Personally, I Love It When The Chips Are Down

I'm afflicted with the fever for the flavor of a bendy chip. You know what I mean, the coveted folded over potato chip that you ransack the entire bag in pursuit of; casting away the less meaningful regular slices that are only second class potato chip citizens in your view. There is no known cure for this addiction and sadly, try as you may, it's virtually impossible to eat just one.

Buying a new bag of potato chips used to bring tense conflict into our household as we all rivaled each other in fierce competition to be the bendy chip victor. Many a battle cry of, "Your bendy chip is belonging to me," could be heard echoing throughout our kitchen in the days before we reached a final and solvent bendy chip truce.

Looking to keep the peace with the woman who cooks and cleans for them, Papi and my young offspring have elected to sacrifice their share in the bendy chip game to keep me happy. Smart move. Lay's makes a superb Kettle Cooked potato chip product that yields many more bendy spoils than your average bag of ruffled ridge chips. The jalapeno flavor is our favorite because we're spicy like that. I always end up eating way more than a normal sized portion because my kids excitedly pull out all the bendy chips and pile them on a plate just for me! They explore the outer reaches of the bag in search of bendy chip treasures untold just like little mini-Indiana Jones' and "The Chip Bag Of Doom." They squeal with unadulterated glee when they pull out their greasy fingers clutching the rare bendy chip marvel to end all bendy chip marvels........ the Siamese Twin and sometimes Siamese Triplet chip. One slice of folded crunchy goodness wrapped snugly around another one. The crunch that dreams are made of. Even when I'm totally stuffed, it's an offer I just can't refuse. Besides, I hate to see my children's disappointed little faces if I reject the chips that withstood their rigorous screening process.

Any guests that come to our house should know right now that when I pour the chips out into our ginormous authentic Tupperware serving bowl, the bendy ones are automatically plucked out and devoured on the spot. Bendy chip search and recovery is futile in the Infidel home. If loving bendy chips is wrong, then I don't wanna be right.

The Proof Is In The Pudding!

So, the amazingly dutiful wife that I am, I treated my man to a fabulous feast on Tuesday evening. The dinner included marinating some prime Angus steaks that I bought in the marked down meat bin at Kroger's, but nobody else needs to know that. What happens in the Kroger reject meat department stays in the Kroger reject meat department. Sabe? I even broke out my fancy glass trifle bowl in order to bring the meal to a grand conclusion with Papi's favorite dessert, "This Pudding is Bananas B-A-N-A-N-A-S" Banana Pudding. It's Gwen Stefani's secret surefire No Doubt recipe.

After gorging ourselves carnivore style, I had to gently remind Papi that I spent a lot of money and time on him and that steak dinners don't come cheap. He looked genuinely confused when he wrinkled his nose and asked, "What do you mean, girlie?" Pithily, I told him "I'm just saying that I put out for your meal and now I expect the same of you." Papi's hangdog expression at this juncture was priceless.

Role reversal? Check. Breaking down gender stereotypes? Check. Making Gloria Steinem clap her hands with delight? Check. A night of dinner and free entertainment? Double check. There must have been something in them there Nilla wafers. Hmmmmm, I wonder what I could ask for if I served up steak and lobster?

Hook, Line, And Stinker.....

It was a dark and turbulently stormy night as a young couple huddled together in their car parked at the forested end of a desolate street. Well aware of the numerous cautionary tales of a murderous hook-handed man that preys on amorous intentioned people just like them, they shook with fright when they heard a soft scraping sound penetrate the night air.

One look out the car window revealed a hooded shadowy figure looming beside their vehicle making them shriek with blood curdling terror. A thundering burst of lightning illuminated the sky and it was then that they noticed the gigantic hook poised in mid air and ready to strike.

The wind blew the hood backwards and then it was known that this wasn't the treacherous hook-handed man, after all. But, instead, the friendly neighborhood hook-handed girl who did actually have two hands but fancied herself to be more Captain Hook in her imaginative play than froufrou Tinkerbell. The couple sighed with relief but when they told the hook-handed girl that they didn't have the Twinkies which she sought, things turned very, very ugly for them............

Moral Of The Story: When life hands you broken hangers, make your children into Twinkie-eating, Captain Hook clones.

Don't Hate Me Because I'm A Perfect 10

Bo Derek and I have a lot in common. Yes, we both share the enviable quality of having attained perfect "10" status. I tried to solidify our special connection by buying one of those hand held hair beader gizmo thingies to replicate the Bo Derek look. Ummm, something went disastrously wrong as it entangled my hair, wrapping it tightly around my throat as I struggled to dislodge this tool of the Devil and avoid beaded hair strangulation. Seriously. I very nearly didn't survive the experience, but I guess that's the price you pay when you're maintaining a perfect 10 lifestyle.

I've never shown many photographs of myself around here but now is your chance to take a glimpse into my perfect 10 kind of world.

Yes, those are my new shoes. As you can see, I didn't mislead you. I am a perfect 10, and I have the shiny sticker to prove it! And yes, the brand is White Mountain. Oh, the irony because I am indeed a massive mountain of white. Some have the mistaken notion that being a perfect 10 is all glitz and glamour but they couldn't be more wrong. When you're a perfect 10 the odds are stacked against you to find a really cute pair of shoes at the storewide clearance sale racks. When you're a perfect 10 all eyes turn to you to go and squish the giant cockroach scurrying across the floor. You know, because Mother Nature endowed you with naturally ginormous stomping arsenal. When you're a perfect 10, you go as a clown for Halloween because the dainty Cinderella costume glass slipper shattered in your hand when you tried to wedge your sweaty, behemoth foot inside of it. It seems that society has a scale for everything and I tip those scales in more ways than one.

My four daughters aspire to one day follow in my shoes and to also become perfect 10's. They literally, have some really big shoes to fill to accomplish this.

Someday We'll Find It, The Cable Connection......

Last Friday I played the part of a Good Samaritan superhero, but without any sausage casing Lycra tights or dorky capes. Believe me, the events that unfolded were completely unintentional on my part.

Papi entrusted me with the Houston Chronicle "special delivery" papers that needed to go to some of the local schools. No problem. There's really nothing I love more than the opportunity to play Mr. McFeely's Special Delivery(really funny youtube clip) game in the pre-dawn hours of the day. So, as I turned at the corner intersection to get to the neighborhood elementary school, a modified racer Honda Civic hatchback came rumbling/hiccuping up to the stop sign. It kind of looked like this....

only the once vibrant red paint had muted to a drab rusty color and large patches of paint had given way to show the exposed car frame. The hood was missing and some overtly hideous front end damage glared back at me. As the driver also went to turn, his car crapped out. He allowed the Civic to roll backwards until it came to rest completely sideways and completely blocking my path. He tried to turn over his engine several times while I impatiently waited for him to get the frick out of my way. His efforts proved useless. Irritated, I sat there and watched this young Asian EMO guy that looked like he escaped from the above picture, get out of his car and motion to me while puffing on a cigarette. The black shirted dude flipped his shaggy hair out of his eyes and adjusted his standard edition EMO white studded belt as he sauntered over to my open truck window and asked me if I would mind if he hooked up his jumper cables to my truck in order to start his car. I reluctantly agreed, and five minutes later he went along his merry little EMO way, no doubt listening and singing happily along to his Panic!At The Disco CD.

Unfortunately, I made the mistake of relaying all of this to my Papi in a grossly unthoughtful and misguided sentence. I casually told him, "Yeah, so I had no other choice but to give a jump to this young Asian guy early Friday morning." Papi's copper colored eyes widened and his jaw fell open as he recoiled backwards sputtering in mock disbelief, "YOU WHAAAAAAATTTT?!???!?" I continued on, largely ignoring Papi's exaggerated reaction to describe what had happened and how the Asian guy was hard up and really needed me to give him a jump and how I was the only one that could meet his needs. Papi is secure in the knowledge that I'm 100 percent committed to products Made In Mexico only. Although, I did have to admit to my Papi that there were definitely sparks between Asian EMO guy and I. The dork hooked up his cables wrong the first time and gave himself a heavy dose of shock treatment. Men's hearts just seem to beat faster when they're around me. :)

Let's Get Stoned!

Notice the new bloggy feel good song of the day I put up? Yep, that's none other than Michael Jackson's classic, " Rock With You." During one of the many Jackson debacles this past year, my perpetually confused son, Buster, heard me say that Mr. Michael had made some anti-Semitic statements to go along with his litany of crimes against humanity in the name of "loving the children." I then had to explain what it meant for one to harbor and express anti-Semitic sentiments, to which an astonished Buster turned to me and said, "Michael Jackson said something bad about Jews???? But he sings that nice song about them." Now, it was my turn to play confused as I asked him what song he was referring to. Impatiently, Buster replied, "You know, that song, 'I Wanna Rock With Jews.' Michael Jackson must think they're pretty awesome if he wants to rock with them all night." We've sung that song as an ode to Judaism ever since.

However, actual rocking with Jews as described back in Biblical times probably entailed a vengeful crowd, a commandment breaker, and a buttload of stones. I prefer Michael Jackson's softer, gentler version.

I Wonder If Bralessness Is Also Next To Godliness?

And now, it's time for the first ever Infidel Freak Secret Of The Week.

The weather has turned bitterly cold in Houston. I mean, really teeth- chattering, hug a stranger for body heat, sitting on your hands to warm them up, kind of cold. I secretly revel in it though simply because it gives me the opportunity to layer my clothes. I pile on the sweatshirts en masse until I'm a grotesque shapeless blob like Jabba The Hutt. Except, I would never chain a bikini clad Carrie Fisher to me. I might hypothetically, chain a smokin hot, bikini clad Greg Wiggle to me, though. I say "hypothetically" for legal purposes. Yes, I'm sagging, dragging, and lagging, but my many garments cover it up nicely. So nicely in fact that I haven't worn a brassiere in TWO days. Yes, TWO days. Freedom shouldn't only be relegated to human rights causes, you know. I'm simply following my own little pursuit of happiness, and in bralessness I have found it.

It's Show And Tell time, boys and girls. Share your freak secret of the week right here, right now.

Let Me Call You SWEATheart!

Some men wear their hearts on their sleeve, but not my beloved Papi. Ever the non-conformist, Papi proudly displays his heart for everyone to see (and smell) right across his manly chest.

I was the first to notice that my man sweats out emblems de amore. I am also the first to document the sweaty evidence. When I started teasing him about his unique perspiration designs, he coyly looked at me and responded in his super suave Mexi-accent, "Girlie, I sweat hearts because I'm so full of love both inside and out." Well, he's full of something, alright. After gagging from laughing so hard at his blatant untruths, I started referring to him as "My Sweatheart." Sometimes, I croon mockingly to Papi, "I loved you from the start, and you'll always be my sweatheart." And of course, "Let Me Call You Sweatheart" is de rigeur. If only I could train his sweat glands to produce some Virgin Mary images, I'd sell them for a cool million and we'd be filthy, stinkin rich.

Ummm, I happen to sweat distinctive patterns out of my body too. They're usually precisely skull shaped which sets Papi off tittering about how "my evilness is showing through." There will be no forthcoming pictures of my Skeletor sweat stains.

I chuckled when I found this pic on the Internet. Apparently, my Papi isn't the only one with "the gift." I'm glad that this guy stepped up to have himself photographed because no way did I want the world wide web sneaking a peek at the buff manliness of my Papi's chest. It wouldn't be fair of me to incite lustful thoughts in the minds of all you ladies........or men.

The Things We Do For Love

Personally, I HATE walking in the rain and the snow when there's nowhere to go and feeling like a part of me is dying while I'm looking for the answers in his eyes. I think we're going to break up and then he says he wants my makeup. What?!!!??? Forget it. My man is already prettier than me. I won't supply him with my beauty arsenal to accentuate that.

I'm preparing myself early for the Valentine's Day festivities tomorrow. My arm feels achingly sore from shaving this stunning heart into my back hair as a declaration of true love for my Papi. The guy in the picture made it look so easy, but I had a lot of difficulty positioning the razor and the mirror. My first attempt looked like a smiley face with a pointy goatee. I continued trying to sculpt the delicately rounded heart curves and consequentially ended up with a ginormous sized heart that exposes my many back moles like little nakey mole rats. Maybe this guy has his very own back hair shaver buddy. I wish I had my very own back hair shaver buddy too. :(
Hopefully, etching out the words, "Te Amo," into my mustache will go a little smoother.

Do you think my Papi will squeal in delighted surprise when I use my strength to reeep my blouse open? (thanks Nacho Libre!) I'm also going to serenade Papi in my most loveliest falsetto voice to Tiny Tim's endearing romantic classic, "Tiptoe Through The Tulips With Me?" I can't wait! Hey, can anyone out there loan me a ukulele for the night?

Mohanna And Me Are 3-PLY Wives

While throwing my newspaper route filled with stately homes this morning, I passed a mini-mansion completely enshrouded in streams of flowing toilet paper. Amused at the undignified sight that would surely blackball them from being included for consideration to host the Annual Snooty Patootie Ladies Luncheon, I drove by slowly to throw their Houston Barnacle on one of their three driveways. Yes, THREE. That's when one of the tentacled arms of the cascading cottony soft butt wipes decided to reach out and touch someone. ME.

Nonchalantly, I continued on until my eye caught the frenetic motion of the white trash party streamers billowing wildly behind me in the wind. Two elongated strands the length of the entire truck had entwined themselves around the antenna and continued flapping around chaotically like a bewildered me at my baby shower when the ladies viciously played the "Wrap Her Up In Toilet Paper Like A Pregnant Mummy" game. This morning saw a forecast of lightning and light mist blanketing the area. That combined with the morning dew should surely break the mystical toilet paper spell enveloping me, right? No. I drove my entire route looking as though I had just gotten married Dukes Of Hazard style by Boss Hogg himself. I drove faster and still it clung to my truck with all its toilet papery might. Not even moisture and the forces of nature could break its determined bond to me. I told my Papi. He seemed wholly unsympathetic and much more interested in discovering what heaven on high such a miraculously durable toilet paper product descended from. He's convinced that this is a super secret laboratory created paper that they're keeping hidden from the public sector because the world isn't ready for such alien technology enhanced toiletries. Papi and his toilet paper conspiracy theories. He really hates it when you wipe and your fingers burst through the paper at the worst possible moment.

Obviously, this was the good stuff. What's with these privileged kids nowadays? Back in my day we used 1-ply "wipe and you bleed" cardboard toilet paper to do our T.P. dirty work. And gosh darn it, we liked it. How much disposable income do these little toilet paper hooligans have to use? Do they only throw the very finest in imported organic eggs when they're out vandalizing houses? Did they get out there still in their monogrammed crest sport jackets after a wild Saturday night down at the Country Club playing canasta? Perhaps they told their chauffeur in a haughty voice, "Jeeves, wait here a moment. I shan't be long. I'm just going to do an impromptu exterior home decorating makeover with Muffy, Buffy, Chip, and Mr. Charmin." *sigh* The sad thing is that the supremely cheap part of me felt tempted to rush home and gather up our vast empty toilet paper tube collection and fill it with this bounteous blessing of high quality butt wipes.

But then, how could my Melody see me through her toilet paper roll eyes of love?

Please Stop Looking At My Crack

My crack just keeps on growing by leaps and bounds every day. In fact, my crack has spread so far and so wide that its perilously close to being declared a safety hazard. A total stranger approached me in the Kroger's parking lot last week to comment on the immensity of my crack. His eyes stared intently at my crack, following its every profound curve and dipping valley with a steely gaze that made me turn away in ashamed embarrassment. Then he reached out to touch my crack and offered me his "services." Yeah, like I want to pay someone just to touch my crack. How did I get here? It seems like just yesterday that my crack was tiny and barely noticeable. Now my crack is gaining new ground and threatening to take over non-crack space. I only have McDonald's and their tantalizing dollar hot fudge sundaes to blame for my ever burgeoning crack. My daughters and I ventured down the road less traveled a few months ago to grab one of those dollar dairy treats when a cement truck turned haphazardly right in front of us. The constant onslaught of tumbling gray cement chunks bouncing out of his rear end chute found their way unto the windshield of my super Infidel truck. My crack simply hasn't been the same since.

This isn't an actual snapshot of my crack, by the way, but it does look vaguely similar. I'm sort of shy about taking pictures of my own crack. Hey, my crack is personal and private territory! I draw the prohibited photo line at my line. Although, stealing pictures of strangers' cracks doesn't faze me a bit.

Sometimes I Wear Stretchy Pants.....You Know, Just For Fun

Yesterday I had to break down and wear the bane of my wardrobe....... the dreaded red sweatpants. I only wear this scarlet monstrosity when absolutely necessary. Like when all my normal, neutral toned sweats are in the laundry and I'm on the verge of freezing to death. Then, and only then, will I resort to dressing like an extra cherry tomato left over from a Fruit Of The Loom panty commercial. I'm already fat and something about wearing an eye-catching red just seems to amplify it. I'm no fashion maven but I do have my bare minimum standards. Admittedly, the red sweats are the warmest in my vast sweat apparel collection due to their super fuzzy fleece interior, but I'd rather shiver in my worn out, faded black sweats than stoop to frolicking around like "The Lady In Red." I don't shave my legs much in the winter, and when I peel off the red sweats they always leave the tell tale crimson fuzz behind desperately clinging with all their fleecy might to my spiky leg hair. My kids were concerned one day because they actually thought my legs were bleeding. It was then that I had to tell them the sad truth that

red fuzz on the legs marks the beginning symptoms of the dreaded Elmo disease. It starts with the red fur slowly creeping up your lower limbs, and before you know it the fur balls maneuver its way up your body, conquering any clothes foolish enough to cross its path. It will even invade your cleavage and sacred belly button crevice. Your speaking voice slowly dissolves into a whiny high-pitched tone and you revert to baby speech and annoyingly referring to yourself in the first person. Sadly, full blown Elmo disease follows soon after. The next thing you know, you're mechanically doing the Hokey Pokey and bending over for complete strangers and you just can't seem to stop. The yearning for a Dorothy fish sandwich wedged unto a nice sesame bun becomes a constant craving too.

Hey, this is Elmo's World! You're just living in it, sucka.

The very worst fashion move possible, ladies, is to don the hideous red sweat combo. That's right. The sweatpants and the matching sweatshirt. It gives you a certain "Mrs. Claus" quality about you. I guarantee you that if you break the ten commandments of style and wear a monochromatic sweats outfit, you'll have to contend with Santa Claus wannabes everywhere leering at you to "come on over and sit my lap for awhile and tell me if you've been a naughty or nice little girl." That's precisely how my Mom and Dad started dating. Seriously.

I owned an electric blue pair of sweatpants back in my elementary school days. I stopped wearing them when the Smurf jokes aimed at me from my peers became too unbearable. My mom assured me that I didn't look at all Smurfy. In fact, she said I looked more like a blueberry. She even unfavorably compared me to bratty gum addict, Violet Beauregarde. :( I'll never forget the Valentines Day present she gave me of a purple sweatpants ensemble with multi-heart appliques dancing across it. I wasn't a hefty child at all, but after hearing incessant rounds of teasing that I looked like a tattooed grape,I grew irritated. The only grape categories I fit into was "Grape Of Wrath," and "Sour Grapes". I shelved my Grapes Of Love outfit into the dark recesses of my closet where it never saw the light of day again until Goodwill came knocking a few years later. I pity the poor girl that it undoubtedly got foisted onto. I hope people told her that she's a stunning purple vision of loveliness and not a tattooed grape.

I guess the main moral of this story is that fruit flavors and fruit colors are best left to rolls of Life Savers candy and Gay Pride parades. Adult sized sweatpants in certain colors should be forbidden territory. By the way, I'm typing all of this while wearing my dark gray zippered sweat hoodie, and heather gray drawstring sweatpants. Hanes Her Way brand, just in case you want to replicate my sophisticated Infidel fashion savvy for yourself.

Excellence In Blogcasting

I'm honored to announce that The Smiling Infidel has indeed been nominated for not one but TWO Share The Love Blog Awards! I knew about the first nomination in the category of "Best Humor," but I found out yesterday that I also received one for "Most Thought Provoking." I don't know who considered my irreverent writing for that prize, but it's amusing, is it not? I guess twisting the words to beloved musicals, shamelessly whoring favorite taco restaurants, and propagating a love of flatulence humor is thought provoking to some. And I secretly carry around an undying love for those fine little slices of humanity. Thanks. I noticed that I didn't get a nod for "Blogger You'd Most Like To Meet." Given my notoriously gassy history, maybe that's to be expected. I'm grateful that most of my bloggy friends are in different categories than myself. So, indeed you too can "Share The Love," by voting for Hot Fruita Moms, Mental Tesserae, Mas Cowbell, What On Earth Is That Smell?, and The Smiling Infidel without a conflict of interest or divided loyalties. If they had a category for "Most Inventive Use Of Sporks," I'd so totally win. Someday I might find myself nominated in the "Superb Mocking Of Hall And Oates" division or the prestigious "Making Art Out Of A Urinal" trophy. However, I did already secure the coveted "Plucky Under Pressure" golden tweezers statuette, and the "Modern Day Eliza Doolittle" commemorative marble set award, but I continue reaching for the stars and more blogger triumph anyway.

You'll find a humble spirit amongst most of the nominees who will tell you that they don't deserve your vote, and that the honor lies in just the nomination. I'm bucking the trend. I DO want you to embrace the opportunity and freedom that comes from taking a stand and making your voice heard. Should we let the blogosphere domestic divas win? NO! Living a perfect little life is rewarding enough. Why should they get more lump free gravy? Should the whineaholics who use their blogs as an outlet for their energy vampire tendencies get an award? NO! Let them suck someone else dry. Instead, cast your vote for chicken dancing, cheekiness, and the Infidel way! God Bless America!

A VOTE FOR INFIDEL IS A VOTE FOR THE BENEFIT OF YOUR CHILDREN. (You do love your children. Don't you?) VOTE HERE Voting concludes February 6.


I'd like to express appreciation to Lianne over at Excessively Diverted for this stunning award. See that book that the lovely female statuette is holding in her silver armpit? That's her very own copy of a favorite from my personal home library, "Walter The Farting Dog." There's no popularity contest involved to earn a pat on the back from Lianne. Nope, I didn't have to dance the flamenco while jumping through a flaming hula hoop as I balanced a hirsute midget on my nose to get it either. The presenting of this awesome trophy also didn't involve turning over my firstborn child or signing away my soul. Thanks Lianne!

I'm Eternally Grateful That The Sticker Wasn't The Scratch N Sniff Kind!

Since me and my family, are like, so totally super classy, would you really expect anything less from our neighbors? I mean, quite honestly I love man boobs and farts too, but I never thought to slap a sticker declaring my love across the back of my car. Maybe that's just me, though.