Momma Pug

Strands of atonement

noreply@blogger.com (Momma Pug) — Thu, 17 May 2012 16:06:00 +0000

The summer of 1995 I turned 15 years old. My sisters, cousin LeeLee and I spent the heat of that Mississippi summer doing two things: flopping around in the above ground pool and watching movies with the AC blowing as hard as it could.

That was the summer that the movie Apollo 13 came out. We watched it repeatedly on VHS tape and rented it so often that Mama and my aunt finally bought it for us. We even had the soundtrack on cassette tape and played it over and over again on our boom box, which half-balanced half-teetered precariously close to the edge of the pool. There was an extension cord that ran from the house, across the patio, through a garden and to the pool’s deck that Daddy built. Susie, our beloved blue-tick/beagle mix would lay there for hours, enjoying our splashes because they cooled her off.

On our pool days we would float for hours, making up stories. One day we were princesses, sent to live in a rural farmhouse in southern Mississippi because the evil Lord LuFoofah was trying to capture our parent’s kingdom. The next day we were a group of undiscovered country music singers destined for stardom and fame in Nashville. We would take whatever crazy invented story and create characters for ourselves, complete with accents and backstories. Sometimes we’d just apply extreme events to our current lives. Oh no! We are stranded on a deserted island! One of us has been kidnapped! There’s suddenly a tornado!

These vivid, crazy scenarios were occasionally interrupted when someone of authority would stick their head the screen door and scream words of caution: “Don’t electrocute yourselves!” “Put on sun screen!” “I’m taking a nap. Don’t drown while I’m asleep!”

This was before the Internet, back when kids made their own fun. When it was still completely normal for a newly turned 15-year-old to have absolutely no clue about sex or boys or any of the evil shit in the world. There wasn’t a lot of drama or excitement in our little bubble. Sometimes we had to create our own.

It was a time before Prozac and therapy. When you went to a corner, cried and then sucked it up just because there weren’t any other options. Crazy was just something that you didn’t mention in polite company and if someone in your family was bat shit you just pretended like their actions were totally normal. What? Your great-grandmother didn’t “plant” plastic flowers in her garden and can pickled fruit? No? Just us?

In the summer of 1995 I didn’t understand mental illness. I don’t even think I really knew there was anything except good and bad. And to me some crazy people did good things and some normal people could be real assholes. It would be many years before I began to grasp the varying complexities and sensitivities of the human mind. Or even begin to comprehend the delicacy of emotions, actions and reactions.

No, for me 1995 was simple. Things weren’t complicated yet. Except that things, people and emotions really were complicated, I just didn’t have the capacity to understand it yet. So now I’m going to tell you have the single most evil thing I have ever done to someone I love. I hope you see this how it is intended -- as a story atonement and forgiveness.

---

It was July 1995, the month of my 15th birthday. This was a real turning point in my life. That summer, I had finally stopped looking like Jonah Hill – short, fat and sporting an Afro. I was still fat, but by god I had newly acquired boobs! My hair had grown out long, someone had also taught me how to pluck my eyebrows and now that I had two of them, I finally felt feminine.

As the oldest sister and the owner of a newly acquired drivers license, I found that summer that we finally had a little more flexibility in visiting friends and attending parties. No more bothering and begging Mama or our aunt – both teachers who were off for the summer – to transport us all in four different directions. However, they were skeptical at best about my driving abilities and weren’t quite as apt to just send us off with a full tank of gas and a head full of ideas as we’d hoped.

After some convincing, LeeLee and myself headed off to a friend’s birthday party. I don’t remember any of the party details. I’m not even sure whose birthday we were celebrating. All I remember is that about 20 of us were crowed on a trampoline jumping. We were all knocking each other all over the place. Every once in a while, someone would get knocked off the trampoline all together.

We’d been there maybe 20 minutes when I heard a blood-curdling scream. It was LeeLee. Her hair was so long and thick that while she’d been momentarily knocked down someone had stepped on her hair, pulling several strands out. There’s no doubt that it hurt. No one likes getting hair ripped out. But it wasn’t the pain that had elicited such a horrible scream. No. It was the clump of hair that LeeLee was clutching in her hand.

“I’m going bald! You made me bald!” She screamed at no one in particular. Then in one swift movement – hair still in hand – she dismounted the trampoline and ran into the house in tears.

I followed her, still convinced she must be injured horribly.

“I want to go home!” She screamed at me.

“Let me see!” I said, expecting to blood and brains tangled in her golden, waste length hair.

But there was nothing there. She was 100 percent fine. After a thorough examination I realized she was completely intact and just overreacting. And thus, I refused to leave the party. We’d just gotten there! Suck it up! Back to the trampoline, I say! Does anyone have a ponytail holder she can borrow?

Sometimes, though, when you are at a certain level of hysterical there is no bringing the crazy train back into the station. And at this particular point, LeeLee was shoveling coal at an alarming rate. So when I refused to take her scalping seriously, she narrowed her eyes, turned from me and proceeded to borrow the hostess’s telephone. She then called my aunt to come get her. If you had been my aunt on the other end of that telephone you would have thought there had been a massacre at the birthday party and she was the only survivor. COME QUICK! I’M THE ONLY SURVIVOR AND I’M HIDING IN THE PANTRY! HELP! BEFORE THEY FIND ME AND I’M GUTTED TOO!

Now, I honestly don’t remember how my aunt reacted, but she knew her daughter well and when she realized there was no calming LeeLee down and that I was unwilling to leave, she came and got her.

And for the next week all we heard was: MY HAIR IS FALLING OUT!

Spoiler alert: Her hair wasn’t really falling. Not any more than what would be considered normal, anyway – perhaps a sprig or two on the brush every now and then. There was no reasoning with her, however. She was convinced that by the end of the summer she would be completely bald.

(For those of you with the attention span of gnats, I promise that the terrible thing I did is coming. We’re almost there. Wait for it…)

By the second week, I think we all realized that she was not giving up this ridiculous hair/balding obsession. Everything that could remotely involve her hair – a shower, swimming, brushing her hair, ANYTHING AT ALL – ended the same way: Tears and the conviction that it was only a matter of days until she looked like a cancer patient. It got so bad that my aunt issued a severe warning: NO ONE SAY ANYTHING ABOUT HER HAIR. NO ONE LOOK AT IT. NO ONE TOUCH. NO ONE GET HER STARTED.

Now I’m a pretty easy-going person, but when I reach my limit, I reach my limit. When I’m done, I’m done. And I was doneafter about the third or fourth time LeeLee launched herself from the pool in hysterics because THERE’S BLONDE HAIR FLOATING! OH MY GAWD! I’M BALDING! I CAN FEEL THE WIND ON MY SCALP!

And thus I began the campaign that would turn into the chapter of my life story called “The Worst Thing I’ve Ever Done” or (alternative title) “Why the Devil Would Pick Me First in the Hell Verses Heaven Dodge Ball Championship.”

That afternoon I found one of our really, really old Barbie dolls with extremely long, blonde hair. I wrapped my fist tightly around Barbie’s head, grasped a half-inch clump of hair and ripped it out at the roots. I put it in my pocket and settled in with the girls to watch Apollo 13 for the 10th time.

“Spirit in the Sky,” my favorite song from that soundtrack was playing as LeeLee hopped up to get another Popsicle. I reached into my pocket and carefully planted the hair on the spot on the couch where LeeLee had been sitting. Even in the dim light, she saw it immediately and promptly lost her shit, dropping her Cherry Popsicle into my lap.

Woah, buddy! She only thought she’d been losing hair before. This was different! This was substantial! Her eyes were filled with panic as she began inspecting her scalp for the bald spot. Meanwhile, I sat back, ate her Popsicle and enjoyed her breakdown with smug satisfaction. LeeLee never did calm down after her discovery. She cried and screamed and flung herself into her bed. Movie night was over.

Now for most people the story would end here. But not me. For the next several days I’d take clumps of that poor Barbie’s hair and plant them throughout the house in locations I knew LeeLee would see them. Eventually, she stopped reacting so violently and became sort of a catatonic zombie about the whole ordeal. She’d mutter things like, “Feel my hair. Run your fingers through it. It feels thin, right?” We’d all fondle her hair then shake our heads, “No, no your hair is fine, “ we’d say. Then she’d protest, “But I keep finding all this hair!”

Finally Alopecia Barbie was completely bald so my aversion therapy stopped. Also, I was 15 and didn’t have the necessary level of commitment. Eventually, LeeLee quit having panic attacks about going bald. And things returned to being our version of normal.

Yes, that's after one quick brush through
my hair. LeeLee, I am so sorry.

And then 17 years past and about a month ago I started losing hair at an alarming rate. Real clumps of hair would come off in my hand. My brush was filled with brown tendrils. After a shower, the floor of the tub would be covered in a blanket of my hair. The poor cleaning lady and I never really communicate all that great. She doesn’t speak a lot of English, so it’s always a crapshoot when we’re talking. But do you know what language is universal? Fear and pity.

After the young lady cleaned the bathroom she called someone on her cellphone, said the word “Yeti” and then crossed herself. Later she asked my husband, “Something wrong with Misses?” He just shook his no and doubled her tip. Its really hard to explain that I had weight loss surgery and a byproduct is having hair loss to someone you do not share a common language with. So just like when our Nene planted plastic flowers in the garden, we pretended like my hair loss was completely normal.

That night I dreamed of my hair. My sisters, LeeLee and I were floating in the pool. We were adults, but it was the same pool of our childhood, one long lost to age and rambunctious overuse. Susie, the hound and our best friend, lay on the deck next to the precariously perched boom box. One of my sisters said, “Hey what’s that?” And when I looked down I saw a giant clump of my curly, brown hair floating in the pool. Immediately my fingers ran to head. Patches of scalp seemed to be exposed. LeeLee turned to me and said, “You better put some sunscreen on that.” Then the cleaning lady appeared like the Holy Virgin in the clouds and said, “You tell her now. Say you’re sorry. Tell her before its too late and Jesus takes it all.” And with that I awoke and immediately called LeeLee.

---

Last night I had my haircut and my stylist friend said very little fell out. Much less than she expected. “It looks like things are finally getting back to normal!” she exclaimed.

Normal. Well, at least my version of it anyway.

Let my tombstone read: 'Richard probably did it.'

noreply@blogger.com (Momma Pug) — Mon, 14 May 2012 21:16:00 +0000

We are in the countdown to Puerto Rico: 11 days, mofos!

I'm far more excited about this than any of our other trips mainly because this will be the first time I have been physically able to participate at a real, human level. No more avoiding the shortest of walks because I feel like my heart is going to implode. Or being up all night fearing I won't fit on an airplane the next day. No, this is the first in a very exciting chapter of a new life. I feel like the person I used to be. The girl who loved to be a part of things is back. And I'm absolutely drunk on the unending possibilities. Or maybe that's just the rum. Probably a little of both. (Did y'all know Bacardi comes from Puerto Rico? No? Me either. But it is a delightful discovery.)

We are going on a sailboat out to a private island to snorkel.
My excitement cannot be contained. I cannot wait to
snatch a starfish up and make my husband photograph it.

In preparation, the husband and I have been quizzing our friends and coworkers on where to go and what do while there. We're only going to be in Puerto Rico for five days and four night, which really amounts to three full site seeing days and two half days of travel. So we want to make the most out of our limited time there. Hubs and I are always generally on the same page when it comes to travel. We typically do not go completely touristy. We try to sample the local fare and explore the historical locations.

But this time -- see aforementioned new lease on life -- I am being a little more adventurous. I have read two different tomes on Puerto Rico travel and spent countless hours researching on the Internet. (Thank you, Wikipedia, TripAdvisor and Yelp.) And, like I've said, grilled our friends and coworkers. Now, this isn't really something my husband would usually do. He's not really into planning. He's more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants traveler. Lets see where the wind takes us! Usually, I'm totally on board. Lets do this thing totally blind and balls deep. PUERTO RICO, WE ARE IN YOU!

Not this time, though.

No. This time I have a giant scrap book filled with shit I wanna do. There are two planned (and booked and paid for) excursions. He talked me down from the original four I'd suggested. Look at me compromising, making this marriage shit look easy! So it meant a lot to me when Hubs said, "Hey, I talked to my boss about his trip to Puerto Rico last week."

As it turns out, his boss has traveled several times to Puerto Rico. He's been all over the caribbean but prefers Puerto Rico because, and I quote, "Its still tropical but you aren't going to die from diarrhea." And frankly, that's hard logic to disagree with. So I ready enthusiastically the detailed list of recommendations. Complete with links! To reviews! And their websites! This is a man after my own heart! Immediately, I started sorting and determining which would be good fits for us. Then I started printing because YOU GUYS, HAVE YOU HEARD ABOUT MY TRIP BOOK! IT HAS 38 PAGES AND IS WATERPROOF!

You really cannot fully appreciate my excitement when he send a second email with even more Puerto Rico stuff. It was almost too much for me too handle. My eyes rolled back into my head and my legs shook. An email has never done that to me!

I spent the next hour combing through his recommendations line by line. These turned out be less exciting than those in the first email, but still, there were some gems and great suggestions scattered throughout. I became particularly excited by the final suggestion:

On the way to Arecibo you can find Taino drawings in old caves. At kilometer marker 7 on the PR-681 coastal road. Pretty amazing, if only for the odd observation that it's obviously a cultural treasure that has no oversight. $2 to park at some dude named Richard's place. You wander out over these gorgeous rock cliffs (are there other kinds?), down a wooden ladder, into the caves.

Native cave drawings?! Gorgeous rock cliffs?! YES PLEASE! DON'T MIND IF I DO!

But then I simmered down and read it again.

Basically he's telling me to take a right at **approximately** kilometer number 7 and look for "some dude" named Richard who will let me park at his house for $2. Then tell me how to get to these mysterious cave drawings BY WANDERING OVER ROCK CLIFFS and then DOWN A RICKETY WOODEN LADDER INTO A CAVE.

Oh, so my husband's boss is trying to kill us.

I'm all about picking up the local flavor, but I draw the fucking line at knocking on someone's door, out in the countryside and asking him to lead me to a cave IN THE MIDDLE OF FUCKING NOWHERE. For $2. Because, honestly, that is a fantastic deal. But seriously... You guys, lets assume that Richard doesn't immediately murder us for our blue jeans. Maybe Richard is a really awesome dude. We might even be friends. He might also see the beauty in simple things and after a couple of beers we might connect over the poetry that is life.

BUT REGARDLESS, THERE IS NO WAY I DESCEND AN UNKEPT, WOODEN LADDER INTO A CLIFFSIDE CAVE AND LIVE TO BLOG ABOUT.

So I immediately scribbled a note into my little travel book next to the item about the Richard and the caves:

DO NOT DO THIS. EVEN IF FUTURE ME IS READING THIS NOTE AFTER GOING ON THE BACARDI RUM DISTILLERY TOUR. NO EXCEPTIONS. DO NOT GET MURDERED BY RICHARD. DO NOT CLIMB ON THE ROCKS AND FOR THE LOVE OF SWEET BABY JESUS, UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES DO YOU CLIMB DOWN THAT LADDER INTO A CAVE.

LOVE,

SOBER YOU

Bin Laden, you crafty motherfucker

noreply@blogger.com (Momma Pug) — Thu, 10 May 2012 18:26:00 +0000

When I was attempting to return to Houston from Durham, North Carolina, I was detained briefly at the airport after I went through one of the full body scanner and it … well, I have no idea what it did. Beeped maybe? Although, I didn’t hear anything. It did something. Issued some sort of warning. Screeched: WARNING TERRORIST, I assume. I can’t be sure though because its not a very good communicator. Typical man.

This was taken just minutes
before I was assaulted by a
glass box. Please note: I
do not look like a terrorist.
Unless Bin Laden wore hot
pink tie-dye. In which case,
YOU WERE ONE CRAFTY
MOTHERFUCKER, BIN LADIN.

Do you guys know about these full body scanners? The last few times I’ve flown, I had not been selected to go through the contraption. But I’d seen other poor magnificent bastards get pulled into them, like a ship in the Bermuda Triangle. As far as I can tell, they are octagonal glass boxes that you stand in and pose like members of the Village People. Get the pose wrong and you’re declared a terrorist.

So here I am in North Carolina, standing in a giant glass cage dancing like its lady’s night at the Rainbow Room and the DJ has just started playing “YMCA.”

And I start my nervous giggling. It felt like I was in there for hours, just posing with my hands above my head while this full body scanner takes nudey pictures of me. Finally, I was pulled out of the body scanner and told to stand aside. To which I replied “aside what?” Because there was nothing there but the x-ray machines and a fucking wall. There was nowhere to stand that wasn’t in the flow of traffic.

The very kind (and I’m not being sarcastic, she really was nice and polite) TSA agent clarifies that I should stand at the end of the giant x-ray machine and await further instructions. So I did. BECAUSE I’M A GOOD AMERICAN.

After a couple of moments of looking at something – perhaps a control panel on the body scanner – she walks over to where I’m standing and informs me that I will have to be more thoroughly searched. Then asks me to spread my legs to shoulder width and hold my arms out at 180 degrees.

“Why?” I asked.

“I’m sorry, but the scanner didn’t get a good reading,” she said.

“Oh,” I said, then assumed the position. Quickly she began her pat down.

Now here’s the thing about me: If I feel awkward or uncomfortable in anyway I cope by laughing hysterically. This has been the case my entire life. I have giggled inappropriately at a funeral, while in stirrups at the gynecologist’s office and even, once, while dismounting a horse. And the only way I can stop from laughing is by talking. So I say things… Things that you should never say out loud. It’s like having an out of body experience. I know what I’m doing, but I have no control over my actions. My brain is screaming SHUT THE FUCK UP, but my mouth just keeps working and words continue to tumble out.

So I said to the TSA agent, who’s hand is under my arm, just about to graze my boob: “You can strip search me. I don’t have anything to hide!”

God bless her, she remained professional and calm: “Ma’am, we really don’t do that.”

“Oh,” I said, somewhat disappointed. “Well, what would you do if you thought I had a bomb?”

Silence.

“I mean, I do NOT have a bomb. I’m NOT a terrorist. Oh Jesus Christ. Why did I say that? Who says BOMB? AT AN AIRPORT? NO ONE. NOT EVEN TERRORISTS.”

The poor lady, paused, then continued her pat down: “Ma’am, if we had a serious threat we would call in several different authorities.”

“Oh, so I’m not considered a serious threat!” I exclaimed a little too loudly and with a tab bit too much enthusiasm.

“Well, not before you started talking,” she said with a hint of smile as she began patting down my legs.

“I said you could strip search me! Right now! I’ll take my pants off. RIGHT. HERE.”  

“Ma’am, please don’t,” she said in a slight begging tone. Then told me I was free to go and have a nice flight.

What kind of country is this that doesn’t encourage me to strip down to my skivvy’s to prove I’m not packing a weapon?! I offered to take my pants off for you, America. Because that’s how I roll. And I was rebuffed with a simple, “Please don’t.” Its like they WANT THE TERRORISTS TO WIN.

Something just doesn’t sit right. If a machine that looks like the special needs love child of a TARDIS and display case – lets call it the ReTARDIS – singles you out for being suspicious, then we should at least be told why Corky is picking on us. Not just because it “didn’t get a good reading.” What does that even mean? The Magic Eight Ball wasn’t picking up a good vibe off of me? I seem hostile. Or it wasn’t strong enough to penetrate my fat rolls? And there might be a machete in there or a bazooka up my vagina.

I’d really like to hear that thing say (in its Stephen Hawking voice), “I’m sorry, but your butchy cargo pants and layers of blubber have distracted me. Reply hazy. Try again.”

No sir, I will not. You cost a MINIMUM of $130,000 and you should get it right the first time, every time. None of this “concentrate and ask again” bullshit. I’ve danced like a monkey for your amusement once. Now tell the nice lady who doesn’t want to see me naked that I’m not a threat and lets get this show on road. I got things to do and people to see and, frankly, I don’t have time to be judged by a box.

That Re-TARDIS is a real asshole.

Really, I’m not harmful… except maybe to myself

noreply@blogger.com (Momma Pug) — Thu, 03 May 2012 17:52:00 +0000

I’m packing for a trip, yall!

Tomorrow night I embark for an adventure the likes of which haven’t been seen since 2010. It’s so hard for me to believe that it’s been two years since my sisters and I have all been in the same room together. Which is just fucking ridiculous. How have we let that happen? I’m asking you, CC! I’m pointing at you, Larry!

(Let me stop you right there. I know what you’re thinking CC and Larry? Holy shit, you’re parents named your sisters that? Nope. But those are their honest-to-god nicknames. CC is kind of short for my middle sisters real name and Larry… Well, once my baby sister got a haircut. And it was super short. And our Boston Terrior Lucy looked at her like WHAT THE FUCK DUDE? WHO IS THIS CREEPY LITTLE MAN? I SHALL CALL YOU LARRY. And thus the name stuck.)

And I swear to you, til this very day that dog doesn’t completely trust Larry. No matter how many times we’re all, “Its cool, you know her.” Lucy looks at us like we’re retarded, then shakes her head and walks off thinking: Larry, is a nice enough guy, but he’s a little strange and he primps like a girl. No self-respecting man plucks and exfoliates that much.

Also, I’m pretty sure my sisters thanks sweet baby Jesus that they have the nicknames they do. When I was little and my mama was pregnant I told her with complete conviction that I had a baby name picked out. So don’t worry, I got that shit handled. We’ll call her Cinderella Rainbow Bright. No? Not feeling that, mama? Okay, fine how about Honeybun Rainbow Bright? I’m not married to Cinderella but Rainbow Bright stays. And like any reasonable 9-months pregnant woman, she assented in that way that says “yes, I’ll agree to anything if you will just leave me the hell alone for 90 goddamned seconds.”

So Cinderella Rainbow Bright Wilson was born.

Except that was total bullshit because they had lied to me. And of course I believed the entire time that I had picked the name and they had followed through on their promise. I even bought it when Mama said, “We’ll just call her Cindy for short.” How trusting and stupid was I, mother? Very.

By the time my second sister came around I was older and Mama was tired of suffering fools. Besides this baby was going to be a boy and nobody names boys Honeybun. Except, surprise! It’s a girl! With girl parts! Lying piece of shit 1980s sonogram! So another opportunity was missed. Years later, CC would name a beagle puppy of ours Honeybun. Which is a pretty good consolation prize, I guess.

Holy shit. The train has really gone off the rails here, huh?

Where was I? A trip? Yes, a trip.

So I’m a notoriously crazy traveler in that shit always happens to me that never happens to anyone else. Ever. It might be something completely innocuous like I forget to pack underwear or traumatizing like a flight attendant collapsing in my lap from a heart attack. (Yes, both of those things actually happened to me. Don’t worry, the flight attendant totally survived. Probably.) My point is it’s not a matter of if,but more when it’s going to happen.

Over the years I’ve started taking more and more precautions in order to control what mishaps that I can. I make lists and then have someone check my packing to make sure I haven’t just gathered my underwear and set them on the side of bed rather than sticking them in the suitcase. I double and triple check that I have my passport or drivers license so I’m not detained at the Mexican border. You know, should I end up going to Mexico on a whim. Which also totally happened to me. Twice.

By taking my precautions I can take solace in that if shit goes down its just fate and not me being a horrible adult. In preparation of this trip, I sent my sisters a text message that read: “Tell me exact what to pack.” And knowing me like she knows me, Larry responded with, “Four fairs of underwear, a comfy outfit for travel, walking shoes, comfortable cool clothes to wear on Saturday, something comfy for Sunday. Something to sleep in. Meds, Bertha and any toiletries that you even think I might not have that you require.”

Which is a really nice way of saying: PLEASE DON’T FORGET YOUR UNDEROOS. AGAIN. OR SHOES. AGAIN. AND DON’T WEAR A GODDAMNED PAGENT DRESS ON PLANE. AGAIN. OR ANYTHING YOUR ALERGIC TOO. AGAIN. NO, YOU CANNOT SLEEP NAKED BECAUSE IT MAKES YOUR BROTHER-IN-LAWS UNCOMFORTABLE. DON’T FORGET YOUR CRAZY PILLS. OR ANYTHING ELSE THAT YOUR CRAZY BRAIN THINKS YOU CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT.

And to translate for those of you going, “Who the fuck is Bertha?” Well, Bertha is the name we have given my father’s sleep apnea machine. And since I too have sleep apnea, the name Bertha is used INCORRECTLY to describe my version of the machine/savior/nightly best friend forever.

“Her name is Minerva,” I type then hit send.

“Soooooo sorry,” Larry responds. Followed by: “Please don’t forget Minerva or your husband will be on the next plane to Durham and she will be his only carryon.”

True that, Larry. True that.

So for the next three days I will be with Honeybun, Cinderella, their fellows and my niece and nephew. I cannot wait… To tell you what kind of shit I get into at the airport.

Facebook, you drunk ignorant slut

noreply@blogger.com (Momma Pug) — Tue, 01 May 2012 22:35:00 +0000

Last week I had a big FIRST.

I’ll go on and warn you, it’s right up there with losing my virginity and getting drunk for the first time in that this story is spectacularly underwhelming. My thoughts following the experience were pretty much the same as with the loss of my purity and imbibing for the first time: So that finally happened. Frankly, I’m only shocked that this didn’t happen sooner.

Yes, I have been unfriended by my first person on Facebook.

About a week ago a friend and coworker of my father’s (who, for the record, is my age and used to go by the nickname “Fuck”) posted something on Facebook about his young son’s upcoming birthday party.

It read something like this:

"Kirk Sr. says Kirk Jr.‘s birthday party is going to be held Sunday at 4 p.m. at the park. Join us for cake and ice cream."

So I immediately liked his status update and hit reply.

“Great! I’ll bring the cocaine and hookers!”

Then. Silence.

No one else commented.

I decided I should clarify: “To be clear, that was a fucking joke. I’d never give cocaine and hookers to a child… Unless its his 13^thbirthday and then maybe because it’s a right of passage into manhood. It’s not his 13^th birthday is it? No? Then we’re all good. I’ll bring the weed instead.”

But as I was typing Kirk Sr. deleted his status update.

Weird.

They must have canceled the party.

So I went over to his Facebook wall to leave a comment, lest I show up at the wrong place with all those drugs and prostitutes. Talk about AWKWARD. What would I do with all those hos and blow without a good conservative southern Christian family to share them with?

The answer is probably fuck and snort myself. To. Death.

So imagine my surprise and disappointment when I discovered I couldn’t find that little box that you type in to write on someone’s wall. After a quick Google search that consisted of: WHY CAN’T I FUCKING WRITE ON HIS GODDAMNED WALL? I discovered that the most likely answer is BECAUSE THAT MOTHERFUCKER HAS RESTRICTED YOUR ACCESS TO HIS FACEBOOK PAGE.

Oh. No. He. Did. Not. (Now imagine my righteous indignation coupled with a sassy head bob and finger snap.)

So I did the next best thing. I went to my father’s wall and wrote: “Hey your friend Kirk just tried to censor me because I offered to bring cocaine and hookers to his child’s birthday party. There are better ways to decline a generous gift. A simply ‘no thank you’ would have done nicely.”

Then I tagged Kirk in the post. And ruefully laughed at my own cleverness.

And then he unfriended me. For real.

This is where a normal, sane person who doesn’t take Prozac daily would have let it go. Maybe even apologize via private message by saying:Look I know you are probably worried someone would take that seriously. I get it. And I’m sorry I’m an asshole.

But I’m not that person.

So for the last few days I’ve been laying the groundwork for a new website entitled StopBeingAGiantPussyKirk.com. It will be free and not at all password protected. And you don’t even want to know what sort of content is going to populate it. Every time I think about it I smile. And giggle. A lot.

Nobody puts Baby in a corner. Patrick Swayze said that shit. Now back the fuck up before you get a roundhouse kick to the throat. Road House!

Houston Rodeo and Livestock Show in Pictures

noreply@blogger.com (Momma Pug) — Sun, 11 Mar 2012 19:13:00 +0000

All I can say is that this was one of the best experiences of my life. And that's saying something.

All photos were shot with and edited on my iPhone.

Beary special

And that's why you ALWAYS go to the carnival with Uncle Mark.

After 12 hours at the carnival, Mark asked me when we got what was the best and worst part of the day. I had to answer that the best and worst moment was the one in the same: When he won that bear.

We named it PITA (Pain In The Ass.) Because, dude, after carrying that bear around the fair grounds, and through the shops and over the hills and through the woods... well, lets just say three-fourths of our party were ready to part ways with Pita. The other member, however, strongly disagreed and ultimately won out. Long live Pita!

Woooah!

Nope. I'm not getting on the pirate ship-shaped teacup ride with you. But Uncle Mark will take a picture of you being cute.

REBA!

Some of you know this about me, but for those of you who don't let me be very clear: I AM THE BIGGEST REBA FAN EVER. And that woman next to me, she's the second biggest. We walked through freezing rain, stood in line for an hour, paid $30 EACH for a t-shirt (because we were soaked) and then put a death grip on the handrail to get down to our seats. Ever since we were eight years old we've wanted to do one thing: HEAR REBA SING 'FANCY' LIVE. And. She. Did. Y'all.

I cried. Twice.

Once, while taking this photo.

That's how close to REBA! we were:

Some people climb Everest. Some people parachute or do tantric yoga. This was that kind of religious experience/emotional high for me.

Grrrr

Before REBA! we watched hot, young cowboys do their thing. Turns out, I'm a boot chaser.

My favorite two photos of the carnival

And yes, children that were in our care at the time are actually on these rides.

When it comes to planning travels, no one is more educated and classy

noreply@blogger.com (Momma Pug) — Fri, 11 Nov 2011 14:50:00 +0000

Me: Have you ever been to Helsinki?

Husband: Nope. Why?

Me: Helsinki now has opened the first Angry Birds store! We should go there… Also because I think those Viking countries look pretty cool.

Husband: Oh yeah. I'd love to go to Finland, Sweden and Iceland.

Me: Which one has all the dykes?

Husband: Holland. German probably has the most angry/ugly lesbians.

JayJay

noreply@blogger.com (Momma Pug) — Fri, 04 Nov 2011 21:48:00 +0000

The day I met JayJay. I remember this day clearly. I was about ten years old my mom got me and my sisters and loaded us up in the minivan. Mama was a teacher and one of her coworkers had a litter of little white kittens. My sister wanted one and we went to get it. I remember seeing JayJay for the first time in that carport. She was so sweet. She kept to herself and didn't make much of a fuss. Her strategy was "be still and no one will notice me." But my sister did notice. She always had a way of finding and taking care of the meek. And when my sister picked her up JayJay buried her face into my sister's hair and purred. That was it. JayJay became part of our family.

That was 20 years ago. So much has happened in those years. My sisters and I grew up, married, moved away. Three different states. Thousands of miles. JayJay made every move my sister did. She accepted every change -- husband and kids.

You might call JayJay eccentric. She insisted on living in a closet. Or under a bed. Somewhere quiet and peaceful. She's like my sister in that respect -- sweet and calm. But if you made her mad she would exact revenge. And the punishment she unleashed was unending. Anger her once and face a life time of her pooping in your pants every time you took them off and left on the floor. (She did that to my sister's husband so often it became a family joke.)

Other memories are less specific. Not so much focused on JayJay, but bigger memories that she was a part of.

I remember Jay Jay sitting under the Christmas tree while we opened presents one year -- more than a decade ago. She'd gotten locked out of my sister's room and took up residence in the first small, warm space. There are so many memories like that. Family memories that she's part of. Not doing anything in particular, just being a part of our family. I think that's why when JayJay died last week I found myself boo-hooy and teary-eyed. We keep moving forward, making new memories, but some of the most special parts of our old memories are fading away. Disappearing slowly. No longer part of the background. I think that's what breaks my heart so much. She's not the only part that's slipped away.

Sometimes being mean to kids is so funny

noreply@blogger.com (Momma Pug) — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 20:10:00 +0000

Quality is poor but message is clear

noreply@blogger.com (Momma Pug) — Mon, 03 Oct 2011 19:06:00 +0000

I love this road sign. Because I am a 13-year-old boy at heart.

Located a few miles south of College Station, just before the metropolis of Navasota. Taken out the window of a moving vehicle. Edited in Instagram. Sponsored by carsickness.

Seacrest out.

Chunky Monkey - photo series

noreply@blogger.com (Momma Pug) — Wed, 14 Sep 2011 00:02:00 +0000

Just try and contain this cuteness.

-- Post From My iPhone

Little Jellybeans

noreply@blogger.com (Momma Pug) — Sun, 07 Aug 2011 02:55:00 +0000

Photos taken by my sister and brother-in-law. Edited with Instagram.

Brace yourself for cuteness explosion.

Even more hilarious when view 10 times in a row

noreply@blogger.com (Momma Pug) — Mon, 01 Aug 2011 19:05:00 +0000

Caitlyn

noreply@blogger.com (Momma Pug) — Sun, 31 Jul 2011 23:34:00 +0000

Introducing the newest member of our family: Caitlyn Fletcher Cater. She was born this morning and my sister was an absolute rock star. NO DRUGS, people. NO EPIDURAL. She is amazing. And isn't this little girl beautiful.

Disney Photos

noreply@blogger.com (Momma Pug) — Tue, 26 Jul 2011 16:42:00 +0000

Don't get too excited. I only took a handful of photos. It was really effing hot and I didn't have the energy to wrestle my phone out of my purse every five seconds. (Special shout out to Deuce for peeing on my park purse. Didn't discover that he had "expressed" his dospleasure in being left until we were in the Magic Kindgom boiling ourselves. That smelled terrific, Deuce. You little bastard.)

So here are our piss-soaked memories.

They've given the Haunted Mansion a facelift. Am pretty sure this is one of my distant relatives.

The man. The myth. The Aggie.

Andy Griffith at Hollywood Studios. For Madge.

Even the Benihana was all about the Mouse.

Nice. My bra straps are totally showing. Guess I was just trying to keep up with all the trailor park and Euro trash.

Did you know Disney now scans your finger print to ID you? Creepuh!

Well that is literally every picture I took. Sorry, mama.

Birthday Bling

noreply@blogger.com (Momma Pug) — Thu, 07 Jul 2011 22:18:00 +0000

Got a HUGE surprise in the mail today! My sweet sisters sent me THIS!!!!!

Swoon!

I know this doesn't come as much of a shock to a lot of people, but actually have never owned purse like this -- something so nice.

For I am HARD on bags. I drop them. Overfill them. Dump an entire smoothie into them.

I'm so proud of this -- my first "big girl purse" -- that I could practically burst. And a bit scared to use it. It's only a matter of time before a lipgloss or pen explodes in it. Or a dog tries to claim it. Or I drunkenly drop it in the toilet.

So I'm hugging it and wishing it luck.

Because I love it too much NOT to use it!

Thanks Kiki and Cici!

Boston Terrorists

noreply@blogger.com (Momma Pug) — Tue, 05 Jul 2011 23:27:00 +0000

This is my boy friend, Pokey. He might look like a Boston terrier bit he's really so much more than that... Snuggly wuggly pookie wookie, chuld's playmate, drunken frat boy wanting to fight.

I snapped this picture as he and the husband were figuring out I was two-timing hussy and had been seeing Pokey on the side.

Pokey is all: "What. The. Hell?"

Wish you could see my husband's face. It was all: "Women. Can't live with 'em and can't live with out 'em... Because Texas is a 50/50 state and if that bitch goes she's taking half of everything... Even your
Mickey Mantle rookie card."

Bros before hos, Pokey.

-- Post From My iPhone

Vroom Vroom

noreply@blogger.com (Momma Pug) — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 16:48:00 +0000

Shot this out the window of the truck while the husband was driving on the Loop 610 South in Houston.

It caught my eye because you just don't see a black, Masonic biker everyday.

The former journalist in me really wanted to find out his story. What transpired to bring all three of those things together?

Since the husband has a strict policy forbiding me from flagging down Hells Angels, I was forced to invent my own back story:

His name Franklin but his friends call him Frank. His grandpa Carl Sr. was a Mason. Carl Sr. raised Frank after a tragic motorcycle accident claimed the lives of his mother and father, Gloria and Carl Jr. After a hitch in the Air Force that landed him Da Nang, Frank came home and helped his grandpa run the family barbecue shack in the heart of Houston's Third Ward. Carl Sr. never asked Frank about Vietnam and Frank never offered any details, but the old man knew is grandson was haunted. One night Frank tore the couch in their little three room home behind the barbecue place apart because of fitful dreams. That's when Carl Sr. began bringing Frank to the lodge. Partly to keep an eye on the young man, partly in hopes of finding the boy direction. It was hard at first but the rest fell into place over time. Eventually, Frank faced his demons and found comfort in the sacred traditions. He even started riding again -- something he hadn't done since losing his parents.

---

Photo shot with iPhone and edited with Instagram app.

My Weekend in Pictures

noreply@blogger.com (Momma Pug) — Tue, 21 Jun 2011 03:44:00 +0000

Me and my beautiful sister.

My sister's sister-in-law's wedding.

And a sweet pug.

-- Post From My iPhone

Father's Day

noreply@blogger.com (Momma Pug) — Thu, 16 Jun 2011 18:48:00 +0000

In honor of Father's Day, allow me to present the second part of my Instagram series.

I don't say this often enough, but Daddy, you were a really good father. Like Bill Cosby as Cliff Huxtable good. Growing up with you was fun. And it's only now that I'm older and can see kids around me who crappy dads that I can fully appreciate how awesome you were.

Also, there are certain life lessons that you bestowed on me that have served me well. Like being able to shoot a gun, change a tire and jump hay bails. (Inside family joke: Once, whilst running across a line of hay bails and screaming "Girls this is how you do it" Daddy wiped out hard, wedging himself upside down between bails. A tractor may or may not have necessitated his rescue.)

My dad taught me to be an independent women, insisted I get an education and provided seemingly endless ATM services, even after I an "adult." You guys are fucking awesome parents. And I'm really sorry about that particularly bad period in my life from age 18 to 21. Yowza! I was a total douchebag and I'm sorry. Thank you for not killing me and selling me for spare parts.

Happy Father's Day, Daddy. I love you more than you will ever know.

I call this one "Bearing of the Fruit."

There are many traits I inherited from you -- bad joints, crappy teeth, kidney stones. And my sense of humor/bullshit.

Ahh, this is my favorite. I call it: "I Should Have Used A Condom."

What's this? Married? No longer on your payroll? Nah. I'm the leech that never goes away.

All photos were edited with Instagram's Earlybird filter.

Fur

noreply@blogger.com (Momma Pug) — Wed, 15 Jun 2011 14:42:00 +0000

Have you heard of Instagram? Its awesome. If you have an iPhone go forth and get this ap. It is easy to use and does beautiful stuff with your photos. Oh, and did I mention it is free? FREE.

This series of photos, titled "Fur," have the 'Nashville' filter applied to them.

This Is A Story About Chocolate Pie

noreply@blogger.com (Momma Pug) — Tue, 26 Apr 2011 21:09:00 +0000

Holidays were notorious on my father's side of the family. They weren't rich people, we didn't get extravagant gifts, but we did do one thing well: Eat.

Three or four times a year, my grandparent's kitchen table turned into a giant buffet style serving station filled with side dishes. The counter by the sink transformed into a makeshift drink stand. The main protein – turkey on Thanksgiving and Christmas, barbecue on the 4^th of July – rested on the stovetop. Someone would hand out plastic plates and utensils as we entered the kitchen and the free-for-all would begin.

There we all were, a tangle of arms and legs. Usually there were about 30 of us -- My grandmother and grandfather, five children and spouses and 13 grandchildren, all attacking a table the size of door. And that didn't count any interlopers or hangers-ons would we would bring with us. Friends and distant cousins were apt to show up.

As was our Great Uncle Dick, who I cannot remember ever missing a meal at my grandmother's after his wife, Aunt Lola died. My grandmother didn't let anyone go with a plate of food.

We'd all get our food, then find a spot – floor for kids, furniture for adults – and we'd eat, talk and laugh. Then someone would spill something. At least three people would get wet. There'd be a major clean up and then we'd all return to eating, talking and laughing.

And when were finished? ROUND TWO! The infamous desert table, perhaps the most sacred and wonderful part of Wilson family meals.

It was just as big as the kitchen table, only it held cakes, pies and any other form of treat my grandmother would whip up. We all had our favorites and our requests. And MawMaw was always willing to accommodate.

For me, it was her chocolate pie.

It would be unfair to say that no one help MawMaw with the cooking. My daddy is a master pie-maker and he usually would cart over several deserts each year. But there was just something special about the way MawMaw made things. They tasted better. Was it some secret ingredient? The love, perhaps? Maybe it was her oven. I don't know why, but MawMaw's just tasted special. After you've had that, all other variations fail to compare.

It's been more than a handful of years since I had MawMaw's pie. But I can still remember how it tasted and how those holidays felt surrounded by family. Yesterday afternoon, my husband and I went for an early dinner at a local, famed barbecue place. After we ate our delicious meal, I eyed the counter where a series of very pretty pies seemed to call to me. We ordered and egg custard for me – another of my grandmother's specialties – and a classic chocolate pie for my husband. The custard was amazingly good, but not at all like what I was used.

Without really thinking, I reached over and forked bite of the chocolate pie. We were talking about something in the news. Something significant, but now I can't remember what. The instant that pie touched my tongue my chest became heavy and my throat seemed to close for a moment. Emotion ran through my body and I – without explanation – burst into tears.

If you had put a gun to my head and asked me who made that pie: I would have there is no question, that's MawMaw's.

But MawMaw's been gone for nearly two years.

In that one bite I began remembering things that hadn't crossed my mind in years. Not all of the memories are pleasant. Some are devastating and filled with loss. A lot of them are flashes of the person I used to be – a child filled with innocence and fearlessness. And there are countless flashes of my sisters and cousins playing in the yard, hiding Easter eggs, picking up pecans, swinging from the large oak tree, climbing the hill behind the shed and shooting fireworks at bikers (oops).

We are not that different from our childhood selves, yet we are further apart then we'd like to admit. I have a wonderful life and an amazing husband and I wouldn't trade today for then. But if I had the opportunity to sit at that kitchen table again, drinking coffee and playing cards with my grandparents, I would take it.

And I would ask MawMaw exactly what did she put in that pie.

---

Special thanks to my Aunt Teri for this little gem. In case you are wondering, I'm the fat one with the mullet.

Six Years

noreply@blogger.com (Momma Pug) — Sun, 20 Mar 2011 01:39:00 +0000

Today is our sixth wedding anniversary.

I'd like to think I'm more mature than this, but apparently I'm not. So allow me to take this opportunity to tell all those who didn't think we'd last to suck it.

Sorry. It's been a bad week for out family. We are splitting our anniversary weekend at a hotel and the pediatric ward of a west Texas hospital. Our precious, 8 week old niece is fighting pneumonia. Is it where we'd have chosen to vacation? Nope. But it's where we need and want to be.

Plus. There is this: the husband and his nephew clone. Playing Wii.

So much love. Y'all pray for our family.

-- Post From My iPhone

Things I Actually Said Today

noreply@blogger.com (Momma Pug) — Mon, 21 Feb 2011 03:42:00 +0000

The husband and I are having one of those days when nothing bad happens but nothing really goes right either. One of those days when everything you say comes out wrong. We're just off.

We had an argument today that ended with these words spilling forth from my lips: "I still don't understand why we are not at Hooters right now!"

I mean, damn it people. This spat is keeping us from Hooters. Unacceptable.

Then the dogs were just on a tear. Why would they pee in the yard when there's a freshly mopped floor they could go on instead?!?

Me: "Damn it, Ripken. GO. OUT. THE. DOGGY DOOR! You're a dog and it's a doggy door! You are literallly made for each other."

Hubs (from his upstairs office): "Are you arguing with the dog?"

Seriously. Why are we not at Hooters?

-- Post From My iPhone

Monster

noreply@blogger.com (Momma Pug) — Mon, 14 Feb 2011 17:05:00 +0000

There's the wild dog that's been terrorizing our neighborhood.

He murders rabbits and squirrels, rips flowers from their beds and tears yards apart, and rips open bags of garbage. But no one ever sees him doing it. Our street just wakes each morning to a swath of destruction, never knowing the face our tormentor. Its being attacked by a ghost, there's tangible proof of his existence.

That dingo is a fucking ninja.

This morning, just as the sunlight broke through treetops on our once safe, sleepy street, my husband spotted the purveyor of destruction. He was taking out bags of garbage when he heard the distinctive sound of rustling from our neighbor's home a few doors down. It was the sound of garbage being shredded by an animal.

Carefully, he investigated. Coyotes are dangerous, dirty creatures. We're lucky our tormentor hadn't killed anyone's pets or attacked a child. A housecat would be a tasty hors d'oeuvres.

Except its totally not a coyote that hubs has happened upon. It’s a tiny little black and white cat named Gertrude.

Of course it is.

Evil, I has it, fucker.

It is only a matter of time before she is figured out and our home is stormed by an angry mob.