Vic & Anthony's

Tonight my husband surprised me with a date. And not our usual Friday night at Chic-Fil-A. No siree. The Aggie took me to the nicest steakhouse in Houston, Vic & Anthony's.

Now, V&A's isn't just good eats, my friend. It also has a certain ambiance to it that makes any time we go there feel like a scene from a movie with a gushy, upbeat happy ending. This is owed to three things: 1) the location of the restaurant catercorner to Minute Maid Park, 2) the classic, old Hollywood, Rat Pack decor and 3) the delicious gourmet food. (I would sell one of my kidneys for their crab cake recipe. Seriously.)

There's something a little bit magical about standing in the middle of the fourth largest city in America, in the glow of the stadium lights and sounds of thousands of people in the distance cheering. It's really hard to not see the silver lining when the wind is blowing gently, the stars at night are big and bright and the one you love is holding your hand as Frank Sinatra croons perfectly in the background.

It's been a rough week. The kind of week that makes it really, really difficult to think positively, but my sweet husband managed to make me to do just that. He has this ability to make me believe in the magic of it all. In the healing powers of a nice meal and even better conversation.

I'm not sure. Maybe its not magic at all. Perhaps its just luck or fate or chance. All I know is that sometimes you need lifting up in this world and I sure am glad I have someone willing to shoulder that burden with me. I don't know where I'd be if it weren't for the Aggie.

Family Ties

For those of you who don't know, I come from a clan of women. For many years my father was the only male member of our family. There were grandmothers, a great-grandmother, an aunt, a niece and daughters but no other males. My poor father swam a sea of estrogen everyday. Cursed by the trappings of bras, tampons and PMS, my poor dad rarely found peace – or private bathroom time.

Only twice can I recall Daddy making any kind of fuss over the girly products strewn throughout our home. Both times he had every right to lose his shit, yet every time I retell these two stories I end up laughing myself into a asthma attack. Befitting, don't you think?

Perhaps the most epic moment occurred when either my sisters or myself left dissolvable bath beads in bottom of a damp tub. After a long day of farming Daddy went to get a hot bath. Apparently, the beads were oil-based and had created a super slick surface and when he stepped into the tub his feet slid out from under him. He hit both elbows on the sides of the iron, claw foot tub then nearly drown when a tsunami of displaced water came rolling back over his head. My mother found him gasping for breath on the bathroom floor and swearing incoherently about beads, broken elbows and "a man's right to bathe in peace."

The other unfortunate incident involved him brushing his teeth in the dark because one of us girls had thrown a breaker while blow-drying our hair. In his haste to finish up in the bathroom, he grabbed what he thought was Crest and loaded his toothbrush. It wasn't until he'd filled his mouth with a bitter, non-toothpaste taste that he realized something was amiss. By this time one of us had flipped the breaker. When the lights came back on he discovered he'd been brushing his teeth with Gyne-Lotrimin – yeast infection medication, for you male readers. I don't recall any angry rants that day, but I am pretty sure he yacked.

And those are just the grandest of moments in Big Rick's Adventures of Living With Women. I won't even mention all football and baseball games we whined about because we wanted to watch a beauty pageant or Punky Brewster or some other 1980s girly shit. Nor shall we discuss the time he went squirrel hunting and my sister cried when she saw all the little fluffy rodents he'd killed. So we had a to a squirrel funeral. Or the time I when I was about four years old and left under his supervision for a couple of hours while Mama did some grocery shopping. My mother returned home to find me sitting on the beanbag with a pair of scissors and surrounded by clumps of my long, strawberry blond hair. (Mama is still mad about that, by the way.)

Overall, I think Daddy's been a pretty good sport about it all. We were enough to break any man's spirit, but – bless his heart -- he embraced his girls, braided hair and wasn't afraid of purchasing feminine hygiene products when necessary.

As reward for his 30 years of abuse at the hands of the women in his life, I'm pretty sure God saw fit to reward him by making his first grandchild a grandson.

My sister – the mother of his grand boy – wrote a really sweet blog about my mother yesterday who is in Virginia helping my sis care for her newborn.

Granny Lady is still going strong. That lady is so much tougher than I am. She has been doing all of the cooking, cleaning, and shopping and has taken turns with rocking Jonathan. I am so thankful to have her with me. She has made all the difference in the world. I am lucky to have such a great Mom. I just hope I am as good a Mom to Jonathan as she is to me.

Then Madge followed up with a really special blog about family where she references how special my parents are to her. After I read it, she and I were talking online last night and she typed maybe one of the most heartfelt sentences I have ever received.

I was always jealous of how great your parents are. Your mama and daddy were better parents to me than my own. They were so good to me and that couldn't have been easy. They really raised us right.

And so it is that I am thinking about parents and siblings and how I don't really feel like a grown up even though I am approaching 30 years of age. Mama and Daddy might not have been perfect, but they sure did know how to love us and support us in the ways that mattered. They taught me to be strong, independent and to love myself. Which – in the words of Madge – "couldn't have been easy."

I don't know if I'll ever be a parent, but if I am I hope half as good as the two people that raised me.

My Daddy Just Made A Bad Investment... For HIM

Well, Internet, I have lost another 2.2 pounds this week on Weight Watchers. The Aggie lost 2.6. We are so grateful for your prayers, thoughts and kind words.

My own father has gotten involved with the Momma Pug Weight Loss Challenge. He said he'd give me $1,000 if I lost 100 pounds by Dec. 25, 2009. So far I'm on track to hit that goal. And while I hate taking money from my father, I think that I should teach him a lesson about making bad bets. No?

Follow Momma Pug On Twitter

What is Twitter, you ask?

Well, its a great way to give updates without posting a full length blog. In fact, you are limited to 140 characters, which means you have to make every word count.

Here's Wikipedia's definition of Twitter: Twitter is a social networking and micro-blogging service that allows its users to send and read other users' updates (known as tweets), which are text-based posts of up to 140 characters in length.

Why should I follow you, Momma Pug?

Because I rock out with my figurative cock out.

And because its a great way to keep in touch. Madge has been trying to get me to do forever. I am just now seeing the light.

Okay, fine. How do I "follow" you?

Easy peasy mac-n-cheesy. Click on this link and then you'll be asked to sign up. Then come back and click here to "follow" me.

Pug, Vacuum and Another Dog Owner Like Me

Hellen Keller

We just had a Code Red Level 4 Emergency at our house. The Aggie was out cleaning up the backyard so the dude could cut grass when he injured himself. He was moving a roll of chicken wire -- left over from the temporary fencing (thanks Hurricane Ike) -- when a stray strand popped loose and smacked him across the face. At first glance, I was pretty confident that he put his eye out. As if we don't have enough problems, he goes and blinds himself with chicken wire.

Luckily, the Aggie's stealthy moves prevented him from gouging his eyeball out. He jumped back just in time and the two unruly strands slapped him ONE MILLIMETER below his actual eyeball. I am not even kidding or exaggerating. He was this|far from being really screwed. Thank god that the only residual sign of the incident is a large grid-patterned whelp across the right side of his face.

Seriously, who wants to go to the hospital because of your mangled eyeball when there is Mardi Gras festivities to be had tonight. Can I get Amen?

My Husband

The Aggie. Oh how lucky I am. I know he takes a lot of shit on here -- mostly because he is one of my favorite topics to blog about. But I want you all to know that there is ONE person in this world that would do anything for. He's a great man. A smart, funny man. And I wish I told him that mroe often. Come and travel with me as I answer a whole bunch of questions about our relationship. Apologies in advance to the shit he is about to endure.

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What are your middle names?

Amanda is mine and his is Royster T. Lowbottoms

How long have you been together?

Five years.

How long did you know each other before you started dating?

About six months. God, we hated each other's guts. We'd worked for the same newspaper in Georgia the entire time. I thought he was an ass and he thought I was snooty. One night he asked me to come over for pizza and wine. Classsssssy. Turned out he was a nice guy and I was smitten almost immediately.

Who asked whom out?

There was no asking out so much as drunken making out followed by awkward silence followed by more drunken making out followed by more awkward silence followed by other drunken naught activities. Eventually we cut out the awkward silence part and skipped to the drunken fooling around.

How old are each of you?

I'm 28 and he's 33. Or – as our good friend that's the same age as me said: "Hey when you were in college, I was in elementary school." Dirty old man.

Whose siblings do you see the most?

Neither really. Sadly we are all scattered to the wind.

Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?

Work stuff. The Aggie owns his own business and because we are a small startup company, we both pitch in and work a lot of hours. Sometimes it so tiring and draining that I think we will not make it because one of us is going to go to jail for murder. That's not to say we don't work together well, because we do. We are a GREAT team, but sometimes being partners professionally needs to be separate from partners personally. There are times when I want to scream GET A FUCKING SECRETARY WHO IS PAID TAKE YOUR SHIT. Sometimes he wants to yell OH MY GOD, YOU ARE ONE CRAZY CONTROLLING NAG. There has to be a conscious effort to separate those emotions from each other. The person we are when we work together on projects has to be objective and honest. This is particularly hard when you need your spouse to just give encouragement or positive reinforcement. I have yet to figure out how to say THAT PROJECT YOU'VE BLED AND WEPT OVER FOR SIX STRAIGHT DAYS LOOKS LIKE SHIT without the "looks like shit" part.

Did you go to the same school?

Nope. He grew up in Saudi Arabia and grew up in Southwest Mississippi. He went to Lehigh University and then Texas A&M. I attended community college and then the University of Southern Mississippi.

Are you from the same hometown?

This is where we are so very different. I am still connected and always will be to the town in which I was reared. My parents are there and so are a lot of my cousins and their families. I was raised to be incredibly close to my extended family and the Aggie was NOT. He can't even tell you some of his first cousin's names.

Who is smarter?

He's waaaaay smarter than me. He's like fucking Rain Man. He can remember statistics and numbers and dates and books he read in second grade. He is the one person that can really challenge me and keep me on my toes. Every day he teaches me something new.

I, on the other hand, bring the common sense and people skills to the mix. Oh! And I also bring vast knowledge of the British Monarchy, Disney villains and modern music. When we are paired together to play Trivial Pursuit we are unbeatable.

Who is the most sensitive?

THE AGGIE. Jesus! If I only had a nickel for every time I said/did/wrote something that would hurt his feelings. We are so incredibly opposite when it comes to this. I rarely if ever get my feelings hurt. I roll with the punches and I dish it out so I'm used to taking it. I think this goes back to a self-defense system that built up over many years of being That Strange Fat Girl With The Curly Hair And Glasses. (Which is actually my legal middle name.)

Who has the craziest exes?

Shitting Christ this is an easy one. HIM. HIM. HIM. Not a month after I had moved to Texas to I "bumped" into is most recent ex-girlfriend. From here on out, for purposes of this story, we'll call her Crazy Pills.

Well, I had to go into work one evening at about 3 p.m. and as I was leaving I noticed a car pull up into our driveway. Out jumps this really, really ugly redheaded girl wearing a denim miniskirt and Ug boots. Her arms are filled with all kind of gifts – balloons, flowers, t-shirts etc. In the middle of saying goodbye to me, the Aggie stopped abruptly and his eyes fixed on the girl.

Now to say that she flung herself to the ground and started kissing the earth beneath his feet would just be cruel to the dirt, especially after all the therapy it need to recover. So I won't go into details, but you can use imagination. Needless to say, she went bat shit crazy screaming about how lucky she was to have him back and that things could pick up where they left off. And oh my god she couldn't wait to have babies for him! BABIES! Life would be so wonderful.

Meanwhile, there I stand watching the Aggie SHIT IS FUCKING PANTS. As soon as Crazy Pills stopped to catch her breath, the Aggie took a step back and motioned toward me. Then he uttered the words that would launch a thousand tears: "Crazy Pills, meet my fiancée. We're getting married in March."

One week later, the Aggie got an email from Crazy Pills. It took some searching through a billion of so old emails, but I was able to locate the actual e-mail she sent. And let me tell you, I am soooo happy I didn’t delete it after the Aggie sent it to me. For the first time EVER I would like print that missive in its entirety. Be warned, the level of Crazy in the following text is 1) unaltered and 2) unmatched. (Only the names and actual email addresses have been changed.)

Subject: want you to be happy ;-)
Date: Wednesday, September 15, 2004 3:21 PM
From: Crazy_Pills@crazymail.net
To: The Aggie

Hey...ok, this is it...my last communication with you as per your instructions.

I understand what you want and appreciate your happiness. I will honor your request and leave you alone but not without some final thoughts.
If I would have known that you even had a girlfriend let alone a fiancee' I would have respected the boundary. But, every time we spoke since you had returned to Texas you failed to mention a girlfriend or a fiancee'. I found out that a girlfriend existed because of the prior (and only other time) visit when someone at your office asked me if I was "the girl from Atlanta" I, of course, informed that I was not but an old friend from Huntsville...
So, you see the predicament you put me (and her) in when I stopped by.
At least she knew I existed...oh, well, it's done. But, I was in shock...your happiness is important so if you are truly happy then GREAT! I couldn't make you happy so maybe she'll do better.

I would love for us to be friends at a later date of your choosing, if you so desire. And would love to know all about your impending wedding.

Hate to say it but, I can't see it happening...She doesn't seem like the right fit for you but that is not for me to say and again, if she makes you happy and you can see yourself with her for the rest of your life and her being the mother of your children...then go for it! I support you and I promise you this...that no matter when or where you need me...I am there. We are friends no matter what you may think or want.

I am happy in my life and only want the same for you!

Good luck with your future.

With love and affection,
Crazy Pills

Holy monkeyballs, Batman! Where do I even start! There’s so much to be said, yet no words to describe this excessive level of crazy. I think this particular brand of Crazy stands on its on and really doesn’t require pithy commentary on my part. I will just say this, however, this girl wasn’t cooking with natural gas. She states over and over that she didn’t know about me and that I was some great secret. Yet I clearly recall her calling once BEFORE she showed up unannounced and the Aggie clicked it over to speaker phone and he said: “Hey, I don’t think you should call anymore. I have a GIRLFRIEND. She lives with me and we’re getting married.”

To this she responded: “Hey, did you hear that So-and-So are getting married. The wedding is in June. We should go.”

What’s that I hear? Yeah, it’s the clock and its going COO-COO COO-COO.

I wish this story ends here, but it doesn’t. Sometime when I’m drinking vodka straight from the bottle I’ll have to tell you about the time we ran into her at a restaurant and a knife fell out of her purse. I know, wrong of me to tease but I feel as though I should move on for now. Clearly, I’ve said enough to secure the fact that his exes make up the entire city council of Crazy Town.


Who has the worst temper?

One time, there was this football game on television, and he behaved so poorly that I considered divorce.

Who does the cooking?

Both of us.

Who is the neat-freak?

Sweet baby Jesus. If only one of were neat. Not even a neat-freak. Just neat. That would be heaven. But we’re not and if you don’t hear from us for more than two days you should come check the house to make sure we’ve not died in a pile of our own filth and the dogs are eating our corpses.

Who is more stubborn?

We both are. He’s got his dad in him and I’ve got my mother in me.

Who hogs the bed?

Sonny the Pug.

Who wakes up earlier?

The Aggie. Usually because Ripken has slipped his head silently under the covers and sticks his freezing nose into the Aggie’s asscrack. TIME TO WAKE UP AND EAT/PLAY/ENTERTAIN!

Where was your first date?

His apartment. Pizza and wine.

Who is more jealous?

Me.

How long did it take to get serious?

Well… it would have happened a lot sooner if I didn’t insist on ending every kiss with the caveat “We’re just friends. I don’t want a serious boyfriend.”

Who eats more?

We are in Weight Watchers because of our mutual love of food.

Who does the laundry?

The Aggie. He is so good to me.

Who's better with the computer?

Me. The Aggie will argue this, but I simply call SCOREBOARD.

Who drives when you are together?

He does. Because he’s the BEDIT. BEST DAMN DRIVER IN TEXAS. It’s a self-proclaimed title.

Thunder Thighs and the Case of the Missing Metabolism

UPDATE:

Lost 1.9 pounds this week.

On the way home from Weight Watchers I bought Metabolism a new game for the xBox to say I'm sorry. Later tonight I'll make it some cookies while it gets drinks beer and plays videos in den until 1 a.m. Maybe tomorrow I'll talk to it about getting a job. Don't want to sound like a nagging old mom.

---

Tonight is weigh-in and I don't really think that I've done very well this week. This is the first meeting I've dreaded because I know I wasn't as much of a nazi as I should have been.

The Old Momma Pug would have totally skipped it. Pretended it didn't happen. Never to be seen or heard from again.

Instead, I am going to man up and go step on the scale. It's not that I cheated – because I didn't. Its just that in order for me to lose weight, I have to be really, really careful. I can't use any of the "bonus" points. And for the most part I have to stay away from processed foods.

This week I used my bonus points and I ate the shit out of processed diet crap. So I'm not optimistic. Right now? I am totally angry at my Metabolism. I want to tell it to get its lazy ass up on its mama's couch and go get a fucking job. Don't come back until you can put something down on the phone bill and offer to cook dinner and clean up after yourself, Metabolism.

It's like having an 30 year old ungrateful ass of a kid that you PHYSICALLY can't kick out. You warn them a lot, but they know you're all bark and no bite. They know you won't follow through. Conniving little leeches.

Well, I'm putting you on notice, Metabolism. You and me are no good for each other. I'm just an enabler and it's time you made your way on your on.

Freudian Slippers

In an effort to be a good, supportive wife, I find myself enthralled in helping the Aggie catch up on some of his work.

Sadly, I fear this will work out much the same way as giving Ripken a haircut.

You see, I am currently writing web content about naval ships.

Except that every time I write the word ship, it comes out SHIT.

S-H-I-T every goddamned time.

So now I'm paranoid that I will send this document into the clients discussing the brave men and women who served on these highly decorated shits. You see, without those shits, national security would be nothing. Nothing, I tell you. Yes, thank the lord for the shits, may they sail on in glory.

J.R.

Can I get a drum roll please!!!

Introducing, for the very first time ever on Pug Off, my brand new nephew.

Baby J.R. was born this morning at 1:02 a.m. His mommy and daddy are resting comfortably and promise to send more pictures soon.

Thank you all for your thoughts and prayers. They worked!

Arrival

Houston, we have a Valentines Day Baby.

My nephew was born at just after 1 a.m. last night. He weighs 8 pounds and 6 ounces and is 20 inches long.

He has chubby cheeks (like his mama), stub nose (like all us sisters) and is very, very cute.

A name and pictures are coming soon.

Thank you so much for all your thoughts and prayers for my sister. I haven't talked to her yet, but my mother says she is resting and doing wonderfully.

The Point of No Return

My sister just started having contractions six minutes apart.

And she is STILL chilling out at home! Such a better woman than me!

Please keep the prayers coming. Her baby should arrive very soon. When he makes his appearance pictures will be forthcoming!

Prayers, Thoughts and Good Juju Needed!

Internet! My sister Fwinney is about to BURST with child. She went to the doctor today and was told that she's more than 4 centimeters dilated and 90 percent effaced. (In simple terms HOLY SHIT THAT BABY IS COMING.)

Now the doctor wanted to go ahead and manually break her water to induce the final stages of labor, but my sister is so tough that she eats broken glass and rusty nails for breakfast. So rather than taking that "easy" way out she said, "Hell to the no, Bobby Brown" and is hunkering down for a natural birth. No only is she waiting for the water to pop the old fashioned way, but she's opted to just hang out at home and enjoy the comforts of HER surroundings while this party gets started.

To that I say -- Fwinney, you are amazing! Woman, hear you roar! Go forth and birth it your way, sis! Just don't be afraid to say YES NOW WITH GODDAMNED DRUGS ALREADY if you see you should have a change of heart. No need to be a martyr. I mean, if it were Momma Pug I think we all know I'd immediately have checked myself into the maternity ward and requested IV narcotics. Because, who needs pain when you got Demerol! Am I right? Can I get a "witness," Internet?

Anyway, please be praying and thinking of my sister and her sweet husband. They are embarking on a grand adventure in the next hours and deserve all the love and kind vibes they can get.

Lets pray for an "easy" birth, healthy mama and strong baby.

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This picture was taken today. My beautiful sister's last hours before she becomes I mother. I can't believe our Fwinney is about to add to the family. Oh, and did we mention he's at least a 9 pounder?

Will Power?

Let's talk about the diet, shall we.

First of all, I want to thank you for all the comments, e-mails, text messages etc. wishing me well and encouraging me to stick to it. . I just wanted to take a moment and publicly thank you all. Your thoughts and kind words mean more to me than you will ever know

So this week I only lost 1.4 pounds. Which I'm totally not complaining about because it’s a LOSS – not a gain – and as long as I'm moving in the right direction I'm okay.

I'm especially happy with the loss considering I attended no less than FOUR birthday parties this week. That's a lot of cake to absorb into your Weight Watchers points, and yet I'm proud to say I did so without totally screwing the pooch.

Sadly, however, the difference between my losing five pounds those previous weeks and my one pound this week is very simple – for the first time I used my "bonus points." And for me, using those extra points totally weighs me down (pun intended.) If you're not familiar with the Weight Watchers system, points are basically calories and foods are worth a certain amount of points (an apple is 1 point, for example). I get a set number of points each day based on my height, weight and age. In addition to the points I have per day, I also get and extra batch of 35 Points each week to use as necessary. And using those bonus points totally kills my weight loss. BAH!

Alas, I have vowed to not use them again. Now that the birthday party season is over, I shall return to my Nazi weight loss ways. No cake. No bonus points. Instead, I shall return to scratching my sugar/chocolate itches by either eating fruit or having a Weight Watchers sanctioned chocolate bar. I've found that the Double Chocolate Delight bars for 2 Points are tolerable. If you put them in the freezer then eat them really cold they taste better. Also, you can spruce them up with a dab of peanut butter.



I just ate one for breakfast. Which – I know – sounds kind of bad. But I'm trying to keep myself from wallowing around in the box of kolaches that my devil, I mean coworker, brought in. So I figured eating that chocolate bar was better than stripping naked and rolling around in that pile of yeast-dough-covered-cheesy-sausage goodness.

Because right now? I want to eat at least a dozen kolaches and tell the diet fudge bar that it's adopted, ugly, stupid and will never have a boyfriend.

AND then start a rumor that it that it kind of tastes like chocolate covered fart.

Less IS More

Internet, I am 1.4 pounds lighter this week.

It's not 5.6 pounds, but it's still a leap in the right direction.

Keep your prayers a coming.

Voice of Reason

Yesterday I had to be the voice of reason in our marriage, which is worth of a blog itself based on the mere fact that my being the sober thinking member of this duo rarely if ever happened.

Oh. And what I did count double points. I – Momma Pug – said NO to adopting wittle, bitty, cutesie, wootsie baby pug.

The Hubs and I were outside the PetSmart yesterday when we first spotted the fellow dragging a teenage girl around the parking lot in search of yet another tire to pee on. You could tell he was a pug on a mission – pee on every single tire in a three-mile radius. The girl was unwavering. She followed him around and around while he peed and peed and peed some more.

When there absolutely no more peeing to be done, the little ball of tan wrinkles started running around the girl in circles, knotting his leash tightly around her legs. Now, granted, Sonny the Pug is the only pug example I have – and he's old and slow. But this little bastard (her words, not mine) seemed to be extremely quick. So fast, in fact, that the girl was clearly shocked that he'd bound her up so tightly in a matter of mere seconds. You should have seen the look on her face when she tipped over and he screamed TIMBER -- then sat at her feet and laughed and laughed and laughed while she tried to unwind herself. As soon as the girl regained her footing the little dog took off running toward the entrance to PetSmart, dragging her in a nice jog behind.

"I want him," the husband said.

"WHAT?" I asked, incredulous. "Didn't you just SEE what he is capable of!"

"Sonny needs an apprentice and I think that pug's got potential."

"You what?"

"I'm going in to look at him," the husband proclaimed, ignoring my questioning.

"Fine. I'm waiting here. Don't come back with that pug!" I warned.

Now, I know what you're thinking. You're all saying to yourself: HOW CAN MOMMA PUG TURN AWAY AN ORPHAN? HOW CAN YOU WALK AWAY FROM A FREE BABY PUG?

And to this I said, if you asking HOW and WHY then you clearly haven't met Sonny the Pug. If you knew Sonny you'd appreciate the sizable handful he is even though he is old, decrepit and slow. Trust me, you'd be all like RUN MOMMA PUG, RUN FROM THAT ENERGETIC BABY PUG LIKE YOU ARE BEING CHASED BY T-REX. RUN, MOTHERFUCKER, RUN!

Not convinced, let me give you some examples. Sonny the Pug is at least 12 years old and he has done the following:

Stolen and eaten an entire bag of menthol cough drops, leaving a few trapped stuck the hair in his loose folds of skin.

Gone through Madge's suitcase and chewed up her jewelry box, swallowing the black pearl earrings I gave her.

Unpacked his Grumpy's suitcase and stealing his blood sugar monitor.

Pooped in the bed. More than once.

Attacked a Boston Terrier over melted cheese products.

Chased, caught, shaken and in turn been beaten by the cat. He hates all cats.

Ate an entire box of Thin Mints Girl Scout Cookies.

Unstuffed a giant, brand new couch by ripping the zipper off the cushions, climbing inside and pulling all the filling out.

Eating, chewing, ruining every single throw pillow, bed pillow, chair cushion, sofa cushion in my house.

Head butts the wall. Then pees on it.

Speaking of head butting… he once forced the gate open and went five houses down where a roofing crew was working on a house. He only stopped there because it was July and he was hot and tired, and because the crew was on lunch break and feeding him parts of their sandwiches.

Peed on my mother-in-law's Christmas Tree during a holiday party in front of everyone the in-laws know.

The dog is allegedly deaf, but can hear the refrigerator crack open from two states away.

Sonny may fake deafness, but he is definitely toothless. That's why we're not worried too much about him biting a defenseless child.

So walking away from Trouble 2.0 wasn't that hard. Except that it was. And I wanted to bring that baby home so badly. Sometimes the voice of reason sucks.

Days Away

Most of you know this, but for those of you who don't -- my sister is expecting.

And while I am very, very, very excited, I can't help but be feel a little nostalgic as the days draw nearer. I've been thinking a lot about our childhood and how it felt to see her for the first time. Now, I'm anticipating seeing my nephew for the first time. This will be a little different that when I first met Fwinney. No, this time Daddy and I are flying up to Virginia to visit the baby after she's given birth. And though I know that's the safe, smart plan I am fighting the urge to GO SEE HER RIGHT NOW, DAMN IT.

I think its because -- as far as my memory is concerned -- that my life really only began the day Fwinney was born. I was four years old and I couldn't have been happier that Mama was having ME a baby. My first memory is of my daddy holding me up to look through the glass window of the hospital nursery. He was young, tall and handsome. Moments earlier he'd given me a balloon and tied it around my wrist.

I can remember exactly how those babies looked lined up in front of the window. There were two rows of four, each sporting pink or blue bedding depending on the sex. Behind the bassinets, nurses buzzed around filling out charts and fiddling with babies.

"Which one is mine?" I asked him. Not ours. Or Mama's. MINE. WHICH ONE IS MINE.

Daddy smiled as he held me around the waist. With his free hand he point to a baby right in front. Fwinney was wrapped tightly in a blanket and appeared to be sleeping. She looked like a butterfly in a cocoon with only her face showing. She reminded me of my Gloworm doll.

"What do you think?" he asked.

Before I could answer him, the cocoon began to wiggle. I watched Fwinney stretch her little arms and legs against the swaddling. She seemed restless or anxious, like she had better things to do than be put on display, wrapped tightly in a blanket. With a matter of seconds, the tiny creature had managed to free her little arms and kick her legs from blanket. I thought she looked like she was preparing to scream or cry as she flailed her tiny arms and legs. But the baby remained silent as she worked her limbs feverishly. She stretched her arms and legs out as far as they could possibly go and let out a giant yawn. Then she stilled, stretched out to an incredible length for such a tiny baby and transformed into a butterfly, long and pink and full of graceful energy.

"Well," Daddy asked. "What do you think about your sister?"

"She's got big cheeks and she sure is long," I said.

Daddy laughed.

"I like her a lot. She's pretty."

And that was my first memory.

By the way, I was totally right about the cheeks and her length. Her little chubby face earned her the nickname Cheeky Monkey. And it wasn't long before my baby sister was taller than me. She has our mother's dancing legs -- long and slinky. Do I even have to say that I DO NOT?

Readers, in but two weeks my Fwinney will become a mama. I can't believe my baby sister is having a baby, but I have no doubt that she will be so good at being a mother. There are things in this world that we are born to do. I am crafty, straight forward and loyal, but I'm not the natural nurturer my sister is. No. Fwinney is going to be very good at this because she's good at everything she does. This will be no exception.

Fwinney, I can't wait to meet by nephew. I fully anticipate the giant cheeks and long, long legs.

--

Okay, so, yeah. That's me holding my baby sister (who is now pregnant!) Mad props to my mother letting me hold the baby in my lap while I drove around in my Flinstone-powered convertible.

Snipped

Sunday afternoon the Aggie was running his hand along Ripken's back. The Superbowl was yet to come on and he was enjoying a few moments of quiet time with our biggest baby. As he petted the Super Fuzz, he noticed that most of Ripken's long hair had matted toward the skin. It wasn't noticeable if you looked at it, but if you tried to brush through it you could tell he was developing some gnarly dreadlocks underneath his topcoat.

That's when the Aggie uttered the famous last words: "Hey, I got an idea!" And thus the story of my trying to give Ripken a haircut begins.

The next afternoon I led our 60-pound lapdog into the bathroom and settled down on the tile with him. The Aggie positioned Ripken in his lap so he could help me lift body parts around so I could get at the knots. After about an hour of snipping, we realized that poor Rippy needed an all-over shearing, something his mommy clearly wasn't capable of providing. Seeing that a simple trim wasn't going to do it, we tried to even him out the best we could and called the vet/dog groomer for an appointment the next day.

Now, if I were a sane person, the story would end here, but since I have a big old case of The Crazies there is much, much more to my tale. You see, the two knots that started this whole debacle were still there. I had yet to get them, and by god, those bastards were going down if it was the last thing I did. Together, we hunkered in and began wrestling with the Mucho Grande Knottos.

As I was – admittedly – blind-cutting the clump of hair under his chest, Ripken jumped straight up in the air and made a slight "eeep" sound. I stopped, dead still, afraid I'd snipped him. A millisecond later, Ripken resumed his position of standing motionless and I continued to clipped away.

"I think you just pulled his hair a little," the Aggie said.

Convinced Ripken was just tender-headed I kept going. And then it happened a gain. Only this time it was a slightly more pronounced yelp and jump. Even though it was a minor reaction, I couldn't stand the thought of hurting my baby by yanking on his knotted up hair, I threw the scissors down in disgust and proclaimed that the groomer could do this and Ripken could hate her instead of me.

And that was that. Or so we thought.

The next day after Ripken was dropped off for his professional hairdo, the vet called me at work wondering why the dog had two large gashes on his chest.

"I have no idea!" I screeched, my mind reeling with possibilities of who could have attacked my dog.

"Well…" the vet paused, clearly trying to figure out how to say what was coming next. "Forgive me for asking, but did someone attempt to cut his hair?"

Long, pregnant pause.

"OH," I said.

"Yeah, I think someone was… a tad scissor happy," he said.

"OH NO!" I bellowed. "I did it! I cut my baby! It was an accident. I'm so sorry!"

"Technically, you stabbed him. The wound is two inches or so…" the vet began.

"NO! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!" I interrupted.

Sensing my hysterics, the vet softened.

"It's okay! Accidents happen. Calm down. Really, it's okay. Just take a deep breath," he assured me. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm going to sedate him, stitch him up and clean out the stab wounds."

"Do whatever you need to!" I cried. " Just make him better. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay, we'll take good care of him," he promised and hung up.

Then I had to call the Aggie and tell him I had shanked his best friend. Twice.

I have to give him credit -- he didn't totally lose his shit. He wasn't happy that I'd stabbed the dog, but he didn't blame me for what happened either. He was more concerned about us being reported for animal cruelty and having or brood confiscated. After a few minutes reeling in the sheer horror at what I'd done, the Aggie opted to call the vet and make sure I wasn't going to cited by any animal group. Or worse – that Ripken was going to be removed from our home.

Turns out we truly were in no danger of having Ripken impounded. We were assured that animals get hurt all the time – like hit by cars or bitten by snakes. Its just that usually the injuries aren't at the hands of Momma "Scissorhands" Pug, but still shit happens.

By last night our baby was resting comfortably at home. He wasn't worried about the stitches so much as concerned that his best friend Gertrude the Angry Cat didn't recognize him with his new haircut and fru-fru smell-him-up. He spent most of last night convincing her he really was the same dog, which was no easy task.

And I have to admit that I'm especially glad that Ripken didn't get taken away from us because if the Aggie had to choose between keeping me or the dog… Well, I think we all know that Ripken wouldn't be the one left up for adoption.

Missing

From our friends over at the Houston Chronicle:

Woman abducted at gunpoint outside Pearland center
Brazoria County authorities are looking for Susana De Jesus, who was abducted at gunpoint Monday night.

FULL STORY

Well, this is especially horrifying to me because I used Google Maps to see exactly where this occurred and it turns out that the stores located in the shopping center she was abducted from are the ONLY ONES I FREQUENT.

Also, our subdivision practically adjoins this area. It’s a place that I've gone many, many times with my husband, my mother and sister, my friends and my little five-year-old goddaughter. Perhaps it was a false sense of safety, but I always felt perfectly secure here. Never once have I worried I'd have my purse snatched much less kidnapped at gunpoint.

That's not to say I'm going to stop supporting these shops, but it makes you think.

This lady still hasn't been found. Her car was recovered after she was grabbed, but they've not found her. As far as the press is telling, there are no suspects or motives for the kidnapping – just a random woman taken for no apparent reason.

So, Internet, I ask you and my four loyal readers, have you seen this woman?

5.6 On The Richter Scale

That's right, Internet. I lost 5.6 more pounds on Weight Watchers this week. That's a total of 10.4!

HUZZAH!

Next week I'm going for a cool 15.

Two Of A Kind

Lately I have become completely enamored by a Web site that chronicles the life of a lady living in Montana and the coyote took in as a puppy.

The coyote's name is Charlie and she found him when he was only 10 days old and his parents had been shot for eating sheep on a neighboring ranch. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm no coyote sympathizer. I grew up in the country and I've always been taught to be wary of the feral dogs. In fact, when I was a kid, a coyote ate our house cat. Another time, a pack circled my dad while he was hunting, tracking him like prey.

Not that I thought all coyotes were evil. I mean, there was Wiley Coyote, and he was a pretty sorry example of an arch nemesis. Mostly his dastardly plans just ended up with him getting squished by something large and heave with ACME printed on the side. I mean, how can you take THAT kind of evil seriously?

But I digress.

Usually, when the coyotes were bothersome near our home it was because of overpopulation. When the animals weren't being culled their natural sources of prey were somewhat limited and they ended up focusing on easier, more available targets – like my cat. It's not their fault, just nature at work.

So anyway, having had the experiences I've had with coyotes, I was particularly interested in the story of Charlie and his best friend – a large orange house cat, not that dissimilar to aforementioned eaten one.

It just goes to show that there is something to nature verses nurture.

Charlie's no more evil than my Ripken and his best friend, a certain ornery, black and white housecat named Gert.

They're an unlikely pairing, but they're still soul mates.

If You Had to Answer With Only One Word

1. Where is your cell phone? Purse.

2. Your significant other? The Aggie

3. Your hair? Short

4. Your mother? Strong

5. Your father? Funny

6. Your favorite? Winning

7. Your dream last night? Tobiebug

8. Your favorite drink? Booze

9. Your dream/goal? Triumph

10. What room you are in? Living

11. Your hobby? Writing

12. Your fear? Age

13. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Thinner

14. Where were you last night? Home

15. Something that you aren't? Normal

16. Muffins? Yes

17. Wish list item? Debtless

18. Where you grew up? Mississippi

19. Last thing you did? Sewed

20. What are you wearing? Jammies

21. Your TV? Huge

22. Your pets? Bad

23. Friends? Loyal

24. Your life? Full

25. Your mood? Anxious

26. Missing someone? Yes

27. Car? Dirty

28. Something you're not wearing? Tiara

29. Your favorite store? Godiva

30. Your favorite color? Yellow

33. When is the last time you laughed? Now

34. Last time you cried? Friday

35. Who will resend this? None

36. One place that I go to over and over? Williamsburg

37. One person who emails me regularly? Hubs

38. My favorite place to eat? Killens