25 Random Things

1. I just ate an entire bag of baby carrots. Which I suppose is better than eating an entire bag of miniature Milky Ways.

2. Though I'm only 28 years old, I have been on more diets than 30 diets. None of them worked, except for Weight Watcher, which is what I'm currently doing right now. Thus the bag of baby carrots.

3. My husband and I do "voices" for our animals. Sonny the Pug has a lisp. Deuce giggles a lot. Ripken refers to himself as "hims" instead of using "I" or "my." Gertrude likes to make names up for people that include the word fucker. Ask any of our friends and they'll be all: YES, I AM TREE MCFUCKER AND THIS IS MY FRIEND JEWFUCKER.

4. I recently cut all my hair off and I thought it would upset me, but when the lady snipped it off my only reaction was: WOW, THAT IS LIGHTER. I'm donating the 16 inches of hair to a charity that makes wigs for bald kids because there is no charity that makes wigs for dogs and cats.

5. When I first met my husband I hated his guts and he thought I was a snob. Six months later, a bottle of tequila and an awkward morning forced us to reassess our feelings for each other. Turns out we actually LIKED one another. So we became friends, started dating then got married. In less than a year.

6. My best friend has been the same person since I was five years old. (Hi Madge!) We are codependent and completely unapologetically annoying when we are together. Her moving to Houston makes this enabling relationship run a lot more smoothly.

7. One time, Madge yelled at me and her five-year-old daughter for "being too loud and misbehaving" because we were wrestling on the bed. Later that night, we were riding along with Madgette asleep in the back of the car and she said, in a very soft voice: "You know, when I fussed at yall for being too rowdy… I wasn't mad. I was just jealous that no one was playing with me." And that right there is why I love her so much. Because she is one of the few people in this world that embraces honesty. HONESTY, people. That's right. I'm calling you out, Internet. What's so wrong with being truthful? Nothing that's what.

8. When I'm with Madge's daughter, I am five years old again. Which is better than when we were eight years old, because that year we ran away from the elementary school, and stole a ride on a hot air balloon. My mother? Nearly killed us. Also? It was SO worth it.

9. Everyday I am a little more like my mother. I used to think of myself as my father's daughter, but the older I get the more I see my mother in me.

10. My sisters and I share a startling physical resemblance. That's right. We're three hot looking babes. We also sound so much alike on the phone that our parents cannot tell us apart.

11. I once threatened a strange man sleeping in the building I work with an umbrella. He fled for his life.

12. I have met some interesting people: Earl Weaver (nicest guy), Rudy Giuliani (distant, kind of half-hearted), Yogi Berra (depressingly old), Jimmy Carter (short and bit of a dick), the guys from Three Doors Down (class acts), Dave Winfield (large, slightly intimidating), Ryne Sandberg (youthful), Gaylord Perry (funny and grandfatherly), Rick Perry (his hair is really that good), Ben Affleck (very nice but needs to eat a cheeseburger), Lee Corso (sweet), Kirk Herbstreet (handsome), Mike Tirico (professional), Lance Berkman (disappointing), Afroman (high), Rick Bragg (who my hero – until I met him) and a whole slew of congressmen that think they matter way more than they really do. I've been in the same room as some other cool folks, but I didn't actually have the nerve to talk to them – such as the elder George Bush (seemed kind), Bill Clinton (devastatingly charming) and the Dalai Lama (fun to listen to talk.)

13. I read a lot. Last year I read more than 150 books. My favorites were the Sookie Stackhouse series.

14. I am making rag dolls based on the notes of my great-grandmother. Her dolls were so cute and delicate. Mine, however, are not. Rather than give up on replicating my great-grandmother's art, I have embraced my own abilities and have started my own line of Rag Monsters. Coming to a Website near you soon.

15. I also make flower cakes and diaper wreaths for baby showers. Which I realize is the gayest sentence I have ever typed.

16. And I dabble in graphic design. (Hire me to make your page beautiful!)

17. My favorite smell in the entire world is grass that is so fresh cut that it almost smells like watermelon. This smell accompanies most prevailing memories of my youth.

18. I have kidney stones.

19. I like to bring home strays – animals, people etc. This is something I inherited from my mother. There is a strong gene that makes me take things in and fix them.

20. I am anal, micromanaging and controlling… but just about my work. Not so much about cleanliness or home life stuff, but by god I will produce a perfect product. There will be 1.2575525 centimeters of a border or text will be aligned just so. My bedroom might be a biohazard, but if I'm working on a piece for a client then it will be fucking perfect.

21. I hate heroes who turn out to be total dickwads. So who gives a shit that your favorite baseball player has just been caught doing steroids and schlepping a country music singer half his age! You want to see a hero, go look at your mother. Odds are she worked full time, chased kids all night, kept the dog fed, cleaned up after the entire family – including her husband – and still never drowned you in the bathtub for being an obnoxious, ungrateful child. Now that's something that impresses the hell out of me. Because I? Probably would have held your head underwater until you bubbled.

22. I believe in God, the afterlife, Heaven and Hell. Even if my language sucks and my outlook is sarcastic, I believe in a higher purpose and that life is good only if you're living it right.

23. Ghosts are real. I grew up in a haunted house. There was the figure of an old lady that appeared near our closet. If you don’t believe me, I'll take you there and spend the night then you'll either pretend you didn't see anything or greet the morning a believer.

24. I believe that sometimes I tend to love bad people. Or maybe they're good people but just bad for me. Regardless, I believe that sometimes the only way to rid yourself of a toxic situation is to cut that relationship off all together, just let it fall away for a while. Maybe its like kudzu and grows back eventually or maybe its uprooted and gone forever. Either way, a change is made and a point illustrated. Unfortunately, I have learned that sometimes the only heart you break in these situations is your own.

25. My favorite color is yellow. Like the sun – warming, bright and hopeful.

The Magic Number

FIVE! The magic number is FIVE!

As in I lost FIVE pounds after doing my first week of Weight Watchers.

AND! To make it better -- the Aggie lost TWO. So together we're going totally bitch slap obesity.

We're doing our dead level best to get healthy so we can ENJOY LIVING. There are so many things that fall away from you when you're this fat. You are reluctant to travel, to go to places that require lots of walking. Just a trip to the grocery store becomes a chore when you are carrying around the weight of an extra person.

So here's to the first step in helping ourselves, Internet. Here's to a life worth living.

Happy Birthday To My Puche' (Pooh-Shey)

My cousin Halley and I were raised like sisters. She is one of my favorite people in the whole wide world. She's funny, charming, smart and surprisingly well adjusted to be from our family. I just wanted to publicly wish her congratulations on making it through another year.



Our childhood was a lot of un, but I'm particularly looking forward to becoming old and crazy with her. Kind of like our mothers. And as if there is any possible confusion about who's who in that picture, here's a hint: She's not the awkward chubby kid on the right.

Weakness

Today was a hard day. I didn't sleep much and I've been stressed out. So imagine my horror when the unthinkable occurred...

There was a box of warm sausage kolache's lying seductively a mere six feet from my desk.

Beside them – giving me the dirtiest "eat me" eye that I have seen – was a box freshly glazed donuts.

Oh, the humanity.

Well, Internet, I ate one kolache. Then I counted it in my Weight Watchers points.

That's right. I ate just one and didn't touch the donuts. If that's not self restraint then I don't know what is.

My Favorite Headline Of The Day

This little slice of irony was served to us by the Houston Chronicle:

Burglar killed with own gun in north Houston
Homicide detectives are still investigating an overnight shooting in which a resident of a north Houston apartment said he disarmed a burglar and killed him with his own gun.

Full Story

The only thing I like more than inept criminals is a victim that turns themselves into a hero.

Internet, don't be a victim. Be a survivor. Be something strong, something the next generations will be look back at and say: "See those people. They might not have always had their shit together, but they gave it their best try."

Quit whining. Life is hard sometimes. So what? You can complain about it or you can BE the CHANGE you want to see in others.

Most importantly, if you do find yourself about to commit an armed crime stop, rest and access. Being poorly prepared is a good way to lose position of your weapon. And, really people, have we learned nothing from Wiley Coyote?

Confessions

Oh all these things that I've done. Or thought. Or felt. Or said. Out loud. When I should have kept my mouth shut.

Brought to you at our friends at SomeEcards.com, I give you a glance into my belief system. Sometimes, I fear it's as broke as the economy:


Really. I don't think you should be given a license to operate your business if you don't have Splenda on hand.



And what the Aggie tells me.



Especially the ones that belong to PETA.



Guns N Roses to be precise.



It's like screaming in text.



So I don't have to deal with the pug by myself. Oh and because life would be nothing without the Aggie.



Sometimes, when I'm working, I leave my earphones in just so no one will attempt to talk to me.



Squirrels also creep me out. And hamsters are Satan's rodents.

A Conversation Between Husband And Wife

Me: It just occurred to me. I look like a cartoon character.

Husband: I don't see it. What cartoon character?

Me: When I say it, you're going to be mad you didn't think of it!

Husband: I don't think I'll see it. Your hair looks great.

Me: Okay, but when I put my glasses on you'll see it...

(Dramatic pause.)

Husband: Well?

Me: Velma from Scooby Doo.

(Another pause.)

Husband: Jinkers! Holy Scooby Snacks you're right!

---

I'll just let you guys judge for yourselves:

A Bit Of A Change

I don't know what it is about approaching 30, but something about having all this hair just started to feel wrong. Like if it got any longer I'd look like a member of that west Texas Mormon cult where the men take multiple wives. Seeing as I'm not quite ready to be mistaken for an extra on Big Love, I thought I'd not only shorten things up a bit, but that I'd also try and do something productive with the hair produced from the last four years of my life. I've decided to donate my hair to an organization that provides custom-made wigs for children with diseases that result in their having no hair. (I'm still trying to choose the right group to donate it to. Feel free to offer suggestions.)

Here is a before picture:



Here is a shot of the braid that my style guru Stephanie unceremoniously snipped from my head without so much as a warning:



And here is the after photo:



Despite Stephanie's no warning snip-snip, I think we can all agree the girl did yeoman's work. I feel so much better about myself. I feel lighter. Freer. Like I've lost 10 pounds without dieting. For the first time in years, I am going sans makeup and feel good about it. That above photo was taking a couple of days after I got my hair cut and I'm not wearing a stick over coverage. And do you know what? I don't feel bad about myself one bit. Which is a nice feeling... especially when you consider that tonight I get my figurative balls ripped out through my nostrils when get on that scale at Weight Watchers.

Screw You, Giant Makeup Companies

Due to nefarious business practices of many of the leading makeup and perfume manufacturers, local department stores will be giving away free products for anyone who spent money on these items from 1994 to 2003. (They're smoothing over a big lawsuit against them.)

Now, you do NOT have to prove how you purchased these items -- because who saves receipts for concealer for more than a decade. All you have to do is go and claim your loot. More than $4 million worth of these products will be given away.

Here's a website with more info: http://www.cosmeticssettlement.com/.

Go forth and claim your free products, ladies. Oh, and if you take your husband with you he can have free stuff too. I mean, who's to say he did purchase eyeliner back in '99.

Cracked

Am typing this post from bed.

It is Sunday morning and the hubs and I would love to be a sleep. Instead, we are laying under a pile of dogs. Rowdy, playful, wild dogs.

Ripken woke up at 7 a.m. ready to play. This isn't unusual behavior, as he's a naturally happy animal. However, he doesn't usually attack us with kisses and attempt to pull the pillows off the bed while our heads are still on them.

Now he is bouncing off the wall. Literally. I am going to be so pissed when we are repairing a hole in the drywall because he went through it like Wiley Coyote being chased by the Roadrunner.

Ripken has successfully worn everyone out. He's so desperate for someone to play with that he just went over to the cat, crouched down on her level and tried to convince her to party down with him.

She was all: DON'T. TOUCH. ME. FUCKER.

And now he's got this look on his face that says: Do you think the neighbors are up? Would they want to wrassle? I think we should go see.

Whoever gave my dog crack, in the words of Gertrude: Stop being a fucker, fucker.

Dear Subway, your store blows

I hate to say it, but I think I'm getting good at the letter writing/bitching thing.

To Whom It May Concern:

Congratulations on your $5 footlong ad campaign. I must say, it's quite catchy. In fact, it helped bring us in to your establishment at 8325 W. Broadway, Suite 200, this evening.
We arrived a little bit before 10 p.m. intending to get a sandwich, nothing else (save for a cup of water), and sit down and eat. Simple--food, bread, water. Folks have been doing it since the dawn of time.

Your guys found a way to screw it up.

A little demographic information for you: my wife and I are 28 and 33, respectively; we are clean-cut, both employed and don't have a criminal record. Now, having said that, I have a few questions.

First, if there are only two employees on a shift, wouldn't it be a good idea to establish a company policy to ensure franchises have a manager on duty that speaks English? In this case, after asking three times for a cup of water, the manager gave me two full cups and charged me for two sodas, which we did not ask for. Then he smiled at me like he'd just gotten now hydraulic shocks on his lowrider.

Then, once we had our meal, we were promptly told to leave. We were told the restaurant closes at 10 and to get out. Now, I am not the greatest mathematician in the world, but I do know that if the sign on the door says the store closes at 11 p.m., that means there is another hour before the store closes. If the franchise is going to kick people out, they either 1) have no customer service skills or 2) should learn how to count.

Simply put, this is the lousiest customer service experience I have had at any fast food franchise at any point. I am utterly disgusted. Having someone smile at me and tell me to get out because it's 10:00 after charging me for items I did not request is more than a little annoying.

I don't know if you have any control over this franchise, but if you do, please inform the owner that they run a lousy operation. If they can't hire employees who can count or understand simple requests, then they shouldn't expect repeat customers. They won't have one here.

Size Doesn't Matter

This morning I watched the most touching video I have seen in along time. It's of this elephant and dog that are best friends. They live together in an elephant sanctuary in Tennessee and they are inseparable. They eat, sleep and party like it's 1999 together.

Full video:

According to the elephant sanctuary director, these elephants pair up when they get to the facility. They find another elephant that they like and then they spend their every moment together. But what happens if you have a number of elephants that isn't divisible by two? Is that extra elephant ostracized? Is it picked on by the Pachyderm duos?

Well, if you're this elephant, you don't let a little thing like species stop you.

A side from a spouse, most of us aren't lucky enough to have a companion so devoted that they come stand at the fence in vigil while their friend recovers from a spinal cord injury. Can you imagine a love so strong that the little dog first learns to wag its tail again when the caretaker carries it outside to see its elephant friend? A bond so stalwart that relearning to walk seems like a small price to pay to be back together?

Cue my crying in my cubical at the display of love and devotion these two have for each other. I am still resisting the urge to call Madge and say: "You are my little white dog!" Because if I call and say "You are my big, floppy eared elephant!" it might not go over as well, especially if she hasn't seen the video.

Also? Rest assured that later tonight the Aggie will have a conversation with me that includes the sentence: "No, we are not adopting an elephant so Sonny the Pug can have a best friend."

---

I think I might have just figured out how the little dog got that spinal cord injury in the first place.

Just Call Me 12 Step

Hello, my name is Momma Pug and I'm a Brett Michael's Rock of Love Bus addict.

There. I said it. I confess to watching the trashiest show on television. Thank you, VH1.

My affection for Bret Michaels and Poison started out innocently enough. I am, after all, a child of the 80s. So it should come as no surprise that I hold a fondness for those who were iconic of my childhood. And who among us – I am talking to you class of 1998 -- doesn't love the ballad "Every Rose Has It's Thorn?" Yeah, all of you. That's what I thought.

So when I first started watching Rock of Love, it was for the nostalgia of it all. It was Bret Michaels -- someone I hadn't really thought of in, oh, about 15 years. It was like running into that pretty girl you kind of knew from high school that had always been really skinny and got all As and finding out that they're now married to a mechanic, weigh 300 pounds and have six kids running around their doublewide trailer (that's parked in daddy's backyard.) It's satisfying in a really sick, twisted way and as bad you want to not be attracted to the train wreck of it all, you cannot help but look.

Instead of being a fat, mother of six, Bret Michaels is a singer trying to hold on to some of his 1988 fame. The dude has hair extensions, wears eyeliner and I'm pretty sure "stuffs" his jeans – if you get my drift. He's 45 years old and trying to hang on to the fame of his youth. He's doing this by traveling around on tour buses with a camera crew and a gaggle of physically enhanced bimbos vying to be his next "Rock of Love."

The premise is simple. Each week these girls tramp it up, flirt, lie and fight their way into Bret Michaels heart… via his penis. It's all about who can drink the most, flirt the most and party the most. Oh, and keep Bret's attention more than two milliseconds. These girls achieve this feat by "winning" dates with Bret. Which requires they triumph in completely ridiculous competitions – such as wearing itty bitty outfits and playing a game of football in the mud or chasing down greased pigs. This, or course is complicated by the fact that the girls are far more interested in fighting each other than they are overcoming the obstacle placed before them. And lets be honest: Who doesn't love a mud-covered catfight!

While I am ashamed that I watch this show religiously and I openly admit that I am part of what's wrong television today, I can't help but be entertained by it. Since I don't think I'm going to be lucky enough for Britney Spears to shave her head again and chase people down with umbrellas, I'm clinging to what I have left – whores rolling around in the mud, fighting for a washed up rock star. If that's not entertainment then I don't know what is.

No Dogs, Pigs Or Pig-like Dogs Were Harmed In The Making Of This Post

I have not even made it to my first Weight Watchers meeting but already I am so hungry I think I could eat an entire pig. Hooves and all.

Sonny the Pug is nervous because of his obvious resemblance to swine and my craving bacon makes him fear that in a hunger induced pork-rage I will accidentally butcher him. I just keep reminding him that I'm fat -- not Asian -- so we're cool.

Truth be told, I really want to eat to sooth my inner blob with something large, sweet and chocolately. I know that going to Weight Watchers tonight and getting on the scale is going to be nothing short of devastating. I am good at lying to myself about many thing but the fact that most of my dress pants are busting from the seams is not lost on me.

I suppose you are at the bottom when you're so fat that your "fat clothes" don't really fit any more. I just don't know if I'm ready to put a number to it all. That makes it real. That number is something that's hard to ignore.

Let be real here people. I think it goes without saying that I'd much rather go eat a chocolate and caramel sunday. With extra whipped cream.

Clean House

After watching a Clean House marathon, the Aggie and I attacked our downstairs with fury. We removed seven garbage bags of clutter and trash from our kitchen. We put the appliances we seldom use under the cabinets, hung my great-grandmothers' antique plates and organized/tossed all the junk mail that had been accumulation.

Then we had a nice Italian lunch. Because tomorrow? We start Weight Watchers. I know I probably wont get down to 110 pounds, so I've set my goal at something more attainable. I want to lose 50 pounds. And after that we'll try for 50 more. I think we can do it because we are doing it together. (Go ahead and take bets on how long it is before you read a post about fucking hungry I am and how I nearly ripped a cookie from an infants hands when a craving hit me in the mall. It's happened before, sadly.)

This afternoon, after having our last hurrah with pasta and carbs, we attacked the living room. We moved furniture, cleaned under it and rearrange our living room so its more functional.

Now our house smells clean rather than like dog. Which I think we can all agree is a more appealing odor.

Yes, the Aggie and I have started anew. We're shedding our clutter, our baggage and pounds. This isn't a New Years resolution. This is a lifestyle change. And while I am absolutely positive this will not be easy and there will be tears, above all I am hopeful. I am hopeful that we will finally make some changes that will benefit our family and our quality of life.

Say a prayer for us, Internet. It will not be easy. But I guarantee you it will be entertaining.

Sickly

Either I have a cold or a microscopic army has marched up my nasal passages and is attacking my sinuses. Regardless, I feel like el crappo grande so I called in sick to work so I could try and rest and recuperate.

At about 5:45 a.m. I sent some work e-mails tying up loose ends for the day. Before I could lay back down, Sonny the Pug had noticed that I was alert and took the opportunity to demand I give him attention. This resulted in Sonny lying in bed between myself and the Aggie, resting his head on his mini pillow.

All this would have been pretty adorable. Except he snores like an obese sailor drunk on cheep rum. And insists that we rub his head while he sleeps. A nuclear devise could be detonated in the bedroom with us and Sonny would sleep right through it. But the first moment you try to stop rubbing his head he immediately jolts up as if cymbals have just been clanged in his ears. Then he whimpers until you start rubbing again.

It is hard to rest and recuperate while serving the pug.

That Awful (ly Sweet) Silky

Today I got a phone call from a very sweet lady who had read on our Web site about our efforts to stud Deuce out.

"I am so glad to find a Silky stud in Houston!" the lady said, full of excitement. "I told my husband that 'this is meant to be' because HIS name is Martin, just like your first Silky was."

"I love my little Belle so much and I want her to have puppies, but Silkys are so hard to find!" she gushed. "It almost seems too good to be true."

And then I had to tell her it was.

About a week ago we got Deuce neutered.

Why?

Because he was a fucker. He hiked on everything. He humped everything. He growled at everything. He barked at everything. He was aggressive toward everything. Basically, if he weren't so cute, I would have rang his neck. We'd been through a year-and-a-half of sheer hell with Deuce and his "moods." We just couldn't take it anymore, so over the holidays when he had to be boarded a few days, we took the opportunity to have him fixed.

And the results? VERY POSITIVE.

He's only hiked once or twice. His general disposition is far, far calmer. And -- thank you sweet baby Jesus -- he hasn't raped any unwilling Schnauzer, pillow or toy. Ne'er again when someone visits our house for the first time will we have to say: "Hi, welcome to our home. These are our dogs, Ripken and Sonny. This is our cat, Gertrude. Oh and don't mind the little fellow having his way with the Aggie's briefcase. We swear it's consentual. The briefcase was practically begging for it... Can I take your coat and purse?... No, no, no. Don't sit them on the coffee table. Deuce can reach them there. Let's lock everyone's belongings in the bathroom, shall we."

So as sad as I am to turn away that $1500 stud fee, I'm pretty sure we've made the right decision. I love my Silky Terrorist so much. He's my little buddy and sidekick. I don't want him shot by an angry neighbor because he's broken into their yard and taken liberties with their Cockapoo again. (Sorry, Smith Family!)

No, we want to have Deuce as long as the Aggie's family had predecessor, and I'm pretty sure toning down Casanova's 'urges' will help us in that direction.

After I broke it to the lady that Deuce was no longer on the market, we spent the next half hour talking about Martin. She'd read all about him on our site and said it gave her comfort to know that her Silky could possibly live such a lengthy, full life.

"Wow, Martin must have really loved you," she said.

I snorted.

"God, no!" I laughed. "He hated my guts."

(Insert awkward silence.)

"I mean, he loved to hate me," I said. "He liked me okay when I was the only one around. But you have to understand, Martin was a one-woman dog. He loved his Mama. Don't get me wrong, he loved my husband and his siblings, but Martin was definitely my mother-in-law's baby. Losing him was like losing one of her children."

"That is exactly how I feel about my Silky!" she said.

"Then don't worry, she'll be around to torment you for another 15 or so years," I said.

(Insert thoughtful pause.)

"Can I ask you your opinion on something?" she said.

"Sure."

"What do you think about Silky's breeding with Schnauzers?"

Well, I think we all know what I should have said, Internet. If I were a moral, decent person I would have told her all about Deuce and Lady Belle. How when they are together they makes Bibles shake and priests sweat blood. I should have said: NO! YOU CANNOT COMBINE THOSE GENES. IT WILL RESULT IN UNSPEAKABLE EVIL Instead, I told her another truth.

I said, "Well, I can tell you honestly that Deuce has never met a Schnauzer he didn't like."

-------

See the left ear. We call that The Naughty Ear. It's always sticking up in a playful sort of way. It's also a Badness Barometer. It measures his level of mischievousness. In this picture he's at an 8, which is equivalent to Red on the Homeland Security Advisory Scale. SEVERE RISK OF TERRORIST ATTACK. Now take your fucking shoes off and go through the metal detector, sheep.

Not to be outdone by his fat bruddy...

Howdy. The Aggie here, posting on a blog people actually read. Since I'm working on other crap, I'll keep this brief.

If you've read Momma Pug's blog about Sonny the Pissing Pug (see below), you're wondering how we put up with such a terrible mutt.

Simple: we don't. We have two of them.

The other one, of course, is Deuce the Silky Terrier. Or Silky Terrorist, as his momma likes to call him. Today he was definitely a member of Puppy Hamas.

Deuce has been somewhat calmer since his neutering. And by "somewhat," I mean he's gone from being a 50-megaton nuke of noise and destruction to about 15-megaton nuke of noise and destruction. He doesn't hike anymore, but he barks at everything.

He also has developed a little bit of a tendency to...oh, how shall we say this? ATTACK.

Today, I was sitting in the living room hacking away at something when the doorbell rang. It was the mail lady, who dropped off a package and headed out. I walked out to get the package and, of course, Deuce ran past me.

And chased the mail truck.

Sadly, the truck did not A) hit him or B) Keep going. Instead, the poor Hispanic mail carrier stopped right next door with another package, only to see a 13-pound fuzzball come tearing across the grass and then fly through the air.

Thankfully, he hit the box she was carrying. By that point, Da-Da was on the scene and was royally pissed.

At the time of this posting, Deuce appears to have recovered from his asswhipping and is asleep by the window. Or, he could be scoping out his next innocent victim. You can never tell.

His Gravestone Will Read: Was Made Into Glue

I awoke this morning at 5:10 a.m., an entire 35 minutes before my alarm went off. Why would I do such a thing? Oh, I don't know. Maybe because there were four stubby little pug paws pushing into my back in an attempt to push me off the king-sized mattress.

I'm not exaggerating here. He was exerting so much effort to push me off the bed that he was actually grunting. And not his usual flat-snout grunt. No this was the grunt of intense labor, of putting your all into moving an object as if life or death depended on it.

In the first waves of early morning sleepiness, I didn't fully comprehend what was happening. I thought I was dreaming. Or that the Aggie was crowding me. So I went to the bathroom and returned to my spot in the bed, thinking the incident was over.

I laid on my side with my body away from Sonny the Pug. The Aggie was soundly on the other side of the bed. He wasn't within three feet of touching me. I lay my head down and immediately began drifting back off to sleep.

Then the pushing began again.

I rolled over to see Sonny staring at me, grunting mid-shove. This is not an agile creature, Internet. He is at least 12-years-old, walks stiff legged and has hip dysplasia and arthritis. When he gets in the bed with us he stays in his spot at the foot of the bed because he can't manage to walk on the squishiness of the mattresses.

Or so we thought.

Last night, not only did Sonny climb to middle of the bed, but he also pulled all the cover off of me and had gotten under it and formed a cocoon. I suppose since he'd made it that far, he just thought: "Why the hell not! While I'm at it I'll just take her spot and her pillow too."

Not to be outdone by the pug, I rolled him over toward his daddy and moved back into my area of the bed.

Finally, after some negotiating and rearranging, Sonny was nested between us and I was back in bed. I closed my eyes and began drifting off to sleep.

That's when the ungrateful, wrinkly bastard peed on me.

Apparently, as Lord and Lady of Dogshitistan, we have founded our first settlement: Pugpissville.

Yawn

Being off from work for 20 days and suddenly returning is like going into a coma for 10 years then waking up and being expected to walk… RIGHT THE HELL NOW.

My brain isn't back on Real World Time yet. I'm still on Stay-Up-Til-Midnight-Then-Sleep-Til-Noon Standard Time. The adjustment of coming back to work is awful. I feel like I have jetlag but without the benefit of having traveled somewhere exotic.

All week its been getting gradually worse. Monday I just felt like I needed a cup of coffee. Tuesday I needed two cups of coffee and a nap after lunch. This morning I fell asleep in the bathtub soaking my re-wounded hip. (Thanks Washington D.C. tram ride!)

It appears that I am beyond coffee and catnap will do no good. I feel like I need to go to bed and wake up a week from Thursday. Unfortunately, this little thing called "work" doesn't allow for that.

Seriously, corporate America, when will you learn that nap rooms with recliners, staff massage therapists and Prozac salt-licks ARE necessary budget appropriations.

Marketing Genius

Perhaps I should have googled "rag monster" before I set off to market my creations.

A quick search turned up a variety of entries, none of which were related to beauty challenged rag dolls.

However, the first thing get when you type in "rag monster" is the Urban Dictionary definition for the phrase.

Allow me to quote:

1. rag monster
An annoying female who gives the impression that she is always on her period. They stomp around all day, have mood swings constantly and will snap and cry at the slightest provocation. If you think you are currently seeing one of these ladies, get rid!

So basically I've likened my Sally the Cyclopes to a PMS-ing woman. I'm not sure that was the message I wanted to send to toddlers and small children.

Though, I must admit that I've never heard the term "rag monster" used in that way. Is this just something I am out of the loop on? Is this common amongst the kiddos now-a-days? What else could I call them? Any suggestions?

Like Two Pugs In A Pod

They say life imitates art, but I think my life imitates pug.

Allow me to explain.

This weekend, our little fat man was trucking along. He was traveling with a purpose -- chasing our poor cat. He was going as quickly as his pudgy arthritis-riddled legs will haul him, which is surprisingly fast.

And then something distracted him.

Someone opened the refrigerator, and Sonny couldn't help but look over to see if something coming from within might be for him. The pug kept running toward the cat, yet craned his neck toward the fridge. An internal struggle was born. He didn't know which way to go – stay on the trail of the cat or bear right toward a potentially delicious treat! What to do! Oh the horror!

Sadly, before he could decide, Sonny lost his balance. His stubby little paws caught on the spot where our tile meets our wood flooring and he face planted. Literally. His feet went behind him and his flat little face scraped the floor. And that's where he lay, bleeding and hurt until the Aggie could get to him.

Now my poor little pug has a giant scratch on his nose and upper lip. It's starting to scab over and the positioning makes him look like Hitler. Which would be hilarious if I didn't totally sympathize with my little man. Because I wiped it in the exact same spot he did.

Only no one came to my immediate aid. Two of my good friends were there helping me paint that day. But in the middle of the drama of my falling down, Ripken took the opportunity to steal a paint stirrer from a paint bucket. Then he drug it across the entire length of our home, smearing pale yellow paint over everything in his path.

Rather than come to my aid, my friends left me crying in a heap on the floor while they wrestled Ripken to the ground, confiscated the stirrer and brutally scrubbed paint.

I distinctly recall my friend Tree saying: "Just lay still. Stop moving around. We have to get this up first before we take you to the hospital. It will ruin the floor if we leave it."

"You will thank us later, I promise," my friend Lindsey added as they scrubbed.

And do you know what? They totally made the right decision. Turns out I was only bruised, not broken. No hospital trip was required. And let me tell you, it is a good friend who will say: GET A GRIP. I DON’T GIVE A SHIT IF YOUR ARM IS BROKEN AND THE BONE PROTRUDING FROM THE SKIN. THESE FLOORS ARE BRAND NEW. SO YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE TO WAIT ONE GODDAMNED MINUTE BEFORE WE ADMINISTER EMERGENCY AID!

Three years later, my poor little disabled dog bites it in the same place I did. And all because he was distracted by the possibility of food.

He doesn't like to admit it, but me and the pug? Are two kind.

This Technically Makes Me The First Lady

Scene: About 10 minutes ago. Me and the Aggie eating a dinner of pasta. In the far corner a giant fuzzy dog is pooping on the floor.

AGGIE: This (pauses and shrugs to indicated our home) is Dogshitistan, and I am the Prime Minister.

ME: (Snorts water out nose laughing.) Oh, honey! Congratulations, I know you always wanted to get into politics.

AGGIE: No. This is an appointed position. Not elected. It doesn't count.

ME: Oh. Well, still, you are Prime Minister. That has to count for something.

AGGIE: It's a caretaker position.

And.... SCENE.

Accidental Productivity

If I were to give my break from school a theme that's it: "Accidental Productivity."

Today, I have constructed four Rag Monsters. Two of which are already spoken for and only three of which are truly cute.

Then we went grocery shopping so we could actually have something to eat besides dry dog food. I only went under protest when my husband literally had to argue the merrits of making boxed potatoes without two of the three required mix-in ingredients. (One of which was water.)

The Aggie and I then operated in tandem to create a delicious dinner. He made the steaks and I made mushrooms. De-lish. He is quite the Grill Master.

Then I watched "The Darjeling Limited." (Reviews sucked, but I liked it. Theme of syblings being shits to each other and missing opportunities.)

While I watched, I sewed some glamorous adornments to my Rag Monsters.

Now I am trying to convince the Aggie to watch a chick flick be telling him that he will get to see the boobs of three gorgeous women -- Rachel Weiss, Isla Fisher and Elisabeth Banks. The movie is called "Definitely, Maybe" and there is absolutely no doubt that it's target audience possesses a bajingo.

Also? There are also no boobies, but I'm continuing with the ruse in hopes that the Aggie will start watching it, accidentally get interested and then only at the end say: "Hey, where were the tits? Did I miss the tits?"

I learned this trick from my friend Babs when I was living in Georgia. She convinced her husband to go see "Love, Actually" by telling him it was a Mr. Bean movie and there were sure to fart jokes. In her defense, the actor who plays Mr. Bean had a two-line bit-part in the movie. And her husband, in his words, "Didn't hate the movie." So I'm thinking that was a victory.

I'll let know if he notices the absence of breasts... if we even get that far.

Happy New Years

I don't make resolutions. If I did, I would just get pissed off at myself for failing to keep them. Instead, I shall make predictions for 2009. Because if you make a prediction and it does not come true, then you've just proven you're a shitty psychic -- rather than just an abject failure.

Now Momma Pug shall consult her trusty crystal ball:

I see 2009 as the year I shed massive amounts of weight. Either surgically or through sheer will power. I see myself ending this year 100 pounds lighter than I began it.

This will also be the Year of the Dog at our house. Deuce and Ripken will be trained by my dear friend and aspiring Dog Whisperer. (Hi Stacy!)

Sonny the Pug will pretty much be exactly the same. Eat, poop, sleep, repeat. He will still harbor resentment toward the cat. Speaking of...Gertrude will begin working on her own blog, entitled: "I Hate You All And I Don't Even Care." It will become a underground hit and eventually result in the launch of her own line of self-help products. She will then legally divorce us, put a hit out on the pug and move to California where she will spend her days sipping bubble tea and doing yoga.

A cottage industry will be born from the Rag Monsters I have created. It will start by work of mouth but will expand to a Web business. Then we'll forget to pay taxes on it, get sued by the IRS and have the makers of Webkinz steal our product design because we never bothered to patent it. To add insult to injury, my nephews will LOVE the Webkinz version of MY dolls and I will actually buy into the craze. Eventually, my creativity and spitfire will be rewarded when child labor workers are discovered in sweatshops owned by the design-stealers and I will go on Orpah where she and I will hug and discuss how Gayle is JUST like Madge. Book deals will ensue.

And finally, I predict that the Aggie finally gets to have a winning season for ONE of his sports teams. Will it be Texas A&M? The Baltimore Orioles? The Houston Astros? The Washington Redskins? I don't know. I just have a positive feeling that his winning ship is about to come in. God knows, its been out to sea since 1992. (For those of keeping track, that's the year the 'Skins last won the Super Bowl.)

Happy New Year, Internet. May 2009 blow far less than 2008.