Not Missing Another Trip

Came home last night after a wild evening of drinking and revelries to find that Sonny the Pug had taken up residence in my suitcase.

Apparently, he is tired of missing the plane and ending up either at the vets or staying with his grandparents.

Best way to avoid missing the trip? Pack yourself, of course!


I would be remiss if I didn't mention that this suitcase was closed -- not zipped -- but definitely shut. Sonny had to therefore open it and climb over an eight-inch high sidewall. Good thing he's not one to let a little thing like thermal dynamics stop him.

Sonny asked me to deliver this message: "Get ready Popeye, I'm coming with the Hussy to see you. Get the buffet, Mule and bed ready."

Free To Good Home: One Surly Cat

Gertrude bit me three times last night.

Just.

Because.

She.

Could.

The bite mark on my finger looks especially infected. Amputation imminent.

What animal is it that they make glue from?

Is There A Kick Me Sign Stuck To My Back?

So. We are finally in Albany, New York. Five hours late. We were stuck in Newark, New Jersey waiting for the stupid pilot and crew to arrive from Providence, Rhode Island. Apparently they had to fly to Scotland and back first.

You see, while it is bone dry back in Houston, things up north are rather soggy. And by rather soggy, I mean ATTENTION TRAVELERS, THUNDER STORMS AND FLOOD WARNING IN EFFECT, DOOM IMMINENT, RUN FOR YOUR LIVES.

And for an added bonus, we were surrounded by obnoxious, ill-mannered children. On the first flight a mother was attempting to travel with her four children, ranging in ages from two to 11. These were not just "children" though. They were like water-soaked, jet-lagged gremlins. They fought with the flight attendants, with the seats, with each other and even with themselves. The mother -- who I started off hating, but came to pity -- had just flown internationally with this brood. And while I don't condone child abuse, let's just say that if she were Andrea Yates, I would have ran the bathwater for her.

Go ahead, send your hate mail. That was a bit too far.

On the second flight, the quantity of annoy children was much less, but the quality somehow increased. A seven-year-old boy sitting directly in front of us stuffed his face with candy the entire one-hour flight from Newark into Albany. No surprise that the little bastard got sick when the extremely turbulent landing. Now, in all my years of flying I can honestly tell you that I have never seen anyone use an airline issued barf bag. That streak, dear readers, ended at about 10:06 p.m. eastern standard time.

This little kid blew chunks so violently that I'm pretty sure he's still looking for his testicles. He puked like a grown man after beer chugging/hot dog eating contest. That tsunami in Indonesia was started with this kid's yacking. No shit. (Side note, the kid was traveling with his stepfather, mom and little sister and the stepdad was totally about to lose his shit dealing with this kid. When they exited the plane he turned to me and said, "I can't wait to hand him back to his father." Ouch.)

By 11:30 we made it to the hotel, checked in, ordered a pizza and showered. Sweet beautiful cleanliness! Had to scrub all that odor de child off of me. After I showered, I stepped across the hall to grab some ice. That's when I heard, in a cracked pre-teen voice, the following words:

"Hey baby, can I has yo number?"

I whirled around.

"What did you say?" I demanded.

"Nothing. I didn't say nothing, ma'am."

MA'AM? This little fucker just called me ma'am!

"Hey, I'm older than you but I'm not old and I'm not deaf..."

(At this point, the group of five or six 12 and 13 year olds are backing down the hall away from me. I keep going toward them and two room doors open, as angry people poke their heads out. Apparently these kids had been reaking havok for some time.)

"We didn't say nothing!" the child screamed at me.

And then I totally lost it. I flash ed back to the previous weekend and my night stalking the Doorbell Bandit. I will be damned if that happens again. I shall not be harrassed by someone who's balls haven't dropped. It was at this moment, remembering the previous incident that I realized the only way to get rid of this problem was to speak a language they understood: FEAR.

So I said the first thing that came to me:

MY HUSBAND -- THAT MAN YOU JUST SAW GO INTO THAT ROOM -- IS A COP. DO YOU KNOW WHAT COPS DO TO PEOPLE LIKE YOU? DO YOU WANT TO BE ARRESTED? DO YOU WANT HIM AND HIS BADGE TO GET YOUR PARENTS UP?

A unison of replies: "No..."

"Then I suggest you find somewhere else to hang out. Do you understand me?"

All together again: "Yes..."

"And no. You cannot have my number."

What a bunch of prepubescent dumbasses. My husband's not a cop. You don't get shot for disturbing Hilten Garden Inn guests. Next time I'm in Corpus Christi I'm looking Officer Rodriguez up and thanking him for that little lesson. If you can't reason with them, teach them mannors or kick them out, then just scare the piss out of them. You have to know your enemy before you can eliminate it.

And now, I sleep. For tomorrow is Cooperstown!

The Doorbell Bandit

This weekend we drove down to Corpus Christi on a whim. It was like the good old days when we had just enough gas for a roundtrip and $20 for dinner. Except, you know, without the poverty part.

So off we went… No hotel room reservation. No plans. Just spontaneous adventuring.

Luckily, we found a hotel room at the Emerald Beach Holiday Inn. Unfortunately, it cost whopping $160 per night (not including tax.) However, we did find the room cool, comfortable and clean. The staff was courteous and helpful. Parking was plentiful and free – which is no short order at most seaside resorts. Since there was beach access, a soft bed and working air-conditioning, we couldn't have been happier. That is, until 10 p.m. rolled around.

Because we are old married people, by 9 o'clock we were sitting amongst the heap of pillows on the giant bed and watching "The Dark Knight" on HBO. That's when the first "incident" occurred. Now mind you, I was severely sunburned. So the hubs placed cool, wet towels over my shoulders while I watched television in my underwear. I don't recommend you get a mental picture of this, but for you more visual types here's what it looked like: A bloated, topless lobster girl with frizzy hair and a green aloe crème-covered face. Not a pretty picture.

So there I was all miserably burned and the husband was trying to understand how this is even possible because I was literally in the shade most of the day. I explained to him that my skin is like a solar panel, practically designed to soak up UV rays. In our five years together, I have avoided trips to the beach. Mainly because beaches equal burn in my book and I mean BURN as in I turn radioactive and could be marketed as an alternative energy source. The husband is trying to absorb this information and is no doubt placing it on the List of Why We Should Not Breed. "Pigmentation issues" is sandwiched in between "mental health concerns" and "potential blindness."

But I digress, so we were just chilling out max and relaxing all cool and watching our movie. This is a rare moment in deed that we both are watching something and neither of us are complaining. We' were at the point when that damn Joker is about to blow his way out of jail -- didn't see that coming (insert eye roll) – when a siren starts going off above our head and a red strobe light starts flashing. For a second there because I had sunstroke it felt like were on one of those interactive movie rides at Universal Studios.

Thankfully, the husband recognized it as the fire alarm. Now, Internet, did we jump up and run out of the burning building? No. Did we rush to the nearest fire extinguisher? No. Did we even open the sniff for smoke? No.

Nope. We didn't take the first safety precaution. Instead we just sat there, waited for it to stop and continued watching our movie. The conversation went something like this:

Me: "Hmm. That was weird."

Him: "Yep. Weird."

So we go back to watching the movie. I won't ruin it for you, but the girl dies and Batman ends up looking like a douche bag. Evil prevails. The end. Anyway, we flip the light off and settle into the bed for the night. Now, at this point, I am in a considerable amount of pain, so I finally get positioned on my stomach and above the covers so that nothing touches my delicate, charred skin. This was no simple feat. It took like half an hour to find some relief, but when I did, oh sweet glory, it was divine. Sleep, here we come.

Two seconds after dropping off: RING. RED STROBES. RING. RED STROBES. RING. RED STROBES.

Up in the bed we go, prepared to fight off the chirping, flashing ninjas that had invaded our room. But as soon as our eyes are open and we're coherent, the noise stops and the red lights disappear. To quote the hobags from Rock of Love, "What the French?"

As I'm sitting here, trying to sort myself out, I began to recall something the lady said when we checked. She'd mentioned that we were being give an upgrade to a handicapped room because all other king-sized beds were unavailable.

"Other than some minor changes to the bathroom and the addition of a doorbell, you won't be able to tell the difference," she said.

What was that bit about a doorbell? Curiousity gets the best of me and I hobbled over to the door, stuck my arm out and hit the button a few times.

"THAT'S IT!!! THAT'S THE SOUND!!!" screamed the Aggie.

"It’s the doorbell," I explain.

"That's not a 'doorbell,'" he contends.

"It’s a doorbell for deaf and blind people," I said.

"Ohh… and some fucker is pushing it when they walk by."

So what do I do? Call the front desk and tattle. That's right, I called security because someone was ringing the doorbell. Criminals! At first, the front desk was all: "OH, OKAY SO YOU SAY YOU'RE BEING HARRASSED BY A DOORBELL."

To which I was all: "CLEARLY YOU HAVE NEVER EXPERIENCED THIS PARTICULAR DOORBELL. (Then I held the phone up and had the husband push the button.) Now imagine that sound combined with red strobe lights. It's like a disco in hell up here."

She immediately started sending up security. Yet, by the time the security dude made it up to the fourth floor, the Doorbell Bandit was always gone.

This happened two more times in a row. Each time I called my friend at the front desk. Because we were asleep when it happened, we were always too slow to catch the little fucker. And to top it off, the little bastard was getting cocky. He knew we were slow and that he could out run us, so he started get creative with his buzzing.

It was during his rendition of "Shave and a Hair Cut, Two Bits" that he made his fatal flaw. Instead of being asleep in the bed, I was in the bathroom about to sit down on the toilet. You know that point between sleep and awake when you're only half cognizant of the world around you? Well, that's where I was. And when that bastard hit the doorbell, I hit the floor. Yes, I fell off the toilet. And when I came up off the ground I was enraged. Oh, he wants to play that way does, he thought. It is on, motherfucker. It. Is. On.

So I went on and took a tinkle, called my friend at the front desk because, by God, if I was suffering then so was she and went and put on my nightgown. Then I took up residence beside the door.

"What are you doing, honey?" asked the husband.

"Staking this fucker out. I fell off the toilet. He's gone too far."

"Okay, good night. Love you, sweetheart," he said, as if I always sat next to hotel room doors at 2 a.m. and waited for someone to push a doorbell.

Twenty minutes later the little bastard struck. Only this time I was waiting. I'm not sure if it was because he sensed something was up or if the security guard had been through, but he was quicker than before. He gave it one quick buzz and disappeared. I swung the door open just in time to see him dart toward the elevators.

So I marched down to the elevators.

"Did you push that button?"

"No."

"Who did then?"

"Little kids."

"You’re a little kid."

"I'm 13."

"Then you are old enough to know better."

"It wasn't me!"

Then he jumped onto the elevator and disappeared.

I returned to my room.

"If you hit a minor they will take you to jail," the husband said.

"It'd be worth it."

Then I called the front desk, told them the perp was in the elevator and resumed my position by the door.

At 2:40 a.m. I heard approaching footsteps and they were moving fast. A moment later BUZZ. STROBE. BUZZ. I swung the door open just in time to see the kid disappear into his room – one door down. I called the front desk. They sent Officer Rodriguez up again. By this point, the good officer was not suffering any more fools. The kid in question had been wreaking holy hell across the hotel complex the entire night, but because he is apparently also trained by ballerina dancing ninjas, he proved to be extremely evasive foe.

"I know where he is!" I proclaimed when the officer tapped on my door. For the first I noticed that he was an actual cop working off-duty as a security officer. He possessed a real gun.

The weary officer strode lightly down the hall and knocked on the hotel room door. The little fucking kid poked his head out smiling. The cop pushed the door open to reveal an older brother.

"Where are your parents?" he asked.

"Next door," the brother said. Way to stick together, kiddos!

Then the cop seized the Doorbell Bandit by the arm, drug him over to the adjoining room and knocked loudly with his flashlight. A disheveled man in his boxers and a white undershirt opened the door.

"This your kid?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. What's wrong?"

And then Officer Rodriguez proceeded to scare the living piss out of the boy. He made a list of all the laws the child had violated. All the rules that were broken. And asked the father if they wanted to drive home tonight.

"But this is our first night here!" he exclaimed.

"Get your child under control or it'll be your last," the officer said. Then he turned and walked away. The next thing I heard was the Doorbell Bandit getting his shit handed to him by Daddy Dearest. And then? SWEET SILENCE.

When we checked out the morning we were given a huge discount on our room, but the victory of having defeated a smartass, obnoxious kid? So much more rewarding.

Goliad. Not Gonad.

Ahhh. Summertime and the living is easy. Or so the song goes old. Things are finally slowing down 'round here. I think its because we're in the south and this is the time of year that the heat starts getting oppressive. It's so damn hot that that it causes everything to move a slower pace. And the husband and I are soaking up the respite from what has been a hellishly busy couple of months.

We were so relaxed and feeling the lure of adventure that we decided to head out to meet the in-laws in historic Goliad, Texas, and tour the Spanish mission and presidio. Aside from the god-awful heat – it was 101 degrees – we had a really great time. The sites did not disappoint.

We started out at the open-air market that is held once a month around the beautiful, old courthouse. I sat for a bit on a concrete bench under one of the magnificent old oak trees that lined the square. Leave it up to the husband to determine that what I was perched on wasn't necessarily a bench, but a marker telling us all about how that more than leaves dropped from giant branch hanging a few feet above our heads. I was using the town's "hanging tree" for shade and had inadvertently positioned my body directly under the "drop spot."

To be fair, this newfound information was not strong enough for me to move out from under the gallows. It was cool and shady. Frankly, all bets are off when its over 90 degrees. Every man for himself, I say. Eventually, however, I was pried from my spot to go find lunch. If there's one thing that I'll give up my bit of shade for, it’s the promise of air conditioning. So off we went off for a bite at the eatery across the street. I shit you not, the restaurant was called, "The Hanging Tree." Lunch was slow, but good. I didn't mind much because the longer I sat there in the bought air, the longer I could sip iced tea and avoid sweating like Fat Elvis during a Vegas show.

After we left the restaurant of death, we headed out to the historic sites. First stop was at the refurnished replica of Mission Espiritu Santo. Though the mission dates back to the 1720s, it was moved to the present site in 1749. The Civilian Conservation Corps did extensive renovation in the1930s to keep it from falling in. At one time, the mission was the largest cattle ranch in Texas. Now its owned by the National Park Service and if you accidentally wander into the building without purchasing a "guest pass" then they will throw your ass right out. Trust me, we learned this one the hard way.

After having been manhandled by a buxom blond park service Nazi, we opted to not purchase that "guest pass" and just went on over to the Presidio La Bahia. (Interesting point of note: the National Park Service owns the mission/church, but the Catholic Church now owns the presidio/fort. Oddly, the Catholics did not throw us heathen protestants out. Yet the park did. Go figure.)

Anyway, the presidio was by far my favorite of the two. Originally built in 1749 to protect the mission and the frontier, the presidio also played a major role in the Texas Revolution. It was at the presidio that Colonel Fannin and his ill-fated men were held prior to being executed by Santa Anna, that douche bag from the Alamo.

While the Alamo is renowned because of its location in San Antonio and the well-known men that died there, twice the number of revolutionaries died at the presidio. Unlike the Alamo defenders who'd perished just weeks earlier fighting, the men at the presidio surrendered to Santa Anna's army. Expecting their lives to be spared, the men were shocked and horrified as they were massacred. This act of infamy was later recalled at the Battle of San Jacinto with the cry, "Remember Goliad! Remember the Alamo!" (That's where Sam Houston gave Santa Anna his bitch slapping, effectively ending the Texans war for independence.)

I wish that I could report to you that I felt something paranormal at the presidio, but alas the only thing I could really pick up was the heat. By this point it was the hottest part of the day and I'm pretty sure I was having sunstroke. So anything funny I saw can only be attributed to my boiling brain. Even my skinny brother-in-law was feeling it. So I figured if this younger, healthier dude is about to pass out from the heat it is time to get in the car, turn the air on full blast and find something ice cold drink.

And so we said goodbye to the in-laws, promised to meet again under more pleasant temperatures and headed our separate ways. It was then – in the spur of the moment – that the Aggie and I decided to do something really wild and crazy: Drive on down the Texas coast to Corpus Christi with no plans, no worries and no reservations.

Check back tomorrow to find out about my 10-hour long altercation with a 13-year old boy, an ethereal smell and the Aggie's refusal to allow me to "ride the lightning."

Hazards Of Text Messaging

Just sent the following text message to my mother-in-law:

Are you excited about Gonads?

It was supposed to say:

Are you excited about Goliad?

Thanks for that, you piece of shit auto-typing Motorola Razor phone. Your days are now officially numbered.

You see, in Texas there is a quaint old town called Goliad and we're meeting the in-laws there to go to the open-air market and visit a really old, historical fort. So I thought, "Hey, I'll send her a text, expressing my joy at going on this little day trip." As soon as I hit send, it occurred to me that the message hadn't come out just right.

Instead of asking her about our impending visit I inquired if she's excited about testicles.

She has yet to respond.

And Now Time For Something Entirely Different

Please go to the Southern Area Paranormal Society blog and check out the article I just added.

http://saps-ghosts.blogspot.com/2009/06/alamo-san-antonio-texas.html

It's a really fun site. Lots of cool stories and pictures. Even if you're not a "believer."

Jon and Kate Plus Hate

Momma Pug thinks that if you repeatedly emmasculate your husband on national television every day for four years, then you shouldn't be surprised when the shit goes BAD. Nor should you be shocked when everyone sides with your long-suffering husband. Or -- and you might want to sit down for this one -- that most of us lowly normal people find your obsession with organic foods, fear of germs and need to control EVERY THING completely repulsive.

Kate, honey, I'm talking to you.

So you can imagine how it makes us feel to see you playing the victim. Kate, we don't buy it. (By we I mean anyone with a brain.) When we see you crying on the cover of People magazine? Pretty sure that you're formulating those tears in hopes of yet another payday. Which -- because life ain't fair --will totally happen for you.

Earstwhile that poor magnificint bastard you married is the one the media makes look like The Asshole Of The Century, practically setting your heafty divorce settlement up for you!

Well played, madam. Well played.

Hazel

My good friend Hazel died Saturday and my heart is broken.

Four years ago when I moved all alone to Albany, Georgia, Hazel was one of my first friends. I can't explain it, but Hazel and I were just instantly close -- we gravitated to each other. Maybe because are both gregarious southern women with a lot of attitude. I think we just understood and appreciated each other for what we were. When Hazel and I were together there were no pretenses. We were just ourselves -- fat, happy and sassy.

I know that might be over-simply stated, but in a nutshell that's why she was so important to me. She was loyal, kind and loving. She made me laugh and gave me comfort.

Hazel Holmes was a 13 year old mixed breed dog. She was a big, beautiful woman and I loved her very much. She was a better person than most of the humans I have met in this world and, saddly, my world is a little dimmer without her.

Enjoy Heaven, Hazel. May the memories you gave your mama and daddy make them smile for years to come.