One Step Closer To Becoming That Crazy Woman

I just called the vet where Ripken and Deuce were boarded this weekend and had to ask them: "Did anything happen that I should know about?" Which is not unlike calling your child's teacher and asking the same question. (Like when Madgette resorted to fisticuffs a couple of weeks ago.)

Its my experience that when you are not immediately informed of a situation, those involved are hoping that if they ignore it then it will just go away. As a southern woman that often finds herself on the having-to-explain-it side of things this is logic that I can get behind. But when I'm on the wondering side, you can bet your sweet ass that I'm going to doggedly search for answers. Thus I couldn't stop myself from questioning our vet on our dog's strange behavior.

When I called the vet a few moments ago I could tell that the person who answered had been hoping not to hear from me today. The reluctance was in her tone – in the way she carefully annunciated and selected each word. Oh, but I was not to be deterred by her fancy talking. I ignored her obvious discomfort and described in graphic detail how Ripken – our sweet, sensitive, gentle giant – was so traumatized after his experience at their boarding facility that he had literally fallen asleep in our bed and lost control of his bladder. I paused dramatically, collecting myself and trying to hold my shit together. Then I began again before she could speak.

"He is living in the closet and cries every time a door shuts," I said. "He won't eat and is afraid of the dark now. I was hoping you could tell me what happened to my dog?"

My tone was calm, but stern. My inflection laced with a hint of something that wasn't to be trifled with. It was the sort of voice my mother used on us as children that said: DON'T YOU DARE FUCKING LIE TO ME, ASSHOLE. BECAUSE IF YOU DO, I WILL DO THINGS TO YOU THAT ARE ILLEGAL IN 37 STATES AND CANADA. COMPRENDE? I was so deliberately collected that I scared myself a little bit and I'm pretty sure the lady on the phone knew I was one line of bullshit away from verbally dismantling her. She immediately put me on hold to "check with the vet."

I'll spare you all the back-and-forth we went through. In the end she finally admitted that they had accidentally separated Ripken and Deuce, placing Ripken with the large breed dogs (like Rottweilers and Pit Bulls) and Deuce with the docile little fru-fru dogs with names like Muffie and LuLu. From what I was able to gather, Rip and Deuce were kept in different cages, by themselves and allowed out to exercise with dogs closer to their same size... Which might have been okay for most dogs, but NOT our dogs. Have these fuckers never heard the saying, "You can't judge a book by its cover."

I don't care that Ripken weighs 60 pounds -- at heart he is a Teacup Poodle. Deuce, on the other hand, weighs 14 pounds but thinks he's a mammoth to be reckoned with. And they HAVE to stay together. If they are separated, Ripken lapses into a deep depression.

And apparently moves into the closet and pees the bed.

What do you do in a situation like this? Other than try to buy his trust and affection back with beef jerky?

I need guidance, Internet, because right now I am so livid that I want to lock that bitch in a cage with Cujo and see how she fucking likes it.

Deep In The Heart Of Texas

We took this photo this weekend when we stopped along Highway 71 near Ellinger, Texas. The other two dogs stayed in Hell (the vet's) and we took our aging pug with us to visit the Aggie's parents in Round Rock. Much to our delight, the entire drive was filled with this sort of scenery. There is nothing quite like the blue bonnet dusted rolling hills set against the rocky enclaves of Texas in the springtime. There's something still wild and free about this part of the country. Something a little bit untamed that breathes a different sort of air than the rest of the world. It is impossible to not feel alive and awakened here.

Also, I would be remiss not to mention the other life-alter experience in this part of Texas. If you find yourself traveling within 100 miles of Ellinger, I insist you reroute yourself up Highway 71 so you can visit Hruska's Store and Bakery. They serve cinnamon rolls the size of softballs and literally every kind of kolache you can image. (I personally enjoy the peach varity.) Hruska's is literally the best bakery in the United States of America. You can trust me on this because I'm a fatty and when I say something involving food is the BEST, I mean it.

Oh, and the reason we stopped at this particular spot? Because Sonny the Pug had dropped what he thought was a slither of beef jerky in the crack between the seat and the door so he jumped up, ran over and dove headfirst into the vacant space and got stuck. All that was sticking up were his back legs and tail. The Aggie and I had to work together to unwedge him so that he didn't break his neck when we opened the door. And the bit of jerky Sonny had dropped? Was just grease on a the wrapper. But, by god, he HAD to lick that sucker dry before he would consider standing still for a blue bonnet picture.

The Long Awaited News Segment

Enjoy!

http://tinyurl.com/cdlgxx

My two favorite parts are when the Aggie is sitting in the chair I sew in surrounded by scraps of material and general clutter and when Ripken runs wildly up the stairs.

Change of Pace

Wow. So could we be more annoying if we tried? I'm truly sorry that we've failed to produce the television clip we promised. Rather than lie to you again and swear on my pug's soul that it will air tonight, how about I just put the clip on here for yall to watch once it has aired. Brilliant, I know!

In other news, I am reconsidering my career choice. Unfortunately there aren't any available jobs open in any of the fields I would I like. If you guys hear about the following positions opening up please let me know:

1. Miss America (Throwback to my childhood dream. Either be Miss America or an archeologist like Indiana Jones. The latter dream was quickly abandoned when I was 12 years old I got to spend a week on an actual archeological dig. It totally sucked, I cried and we went home. Turns out I do not like sleeping on the ground, getting dirty or sweating – the holy trinity of archeology.)

2. Queen (Location isn't important as long it isn't once of those piss poor, third-world countries. Pretty much anywhere in Europe will do. England is clearly a preference, just look at all those castles and jewels.)

3. Famed Writer (I first fell in love with Hemmingway, then I learned he blew himself away and I figured that maybe I should branch out a little. So I turned to Fitzgerald who's wife was batshit crazy. Pretty much every author I have ever loved has been certifiable. What does it say about me that even as a child I related to these people? Maybe that since I've already got the mental illness why not just throw creative genius into the mix, as well.)

4. Superhero (Like Superman, not Batman. I want some cool superpowers, not just fancy gadgets. What's the point in being a superhero if you're not actually "super?" You fuck up once and then you're just that weird dude in the bat suit.)

5. Bond Girl. (So I could have a zippy name like Pussy Galore or Honey Rider and do Bond, James Bond. Specifically the Roger Moore Bond. But I wouldn't say no to the any of the others, except Lazenby, of course.)

So if any of these sorts of organizations are hiring, please let me know. I have an impressive resume and will be happy to provide references.

Reality Television--Part 4 of a continuing series

Just a quick note to let everyone know that the Aggie has not been on TV yet. He was supposed to be on this afternoon, but the bad weather and "technical issues" delayed it. They had even promo-ed it at the start of the newscast.

Anyway, now it's scheduled for tomorrow. Hopefully it'll happen soon, or the house will be completely paid off.

Reality Television--Part 3

Howdy. The Aggie once more, playing publicist for...well, myself and Ripken. I talked to the folks over at Channel 13 a short time ago, and the story is ON--for tomorrow.

So we will now be on at 4, 5, 6 and 10 on Thursday.

Apparently, Countrywide wrote them back a bunch of stuff that (to them, at least) sounded good and had no real bearing on the truth. Unfortunately for them, 13 knew what was up because we'd shown them all the documentation and called them on it. So this should be slightly embarrassing to Countrywide. Channel 13 asked me for my response to Countrywide's official statement and, this time, I did give a one word comment: "BS." I don't know if that'll make air.

Momma Pug's gonna post a link to the story when (if?) it airs. I apologize to damage done to your TV or monitor by my ugly mug in advance.

Reality Television--part 2

Howdy. The Aggie here, updating you on the status of our little TV appearance. Ripken and I were not on Houston's news leader at 4,5,6 and 10 today, as Countrywide had yet to respond to Channel 13's inquiries. So they moved it back a day.

On the other hand, the combination of Channel 13, the lawyer who took down Stanford Financial and a desire not to listen to any more of my shit may have done the trick anyway. Countrywide may not have called 13 back, but they did call me this afternoon telling me they were on the job and were going to get things squared away.

We'll see.

What 13 does from here, I have no clue. But if they asked me (and they won't), I'd still run it because who knows who else might get screwed because of a certain mortgage company's inability to keep track of itself?

Reality Television

Internet, there is a television news crew headed to my house! RIGHT NOW! And I am not there to direct the husband in what MUST be cleaned, hidden and removed from site of the cameras.

When I asked how long he had until they arrive, he nonchalantly declared, "Oh, about half-an-hour or 45 minutes."

WHAT? It takes longer than that to prepare our home for its World Debut. We're talking about needing to hire lawn crews, cleaning services and professionals to do hair and makeup. Thirty minutes doesn't give us time to shovel shit under the bed!

So my panicked, last minute instructions for my husband were thus: "Pick the garbage out of the bushes, clean up all the dog piss and iron a shirt."

If you're going to be surrounded by filth and squalor then you might as well look good.

So lets take a poll shall we.

What do you think will happen to Momma Pug's family on national television tonight?

1. Deuce bites the cameraman. On the face. Twice. Then licks him. To death.

2. Sonny the Pug pees and the anchorperson slips and falls in it. Rest of the animals see this an invitation to play and climb on top. A rousing game of King of the Mountain ensues.

3. Ripken becomes overwhelmed that someone is actually visiting and in his attempt to welcome them into our home pounces, breaking fake nails, chipping teeth and destroying several pieces of expensive equipment.

4. My husband gets camera shy, freezes live on air and is only able to utter one-word answers, which makes him sound and awful lot like Forrest Gump but without the clever sayings.

5. More subtly but equally mortifying, one of the dogs will run through the background of the shot carrying my dirty unmentionables that he's just stolen from the laundry basket. Which will instantly become an Internet sensation and I will be known online by new nickname "Granny Panties."

6. Gertrude takes a giant dump in her litter box, then refuses to cover it up because she doesn't like to get her feet dirty. Husband then has to be all, "Sorry I'll be right back. There is some cat poop I have to deal with before the pug eats it."

7. CLEAN SWEEP. ALL OF THE ABOVE.

My Husband, The Carnie Killer

When I was a kid my folks would always take us to the local and state fair. This always worked out the same way: With me over-excited, over-stimulated and over-heated.

It was a safe bet that before the end of the day I would 1) cry 2) beg 3) throw up cotton candy.

Well, I just want you to know that absolutely nothing has changed for me now that I'm an adult.

Except that FINALLY -- 25 years later -- I was finally that kid toting around the giant stuffed toy because someone in my entourage was skilled and wealthy enough to beat the basketball hoop game. And watching all those little kids kick, scream and cry over their daddy's and older siblings not winning THEM a giant animal? FELT GREAT. SUCK IT CHILDREN.

And do you know what felt even better than that? Making the smug, toothless carney have to actually hand over one of those giant prizes. You would have thought we were taking his first born child away from him and not some sloppily stitched together knock-off of Winnie the Pooh. Seriously, carney, you're a CARNEY. Don't get all uppity on us.

I don't know. Maybe his carney retirement plan hinged on NOT giving away anymore prizes. Or maybe he's officially been knocked out of the Carney of The Year Award competition. Guess he's not winning the company sponsored trip to the Redneck Riviera this year.

But I digress.

My husband is so awesome. He took me -- the mayor of Crazytown -- to the largest rodeo and carnival in the world. And he lived to tell about it.

Twenty-five years was TOTALLY worth the wait.

And Momma Pug's NCAA Bracket Goes Up In Flames

Just got finished watching tonight's games. Thanks for nothing, Wake Forrest. You cocksucking, choking dogs.

Now that my picks are officially, completely out of it, I shall pay homage to my husband's school and root feverishly for the Aggies. If I can't win the office pool, then I hope everyone else's picks get screwed up too. Because I'm petty and overly competitive like that.

Seriously, Wake Forrest, because of you I now have to listen to Stace rag on me for my "foolish selecting." I won't forget this, Wake. You are dead to me. That is all.

Not To Be Outdone By His Father

My sweet husband and I went to Killen's Steakhouse last night to celebrate our anniversary. During the final course of the meal, the Aggie presented me with a tiny box -- the kind that you know instantly came from a jewelry story.

In celebration of our fourth year, the husband presented me with a "lovers knot" ring, which is a stylized knot regarded as a symbol of the constancy of two lovers. Centuries ago sailors would tie the knot to remind them of their loved ones during their ocean voyages.

I'm pretty sure I'm going to keep him.

1460 Days Later

Today marks four years since the Hubs and I tied the knot.

While those years haven't always been easy, they have been totally worth it. Every day I get to live and enjoy life with my best friend and I don't think it gets any better than that. With each second that ticks by that we are together I become more and more aware of how lucky I am to have found someone to ride the waves out with.

Now to address the skeptics out there who proclaimed our marriage wouldn't last because we'd only dated for a few months…

You were right – we got married too soon. We were still sowing our oats and didn't know each other nearly well enough. We were young, wild and impetuous. The first year was a lot like smoking a cigar while wearing a gasoline-soaked suit and trying not to catch on fire. There were tempers flaring, arguments had and lot and lots of dirty makeup sex. There were times we thought about smothering each other while we slept or dropping a toaster into the bathtub.

At the end of the day, though, we made it. We got past those rocky parts, grew up together and discovered how wonderful life together could be. In those 1460 days we have moved, bought a house, adopted three dogs and started our own business. Life is hectic and little scary at times, but it has also never been better.

So to those doubters and haters out there, I have two words: SUCK IT.

And to my darling husband, I say: Thank you for being the person who gets to put up with my shit.

March 19, 2005

Momma Pug's NCAA Tournament Picks

Be forewarned. I go balls out.

Click to the image to enlarge, peeps.


Or download a PDF of my picks here.

They're Always After Me Lucky Charms!

Returning home from a rather somber Weight Watcher's meeting last night, I was delighted and surprised to discover a giant bouquet of 24 red roses on my dining room table – an early anniversary gift from my father-in-law, along with a lovely sweet card from my mother-in-law.

I can honestly tell you that I've never been caught off guard by flowers like that in my life; such a sweet, simple gift that is felt so deeply. Many, many thanks to Grumpy!


It was exactly the kind of surprise I needed today, after going to what can only be described as The Bizarro Weight Watchers of '09.

Have I mentioned that our Weight Watcher's leader is 4'8" and weighs 75 pounds? God's honest truth. She is the tiniest woman I have seen. Hits me under my boobs and manages to make me feel like the largest, most awkward girl at the dance. Like I'm an ogre and she's a butterfly.

Oh, and she's the nicest person. So kind and sweet, always wanting to be helpful. And here I am, a grouchy ogre – call me Shrek – wanting to rip off her glimmering butterfly wings before crushing her underneath my giant green foot.

And her enthusiasm makes her even more intolerable. She gets really excited and says things like: "Good job! You lost a quarter of a pound this week!" Which makes me want to hammer her into the wall like a rusty nail and scream: "A quarter of a pound is a nothing! It's a fart! Don't congratulate me on farting, you dwarf."

But I don't say that because I'm trying so hard to not be an asshole. I want the world to see a kinder, gentler Momma Pug. One who is open to encouragement and praise, especially when they are offered up in such an unassuming, kind way.

Screaming kittens, do you have any idea how hard that is? I'm a lumbering, bulky girl and it's so hard to find motivation – or at the very least to just suppress hate – for someone that miniscule. Especially after the show she put on at the meeting this week.

Imagine my delight when I arrived at the Weight Watchers on Saint Patrick's Day to discover my redheaded midget leader wearing a green dress and a giant, oversized green leprechaun hat. When someone looks that ridiculous, they open themselves up for mocking. I mean, they're asking for it, right?

Oh sweet lord, the episode was only exacerbated by the fact she also had a lisp – one that is so pronounced that she almost sounds like Hellen Keller. So imagine THAT if you will: A tiny, redheaded woman, with a terrible lisp, dressed up like a leprechaun on St. Paddy's Day, trying to speak in an Irish accent. Our conversation went a little something like this:

Her: "Toff ov dah moornang to yah, lass."

Me: "Just shut up and weight me."

Kinder and gentler isn't working out so well for me, but I am grateful… I really do appreciate those roses.

Busted

This morning I woke up feeling a little puny. I think it’s a combination of jetlag, a messed up sleep schedule and constant climate changes. Nothing major, just one of those I-feel-like-asshole mornings.

At the crack of dawn I was sitting on the stool in my bathroom trying to apply come makeup to cover my rapidly aging face. The Husband was still lying down -- trying to ignore my ranting at raving penetrating his ears and the bathroom light flooding his eyes.

I looked in the mirror and I saw someone I didn't recognize. Someone who looked like she'd been run over by speeding bus, left for dead then found a week later in a homeless shelter with no memory. It was the kind of moment that makes you realize that you aren't the girl you once were. My reflection was that of someone with a job, mortgage and more chins that the Chinese phone book.

As I set, staring at myself, wondering if perhaps I should invest in some very expensive "rejuvenating" face cream, a felt a warm, fuzzy face slip onto my lap. When I looked down, I saw my Ripken nestling his head against my upper thigh and belly. It was as if he was saying, "I am the one person who thinks you look great… even if you have let yourself go."

I leaned over, took his face in my hands and kissed his fuzzy little face. He responded by rubbing face against mine in a sort of puppy dog/Eskimo kiss. Then he half climbed into my lap and snuggled under my neck. I couldn't help but think what a sweet dog this 70-pounder had become.

We stayed like that for a few moments in that half hug.

Then the Aggie woke up and uttered four damned words: "Who wants a treat!"

The spell was broken. Ripken was no longer my sweet baby, perched gently in the nape of neck. No, he had morphed into 70 pounds of uncontrollable excitement. Immediately, he began thrashing around as if to indicate he couldn't get away from my grasp fast enough. Before I could push him down from my lap, a dramatic head bob resulted in a direct impact with my mouth and the back of his rather large head.

A second later he was gone from the bathroom and I sat before the mirror watching blood pool in my mouth. It was one of those moments when you actually see the carnage before you feel the pain. When my synapse finally did catch up with my eyes, all I could think was: OH SHIT MY FRONT TEETH ARE GOING TO FALL OUT.

Followed by: SON OF A BITCH, WE JUST FINISHED PAYING THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS FOR ALL THAT BEAUTIFUL RECONSTRUCTIVE DENTAL WORK.

Followed by: WAIT. MY TEETH ARE STILL THERE... THEY'RE NOT EVEN LOOSE.

Followed by: OH THANK GOD IT IS ONLY MY LIP. WHEW.

At which point, Ripken returned to the bathroom with his treat in mouth and looked at me as if to say, "Yeah, sorry about that, lady. Got a little excited back there. Suck it up, you'll be okay. It's not like I STABBED YOU. TWICE."

And with that I continued in my efforts to make myself presentable, including added attention to toning down my Rocky Balboa upper lip.

The Baby Whisperer Cometh

This past week I was lucky enough to spend a few days with my sister and her new baby boy. I was only there for four days, but let me tell you, it was enough to make me step back and admire not only my sister's natural ability to nurture and mother, but also her incredible exertion of self control. She has taken a very sick baby (acid reflux and jaundice) and managed to not only comfort him, but also not go bat shit crazy. She is strong, wise and determined. I am so very proud of her. I say this not just from watching my sister with her son, but also from being broken down by him myself.

You see, I am The Baby Whisperer. Or, rather, I used to be The Baby Whisperer. After one night alone with my sick, miserable baby nephew, I have retired from my baby whispering ways. My sister found us sitting in the living room crying at about 2 a.m. He was the FIRST baby I failed to comfort. After three hours of him gripping my shirt tightly and screaming from stomach pain I began to weep along with him. The Baby Whisperer was defeated.

On the second night together, Baby J.R. has began talking a new medication for his reflux and was not longer EVIL. We were both so worn out from our night of boohooing the previous evening, that Granny found us passed out on the couch in the living room. Now, did they wake us up? No, they opted to document The Baby Whisperer at work.

There are so many more things to share with you about my experience with Baby J.R., but for now I'll just save some of those more embarrassing episodes for a later date. Enjoy my picture essay entitled "The Baby Whisperer: Brokeback Auntie."

I call this one "Related: The Shame."

This is "The Human Womb." Baby J.R. found me warm, squishy and a heavy breather. If I were wet and pink he would have never left my chest.

"Stuffed Mortification." This one is J.R. posed with the stuffed owl that I made him from scratch.

Just to prove to you that it is only within my reach that Baby J.R. gets the look of horror, allow me to share some photos of him with other family members:

First we have him hanging out on Granny's shoulder.



Sitting in his Granny's lap.



Being held by his pretty Mama.



Hanging on his Daddy's arm like a racoon on a limb.



And one final photo to show his infinate cuteness.

Can you believe I won't get to see him again until May. :(

Homeward Bound

Am sitting here watching my new nephew rocking rocking in his vibrating chair on the living room flood.

He is a sweetheat. A truely sweet baby.

I leave for Houston at 6 a.m., which is an hour a head of central time.

And while this message is a little short and lacking of life, I promise you there are stories to be told. Oh, how we shall tell them.

Defining Your Day

I was thinking this morning that pretty much the first ten minutes after you wake up set the mood for the rest of your day.

If you wake up to breakfast in bed, you know it's going to be a good day. Or if you wake up, stretch and have an AH HA Moment that answers a nagging work question, then you know the day is going to be all right.

Then there are days like today when the first thing you do when you wake up -- even before you've put on your glasses -- is step in a wet, squishy pile of dog excrement?

Now if that's not a fine how-do-ya-do, then I don't know what is.

Did I mention that I'm flying to Richmond today to meet my nephew for the first time? I'm meeting my Daddy at the airport (he's flying in from Jackson) and we're heading up to see that baby. I'm not sure dog poop between the toes is the exactly the kind of omen I want to receive before mounting a giant steel contraption and soaring 20,000 feet above the ground.

Shooter On The Loose In Pearland

Seriously, criminals.

I'm getting real tired of your shit.

We chose this suburb because of its small-town feel. And now? People are being kidnapped and shot at randomly?

That sound you hear? It's our property value plummeting.

Consider yourself officially put on notice, criminals. Momma Pug is ready to go vigilante on your evil-doing asses.

Doesn't sound like a good enough threat?

Just remember... If Momma ain't happy then nobody's happy.

How Do You Explain To The ER Doctor That The Pug Broke Your Hip?

This was a traumatic morning at Casa de Pug.

Someone (SONNY) peed on the floor. Twice. Even though that someone (SONNY) had gone outside a billion times.

The Aggie and I really wanted to hate him for this because, you know, HE IS PEEING ON THE GODDAMNED FLOOR. But we restrained ourselves because the little fellow is getting on up in age and experiencing serious problems with his hip and back end. Without going into too much detail, Sonny can't really control his bladder. We've talked about his before. It's no secret that Sonny is known for his urinating and pooping WHILE RUNNING. It's how he rolls and is a result of years of abuse before he came to live with us. So we tolerate a lot.

Well, I tweeted this morning about falling down and a reader wrote me a direct message that said "what did he do to throw you down" and I -- foolishly -- answered with the truth: Sonny peed on the floor, it was dark and I slipped in it.

To which this Pig Whore Troll writes: "Too bad. Is it time to think about letting him go?"

I write back: "Go where?"

Pig Whore Troll responds: "Have him put to sleep. It's for his own good."

WAIT. A. FUCKING. MINUTE. PIG WHORE TROLL. LET'S NOT GET ALL DR. KEVORKIAN.

Yeah, I tried for an hour or so to write her an appropriate response, but frankly I just couldn't sum up all my feelings of hate into the 140 characters allowed by Twitter. Plus, I'm pretty sure I'd breech some kind of decency laws if I posted my real thoughts on there. Thus this post.

Seriously Pig Whore Troll, where do you get off suggesting I put down my sweet little dog WHO STILL LOVES LIFE because he can't control a body function that inconveniences me? When you're a diaper-wearing old bitch shuffling around the nursing home I'll be sure and tell your children: "Just put her to sleep. It's for her own good."

You see, the fact is, I care for my dogs and cat more than I like most people so it's a safe bet that I'd rather slip in Sonny the Pug's piss than yours, Pig Whore Troll.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go ice my butt.

Hand Jobs Are Like Flowers For Men

My husband just wrote something really, really sweet about your's truly. I think you all should go and read it then in the comments section tell him how wonderful of a guy he is. And I'm not just saying that in comparison to that jackass from "The Bachelor". (All though that douche bag makes Chris Brown look like husband of the year.)

I think it goes without saying that I'm totally giving the Aggie some flowers later.

READ ME!

Also? Right now, my own father is screaming at the computer screen. MY EYES! MY EYES! MY DAUGHTER JUST ALLUDED TO GIVING A HAND JOB. MY PRECIOUS, INNOCENT BABY GIRL, WHY DO YOU BREAK MY HEART LIKE THIS!!!

He never knows what he might read when he comes to my Web site, but bless his heart he comes anyway. Sorry about the hand job bit, Dad.

20 Percent

Attention, Internet. I have an announcement: I am but a hair away from reaching my first weight loss goal.

This week I shed another 3.5 pounds and if I lose just under one more pound I will be at my 20 percent mark, which – let me tell you -- feels absolutely fantastic.

Losing a pound or two per week feels good, but getting to see something a little more – pardon the pun – LARGE is so satisfying.

So what is my "goal"?

Well, I'm trying to lose 100 pounds.

Sounds like a lot, but the truth is I should lose considerably more than that, but in order to stay positive and optimistic I've decided not to approach this weight loss the way I have before. No, this time I refuse to look at it as one big lump of weight. If I do, then I'll never be able to make it, so I'm setting my first goal at 100 pounds. When I hit that then I will try for 50 more.

Breaking it up helps me see the finish line. And brothers and sisters, let me tell you, when you're looking at such large numbers it's hard to keep yourself from feeling like it’s a hopeless situation. If I focus on 20 pounds at a time it feels WAY more doable. It didn't seem so insurmountable. It suddenly became something very attainable.

Also, I've decided that if I don't lose the entire amount of weight I need to (according to my height and age) its okay. Because isn't the battle what its all about? If my weight loss stops right now, isn't it better to be 20 pounds lighter than when I started? Isn't this really about improving ourselves?

I think so, but can I get an AMEN from the choir anyway?

Oh, and I have to clarify something regarding the bet with my father.

Okay, so the bet isn't a bet, really. Its more of a propistion. After having a rather rough time of it around the holiday's I proclaimed: SCREW THIS, I AM GOING TO LOSE 100 POUNDS, BUY A BATHING SUIT AND GO TO THE CARIBBEAN NEXT CHRISTMAS.

To which my father – who is truly sympathetic because of his own battles with weight loss – said: "If you lose 100 pounds by Dec. 25, 2009, then I will pay for your trip. I will give you $1,000."

He was so happy to hear that I was willing to try and do something to make myself better, that he offered up a reward. And lets be honest, he had to think it was an empty promise because if I haven't lost the weight in 28 years then what are the odds I'm going to do it now?

So this conversation originally unfolded during the last week of December while driving cross-country with my parents. Before I knew it, a couple of months past after I returned home from the holidays and admittedly I had done nothing to start losing weight. Daddy's money seemed very, very safe.

A couple of nights later, over a bottle of fine screw-top wine, the Aggie and I started talking about life, having children and growing old together. I don't know if it was the booze or divine intervention, but something amazing happened that night: We realized that we were on a self-destructive path with our weight and decided to attack our issues together, as husband and wife.

A week later we were enrolled in Weight Watchers.

Now it's been one month and I've lost 19 pounds and the Aggie has lost 10. At this rate, we will have lost 120 pounds and 70 pounds, respectively, by December.

And my father? Now finds himself scraping his pennies together because – in his words – "It’s the best grand I've ever spent."

Raise your glasses, Internet. Here's to shamelessly taking my father's money in reward for addressing an issue that's long over due. Cheers.

One Time My Parents Left Me At A Roadside Park In Florida

It's true that once my parents left me at a visitor's information rest stop at the Florida-Alabama border. I was about eight or night years old at the time and the only thing I can recall from the experience is thinking something along the lines of: SON OF A BITCH. I AM GOING TO MISS THE GODDAMNED MAGIC KINGDOM.

For years after this event, if I brought it up my mother would say: "Oh, shut up. We came back for you, didn't we?" Which is true. They totally had me back in their possession within 10 minutes, but that brief separation cost them 500 or so miles of me whining incessantly over the experience. It finally took one GIGANTIC stuffed Minnie Mouse later for me to agree to stop telling everyone I bumped into at Disney World that I had been abandoned during the trip down.

I was pretty much silent about the incident for the next decade or so, save for the yearly or so comment I'd make whenever we were on vacation and pulling into a rest area. I found it physically impossible to not announce that I AM GOING TO THE BATHROOM, DO NOT LEAVE ME AGAIN. To which my parents rolled their eyes and fought the urge to burn rubber out of the parking lot while I was still in the can.

It wasn't until a rather horrific turn of events occurred when I was a senior in high school that I began harping again on my abandonment. That summer, a couple of women were found murdered and their bodies dumped at that very roadside park. I'm sure Mama and Daddy questioned: OF ALL THE REST AREAS IN AMERICA, WHY THAT ONE. WHY? Admittedly, I wouldn't shut up about it.

After the murders – which were never solved, by the way -- inevitably my roadside park incident would resurface ever so often. When I was a freshman in college, my parents met some of my freshman friends and those "friends" prompted my folks to tell embarrassing stories about me.

Not to be outdone by the tales of my youth, I interjected: "Well, why don't yall tell them about how you abandoned me at a rest area in Florida where all those women were murdered?"

To which my mother – without batting an eye – replied: "Oh, honey, that NEVER happened."

My mouth dropped open. WHAT? YES IT DID SOOOO HAPPEN. I GOT THAT GIANT STUFFED MINNIE MOUSE BECAUSE OF THE GUILT YOU FELT! REMEMBER?

My mother: "No, you got Minnie Mouse because it was your birthday."

YOU LEFT ME AT A ROADSIDE PARK.

Then my parents both laughed as if to say: "Pay no attention to our crazy daughter. Sometimes her medicine makes her hallucinate."

YOU KNOW YOU LEFT ME AT THE REST AREA!

More polite smiles and dismissive laughter.

OH MY GOD, YOU ARE MAKING ME LOOK INSANE! YOU LEFT ME!

Then they turned their heads in unison, wrinkled their brows as if thinking things through then shook their heads.

"No, I don't remember anything about a roadside park," my father said. "But I do recall you falling down the stadium stairs wearing a bass drum…"

Cut to last Friday night.

I'd been having a crap week so the husband decided to take me on a proper date, which was delightful and sweet and so so so reminding of why I married him.

Well, when we got home after 12 hours away from our house, two dogs and one cat greeted us.

WAIT.

Two dogs? Someone is missing? WHERE IS DEUCE?

The Aggie and I searched the entire house for the little monster, but he was nowhere to be found. In my mind, I imagined a gaggle of dog-snatching ninjas stealing my baby. My poor sweet little Deuce had been stolen, from our house. OH MY GOD. Call the police, I said. We've been robbed. My poor dog has been taken.

Then I remembered! I saw this on 20/20! High-end dogs taken from their homes and sold on the black puppy market. My poor little Deuce sold into doggy slavery. Oh Lord, tell me he put up a fight!

That's when the Aggie informed me that Deuce isn't what you'd consider "high-end."

BUT HE IS PUREBRED, I argued.

Apparently neutered, house pets in middle-income neighborhoods aren't exactly the million dollar show dogs people are stealing.

But if he wasn't stolen where could he be!!! I was this|close to tears when we heard scratching and turned to see Deuce standing at the sliding glass door.

"OH!," the Aggie said. "I forgot to let him in before I left, I guess."

And so it is that we have become our parents.

Starting tomorrow, I will claim it never happened.