Thursday, August 31, 2006
Crikey! I wrote the script for this little beauty mahself. It's based on a gripping true story, and takes inspiration from Meryl Streep's classic, over the top, gnashing of teeth/ rendering of garments performance in the 1980's weepfest, "A Cry In The Dark".
*All the dialogue is spoken in a cornball Australian accent that only classically trained actors possess*
Here is our brightly colored protagonist, Dingo. So fresh. So munchy. So youthful and pink with a seemingly bright future ahead until tragedy strikes.....
MY BABY ATE
Well, to be more precise my baby ate a whole Dingo pack. Look at his face, you can see that alpha canine, Reagan, feels deeply ashamed at decimating an entire pack of Dingoes. Or maybe his countenance reflects remorse due to the churning blur of "real chicken bits" combined with pig lips and monkey hips, swirling around in his paunched belly.
I don't know mate, but I better win a "Best Accent" blogger award for my stunning narration skills. I also had to sacrifice and eat ten pounds of chocolate glazed donuts everyday to gain weight and dye my hair "Jethro's Black Gold" color, just for this role. Now, go throw another shrimp on the barbie and fetch me a medium rare Skippy burger, and bring me that Crocodile Hunter guy so I can poke him with a stick while saying, "OOOOHHH. He doesn't like it when I do this." Now, that I've mastered the same foreign tongue and mannerisms as Greg Wiggle, he'll beg me to give him a starring role in my next production. Then, he'll be mine! All mine.......
Sunday, August 27, 2006
This Sock Is Bananas!
Envy is one of the Seven Deadly Sins written about by everybody from Chaucer to Pope Gregory XIII to the screenwriters of the gruesome crime film, "Seven". I couldn't eat spaghetti for months after watching this movie. Do you hear me? Months! Envy corrupts your mortal soul and affects not only your salvation but also how you live your life and deal with your fellow man on a daily basis.
As such, I'm calling out my blogger feiend, Radioactive Jam, as a sinner, because he will soon feel the pain of extreme sock envy. RAJ thinks he's cornered the market on goofy monkey socks. Au contraire, mon frere! Monkey see, monkey do. My Monkey socks are better. WOO HOO!
I have a matched set that not only features an amusing monkey face but also has a cascading series of appealing, golden-ripe bananas, and profound life altering words printed along the bottom. I envision it as advice Gwen Stefani herself would issue if she ever became a self-help guru. "Just GO BANANAS, my child, and set yourself free".
Notice, that unlike Radioactive Jam who refused to allow his foot to be photographed for our entertainment purposes, I, The Smiling Infidel, have no such qualms. In fact, I once enjoyed a lucrative career as a monkey sock supermodel until a tragic mishap with some confused simians at the King Kong disco afterparty cut my promising future short. We all know very well how revolting GORILLA FINGERS can be.
So, how bout them nanas, Raj? Think you can outmonkey a monkey? Think we can literally go toe to toe in monkey sock competition? I bet you don't have the bananas to even try. I have three words for you.......BRING IT ON!
No, I didn't find an inspirational image of the Virgin Mary delicately etched into my Pop Tart this morning. Nor did I convert to the revolutionary Church Of The Farting Preacher. Instead, I've fretted countless hours this week about the Sharing Time assignment given to my Primary class at Church. It involves props, 7-8 year olds, and horror of horrors, public speaking. Whenever public speaking is required, I nearly hyperventilate, and I start praying like a school child for a Snow Day to cancel the event. Given that I live in Houston, my Snow Day prayers have never been answered. Thankfully, the Lord does work in mysterious ways.
Last night, I opened up my e-mail to find a glorious message declaring all Church meetings canceled today due to the heavy fumes permeating the Chapel because of recent renovations. It's a freakin miracle! The heavens doth opened up, and poured me a blessing, the likes of which my heart could not contain it all.
This means, of course, that I now have a whole other week to squander and procrastinate. HE knows me so very well. Amen.
Friday, August 25, 2006
As you all well know, I lead a double life. I am also known as, Infidel:Mistress Of The Night, due to my occupation as an "Independent Contractor".
Daytime proves difficult for me to stay awake and alert. Often, I blog while my kids practice reading out loud, just to keep my borderline attention deficit mind focused. The more gregarious side of me emerges in the wee hours of the night.
So, I've forged friendships with many like minded people toiling during the graveyard shift too. I have Barbara at Exxon, Matzo Man and June at Krogers, Gus the overnight delivery guy, and my bald little Police Officer friend, I'll call, "Bubba".
I keep Bubba plied with a complimentary newspaper every day, and extra coupons on Sunday for his wife. In turn, he looks the other way as I careen around corners, run stop signs, and terrorize the neighborhood animals. Actually, I just stop to converse with the animals in the street using my annoying, high pitched faux British accent, and they usually scamper away frightened beyond belief. Dr. Dolittle, I ain't. Bubba and I laugh, we talk, we gossip, and I pinpoint him to neighborhood trouble. I'll tell him where I see raucous parties, and he keeps the drunken, pain in the ass teenagers out of my way. It's a beautiful symbiotic relationship.
Papi's always telling me that I need to stop lingering to talk so much. He says, "Just get your work done, girlie, and come home". Well, today, he had to eat his words because sweet vindication is mine.
Running late for work, Papi hurriedly flew out of the house this morning, forgetting to take even his wallet with him. Twenty minutes later, he called me all sheepish and embarrassed. He had been stopped for speeding and needed me to give him his license information. A few more minutes passed, and then Papi called me back. Turns out the officer who pulled him over was none other than my Bubba. After figuring out that Papi is indeed the husband of the chatty newspaper lady in the red truck, Bubba didn't write him a citation, telling him, "I'm only letting you go because I'm friends with your wife". SCORE!
My incessant middle of the night banter has led to the generous offer of seedy buns by Matzo Man, free hot chocolate from Barbara, and now curried favor with one of Houston Police Dept.'s Finest. HA! My blah blah saved Papi's butt. I kept him afloat. Maybe, I'm actually living up to my reputation as a "dinghy" wife, and it's not such a bad thing after all!
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Oh Skye, Morcheeba just isn't the same without you.
However, her new solo effort is the official INFIDEL flavor of the week. Amazing song. LOVE IT! Albeit the video is also amazingly disturbing. The lovely Skye Edwards apparently is not a product of nature after all, but instead cobbled together from bits and pieces like a Nubian Princess version of Frankenstein. So, that's the real secret to her beauty, hmmmm?
Where's Igor when I really need him?
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
While I'm on the subject of my little Stinkbug, Melody, I asked her today what color my shirt is (lime green), and she told me, "You give me chocolate and then me tell you". We've literally created a monster, but then given her genetic pedigree, I'm not all that surprised.
My Grandma Dee is a fiery red headed force to be reckoned with. Back in the days where no woman ventured into upper management she braved the uncharted frontier and found herself as the head of computer security for Miles Laboratories. Yep, that's where they make "PLOP PLOP FIZZ FIZZ Oh, what a relief it is", Alka-Seltzer. I had lots of those T-shirts as a kid and a lifetime supply of Flintstones chewable vitamins too. Point is, my Grandma is a hard line, domineering woman, that had solely men in her employ, and they trembled in fear before her.
From birth, our Melody has exhibited a lot of these finer qualities, including a fierce independent spirit. Melody also overcame the dominant Mayan Indian genetics to closely resemble my German/Irish Grandma Dee, right down to the squinty green eyes. As such, Papi has taken to calling her, "MINI DEE", instead of Melody.
We must train her to use her powers for good instead of evil.......
Monday, August 21, 2006
Our 3 1/2 year old daughter, Melody, cannot and will not distinguish colors at all.
In an effort to persuade her to learn them, I use the one technique she always responds positively to.......CHOCOLATE. So, last week I purchased the huge 2 pound bag of brightly hued, candy coated goodness that is M&M chocolate candies with the intention of teaching colors using a reward system. Whenever she correctly identifies the candy color, she's earned the right to claim it as her own. Man cannot live on the knowledge of M&M colors alone, so I change up the routine every few days. Yesterday, I asked Melody, "What color is my shirt"? (It was purple) Puzzled, she stared long and hard at my shirt before furrowing her brow and declaring, "Me not know". After a week of working on color concepts with her, I lost my patience and rudely sighed while brusquely telling her, "Fine then Melody. What color is my butt"? To which she smiled and yelled out, "WHITE"!That earned her a whole sandwich bag full of M&M's.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
The movie extravaganza known as , "Snakes On A Plane", opens in theaters today!
I'd like to think of myself as a sort of well rounded Renaissance type of woman, (emphasis on the well rounded part), who enjoys acquiring new talents and skills. So, now I'm going to try my hand at screenwriting. Today, will see the advanced blog screening of my film project proposals bound for Hollywood executives.
You know how movies go in spurts? One genre or plot will find wild success, and other film projects will typically scramble to follow suit and capitalize on the trend. Remember all those body switching movies of the 80's, kicked off by Tom Hank's flick, "BIG", only to find a resurgence now in a new millennium with the remake of "Freaky Friday", and "13 Going On 30"? I think "Snakes On A Plane" will kick off a new era of a different kind of action movie combined with upfront honest titles.
Without further ado, allow The Smiling Infidel Theater Productions to lull you into a euphoric mood with a perusal of our exciting film offerings below. Possibly, coming to a cinema near you in the future.
Now, START scrolling downwards to gawk at the proposed setups that I'm just waiting to be greenlighted.............
Atkins Diet Products have offered to bankroll this one for me. Body By Jake Inc. wanted in too, but when I nixed the title, "JAKES On A Plane", they rescinded their offer.
Friday, August 18, 2006
This screenplay is largely inspired by the "What's grosser than gross?" jokes that I grew up with.
The action takes place as the unsuspecting passengers on an extended flight to the Capital city of Djibouti which is also, head smackingly enough, Djibouti. There's no finer vacation destination than Djibouti in the summertime. Personally, I love any country that sounds like 'yo booty' when pronounced. Eventually, they give in to their ravenous hunger, and thanks to scaled back airline amenities, are only served a cereal breakfast as opposed to a hot meal.
Happily, they crunch away, enjoying every moment of the scenic flight while eating their Bran Flakes. Only, unbeknownst to them, a cargo of biomedical waste has found itself stored on board rather than the cargo hold, and has been unwittingly unleashed in the galley. It's an entire wooden crate full of crusty scabs, and now the box has turned up mysteriously empty. Chaos and havoc ensues, as well as a shortage of airline passenger barf bags.
The next scene finds them making an inexplicable detour to New York City and discovering that grosser than gross is exemplified by a man they witness jumping off the Empire State building and landing on a bicycle with no seat.
Here's the script outline:
The ill fated journey of the Little People begins as they board the special Little People "short" plane bound for the World renowned Chicago Zoo for a special seminar on, "Differentiating Feces In The Animal World". While en route, a cargo of dangerous plastic snakes wiggle out of their crates and havoc and chaos ensues.
True to action/horror movie stereotypes, we implausibly find our little friend, Omar, taking the helm of the plane instead of the Captain seated behind him. Why, you may ask? Because everyone knows that regardless the situation, minorities get axed first in these films. People engaging in any sort of amorous tryst are usually next up on the chopping block. We had to delete those steamy "Mile High Club" scenes between the two clowns to qualify as child friendly. We're still cleaning up the walls from smeared white face paint and vacuuming up little curly orange hairs (hopefully from their clown wigs. EEEK!) out of the plane's lavatory.
Every child's movie has to include a moral of the story. The Little People learn that while real, live, cold-blooded reptiles, pose an imminent threat to real, live, warm-blooded people, plastic persons are the preferred prey of plastic snakes. Thus, teaching the kids that everything on Earth likely has a predator looking to destroy them. So, might as well face adversity with a maddening plastered on smile that never fades, just like the characters in our little tale. Life simply isn't all sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows everything children. Let's just say that there's going to be some vacancies in Little People Town. Immediate occupancy available.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Why is this man smiling? Because he had a brush with Smiling Infidel greatness five years ago, that's why.
That's right, I've actually met Mr. Samuel L. "Snakes On A Plane" Jackson. As customary in our quest to sate our refined culinary palate, the family and I chose to dine at one of the more upper crust establishments that North Houston has to offer, Hometown Buffet. Fine, it's not exactly champagne gourmet fare, but they do serve a mighty delicious prime rib. The silvery buffet steam table ambiance is also superb.
There we sat at our table for 7, gorging ourselves silly on fried shrimp because it happened to be Seafood Night, when suddenly I noticed a distinctly familiar man sitting at a table directly next to us, on the other side of the white beadboard partition. He sat there in his trademark red Kangol cap focusing on his plate while quietly eating. Well, after a few more trips to the buffet bar to soothe my nerves, I worked up the courage to approach him. Shakily, I asked, "Hey, has anyone ever told you that you look exactly like Samuel L. Jackson"? Startled, he looked up from his plate of chicken fried steak smothered in cream gravy, and with a mysterious grin, accompanied by a deliberate shake of his Kangoled head, said, "No. Nobody has ever told me that before". Well, by the time I scampered around the partition, leaving a treasure trail of breaded shrimp in my wake, to tell Papi that I just talked to a mega star, he abruptly disappeared, leaving nothing behind except a half finished plate of chicken fried steak. I've eaten the chicken fried steak there before. I did him a favor.
Okay, boys and girls, Mormons and Wiccans, leftists and right wingers, taste great and less filling, boxer and brief, paper and plastic, sinner and saints alike. Share with the masses your very best celebrity encounter. Of course, I also actually shook hands with Greg from The Wiggles. Jealous much?
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
The passing of one life into another is never an easy transition for those of us left behind. Here at the home of The Smiling Infidel, we feel and understand this sense of tragic loss, and we'd like to offer our unique services to bring enlightenment and mirth to you in your time of profound need.
My daughter, Sunbum, and I are always completely somber and reverent whenever we pass a cemetery......... with the exception of last Tuesday. As we drove past the lushly green graveyard around 9:00 A.M., a funeral service had already begun. Just so you know, we are complete Broadway Musical freaks. I've lost count how many times we've sat and watched "My Fair Lady", both at home and on stage. So, as we silently grappled with our inner morbid curiosity that usually coincides with such an event, we asked ourselves "I wonder who died?", "I wonder how old they were, and how they passed from this mortal realm?" When, all of a sudden, Sunbum and I simultaneously burst into song. A rendition of the classic My Fair Lady tune, "I'm Getting Married In The Morning", revised to "I'm Getting Buried In The Morning. Ding Dong The Bells Are Gonna Ring"!
Epiphany! I think we have a bright future as funeral entertainers. Forget Oliver Twist and the paid mourners of the past. Parodied show tunes is the newest innovation for a good time to be had by all at your next graveside family gathering. I'm going to start printing up business cards right away, but I think handling advance reservations will be tricky and possibly incriminating.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
I don't usually blog on Sunday because I believe in keeping the Sabbath day holy, but I just couldn't resist expounding on my prior rant about atrocious names foisted on living, breathing human beings instead of on a potted Fern or pet tarantula where they belong.
1. There's a local lady who's extremely active in the community. I see her name printed all the time in our regional newspaper, volunteering with a senior citizen center and various Church fundraisers. Turns out she's also a woman of fine Republican distinction. Her name? PERKY SAVAGE! I linked her name because I didn't think anyone would believe me. Perky Savage is my arch nemesis. Between a Smiling Infidel and a Perky Savage, we cancel each other out. In the end, there can be only one.....
2. My deceased stepfather had parents born in rural, 1920's era Mississippi, which likely explains their odd names. ORA LEE (yes, that is pronounced like orally. Sick freak.) and RUFUS CLAUDE. They used both first and middle names at all times too. My stepdad had the honor of being born last into the family during a time of Elvis and Western movie madness, hence his name, DON WAYNE. I kid you not. So, while pregnant with my brother, Rufus Claude, offered to pay my Mom $10,000 cash if she would consent to naming my brother after him. As greedy as my Mother is, she just couldn't do it. I mean, look, I love Rufus Wainwright as much as the next gal, and I still shake my rump to Rufus and Chaka Khan, but there are limits.
3. Charity Coffin. This is the special pine box option for the more destitute of clients down at Budget Mortuary.
4. A customer on my route has an obviously Swedish name, Benny Klingenporn. Every time I see that name though, I think of "Klingon Porn". Nasty. Now, we know what Lieutenant Commander Worf was really doing in his offhours on the Starship Enterprise.
5. An American toddler named Somerset, and a blog that I ran across where the husband wants to name the kid Adenine. Yes, Adenine, like the nucleobase in forming nucleotides. The Mom wants to name the kid, Abilene, which isn't much better. Has she actually been to Abilene, Texas before? It's a dusty, redneck infested pit. Hardly child naming inspiration there.
6. Dear Mr.Ron Howard: Place of conception names are gross for children to be forced to ponder your coital exploits every time they say or write their monikers. Yet, you saddled each and every one of your offspring with a conception name. Oh, and "The Grinch That Stole Christmas" was a really sucky movie.
Thanks a lot, Posh Spice and David Beckham for infecting the World with your tacky pop culture, oddly named children, and death knell anorexia look. Anyone seen a picture of David Beckham's hefty sister, Joanne? Looks like Posh is a skeleton now because Joanne refuses to pass the casserole dish during family dinner.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Do you have a special coulrophobe in your life? Sure! Don't we all? Exciting news then boys and girls, The Insane Clown Posse concert tour is finally coming to an arena near you.
Buy a ticket for you and your coulrophobic friend. Make it an evening they'll never forget with a gift package of the newly released DVD, "Killer Clowns From Outer Space", 2 Insane Clown Posse backstage passes, and one of these sweet little clown phobia T-shirts, all tucked inside a dual use hyperventilation friendly paper bag that boasts a super smiley BOZO face upon it. If you call and order right now, we'll even throw in a set of these superb "Evil Clown Nesting Dolls", guaranteed to bring hours of enjoyment.
This WOO-WOO moment of the day brought to you by Lianne's Maternal Alchemy wisdom: I've heard tale that retaining a deeply seeded fear of clowns results from repressed memories of alien abduction. It seems that the aliens take on a clown appearance to calm frightened children abductees. This apparently dispels the myth of aliens having superior intellect. The guy who wrote "COMMUNION", Whitley Strieber, documented these things and says that it happened to him while residing in a Northwest suburb of Houston. Ummmm, I passionately HATE clowns and I've lived in a Northwestern suburb of Houston since childhood. Definitely WOO-WOO feelings here!
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Our musical obsession of the last few months revolve around all things, The Delays.
This psychedelic video is a visual masterpiece and the peppy song makes me want to don some leg warmers and do aerobics. There's just something so oddly feminine and sweet about the lead singer too. It's a classic that I guarantee won't garner much deserved American airplay. Valentine also became the official World Cup Soccer theme this summer for the BBC.
I know who you are and I know that you don't click on you tube links posted on blogs. You'll regret not listening to this at least once though. Do you really want to chance living with a lifetime of regret? I didn't think so. Push the play button already.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Frequent Kroger shoppers that we are, the employees mostly know me and my Infidel spawn by name. My newest admirer works the graveyard shift because he's a teacher by day. Due to my glamorous occupation as a newspaper slinging "Lady Of The Night", I visit him frequently in the quiet pre-dawn hours. We've all come to know him as "Matzo Man". Whenever I park next to his car, it's usually filled with cases of matzo crackers, so I assumed that he must be Jewish. That is, until I noticed the huge Bible in the back window with the giant cross on the front. Turns out, he's on a low sodium diet and he picked up the unsold matzos at the end of Passover for a bargain basement price.
I've known him for years. He has a daughter older than me. I've met his wife. He knows my Papi and kids too. Okay, so it started with him sneaking up behind me in the store two weeks ago and he started rubbing my shoulders. I nearly pulled an Angela Merkel Chancellor defensive death move on him. Then, early Saturday morning, he strategically cornered me into a vulnerable position along the desolate Goldfish aisle and impishly said, "Hey, do you want my buns"? Ummm, what? Matzo Man repeated his line and then brought forth a plastic bag containing two sandwich buns left over from a package of 8. I rejected his buns because they looked pasty white and seedy. My Papi understands and appreciates the fact that I don't care for white buns! Then he proceeded to follow me through the store and placed his hand over mine while I pushed the shopping cart. Personal space intruder alert, personal space intruder alert!
What in the World has possessed my Matzo Man? Could it be the seductive way I sashay through the clearance section in my dollar store flip flops picking up dented boxes of Pop Tarts and nearly expired pickles? Is it the concentrated discernment I use to pick out only the fluffiest brands of toilet paper? Is it the allure of the ultra sexy polo shirts and khaki shorts that I always wear? Could I have unwittingly enticed him by my clandestine wedgie pulls that I thought nobody else could see? Perhaps, it's the way I shamelessly croon off key to the delights of Kroger Radio? Especially when they're playing "Everything I Own", by Bread, and "The Pina Colada Song". Maybe the mesmerizing jiggle of my enormous azz is the culprit? Could he have mistook my heavy breathing from loading newspapers as a veiled ploy? Could it be that he just likes fat, filthy, sweaty women covered in newspaper ink?
Why, oh why, have I been cursed with such irresistibly vixenish ways?
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Luckily for me, the pimple of doom is strategically centered on my crater deep right cheek dimple. Yeah, I have a pimple on my dimple. I've always enjoyed my dimple because I only have one, and that's relatively unique. My oldest son, Buster, is the sole winner of the genetic dimple lottery, and he sports his, smack dab in the middle of his right cheek too. Buster also has a Luke Skywalker butt chin that makes all the 8 year old girls swoon.
Since gaining weight, this means that I'm a true dimpled darling. You get to see a dimple from the front and dimples from the back too, but only when I'm wearing shorts.
I discovered that by smiling really wide, the pimple disappears into the vast nothingness of my dimple, leaving me looking like my usual unblemished plus-sized supermodel self. After parading around all smiley at Church yesterday, my cheeks ache, the facial muscles are screaming for mercy, and I think I made more than a few people nervous with my newly adopted Cheshire cat look. Seeing as how I'm The Smiling Infidel and all, I would have thought that my usual malevolent grin had conditioned the facial tissue. Tis not so. I suppose, there's a price to pay for beauty. I hearken back to the prophetic words of Fernando, who said "Remember darling, it's not how you feel, it's how you look; and you look mahvelous, simply mahvelous". Oh Fernando, ABBA was right to sing a song in tribute of your greatness. Can you hear the drums?
As a side note, did you know that Dimples is a fairly common name in India? Undoubtedly, a side effect of the over consumption of curry. So eat moderately when you go to the Indian Buffet, because America has enough problems without kids named Dimples running around.
Monday, August 07, 2006
A few things I've learned. Boo is Japanese slang for "fart", so essentially, if calling for my child by his nickname, it translates into, "Fart Fart". We must never relocate to Japan.
Everytime he hears the song, "Nephi's Courage", he gets all excited because his middle name is Nephi. Boo Boo always exclaims, "NEE PIE! That's ME"! That's the point where I fill in, "That's right. Now go and do the things the Lord commands, and quit terrorizing your sisters".
Boo Boo was born in our less than sterilized home, right in our very own bed. Sometimes, it feels a little weird to think about the fact that I'm sleeping on the exact spot where a new human being emerged into the World. He's the only one of our three homebirths the midwives actually got here in time to help with. Hooray for long drawn out excruciating labors!
I'm making him a cake shaped like a Lego block today. That's mainly because I'm pastry impaired and cake decorating with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Batman, or Scooby Doo seems way out of my league. Do you see that list of characters? Whoa, deja vu! It really is yesterday once more. As my girls clamor for Hello Kitty, Strawberry Shortcake, Cabbage Patch Kids, and My Little Pony merchandise, I feel like we're redoing the 80's all over again. Just with a much higher cost of living index, a very different Michael Jackson/Miami Vice/Dukes Of Hazard, and no parachute pants and Members Only jackets anywhere in sight.
Happy Birthday Boo!
Friday, August 04, 2006
We've doubled up the armory placing not only the cloved orange in the pantry, but also positioning bay leaves on every shelf too. Yep, they're the moths on the run...... moths on the run. Sorry, sometimes my inner self switches over into Paul McCartney/Wings mode. So, while they're flying around all helter-skelter, we've ambushed them with fly swatter action. We're armed and dangerous, sucka!
My second oldest daughter, Monkey, noticed the growing accumulation of squished moths on the wall that we have to clean and remarked on the surprisingly pretty, shimmery irredescent silver mark that their flattened corpses leave behind. Then, Monkey turned to me all wide eyed and asked, "Mom, do you think that's where the ink in silver gel pens come from"?
If that were true, we could open our own silver gel pen factory. Heck, why stop there? We'll add a line of shimmery metallic eyeshadows, and maybe some body glitter too. A new hue of car paint. Irridescent Silver Moth Metallic. Beautiful and all natural. Making lemonade from lemons is my life philosophy! Are you inspired?
Edited To Add: This just in!!! Blogger Buddy, Wendela was inspired enough to make mention of me in her latest post. Thus feeding both the ego monster that lives in me, and the humble servant of gratitude that comes with someone appreciating my quirkiness.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
I'm a war mongering woman, and this time I'm taking no prisoners. Our house has been invaded by an enemy so wretched, that even if you kill them they leave behind their larvae spawn that will eventually rise up and attack all over again. The cycle must be broken or they'll continually infest their chosen prey.........your pantry contents. Yes, this is an Indian Cornmeal Moth purported to be an irritating succubus creature, robbing hapless victims of their stored foods and squashing grocery budgets everywhere. I had to throw out almost all our boxed products thanks to them and it cost me a fortune to replace. Apparently, they particularly thrive on cornmeal thus giving them the name Indian Corn Meal Moth, and they enter one's home surreptitiously by hiding in store bought packages. They used my box of Cocoa Crispies as a makeshift Trojan Horse to gain entry into my pantry. Sneaky. Once in, they proliferate wildly (nasty horny moths), and eat everything in sight before pupating, and morphing once again into voracious mooches. Houston is ground zero for insects of all sizes, colors, creeds, ethnicities. We're so very diverse! The Indian Cornmeal moth has been the scourge of many a Houston family, but I'm determined to tenaciously fight their hostile takeover with all my magnificent weaponry.
This is my battle instrument of choice against these insidious vermin. Supposedly, a cloved orange is like Kryptonite to them, weakening, and driving them away to bug other people. Personally, I don't really have a problem at all with evicting them to go infest my neighbors house. So, I methodically studded the orange with a surge of hope in my heart for an end to all the madness. We try to avoid chemical sprays at all costs and we look to natural remedies first. Yeah, I DO own a pair of Birkenstocks and several tie-dyed shirts. What's it to you?
It was then that I realized that we had all the makings of an epic struggle going on right in our very own home. The studded orange looks an awful lot like the hellraisin Pinhead, am I right? So, essentially I'm sending in an effigy of him to fight my moth infestation battles.
Mothman, the fearsome winged creature that's incited many a nightmare and even inspired a movie, "based on a true story", no less. That's what I equivocate this skirmish to be. Pinhead vs. Mothman. Who will reign victorious? Who will go home with the consolation prize of one year free Bubbles car washes? Who will win the skanky groupie still hanging around from the Freddy vs. Jason fight? I'm putting my money on Pinhead. If he fails though, I have a back up super secret weapon to implement for round 2...............bay leaves.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Feast your eyes upon this boys and girls! One of my favorite songs from a time when I had feathered hair, jelly shoes, banana clips, a neon T-shirt that proclaimed "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go", and thought that one day I would elope with my one true love, Simon LeBon.
I've never seen the video prior to yesterday but it features Gary Numan(yeah, the "Cars" guy!) vamping it up in black lipstick. The whole video resembles an alternate universe version of The Late Show. Look at the guy who's a ringer for a a young David Letterman, playing the keyboards while his very special psycho mime guest star glowers and boogies down simultaneously. Yeah, in YOUR French face, Marcel Marceau!
Now, THAT'S entertainment!