovering from heartworms and was epileptic, as in seizure prone.

In other words, Sonny the Pug was a big old veterinarian money trap. Plus, no one knew if he would live two weeks or two months or two years. He was high-risk. Any sane person would have gone running in the opposite direction. Lucky for Sonny, his Momma has never been accused of being just right in the head. Something just told me that Sonny had to be ours – that we needed him and he needed us.

Two weeks later – on Oct. 5 – Sonny the Pug came to live with us, thus cementing my identity as Momma Pug. It took two weeks because the Dalmatian shelter had to actually come to our house for an inspection. I guess they wanted to be sure we weren't dog molesters. You should have seen Ripken during the home visit. He WANTED the pug, by god, and he was on his BEST behavior. Gertrude was even laid back… until Sonny started in with a low growl in her direction. That's when the shelter lady said the infamous words: OH, SONNY HAS CAT ISSUES.

Cat issues? What the hell does that mean? Oh, we soon found out. Apparently, at some point in Sonny's life, a cat had wronged him in someway. Now he hates the entire species. And I mean HATE as in Nazi-Jew hate. He would like nothing more than to exterminate the cat, but he's a fat, slow, toothless pug. Gert, on the other hand, is an agile, graceful cat and she really cannot find it within herself to be concerned with something as lowly and beneath her as the pug. Nonetheless, everyday they dance same number. He barks at her and she chases him. He runs away and she swats his amble ass. And so goes the cycle of life.

And now there is the Silkie to throw in the mix. Oh, Deuce. I could say so much, yet words really don’t do just to the little monster justice. Deuce was what you call an emotional purchase. The Aggie and I are strictly animal adopters. We don't pay money to breeders when there are slews of perfectly lovable puppies needing a home. But then we got DEUCED. The Aggie's first pet, a Silkie named Martin died recently and the Aggie's heart was BROKEN. No matter how hard we tried, we couldn't say no to Deuce. He was small and sweet and so cute. We couldn't write the check fast enough.

Now July 17 has become Deuce Day at our house.

But I digress.

With everything crazy going on, we left Sonny the Pug's Day slip by uncelebrated.

There are so many things I could say about Sonny – like how he ate an entire box of Girl Scout Cookies (Thin Mints). Or how we rummaged through my mother's purse until he pulled out a pack of Double Mint gum and chewed it. Or how he ate an entire 100-count bag of menthol cough drops, a couple of which became lodged in his shin rolls. I could tell you about the time he attacked the Weiner dog next door for looking at his daddy. Or the time he broke out of the fence and the Aggie found him three doors down eating lunch with a roofer's crew.

Then there is Sonny's LOVE for pillows. He likes to chew, drag, shake and sleep on any pillow of any form. He's addicted to bedding, and his favorite pillow is named Stinky – trust me, this is an appropriate name. Poor Stinky has been loved so hard that Sonny has pretty much had to move on to other cushions. A personal favorite of his is ripping the stuffing out of my throw pillows. He could sit for hours and de-stuff things. So far, he's ripped the innards out of three comforters, 14 pillows, countless stuffed dog toys and one pair of shoes (sorry Madgette.) He also likes to wait until you spread the blanket across your legs and drift off to sleep. Then he'll grab one end in his mouth and haul ass in the opposite direction, thus stealing your covers.

OH! And for reasons that are painfully clear if you live with Sonny the Pug, he has earned the Native American name of Shits While Running. Just use your imagination on that one, folks.

Yeah, Sonny is a tired, old, worn out pug, yet he's still got the joie de vive. There's a spark in his eyes that lets you know things might not have been easy for him, but he sure is happy with what he's got. Everything he does is with his entire heart. He lives fearlessly, and I think that's partly why he's become so important to our family.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that we didn't "forget" Oct. 5, because around Momma Pug's North American Headquarters everyday Sonny Day.

Madge(ical) Uprising

So poor Madge and her entire family are still without the modern wonders that are telephone, cable television and Internet services. This outage has now entered the fourth week was been brought to them courtesy of Hurricane Ike, the storm that just keeps on giving.

This weekend, I spent all of Saturday with Madge and her crew. (We had a yard sale and actually made $35! That was way more than I expected. Plus we got rid of about 65 percent of our crap. Score Team Pug!) By the late afternoon we'd had lunch and done some shopping. We were returning from the thrift store when Madge suddenly slammed on the brakes, threw the car into park, leaped out and ran like a gazelle through her neighbor's yard. We all just sat there in the car wondering what the hell could possibly elicit such a reaction. Then we saw it: A Comcast repair guy and his truck.

We watched from the safety of Madge's driveway while she and her neighbor had what seemed to be a passionate exchange with the cable guy. Arms flew wildly in the air as if to demonstrate exactly how HUGE A PAIN IN THE ASS THIS SITUATION WAS. Occasionally high pitched, primal sounds floated our way. I thought for a minute that Madge and her neighbor might pounce on the guy, immobilize the poor man, then drag him back for the pack the terrorize a bit more before making him watch us eat his spleen.

Alas, Madge moped back over to the group and pondered for a moment as if she was trying to figure out how to tell us that our favorite dog, a 15-year-old Cokapoo, had just been squished by an 18-wheeler. (And not only was the Cokapoo dead, but he never really loved us at all. In fact, he was planning on leaving us for the Smiths down the street because they have a swimming pool and serve Science Diet.) Are you getting the kind of heavy moment that lay on us? When Madge finally spoke, it was in a quiet, small voice, which is no small feat for Madge. She leaned down to be eye level with Madgette and took Annyong's hand.

"Girls, its going to be four more weeks before we get television, phones and the Internet back."

When she said the word Internet, her voice wobbled and I knew she was experiencing the same sort of pain they girls were about to endure.

For the next few moments we all stood really still and waited. No one reacted. No one said anything. We just all stood there and stared at each other like someone had just farted in a phone booth with us and we were trying to figure out who was the culprit. After a while, we loaded back up in the car went on about life. We went to the fabric store and got material for the girl's Renaissance Festival garbs. On the way home we stopped at Sonic and ordered drinks.

As we were pulling back onto the street, it seemed like realization of some form crept in. Tension suddenly hung in the air and it was one of those moments when you just KNOW something is about to happen. A heartbeat later, Annyong spoke:

"Mom, I am sorry, but I do no understand. They say no In-tar-neet for four weeks?" Annyong asked.

"That's what they said," Madge replied, gripping the steering with so tight that her knuckles turned colors.

"Oh," Annyong said softly. Then the hamster came off the wheel and the young girl broke a little inside. "Wait!" she bellowed. "That is one whole another month! I do no know why! Why they can do this so long? How hard is to get only In-tar-neet? Mom? Why? How talk to my mother and friend? How we go so long? I am sorry, but I do no understand."

Before Madge could open her mouth, Madgette screamed from the back of the Yukon: "Wait a minute! You mean there isn't any Webkins for ANOTHER month?" (For those of you unfamiliar, Webkins are stuffed animals that have a site on the web where you can play games to earn points to keep them clothed and pet. Madgette is addicted to this Internet life of hers in the same kind of way an Emo kid is into Dungeons and Dragons.)

Well, everyone has a point at which they boil. As children, when our mother reached that crucial level, my sisters and I called it The Point Of No Return. Everyone's point is set at different temperatures, and I must admit that the older Madge gets the higher that number becomes. She's mellowed out considerably.

On Saturday, those two girls and their constant whining got the better of Madge and I knew when I looked into her eyes that the next child with a comment on how UNBEARABLE LIFE IS, would die a thousand deaths at her hand.

I don’t know if it was the language barrier or just the antics of a whining teenager, but Annyong was the first to open her mouth. "Mom? I do no understand how this is possible!"

"Oh my gawd! It's because a giant storm blew through here and knocked a giant tree down on private property and now they're just getting to fixing it. A lot of people lost their homes, their lives were destroyed. This isn't so bad compared to them."

I'm pretty sure Annyong has no idea what Madge said, however, she deciphered the tone correctly. She sat back and didn't speak again for a while. In the meantime, Madge looked over at me and gently whispered: You know what? I'm dying without the Internet too. We all have get a grip before someone does something drastic."

And just then, in that moment, I realized that if electronic entertainment isn't reintroduced into Madge's household soon, then "Lord of the Flies" type society was going to develop And I'm pretty sure that Madgette would be the one holding the conch shell – or bloody saber – at the end of the day. I think we can all agree that we don’t want that. So please, Comcast, fix their shit before innocents die! Please!

Because I Am Shameless

I feel that I HAVE to point out that Sonny T. Pug is now wearing his gold medal in the banner at the top of the page.

I know. In addition to shameless, I am a sicko. But Sonny likes it. And this is my Web site (an award winning one!) and I can do as please.

Plus, Sonny looks good in bling.

Pug Off Recieves International Award; For Once Momma Pug Is Speechless

Hi guys! I am tickled pink to tell yall that Momma Pug's Pug Off has been honored by Dog-Behavior-Training.co.uk. (That's a British Web site dedicated to information on dog breeds, training and healthcare.) And they selected MommaPug.com as the "Finest Pug Web Site." They even sent that award banner to display.

It's my understanding that the award is given to sites who dedicate themselves to caring for dogs (in our case, pugs!) Well, we might not always talk about dogs on here, but I hope our love for canines comes through regularly -- and our affection for a certain little, bad black and white cat.

Since we're in a celebratory mood over here at the Momma Pug North American Headquarters, I have one more interesting bit of information to share. Over the past 31 days, MommaPug.com broke 1,000 direct hits. There were over 2,000 page views! Guys, that is huge for us and we want you to know how much we appreciate your support and readership.

Thank you so much for coming back and enjoying our site. Thank you for spending a little bit of your day with me and Sonny the Pug. People are so busy with work and school and life that its not always easy to keep up with your friends and family. We are so grateful you take those few moments to connect with us. Please keep reading and commenting. MommaPug.com is NOTHING without y0u.

A Conversation With The Husband

Hubs: I just watched a surprising depressing movie.

Me: What was it called?

Hubs: "Death Sentence"

Me: And the title didn't tip you off that it might be depressing?

Hubs: You can't always judge a book by its cover.

Me: So if you read a book called "The Holocaust" you would be surprised to find it depressing?

Hubs: (Long pause.) Please don't blog about this.

Ain't Nothing But A Hound Dog

When I was 16 years old, our beagle gave birth to a litter of puppies. Our blue tick hound dog (named Luna Tick) had sired them. There were three puppies in the litter, two boys and little girl. And they were adorable little hounds with their wrinkly excess skin and giant floppy ears. My sisters and I instantly fell in love with them.

They were just a few weeks old when the litter got very sick with Parvo. The two male puppies died almost immediately. Pretty soon the little girl was equally as sick, and we knew she would not live. It was one of the most heartbreaking moments of my youth. I remember sitting on the floor with my sisters holding that pitiful little creature while she convulsed and yelped in pain. My mother stayed up the entire night with the puppy. She bottle fed her medicine and kept the puppy hydrated throughout the night.

The next morning we awoke to more yelping. My mother was sitting on the couch. The puppy was in her lap and it was clear to us that she had improved greatly in the night. As we came into the living room one-by-one, the puppy wagged its little tale and stretched its front paws out. Her bottom arched into the air and my mom quickly sat her on the ground so she would not jump off the couch and injure herself. The puppy can over to each of us and looked us up and down as if to say, "WHAT WHERE YALL WORRIED ABOUT? YOU LOOK LIKE HELL. LETS PLAY."

That day baby sister named her Suzie, and she became our fourth sister.

Suzie has been through a lot. She was hit by car and underwent countless surgeries and when she recovered from that ordeal, she was much slower and arthritis prone. But she was still Suzie. Demanding, funny and loud. (Just click here to read about her badness.)

I'm 28 years old and that makes Suzie around 12. Last year we lost my husband's first real pet. His name was Martin and he was a 16-year-old Silkie terrier. Like Suzie, Martin was the fourth child in their family. He was always there and especially close to the youngest child. Losing Martin was like cutting off the family's arm. It was horribly painful and something they never fully get used to being without.

God, I wish you could have seen how much Martin loved to hate me. He took it to new levels. When Martin would stay with us, he insisted I feed him, hold him and comfort him – but all begrudgingly and only after he'd bitten me a couple of times. Martin and I had a bit of an abusive relationship. He was a smart dog and he knew I wanted him to love me, so he'd string me along and just when I thought YES, WE LOVE EACH OTHER, he'd turn and bite me. What a glorious little shit! I miss the little booger so much Even now, a year later, sometimes I find myself still crying over Martin.

Because I watched my husband and his siblings go through the loss of Martin, I am especially cognoscente of the affect Suzie's death will have on my family. She's starting to show major signs of her age. She's developed breast cancer, and because she has trouble breathing, they can't put her under to remove the tumor. So poor Suzie wears a sports bra to hold up the softball size tumor that hangs between her back legs like an utter.

Are you following me, people? Our family dog – an indoor hound – wears a bra to support her heaving, cancerous bosom. You can't make this shit up.

God bless her though, Suzie still recognizes me instantly when I walk into my parent's home, even though I only come home two or three times a year. Suzie always lifts her achy body up off the floor and comes to greet me. I'm still her girl and she's still my sister, and it's become increasingly hard to watch my friend fade away.

But Suze isn't exactly slipping gracefully into that good night. No sirree.

Suzie has some pep left in her step and she manages to do thing that still amaze me.

One of my favorite memories of Suzie, happened about three years ago. Suze was already aged and starting to get decrepit. She couldn't walk up the steps without assistance. It was the weekend of my wedding and my friend Tabatha was staying with me the night before. There had been a party and I had consumed way too many drinks than the bride should have before her big day. We fell into bed in my sister's room at about 2 a.m. I was sleeping on her twin-sized bed and Tab was on the air mattress on the floor.

I can't recall getting undressed or taking off makeup, so it's no real surprise that when I awoke I was pants-less and still in my shirt from the night before. Oddly, I was still wearing one shoe and my engagement ring was on the wrong hand. I can remember looking down at my feet then at my right hand and thinking, "REALLY? How the fuck did that happen?" Then I laughed at myself silently. I rolled over to check on Tabby, and I was pretty sure no matter what I found wouldn't be as strange as my own condition.

I was wrong.

Tab was stretched out on her stomach. There wasn't a sheet to be found on the air mattress. Tab was still sound asleep and her head was cocked to one side and resting on her arm. She was only wearing her panties. Nothing else. "Huh, so I didn't take enough off and she took too much. What a pair we make," I thought.

That's when Suzie caught my eye. Somehow Suzie had broken into our room during the night. She had come on in and made herself at home with Tab on the air mattress. In fact, Suzie was stretched out and was taking up more space than Tab on the inflated bed. The odd couple seemed to be spooning. That's when I lost it. I had been so tired and stressed over the whole wedding ordeal, and seeing my dear friend snuggled up, seminude to my childhood pet was too much. I burst into gasps of laughter and tears. All my tension came out in that moment, the first thing I saw on my wedding day.

After several minutes of my hysterics both Suzie and Tab raised their heads at the same time and stared at me. For a second I thought they might come to hug me or laugh too, instead they looked at each other like WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS? Then they laid back down simultaneously as Tab said, "Go back to sleep. You have another hour until we have to get up."

So I lay back down and I didn't even take my other shoe off. When Tab woke me up an hour later she was wearing her nightshirt and Suzie was nowhere to be found. She pulled off my remaining shoe and sock and shook her head at me like she'd never seen such a monstrous mess in her life. Then she put in the bathtub and I stayed there until someone told me to get out. When I came into the hallway drying my hair with a towel, I found Suzie laying there waiting for me. Her eyes were bright and shiny and she started kissing me. It was like her way of saying, "YAY! SOMEONE IS MARRYING YOU AND I ACTUALLY APPROVE. HERE, LET ME WALK YOU OUT."

So I got dressed, prettied up and married. And even though it wasn't the perfect day, its memories like that of Suze that makes it so special to me.