Camp Bow Wow

Ripken went with his cousins to a day of doggie day care at a place called Camp Bow Wow in Austin, Texas.

The premise is that dogs literally go hang out with other dogs of comparable size and play until they drop from exhaustion. Then they spend the night in their "cabins." And they have camp cameras so we can watch from afar. I have witnessed a Great Dane take the largest shit I have ever seen in my life. It was impressive.



When I was a kid, I loved the Parent Trap movie. I wanted to be Haley Mills and end up hanging out with my previously unknown twin. It would be awesome. Maybe we'd even get to stay in the Isolation Cabin for being bad. Muahahaha. (That's my evil laugh.) Well, I never got to go to summer camp as a kid. Its not something us country kids did because our life was pretty much like camp every day in that we slept in a drafty wooden structure, swim in creeks or lakes, and enjoyed almost exclusively outdoor activities. If my Mama had called our house Camp Shutakidup, I would have been totally okay with it and probably would have insisted that we carve a totem pole out of the Magnolia tree in the front yard.

But alas, I never went to camp, so now I am living vicariously through my dog, which -- lets be honest -- is kind of depressing. I am not proud of how many hours I have spent watching Ripken playing with all the other dogs. He has had an absolute ball running around and pouncing on unsuspecting pooches. He's been really sweet and happy. Being without his sidekick, Deuce, has been kind of liberating for Rippy. Its like for the first time in his life he can just be himself and not worry about what his brother is doing -- like raping a poodle or burning the building to the ground.

Sadly, this only reinforces that Deuce is our problem child. I am going to send a video of the Silky Terrorist to the Dog Whisperer. Seeing as that might be the only option left since the failed exorcism.

Maybe She Just Looked Bigger In The Dawn Light

Setting: Me and the Aggie parked at 6:55 a.m. in front of the Avenue clothing store. The store caters to us chunky girls and is set to open in five minutes. Roughly 25 overweight women are crowding the front of the locked door. They are peering in through the glass windows and getting restless. You'd think that this was a deserted island and these ladies had just discovered the island natives have a surplus of Big Macs. One woman -- who is a bit of a giant -- looks like she is ready to strike.

Me: "Wow, the are taking this $5 sweater deal seriously."

The Aggie: "Look at that tall one in the front. The saleslady is trying to get into the front door and I think that big one is going to make a break for it."

(Sure enough, the giant woman tries to follow her into the clearly closed store. The crowd of heavy gals is pressing toward her, encouraging her to push on through. The Aggie and I are still sitting in the car, watching this fatastrophy unfold.)

Me: "Wow, she almost made it."

The Aggie: "Did you see them push her back out! I didn't think they could do it!"

Me: "Looks like they are opening the door."

The Aggie: "You sure you're ready to do this."

Me: "Yep. I got something those girls don't -- a husband."

The Aggie: "Yep. And I ain't afraid to hit a fat woman in the face with my elbow."

God, I love my husband.

Full Contact Sport

Tomorrow.

5 a.m.

Me, the Aggie and 50 million bargain hunters.

I feel the need to sucker punch someone over a 99-cent DVD that I will never watch.

Get ready, shoppers, the Pug Family is ready to light this candle.

And we ain't got time to bleed.

Gobble Gobble

The holidays are upon us, Internet.

And you know what that means... It's also the Holiday Drinking Season. Just think, all across America, millions of people are using booze to take the edge off uncomfortable family gatherings. I don't know about you, but I am proud to be a part of such a time honored family tradition.

Personally, I don't depend just on the drinky poohs to get me by. I like to up my daily intake of nerve pills to a level I call the Family Holiday/Crisis Dose. You'd be surprised what an extra 25 milligrams of Prozac and three glasses of Chardonnay do for your nerves.

I've found that over the years the key to a successful holiday season is being able to constantly maintain a level of intoxication that is just one rung below sloppy-messy-drunk and one step higher than slight buzz. Getting to this point isn't that difficult. Its maintaining the level that's tricky.

If you don't drink quite enough and everyone becomes suddenly so annoying that you want to revert to your sophomore year in college and bar fight your way through the dining room. Don't drink enough and you just get sleepy, pissy and ready to punch someone in the mouth.

Which is only slightly better than going too far with your self-medication...

One too many sips of vino and you're crying and talking so fast that you forgo natural pausing. It goes something like this:

I wish it were 1987 and my grandfather was still alive because then life was pure and simple and I still believed in Santa and anything was possible, all my dreams could still come true and things aren't the same anymore, Papaw's gone and life is complicated and I have to actually work for a living, which is totally unfair because I was going to be a princess or an Olympic ice skater or Miss America but now I'm just average, normal and boring -- I AM ORDINARY! (Cue uncontrollable sobbing.)

Which results in being led away by someone -- usually a spouse -- and put to bed to "sleep it off." Then the family spends the rest of the afternoon saying things like: "Oh, they're just under so much stress at work." Or, "They forgot to take her medicine this morning." Or, "Sorry, guys, it's their time of the month."

So here's to maintaining that appropriate level of excess this holiday season. May we not repeat the infamous Christmas Eve Debacle of '73.

Divorce Is Spelled With A 'C'

Let me just start by saying that the Irony Factor is at an all time high today, as I am a notoriously bad speller. Yet, I contend that there are far worse spellers than myself. My phone number proves it.

My office line rings at least twice a week with someone wanting to get a divorce. Sometimes the people are crying. Sometimes they are so mad, they are nearly shouting. Sometimes they are just reluctant to say anything at all – we just sit in silence for a moment until they finally get the courage up to speak with an attorney.

Regardless of the caller, I say the same thing every time:

I am sorry about your situation, but I can't help you. You have called a university -- not a law office. My phone number is a digit off from the number you want. You want 713-DIVORCE. You dialed 713-DIVORSE. Try 713-DIVORCE and you'll get the help you are looking for.

I try really hard to be nice. These people are generally at their wits end. Most of them are embarrassed to be calling a divorce lawyer to begin with. No one wants to admit that their marriage is failing. It's not exactly your high point, ya know -- fight over who gets the time-share or how to split the holidays with the kids. My heart goes out to these people. So I try to be a nice as possible when I have to tell them that not only is their marriage shitty, but so is their spelling.

Today a lady called me not once, not twice, but three times. The first time she sobbed for a moment, then said: "I need to leave my husband. He is sleeping with our five-year-old's ballet teacher."

Oh, snap.

Before I can open my mouth to tell her that she's not talking to an attorney's office, she continues to pour out more sordid details. (She'd caught Daddy Dearest and Dirty Dancer doing the horizontal mambo.) When the lady took a breath, I poured out my spill. I said it so fast that she didn't fully understand. All she heard was, "I'm sorry I can't help you."

"OH, NO! Did he call you first? Please, please, I need help."

Jesus, lady.

Finally I explain to her that she has the wrong phone number. Then I encourage to her to try 713-DIVORCE. I even spelled it out for her. Finally she hung up. Two seconds later the phone rang. It was her again.

"Um, hi. I need to talk to someone about getting a divorce," she said.

"Sorry, wrong number again."

"Oh, well are you married? Do you know a good divorce lawyer?" she asked.

I informed her that I was happily married and hadn't had a use for such a practitioner of the law. She apologized for the call, then hung up.
I think you know where this is going.

Two seconds later. The. Phone. Rings. I have caller ID so I know it's her.

"Hello?" I said, dispensing with the usual greeting where I state my name and wish them a good morning.

"Yes, I need to speak with an attorney about getting a divorce," she said.

"I'm sorry ma'am, but there is no one here that can help you with that," I said exasperated.

"Oh," she said. "I'll just try back after lunch!"

Then she hung up.

My god, woman! Are you daft?

Do you have any idea how bad I want to tell her that she's so stupid she doesn't deserve a divorce?!? I want to scream at her that I'm glad her husband fucked the dance teacher. Then I want to make a contribution to HIS legal fund.

I know she's just upset, bad speller. I keep telling myself she's not at her best right now, but the more sinister part of me wants to have her mail me a $525 check – to cover the $25 consultation fee and $500 dumbass tax.

Attention Internet, Momma Pug Needs Your Help

So my good friend and carpool buddy has offered to let our youngest dog stay with him for two days at Thanksgiving. This gesture of kindness is the equivalent to walking through fire in a gasoline suit. Giving us a kidney would be less painful. You see, Deuce isn't an animal easily pawned off on friends or family. In fact, anyone who knows him will tell you he's -- what's the word? -- an asshole.

Part of it is that he's still puppyish and enjoys ripping the shit out of things. Nothing is safe – toys, bedding, furniture, feminine hygiene products, etc. The world is his toy. He demands you give him your undivided attention, and it doesn't matter if you're watching television, cooking dinner or guiding a scud missle into Osama Bin Laden's cave. Deuce doesn't give a shit if you're about to burn your salmon or fighting terrorism, you will pet him RIGHT NOW.

Deuce is also horny. All. The. Time. He fancies himself a ladies man, but as far as we call tell, he's yet to figure out how to insert the key into the lock, which is a very important part of being a Casanova. Deuce doesn't approach sex as a carnal act, rather he likes to lick his girlfriend's ears until she's in a frenzy, then attempt to gaze into her eyes while he makes sweet, slow love to her. While this approach is incredibly thoughtful and caring, after about six hours of this it leaves his lady friends screaming: GEEZ! JUST STICK IT IN ALREADY!

Oh! I almost forgot. He is also a biter.

I know what you're thinking. Why on Earth did these people agree to shelter this animal? Surely, they've never met him right?

Nope. They met him two weeks ago. They came over to our house for supper and the dogs were in their usual form. You know, begging for food, shitting in the middle of the couch, ripping the stuffing out of everything in site. Except that Deuce was sort of angelic. You would have thought was had given him a sedative or something. He was still a little shit, but he was just a cute little shit. Kind of mischievous in an adorable way that says, "Hang out with me and we'll sneak a few swigs from dad's liquor cabinet and shoot fireworks at passing cars." Not his usual, "Hey, who wants to go on a tequila and cocaine bender, kill a prostitute then burn the house to the fucking ground?"

Since that night, Deuce has behaved relatively well. He's pooped outside almost exclusively and hasn't committed any murders that we're aware of. Before I send him off to enjoy a weekend with people we will from end up referring to as "former friends," I'd like to do everything possible to make sure he doesn't make this the worst Thanksgiving they've ever experienced.

So, Internet, Deuce needs a bath before he goes over. Does anyone know where we can get a vat of holy water? And perhaps the services of an old priest and a young priest?


Doesn't look like pure evil does he?

Oh My God

Today I stumbled across a movie that's out right now called "Fireproof." It's one of those religious flicks that stars Kirk Cameron. As I was watching the preview, I found myself tempted to actually watching it. It seemed -- dare I say -- good.

Then I made a discovery that sent me running from the Web site as quickly as my finger could click. It was made by a church I used to attend -- a church that changed my views on organized religion entirely.

Admittedly, religion is something I've always struggled with. I was raised Christian by a family of Baptists. When I was small I went to church religiously (pun intended.) My grandparents – especially my maternal grandmother – believed in forcing Christ down the throat of her family. If her adult children missed a day of church my grandmother was so embarrassed she would actually LIE about their whereabouts rather than let anyone in that small community church think HER clan was less than holy. Even when I was a little girl the irony of telling a lie to cover for a "sin" you did not commit was not lost on me.

Don't get me wrong, I loved my grandmother. She was a kind and loving person. I was spoiled rotten by her and my Papaw and I was devastated when they died. I don't blame them for raising us in church. I think it was absolutely the best thing that they could have done. It helped teach me so many things about respect, love and morality. I just wish it hadn't been delivered in such a hypocritical way. I was lucky because my parents taught me the difference. They instilled tolerance in my sisters and myself. They also taught us to question things for ourselves and to never just blindly follow. That bit of education has served me well.

Regardless of my struggles to figure out how Christianity to fit into my life, I never turned away from it completely. I always believed in God. I always believed in purpose – in a higher being. For years I drifted in and out of churches, never really sticking to one specific congregation or attending regularly. Mostly because I never stayed in one place for very long. I moved around a lot. When I arrived in Georgia five years ago and fresh out of college, I felt completely lost and alone. I hated Albany, the town where I worked at the local newspaper. It was a dirty, soulless place. I didn't fit in or have friends. Everyday I contemplated quitting my job and returning home to my mother.

A few weeks into my stint in Georgia, I accepted the invitation of a coworker to go to church with her. It was my first experience in a church with over 100 people. This church literally had thousands of members. When I went for the first time I had no idea how gigantic it was. Regardless of its size, though, I was made to feel welcome and enjoyed the experience. I went to Bible study classes regularly and even wanted to become involved in some of the youth initiatives, teaching young children. For the first six months I was happy as a clam.

Then I started dating the Aggie. This did not affect my attendance at all. I still enjoyed going to church and socializing. One day someone asked me about my new boyfriend and I happily spilled a few of the details about him. No, we weren't serious, yet, I said. No, I didn't meet him at church. Yes, he's a believer. No, he's not Baptist. Yes, I could see myself having a future with him. Etc. Etc. Etc.

A week later I was having dinner in a local restaurant with my new boyfriend. I was sipping a glass of red wine and having pasta when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was one of the ministers that I had spent some time with at the church. He said hello awkwardly and I introduced him to the Aggie. After the initial pleasantries, he went on his way and we continued with dinner. The following day I received an urgent phone call from the minister's secretary asking that I stop by the church that afternoon. She said the preacher had something he wanted to ask me.

On my way home, I stopped by as requested. I never thought for a moment it was for anything other than discussing my desire to teach one of the youth classes. As I entered his office, it became clear that this was not a pleasant meeting. The minister sat at his desk with folded arms and stared at me. He did not greet me in anyway. He simply sat and stared for a moment, then gestured for me to take a seat. It was very much like being called to the principal's office and not knowing what crime you've committed. Finally, I broke the silence.

Not one for beating around the bush, I asked: "Pastor, they said you had something you wanted to ask me?"

"Yes, I do," he said in the most condescending tone I have been spoken to in my life. "I wanted to ask you one simple question: Are you prepared to spend eternity in hell?"

I laughed out loud. Surely this man was joking.

"A soul damned to an eternity in the fiery pits of Satin's kingdom is nothing I would be laughing about, young lady," he said, his face turning red like 'Satin's kingdom.'

"Excuse me, sir, but what are you talking about?" Again, I'm not one to dilly dally around the subject. Lets just lay it out there.

"When I ran into you this weekend you were partaking in drink -- the devil's drink -- and what disturbed me most is you showed no apparent shame at being caught behaving that way."

"Drink? Behaving what way?"

"Consuming alcoholic beverages and engaging in drunkenness."

"Whoa there buddy. I was having a glass of wine, but I was in no way drunk. One glass of wine doesn't do that to you."

"I KNOW exactly what drink does to people. It snakes down inside you and wraps itself around your soul. It destroys you slowly, taking you apart piece by piece until finally it claims your home, your job and everything you hold dear," he said. I sat there staring at him wondering if he'd woken up that morning and ate a big bowl of crazy for breakfast.

Finally, he continued speaking.

"You are on the path to hell. You will not be my sister in Christ when I enter the gates of Heaven and this saddens me. There are things in your life that you need to get rid of if you want to have a future with God at the helm."

Well, hell, he had my attention. I was too dumbfounded to say much or even really react so I just sat back and listened. I wanted to hear what other kooky ramblings he had saved up.

"You need to find other people to spend your time with. Your boyfriend is clearly a bad influence. He is leading you down the wrong path," he said, standing up from his desk and walking over to take my hand. "Sister in Christ, you are better than the life you are choosing. Turn away from the sins of alcohol, premarital sex and profanity and turn to God. Turn to us. Turn to your church family. Find the spouse God has chosen to lead you."

Oookay. I had just about enough. Something about that last bit kind of – how should I put it – sent me over the edge. I was suddenly so enraged I couldn't see straight. I had what I like to call a case of the mean reds. Just as I was preparing to open my mouth tell this guy where he could stick it, the pastor grabbed my free and leaned in closely to me.

"Until you are on the right path, I'm afraid you can NOT work with the children in our church. They need a leader who serve as a moral example."

Oh. No. He. Didn't.

Momma Pug snapped.

"Now you wait just a minute there!" I said. "In the process of trying to save my soul you have just called me a drunk, a whore and a horrible role model. You have judged me unfairly and not in way I think God would approve of. And while you may very well be right about me, the one thing I am not is a hypocrite. Nor do I keep the company of -- much less worship with -- hypocrites."

I stood and turned to leave, rather proud of myself for not telling a man of God to kiss my drunk, whorey ass. Clearly underestimating the self control I was exerting, the pastor stepped in front of me, keeping me from exiting his office.

"Wait," he said. "Please, I am only trying to help you. Let's sit down and talk some more. Let's discuss it rationally."

"Sir, we have not been engaging in rational or, for that matter, civil conversation. You just spent the last ten minutes chastising and judging me. You have condemned me to hell several times and told me to dump the ONE person I've connected to in healthy way in my entire adult life. So, no thank you. I will not be staying to 'talk.' Or returning to any of your services. This isn't the home for me. You aren't the spiritual leader I want or need. And having me as a part of your congregation isn't my loss, it's yours."

And with that I pushed my way past the fine reverend and marched out to my car and left.

This should be the end of the story. I should have been able to walk away from the church and never looked back. Because this is America and we are allowed to pick our religious affiliations. Yet the story does not end there. The next day -- before I could even share the experience with the Aggie -- I arrive to work to find my paramour in a bit of tiff. He was red-faced and sitting very still at his desk. My intial thought was: Oh no, what have I done? After a few moments of stewing, the Aggie approached. Just before I arrived at work, that preacher had called the Aggie and informed him that if he was concerned about my spiritual well being, he would terminate his relationship with me.

WHAT?

Are you shitting me? This dude called my boyfriend, at work no less, to tell him he needed to dump me because I was going to hell. Lord knows I have enough trouble keeping a relationship in tact without crazy calls from religious zealots. Well, if it weren't so infuriating it would just be comical. In my day, potential suitors were ran off the old fashioned way -- by my daddy with a shotgun. The preacher didn't get a vote.

"What did you tell him?" I asked.

"To look in the fucking mirror," the Aggie said. "I told him that I didn't need or trust the opinion of any church that has a bookstore in the lobby. That's like moneychangers at the temple. Then I told him not to call me ever again, unless he wanted an old fashioned Texas ass whooping."

Fair enough. Boundaries were being crossed. Perhaps the pastor needed a stronger approach. Later that afternoon my phone rang. It was the secretary that had summoned me to the meeting the day before.

"The pastor wants you to come by and pick up your letter," she said.

"My letter?"

"Yes, when you joined you moved your letter of membership from your church in Mississippi," she said. "You need to stop by and pick it up."

Now call me crazy, but I'm pretty sure this was just a ploy to get back into Brother DoRight's office. And that was one place I wasn't prepared to go back. Aside from chapping my ass real good, the whole exchange was wearing on my nerves.

"Mail it," I said. "You obviously have my address because I get tons of propaganda from yall."

"Uh, oh, well, I'm afraid I can't do that," she said finally. She was not expecting me to refuse their demands to come by.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Uh, well, it's just that he said you had to pick it up," she said. "It's policy."

"Well, seeing as my old church mailed it to you, then I'm pretty sure it's not a Southern Baptist policy. Go ahead and mail it, it what Jesus would do," I said.

"I can't," she replied, obviously wanting to get off the phone with the sinner.

"Look, I'm not stepping foot inside that church ever again. So you can mail me the letter or throw it away or burn it for all I care," I replied.

"Oh, no! You can't let your letter be thrown away!" she exclaimed.

"The fate of that later is on your shoulders, hon. Personally, I could care less. When I die and go to Heaven I really don't think St. Peter is going to be asking for that slip of paper," I said. Then I hung up.

---

That's been about five years ago. In those years I married the Aggie. And I became Methodist. I will never forget my roots, and maybe it's all the brainwashing, but I don't begrudge the Southern Baptists. They believe what they believe and it turned out that as an adult their docterine didn't fit my beliefs. I have some very good gay friends and I don't believe they are destined for hell. I enjoy a nice glass of wine and -- gasp -- sex. But you know what? I am who I am today because of them and I think I turned out okay. I haven't gotten it all figured out for sure, but I am confident that being a Christian is a personal relationship with Christ. It's like marriage -- it works best if you're just honest with each other and don't pretend to be someone you're not. And Christ and I are pretty happy together. Sometimes we even laugh at the same inappropriate jokes.

I Don't Miss Me At All

I was talking to an old friend today. Someone I haven't spoken to in years and years, but someone that was special to me and I am happy to reconnect with. Talking to that person automatically conjured up memories of the person I used to be. I'd paint you a picture of that Momma Pug, but it would disturb you so much that you would want to eat dinner tonight. So I'll spare you that. Just know that other version of me was a really annoying, stupid girl who enjoyed really annoying, stupid extracurricular activities. She ran with people who didn't have her best interests in heart. People that were selfish and abusive and will never grow up. Frankly, I don't know how I stood myself, much less how my parents managed not to smother me in my sleep.

Talking to my friend today, I realized for the first time how different I truly am. It was like two people meeting for the first time. That's how different we both were, but it was truly wonderful. (It should be noted that Madge has held this philosophy about me for some time now.) She swears I am so different since finding the Aggie. My mother seconds that vote, as well. She told me once that the Aggie "puts that restless part of you at ease." Which is the best way I can describe it. It was like part of me was searching for something that was missing, but I didn't realize it so subconsciously I acted out in self-destructive ways. Or maybe it's simpler than that. Maybe I was just an unmitigated shit. I don't know. All I do know is that I don't miss that version of me one bit. I'm not ashamed of who I was because that helped make me something far more tolerable, but I sure am glad that phase of my life is over.

Life is fuller with my Aggie, my family, my friends, my dogs and my disenfranchised cat.

Moody Blues

Momma Pug is in a funk. Yesterday, I came home from work all achy and grumpy. All I wanted to do was cut out a pattern, pin it together and stich'er up. But I couldn't find my good scissors. They had vanished from my sewing box, and despite our feverish attempts to locate them, I had to use my crappy backup scissors. Which is like going from the driving elegance of a Porsche Roadster to not letting your foot all the way off the gas at red lights so your Ford Tempo doesn't die while idling (true story.) Yesterday taking the leap from terrific to shitastic scissors was just too much. I sat on the couch and cried over the loss.

I don't know if it's the approaching holidays. Or maybe just the fact that it's dark out 90 percent of the time I'm not in my office working, but something has me drifting on the dark side of the moon. Perhaps I need a little extra something from Mama's Little Helper. Whatever the reason, I've been all gloomy and twisted up on the inside. So I thought I'd give myself a bit of a mental facelift by updating on some of our favorite characters. Its been quite a while since we heard from them, so I think its long overdue.

Bum At Highway 288/Benz

Well, our good friend the "homeless" man has been up to his usual tricks. He's still standing at the corner holding his sign and wearing his iPod. This week, however, he took it up a notch. Usually his sign just proclaims him to be a down-on-his-luck veteran in search of a hot meal. Well, not one to let an opportunity pass him by, the bum has added some new "descriptions" to his sign: Hurricane Ike! Galveston! Home Lost!

Yeah, right. So you're saying that in addition to being a clean, iPod wearing bum, you also walked 35 miles each way every day to hold your sign? And what do you mean "Home Lost!"? What home? I thought you were HOMELESS? Isn't that a key point of homelessness? If so, how is it possible to have lost a home you never had? Dude, I'm being to think you're just a liar. A really, really bad liar.

Look Mr. Bum, I know you're not targeting me directly, but you are managing to annoy me every single day on way to work. AND when I was carpooling with a dude that had his doors off his Jeep until this weekend, you made it tad uncomfortable to stop at that intersection. Call me crazy, but I just felt better having that slight barrier between my world and yours.

Pig Whore

Oh, Pig Whore, it's been a while. I'm sorry you chose today to email me yet again regarding my posting your "private" emails to my "stupid, immature Web site." I particular like the line where you accuse me of "slandering" you. Allow me to quote, "You are not smart enough to realize that this is a legal violation of my privacy. I can and will sue you for putting those letters on the internet. It another way you violated me."

Pig Whore, you might want to print this out for future reference. Or at the very least, take notes. First of all, I haven't slandered you. Slandering is SPOKEN. Libeling is when the offending statements are written or depicted in images. So go ahead save us both some trouble and sue me for the right thing.

Regardless, you have not been slandered. Slander is defined as "communication of a statement that makes a false claim, expressly stated or implied to be factual, that may give an individual, business, product, group, government or nation a negative image." I have not even identified you as anyone other than Pig Whore. I've never used your real name. Nor have I made any false claims or implied things are factual that are not. I have never said or written things to portray you in a negative light. Keep in mind that YOU wrote those e-mails, Pig Whore. If YOU feel as though they were a negative representation, then I suggest you sue yourself.

Okay, so lets work on your terminology. I'm not positive, but I suspect you have consulted the Cliffnotes version of "Slander for Dummies." Bless your little heart, you're trying so hard to use those grown up words, but its just not coming out right. For example, can you please explain how can something be a "legal violation"? If an act is in violation of the law, then doesn't that make it illegal?

Pig Whore, I rest my case.

To All You Haters

So. You think Sally Cyclopes is a bust. Well, let me tell you something, Internet: Sally the Cyclopes is awesome! She is the best damn ragdoll ever made. Just because she's lumpy and one eye doesn't make her less of a doll. In fact, it makes her more of one. It makes her unique. It makes her special.

Now, I don't want you to think I'm not good at taking constructive criticism. Because I SO am. But to prove that I'm not crazy and that Sally the Cyclopes is a great creation, I'd like you check out this link.

SEE! There IS a market for my babies. So take that, doubters. You will all be wishing you were supportive of my ragmonster endeavor when I'm filthy rich with my cyclopes fortune.

"World Class Seamstress"

Recently I was sewing my friend's suit jacket button back on using only a rusted needle we found on a coworker's desk and dental floss. At first, my friend was skeptical that it could be done, but I took that tetanus-infested needle and ball of floss and showed that button who's boss. And it looked great. You'd never know that it was held on with a personal hygiene product.

As my friend slid her jacket back on and verbally proclaimed my sewing job a success, I said -- and I quote: "Hell yeah! I'm a World Class Seamstress!" To which she smiled and nodded in that oh-isn't-it-cute-how-proud-of-herself-she-is kind of way. But I didn't care, because I had totally rocked out that wayward button.

This weekend I was polishing up a dress I made for Madgette. She doesn't know it yet, but tomorrow an American Girl doll arrives custom made for her. Its the Aggie and my birthday and Christmas present for her. Since before it was even ordered, I've been working on Madgette and her doll matching dresses. (Insert your so-cute-I-could-vomit gag here.)

Well, I had some material over, so I thought I'd make the newest member of the Momma Pug Community -- Preemie Donna -- a ragdoll. I traced out a pattern, cut the material and sewed it up. Then I used some polyester fill and stuffed it up. And what I got kind of looked like the retarded lovechild of the Pillsbury Dough Boy and the Gingerbread Man.

Perhaps proclaiming myself a World Class Seamstress was a bit premature. As I sat staring at the awkward stuffed creature, I racked my brain for a way to salvage all those hand stictches. Surely there was a way to make this ragdoll cute.

Dear readers, I pondered this for quite a while. I thought of adding hair. That just made it look like it look like a DRAGdoll. I tried to summon the wisdom of my great-grandmother Nene, the person who taught me the art of ragdoll making. But nothing I came up with could help this poor creature.

Just as I was about to give up and donate the would be doll to Deuce (who has been stalking it all afternoon), something brilliant in its simplicity occurred to me: if you can't beat 'em, join 'em! I hadn't created an ugly ragdoll at all! I had created a ragmonster! A cute little one-eyed, frowning monster!

I give you Sally the Cyclopes:


I'm not Martha Stewart. I'm Martha McGyver. Or Martha Frankenstein. Either way, I AM the World Class Seamstress I thought I was.

I can't wait for the day when Preemie Donna is all grown up and going through her things and asks her mother, "What the hell is this?" And her mother will say, "Your crazy aunt made that for you." And Preemie Donna will be all like, "Well, what it is?" And her mother will say, "That's Sally the Cyclopes, of course." And Preemie Donna will immediately send me her bill for therapy.

ALL AL FRIDAY

Well, I'm having trouble locating the picture I really, really wanted to show you. Don't worry, I will find it. In the meantime, please enjoy a little snippet from Al at his wedding reception. He's the one on the left locking and popping it with the bride like its 1989. I call this particular dance move The White Boy.



And don't miss the added bonus of his friend Jeremy doing his own version of Caucasian boogieing -- The Dice Throw.

Let Me Show You How It's Done

Remember my friend Jaime from that story about us accidentally being caught up unawares in the drug sting?

Well, he's got a new portfolio out and I always find his work shockingly good. I mean, I've worked with him and I know he's one talented dude, but these photos are so stunning they reduce me to tears. (And trust me, with 100 milligrams of Prozac in my system, that is NOT an easy thing to do.)

Jaime, my friend, you are a true artist. Please don't bother suing me for putting your work on here without your permission. (It would be a waste of time as half of nothing is nothing.)

I have many, many favorite, but this one strikes my fancy today:



Please, go check out his entire body of work here.

Momma Pug Goes To The Texas Renaissance Fair And -- Equally Surprisingly -- Doesn't Dress Up Or Fall Down

Remember how I said "Momma Pug Goes To The Texas Renaissance Fair And -- Equally Surprisingly -- Doesn't Dress Up Or Fall Down"???

Well, my dirty mistress -- Irony -- was having NONE of that. Today as I was walking up the tiny, marble stairs to my office, my phone rang. It was 6:55 a.m. and I was still waking up good, so I wasn't paying as much attention to my surroundings as usual. In fact, its fair to say that I was out of it, and when the phone started to ring I didn't fully comprehend that it was a phone ringing in my purse and not, say, a nuclear device strapped to my chest. So I jumped in that startled way people do in horror movies when they discover their roommate's body swinging from the ceiling fan or their dog roasting in the microwave. That's how I jumped. Like Michael Jordan hanging a 3-pointer. Only instead of landing on a court surrounded by adoring fans, I ended up sprawled face down on the tiny, marble stairs.

And I still answered the phone. (It was Madge, by the way.)

So all that talk about going to the Texas Renaissance Fair and NOT wiping out? Pretty much meaningless since the first thing I did was face plant today. So lets talk about what I did at the renaissance fair, which can pretty much be summed up in one word: SHOP. I purchased some really cute spiral earrings. I can't find the exact pair anywhere online, but a similar set can be purchased here. Honestly, the ones I bought were a bit simpler (and I think cuter), but you get the gist.

I also purchased a very plain twisted, spiral ring for my right hand from the same shop. Both pieces cost less than $40 together. I know, GO ME.

Aside from shopping, I pretty much just wandered around and stared at the freaks. Including, but not limited to people dressed as the following:

• A dude without underwear in a loin cloth. He was even barefoot. BAREFOOT, I tell you. Yuck.
  
  
• A centaur. It was a creepy but impressive effort. Madgette was especially taken by this dude and insisted she have her picture taken FROM ASTRIDE HIS BACK. Bless, the horseman's heart, he let her up on him without missing a beat. If I'd thought the poor fellow could have supported my weight, I would have hopped on there with her just so I'd have a picture with a good story to tell.
  
  
  
  
• A girl wearing strategically placed, yet poorly adhered leaves and nothing else. She claimed to be a "wood nymph."
  
  
  
  
• A guy with boobs -- not unfortunate man boobs, but true lady breasts -- wearing deer antlers on his head, eyeliner and wielding a very large sword. I suppose if you are going to be a tranny viking, you better carry something to defend yourself with.
  
  
• But my favorite "character," by far, was this guy:
  
  
  

I shit you not. There was an Imperial Stormtropper at the Texas Renaissance Festival. I don't know about you, but I sure do feel better about myself right now.

________________________________________

For more on our adventure at the Texas Renaissance Festival, visit The Aggie.

The Infamous Tale Of How Momma Pug And Jaime' Accidentally Wandered Into A Major Drug Bust

Back in 2004, I packed all my belongings, my disgruntled cat and moved from Georgia to to Texas. Gertrude and I left behind our friends and comfort zone. We didn't especially like where we were, but at least there we had a plan. That plan was to succeed -- to be a big city, big time, world-changing writer. But we stopped in our tracks and packed up and headed west. Why, you ask? Because I was hopelessly in love with a boy. I was utterly smitten. So much so that I did the one thing I said I would NEVER do – leave my career path for something as icky as love. Not only did I abandon my "plan," but I also took a job that was really a step down for me. To add insult to injury, I had an hour-and-a-half commute each way to my job every day.

Basically, I moved to be close to the love of my life, but I ended up in the car or working most of the day. I was only home from 8 p.m. to 6 a.m. each day. It doesn't take long working crazy hours for a completely INSANE boss to take its toll. By the end of the first six months, I knew I was burning out. I knew I couldn't sustain that lifestyle very much longer. Honestly, the only thing that kept me going was the stability of a friendship I'd struck up with the intern who worked in our photography department. From the moment I met Jaime' I knew he and I were going to be great friends. Not only was he a talented photographer, but he was also funny, sarcastic and sweet. And he was just as fucked up as I was. Going through the all the motions of such a stressful, horrifying, ridiculous assignments together made it so much more bearable.

In our year together, we went to a secluded part of the county known as The Killing Fields. It was a popular place to dump bodies after murderers and rapists had finished with their victims. We also harassed illegal immigrants having a garage sale, went to countless wreck scenes together and fell in love with a big black dog that survived an airplane crash only to be put down the following day. There was the little girl who needed a new heart that bit me and the other child who "spoke" to God and drew us pictures she claimed were messages from her Savior. We went out to The Scariest Place On Earth, an old junkyard owned by what I'm pretty sure was a voodoo queen and we stalked down John Kerry supporters outside the most conservative voting precinct in America (not a sole would admit to voting for him.) Oh, and my personal favorite: Jaime' and I spent a very romantic Valentine's Day together. We climbed through the mud and cow shit to do a story on twin calves born and the rancher's wife who had named them Val and Tina. Then we returned to the newsroom and refused to change out of our cow shit covered clothes because we wanted to share our suffering with everyone in sniff distance from us.

While all these episodes are memorable, there is one moment that stands out most. Perhaps because it was captured on film.

It was a Friday afternoon and Jaime and I had been out all day looking for "illegal" garage sales. By illegal, I mean garage sales being held without the purchase of one of the city's new garage sale permits. God, people hated us that day. We'd been asked to leave yard sale after yard sale without getting a single comment. Things were starting to look pretty dismal so we decided to pull into the local A&W Burger/Long John Silver's. When we were pulling into the parking lot, we noticed that the local police had several cars pulled over near the restaurant. It appeared as though they were issuing speeding tickets. Jaime even mentioned how lucky we were to not get caught up in the speed trap, as he was frustrated and had been using his lead foot. Well, at least our crappy day wasn't THAT crappy, I said.

As we got in line to order, the manager walked up to us and gave us coupons for free burgers. Well, now, you could have knocked us over with a feather! We weren't expecting that little bit of kindness. And let me tell you, the manager was one of those people you don't forget. He was extremely nice and generous. He was well dressed and very articulate, and reminded me of a politician kissing babies. Happy with our near free meal, we both ordered the bacon cheeseburger with chili cheese fries. After I took a few bites of food, I stepped outside the restaurant to call our NUTSO boss and tell him were having NO luck producing the story and photos he wanted. I noticed that in the distance the same cops had four more cars pulled over. It was by far the most successful speed trap I had ever seen.

Finally Jaime and I were able to finish our meal in peace. Our boss knew the story was unlikely to materialize and he didn't seem too crazy mad about. So perhaps our day was looking up. Jaime and I then started talking about my wedding plans. As a dripped chili down the front of my sweater, Jaime commented on what a graceful bride I'd be. Then he got so tickled at his own joke he snorted root beer out his nose and down his own shirt. And so our comedy of errors continued with one of dumping a drink over onto the floor, flooding the other's side of the table. Then I tripped leaving the restaurant and Jaime grabbed my arm, which didn't so much stop my bumbling as jerk him around too. Eventually we made it back to Jaime's car and made our way back to the office.

And our wonderful experience at the A&W Burger/Long John Silver's was over. Or so we thought.

The following Monday Jaime runs up to my desk and practically carries me out of the newsroom. His face showed a mix of panic and amusement. When were in fairly secluded smoking area outside the office, Jaime began to recount his morning at the police station to me. He'd be over to snap a photo of a detective that was receiving an award when he ran into one of the drug enforcement officers. The officer asked him if he had a minute, then pulled Jaime into his office and been questioning him on what he knew about a recent drug bust and covert surveillance that had been going on. Jaime, of course, had no clue what the guy was talking about. The man was incredulous. He kept saying, "But we saw you and that reporter there." Jaime was baffled. Finally the officer summoned the information officer and Jaime was let to a room with a television and DVD player.

As the footage the rolled, he saw himself and I sitting in the A&W/Long John Silvers the previously Friday. We were doing our usual thing – being clumsy and loud and pigging out. We were just there hiding out from an angry boss and seeking solace in a hamburger. But the audio attached to the video told an entirely different story. The voices of two veteran detectives were uttering profanity, wondering why on earth the reporter and photographer from the local paper had just crashed their drug bust. It was dangerous and stupid, one was saying. The other was calling us things that would make you blush. They just assumed we had a clue what was going on and were there to capture the climax. Oh how wrong they were. We were just after a burger. All though, with the day we were having if we'd known they were selling drugs at the drive through in fish dinner boxes, then we might have been a bit tempted.

The surveilence tape had captured our every move. From dropping chili down my shirt, to Jaime spitting root beer out his nose. By the time were leaving for the car, the cops had realized we were nothing more than patrons, and they found that absolutely hilarious. Oh, how funny it was to them that we'd stumbled onto a story that was so big it would be joked about on the Tonight Show. Yet we were blind to it. We were too pissy about stalking illegal garage sales to notice the major drug bust going on around us.

Here's a link to a mention of the bust in the news. The really super nice manager turned out to be a super nice criminal and is now in the pen. I guess in addition to share coupons he also liked to pass around weed. And that tape of the us – journalists – spilling food down our fronts and whining about how hard life is played at every Christmas party. I'm told, we're something of station legend.

Good Things To Come

Wow, Internet, you really respond to stories in which I hurt myself. I mean you REALLY rally behind those. If I weren't such a bitch and admittedly laugh EVERY time anyone around me hurts themselves, then I might be a little offended by the glee that you guys seem to experience when discussing my failures. But since I am EXACTLY the same way, I don't begrudge you one bit. In fact, it kind of warms my heart to see all my readers united by a common passion. Even if it my physical injury or personal embarrassment.

If you all shared some other common interest -- such as gardening or kiddy porn -- then you wouldn't be here reading what I have to say. I choose to embrace the fact that I am fat, clumsy and loud. Since we started talking about my litany of jackassery, I've been hounded with requests to elaborate on the various personal experiences you guys have shared in the comments section. The most requested -- by far -- is the Bass Drum And Bleachers Story (circa 1993). I was fully prepared to tell that to yall, but my dear friend Madge has asked that she be the one to share the tale. So later this week, expect a guest blog from the semi-world-famous Madge from Madge-and-a-Half blogging fame. I figured that if she's put up with me and served as my best friend for 25 years, I owe her the pleasure of sharing that little treasure with the World Wide Web.

Here's a list of the other stuff you can expect in the coming week:

• Momma Pug Goes To The Texas Renaissance Fair And -- Equally Surprisingly -- Doesn't Dress Up Or Fall Down

• The Infamous Tale Of How Momma Pug And Jaime' Accidentally Wandered Into A Major Drug Bust
  
  And we'll have one of the following:
  

• ALL AL FRIDAYS! (This is a new segment of Pug Off where we feature a different picture of my friend Al in compromising, embarrassing or just hilarious circumstances.)
  
  Or
  
  
• Momma Pug's Mailbag: Another Correspondence With My Favorite Reader, The Pig Whore

Yall come back tomorrow. I promise not to disappoint.

Two Years Ago We Adopted A Pug

We adopted Sonny The Pug so our big fuzzy dog, Ripken, would have a companion. By companion we mean someone to torture besides us (and our furniture.) We thought we were getting a stately, old, calm dog that would have a kind and gentle effect on Ripken. Sonny, however, was not down with that. In fact, he kind of turned the tables on Ripken.

This video was shot more than two years ago and we thought it was about time to share it with all of Sonny's adoring fans. We are thinking of turning into his first campagin video. Sonny 2012:

And I think you now understand why we got Deuce. Apparently, because we enjoy punishent.

Momma Pug's Mailbag: Embarrassing Moments

Dear Momma Pug,

I love your site. You are very funny and entertaining. My girlfriends and I read it all the time. We have one request. Please tell us about your most embarrassing moment.
Thanks,

B. S. from Salt Lake City

What's up Salt Lake City? Utah representing! This is the first time I've had a reader write in from the "Beehive State." Thanks for your question, B.

Of all the things I've ever been asked, I think this might be the most difficult to answer. Not because there is a lack of instances that come to mind, but because there is just so much to pick from. There are various falls and faux pas that would easily qualify as a "most embarrassing moment" for most people. But I ain't most people, Internet.

Pretty much it breaks down into three categories:

There's what I like to call Vintage Momma Pug, which are pretty much stories about stupid stuff I've done that my friends and family never tire of telling. This includes crowd favorites such as the time I fell down 50 feet of stadium bleachers while strapped to a base drum (seventh grade) and when I broke my ankle prior to a football game in front of the entire student population while wearing a hideous spandex drill team outfit (college sophomore.)

Then there is Classic Momma Pug, these sort of things happen all the time, usually because I don't know when to shut up. Take for example the time I was telling a story to my former boss and tried to use the phrase "we got 86ed," which means "we got fired." But it was after-hours and I was in the process of unwinding from a long day (alcohol might have been involved), so when I spoke/slurred it came out, very loudly as "we got 69ed." This is the most common sort of blip I make. Such as getting my shirt caught in the elevator door and ripping the dress off rather than just thinking to hit the emergency stop button.

The final – and most rare category – is Epic Momma Pug. These are the sort of falls that would render anyone else paralyzed or slips of the tongue that would your average person fired. I'm not sure why this is the case with me. I've been told its my southern accent and friendly way of "disarming" those around me. I just think chalk it up to God being very forgiving and quite sorry for making me such an awkward klutz/moron.

I do so much embarrassingly horrible things that I've become somewhat immune to the emotions that usually accompany such actions. It takes a real doosie to make me self-conscious or truly humiliated. When I do find myself mortified by one of my oopsies, I'm usually more taken aback the fact that I've actually feel shamed rather than concerned about being ashamed. This happened to me most recently at Mount Vernon, the home of our first president of the United States, Gen. George Washington.

The whole episode actually started the day before when I fell off while getting off a tram in Arlington National Cemetery. My poor husband tried to catch me, but that didn't work out so well and I ended up knocking him down in the process of my falling anyway. To illustrate this particularly nasty fall, I have made a little drawing:



Notice, if you will, that the impact of the fall was concentrated on my ass. My ankle twisted somehow and my head also hit the ground, but those were both secondary to the force that my poor butt took. When I finally crawled over to the sidewalk and pulled myself up, I knew immediately something wasn't right. Pain radiated down my legs all the way to my ankles. I was pretty sure I'd broken my ass, but because it was my mother's first trip to Washington D.C. I didn't want to ruin it with my clumsiness. I tried my best to suck it up and go on, which worked surprisingly well, aside from the fact I wiped out three more times that day. (My legs just weren't working right after the fall.)

Finally we made it back to the hotel and settled in for the night. I was totally drained and in more pain than I can describe. I self-medicated myself and vowed to go on because following day was Mount Vernon and visiting that historical home was the one thing I really, really wanted to do. By the time I'd wrestled myself out of bed the next morning and made my way to the entrance of the home, I found that I was completely outmatched. There were hills. Hills! And sandy gravel. Great, I thought. Perfect. We'd already paid for the tickets, yet I wasn't sure if I could walk the 300 yards to the actual house.

While I sat on a bench and contemplated my plight, my mother and husband devised a plan of their own. The Aggie disappeared suddenly and Mamaw Pug patted me on the back. When he returned, the Hubs was pushing the ricketiest excuse for a wheelchair you had ever seen. It was so old I'm pretty sure George Washington himself rode in it. The structural integrity left much to be desired. The wheels bowed out and one of the footrests wouldn't come down all the way.

"You're chariot awaits, my lady," my husband said.

"No way, dude. I'm not doing that to you," I said.

"Please just get in the chair. I can't take it back until we leave. They took my drivers license. Its here, you need it and you might as well use it," he said.

Famous last words, husband.

After some coaxing from my mother, I was convinced it wasn't THAT embarrassing and I plopped down in the sad little wheelchair. The Aggie embarked on one of the most strenuous workouts of his life – pushing his fat wife up a cobblestoned 17th century hill in a broke down wheelchair. By the time we got to the top of the hill I'm pretty sure the Aggie needed hernia repair. Bless him, though, he just fought to catch his breath and patted me on the shoulder.

After a few moments of recovering his oxygen levels, the Aggie returned to his post behind me and began pushing me along the path that led to the historic home. Apparently there had been some rain the day before and in an attempt to keep the dirty paths from washing out into mud puddles the groundskeepers had spread a think layer of sandy gravel on top of the dirt road. While this kept tourists from slipping and sliding all over the place, it made for a rather shitty wheelchair-pushing surface. Not one to accept defeat, the Aggie just hunkered down and pushed onward. After about two feet, we jolted to a stop. The wheels on the chair seemed to be locking up. He reversed the motion and started again with some difficulty. After we'd gone several more yards, the Aggie stopped. My mother was laughing. The Aggie was not. When I finally saw what they were looking at, I broke out in hysterics. In my wake we had left two long ruts the entire length of the path. My poor husband had been pushing me through the rocks and sand and mud like I was on the worlds most poorly designed sled.

The Aggie did not see the humor in this. I, however, was hyperventilating with laughter. I had gone from being the mortified I have ever been in my life, to completely amused by the situation. God, my husband loves me, I thought. There I was – injured, crying, laughing in a broken wheelchair/sled -- and that sweet man just kept on going, determined to let me experience everything I wanted. I don't know what I'd do without such an amazing partner. He's never embarrassed by my antics and will always try and help after I'm neck deep. For that, I am ever grateful.

So there you have it. That's my most embarrassing moment in recent memory.

Lets recap, shall we: Me. My mom. My husband. Nation's capital. Fell off tram. Broke ass. Pushed uphill, through gravel in broken wheelchair. Before an audience of thousands.

The End.

Change YOU Can Believe in

Fence Post

I had big plans for us today, Internet. I was going to talk about addiction and having an addictive personality. My friend Jenn and I had a very early morning discussion about our love affair with food, and I was going to talk about how it is similar to smoking and drinking and drugs. But I'm not going to do that, Internet. No, the husband has given us a much greater gift. Something so glorious that I must share it with you. RIGHT. NOW.

A bit of back story, first. As you all know, Hurricane Ike ripped us a new one last month. Perhaps the biggest casualty on our property was the complete loss of our fence. Doesn't sound like a big deal, but finding someone to replace your fence for you right now is insanity. All the construction companies are out working on bigger things – like missing roofs and shifting foundations. Our piddley little fence is so not their priority. But because I might KILL my dogs if I have they don’t have a yard SOON to play in, the husband decided to go about rebuilding the fence himself.

Which brings us today. Apparently, he was using the ladder to help him balance one of the really long two-by-fours and he forgot to remove the ladder before he nailed the two-by-four to the fence post. Now there is a ladder straddling the property line between our yard and the neighbors and a two-by-four going right through it.

I give you, "Fence Construction Fail":



My coworker said, "It's not that he did that I find so bad because I would do the exact same kind of thing. What gets me is that he actually took a picture of it and sent it to you! Doesn't he know what you are going to do with it???"

Yes, he knows that I'm going to show it to the world. Its just too funny not to. And when I get through putting it on my Web site, I'm going to send it to various media. Because this? Is too good to just keep to ourselves here at MommaPug.com.

Pug Pillow

Mamaw Pug made this pillow for Sonny. Its made of fleeze and is overstuffed and super comfy. So softy and wonderful, in fact, that I tried to claim it as my own. Sonny the Pug would have none of that, though. He knew it was his and he barked, grunted and whined until I gave it to him. Since I showed initial interest in the pillow, now every time I enter the room he thinks that I might take it so he runs over and plops down and looks at me like: DON’T EVENT THINK ABOUT IT LADY!

Sunday afternoon, Sonny spent four hours watching football from his perch on his pillow. He followed if with four more hours of napping. Then he ate a piece of kolache from his pillow. Then he barked at the cat – from his pillow. Then he played with his football on his pillow. Then he violently shook his pillow while maintaining eye contact with me – his way of saying: SEE HOW POWERFUL I AM. YOU DON'T WANT TO MESS WITH THE PUG. And to make sure I understand who the pillow belongs to, Sonny humped the pillow.

Message, received Sonny. I will not touch your pillow

Happy Birthday Madgette!

Today our little Madgette turns 6 years old!

I can hardly believe it. It seems like just yesterday her mother and I were Kindergartners, terrorizing Franklin Lower Elementary. We were monsters, to put it nicely. MONSTERS. Every now and then, I find myself shocked at how much Madgette reminds me of our childhood. Sometimes it just in her smile or way she says things that reminds me of her mother -- they look NOTHING a like -- but they are so similar personalitywise that sometimes being with Madgette is like traveling back in time.

Last week, Madgette gave her mother what I like to call "the look." It only lasted about two seconds, but it definitely was "the look." If you have ever met Madge you know what the look is. She invented it. It's this smile she gets when she squints her eyes and wrinkles her nose slightly. "The look" is reserved for moments when Madge simply cannot believe how stupid you are being. It's her way of silently saying: YOU ARE SUCH A DUMBASS, DARLING. She's given this look for the entire 25 years I've known her. I'm pretty sure she was born with it.

Often I have commented on how much Madgette reminds me of her mother. Sometimes Madgette and I literally play together the way her mother and I did as children. Madgette -- like her mother -- is one of my most favorite people in the world. She has this attitude about her that just says: I AM CONFIDENT. I AM FUNNY, SMART AND AWESOME. YOU WANT TO BE MY BEST FRIEND. WE MIGHT GET INTO TROUBLE IF YOU HANG OUT WITH ME, BUT I PROMISE IT WILL BE SOOOO WORTH IT. And you know what? It is sooooo worth it. I should know, she and I have gotten in trouble together. (For screaming, laughing, wrestling and jumping on the bed, in case you were wondering. I maintain Madge only fussed at us because she was jealous.)

Well, last weekend, as Madge and I sewed away, something Madge said rolled over Madgette wrong. It was something innoculous and so unimportant I can't recall what it was. Oh, but I swear you would have thought Madge had just tried to tell Madgette that the SKY IS NOT BLUE, and that child would have NONE of it. Instead of arguing, though -- which is usual way of settling things -- Madgette just shot her "the look." And she held it on her mother for two long seconds. Which was exactly the amount of time it took for me to loose my shit laughing. Not just a giggle mind you. I was laughing from the pits of my stomach -- it was a soul shaking laugh and there was nothing I could to stop it.

After I lost it, Madge found herself dangerously close to losing is too. She had recognized "the look" for what was -- her daughter calling her a DUMBASS. But since Madge was on the verge of laughing, it was difficult to hand down appropriate punishment. So Madge -- and this is why I LOVE her and think she ROCKS as a mother -- said in a very calm voice: "Listen to me, Madgette. Don't ever look at me like when we are outside of this house. That's a look you don't ever use in public with me. Do you understand?" And Madgette, not believing her incredible luck, knodded 'yes' then ran off to play. Madge turned back to me and her sewing and said: "You know how you always say that some times its like you are six years old and I you are playing together all over again?" And I was all: "DUH." And Madge said: "For the first time, I know what you mean. She just gave me 'the look' -- MY LOOK -- and she couldn't have done it more naturally or perfect if she tried."

Madgette: We are so happy you are part of our family. You are such a sassy, fireball of a young lady and its been our please watching you grow up. We can't wait to watch you grow and celebrate more and more birthdays. And one day, I have SO MANY stories to tell you about your mother. Stories that are filed under the heading: THE LOOK.