Is It Possible To Be An Anti-Woman Woman?

I used to thoroughly enjoy listening to Dr. Laura's call-in radio show but now I've opted to sever all ties to her and her increasingly unhelpful advice.

See, I'm an unabashedly conservative chick who believes in small government, a flat tax, and personal responsibility. As such, Dr. Laura and her espousal of traditional values initially appealed to me.

However, Ive grown weary of women automatically being the culprit for their man going astray. She's adamant that all wives must somehow be abdicating their spousal duties by not putting out enough which in turn leads a husband to go looking for outside action. Or maybe the wife is too fat which is also, in her not-so-humble opinion, an egregious violation of the marital contract.

That's always been her mantra so I just tune out her woman-bashing diatribe when she's on an especially shrill holier-than-thou streak.

Lately though, Dr. Laura is on a roll consistently dispensing eyebrow-furrowing, nose-wrinkling, Whatchoo Talkin' Bout' Willis? counsel to some of her callers.

Case in point was the lady who's been a stay-at-home mom of four kids for the past 20 years. Her oldest is a college student who lives at home while the youngest is 8. Like a lot of familes across the nation, her husband doesn't earn the kind of money he used to and they find themselves struggling even after making big lifestyle cutbacks. She has the opportunity to work part-time while her kids are in school. This seems like a win-win solution to me.

Dr. Laura practically shrieked at this woman telling her "You're going to divert time and energy away from a family that needs you" and "You're undermining your husband. Working will make him feel like less of a man, like he can't provide for his family." She wasn't finished as she concluded her advice with a "You'll come home bitchy and stressed from work and take it out on your family."

Wow. Dr. Laura worked establishing her career the entire time her kid was in school. Hypocrite much? This lady wants to alleviate some of the burden on her husband's shoulders in a way that still allows her to care for her kids. Furthermore, she doesn't have babies or toddlers. I speak from personal experience that this recession is a good time to rally the family and let them know that cooperation is vital and everyone needs to help one another.

I work a couple days a week. Unlike a lot of their peers, my kids know how to do laundry, help their siblings with schoolwork, and get dinner ready. It's not a tragedy that somehow diminishes the quality of their childhood. It's working as a cohesive unit to preserve the family. Duh, Dr. Laura.

Another caller really resonated with me. She's a 30-something mom of 6 kids. I know, right, who's flippin' crazy enough to crank out 6 kids?!!? Anyway, her baby is starting Kindergarten and she wants to go back to school to finish her degree but she stipulated that it would only be during the hours her kids are at school. The lady tearfully said that everyone in her family has advanced degrees and the pursuit of education is important to her. She blurted out that she felt as though something was missing in her life.

Dr. Laura went into hysterical mode as though this woman said she wanted to trade in all her mom jeans for an Abercrombie & Fitch wardrobe and a wild campus co-ed lifestyle.

Dr. Laura's argument was the same as the previous caller I mentioned. She vociferously browbeat this poor lady telling her that her family would fall apart if she took a couple college courses because it would require way too much time and effort. Dr. Laura also said that she should take comfort in her kids and not go looking for outside accomplishments and validation. She then recommended that the caller "get some hobbies" and "read books" to occupy her time while her kids are at school.

Discouraging knowledge? Seriously? This is a major WTF? moment. This lady may need a degree in the future should the unthinkable happen. Aside from that, she wants something edifying outside of being a mommy and wife. As a career woman you'd think that Dr. Laura would understand.

Irritated and murmuring out loud, I hoped that these ladies would stand up and champion themselves against this counterproductive advice. But they didn't. Both women just meekly agreed with every word Dr. Laura bestowed upon them as though it was their personal gospel.

Why would a successful female like Dr. Laura openly discourage fellow females from achieving their own personal successes?

Naturally, she cites "Family First" at every opportunity but the slogan is as hollow as a waxy chocolate bunny from the dollar store when applied to the aforementioned situations where the family would surely benefit from the matriarch enriching her own life and in turn the lives of her family.

It's an easy formula. Trickle Down Mothering, dammit!

Trickle Down Mothering. I'm a genius. Just give me the talk radio contract to sign already.

My Man Papi Makes It So Easy To Be An Abiding Subservient Wife......

Oh, that man of mine. How I just want to hang on his every word and fulfill his every whim and desire.
Do you want to know why I've chosen to poo-poo feministic ideals in order to properly hearken unto the wise counsel of my husband? It's because Papi's a genius of evil mastermind proportions, that's why.
While discussing our future and the future's of our half-dozen offspring, Papi turned to me and delivered the most inspired sermon I've ever heard. With a serious face he preached The Word According to Papi as such: "Girlie, this is what we're going to do: As soon as we shove that last kid out the door and we're liberated from parental slave status, we're going to move out to the country and become nudists so that there's a ZERO percent chance any of them will ever want to move back home."
The powerful force of Papi's words brought a small tear of joy to my eyes.
First though, I'll need to invest in some decent aprons with a built-in underwire support bra.
While I may not fully understand the complexities of the lobster's nervous system and whether or not they experience pain while getting boiled alive, I can most certainly attest to how it feels to have my own pendulous boobs boiled and steamed......it hurts like a MOFO and it did indeed transform Dangly Thing #1 and Dangly Thing #2 into a nice scarlet shade of lobster-red.
I won't bore you with the specifics except to say it involved me cooking without wearing my nursing bra and a giant pot of boiling potatoes on the front burner. Yeah.
Only an Englishman/Irishman would boil and ruin perfectly good boob meat like that.
My Mexican-born Papi also likes to frequently articulate his grandiose superiority complex by telling me that we Americans need the Mexicans here because they are akin to fulfilling a Conquistador of Love role in modern American society.
Well, when you look at it like that, I guess by Papi agreeing to be my husband these past 15 years, he's doing one of those crappy jobs that no other American wants to do.
Ever the dutiful wife, I'm going to spend the rest of the day crocheting a special bullwhip cozy for my sweet little taskmaster out of the clothes we won't be needing in about another 12 years or so....

It's No Coincidence That You Can't Have Brawn (Or Brains) Without A B-R-A!

For years I've remained cognizant of the cryptic messages that my XM Satellite Radio has wordlessly sent to me via its display screen; but I'm truly baffled to explain this latest digital outburst.

Fight Like A Bra.....what exactly does that mean, XM Satellite Radio?
Should I fend off mortal enemies and foes using a soft cup technique which entails me just kind of aimlessly batting them around with my hands encased in pillowy cushions? Or should I take a few battle cues from the padding and smother those suckers like how the foamy lining chokes the will to live out of booby skin?
If I were to Fight Like A Bra right this very moment, it would be a clean fight. However, if we'd engaged in a vicious quarrel a few minutes before my shower, I'd have absolutely guaranteed you a very down and dirty bra skirmish.
Bottles of Boob Sweat: Guaranteed to repel any and all attackers
Should bra fighting ever become a national sport we all know that the underwire and all its malicious poking, tugging, and boobage-cutting maneuvers would win the grand championship.
I suppose there'd be a training bra/featherweight boobs division too for those perky young whippersnappers who haven't honed their brassiere war strategies yet.
Personally, I think Fight Like A Bra gives some interesting insight as to why I detest wearing a bra so much. You see, its warring nature is wholly incompatible with my genteel ways.
Although if bra fighting really did make headway into the world of competitive arena sports like bull fighting has, I'd have to cheer for my sturdy Playtex bras. I know they'd beat the snot out of those flimsy lace things that Victoria's Secret has to offer........ One good snap, and they're OUT!
Heavens, I force Playtex to take the 18-hour bazonga-holding challenge on a regular basis. Of course they're well equipped to fight it out with other bras. That is some superior durability at work right there.
To ensure victory we'd first have to make sure that the Madonna line of I-Stuck-My-Boobs-In-A-Pencil-Sharpener-To-Make-Them-Pointy bras are disqualified.
Madonna can take those grotesque boulder-holder abominations she foisted on an unsuspecting public and get into Unicorn or Rhino fighting or something.

I'll have to have a more in-depth chat with my XM Radio display about its too frequent communiques rife with odd advice and what exactly it wants me to do with it.
Not too long ago it was flashing graphic things at me like You Give Good Love, I Want Your Sex, and I'm In The Mood For Love, and I was all like "Pardon me, XM Radio? Are you coming on to me? You need to mind your manners."
I also hate it when it asks me geographical stuff like Do You Know The Way To San Jose? I mean, gosh can't it just talk to one of its GPS buddies? I'm not a freakin cartographer. And no, I don't know how to take you down to Funky Town either.

Okay, so perhaps the XM Radio isn't exactly a useful tool to rely on for life-altering guidance but the next time you find yourself embroiled in an escalating confrontation just remember the promptings of my XM Radio and employ some Fight Like A Bra moves; sure to make any opponent feel squeezed, manhandled, strangulated, and profoundly uncomfortable just like my own breastages do every single day of their young, fleshy lives.

Delta Burke Hates Me: She Tried To Strangulate My Lady Bits Last Week!

Be warned: Just because someone's a washed-up television star from the 80's doesn't mean they should be handed complete creative control over their own intimate apparel line.
But, if they did, we would have seen undergarment products from former big-name stars lining the shelves of department store underwear sections a long time ago.
How about Gary Coleman's Big Boy Briefs? Or Shelley Long's Long Johns? Or maybe a nice pair of Joan Collins' Cougar Thongs.

Okay, so while shopping at Big Lots discount store in pursuit of the perfect birthday present for my friend Carrot Jello, I found a 2-pack value box of Delta Burke brand girdles on sale.
Really, is there any better way to tell someone how much they mean to you than sending them a couple of lace-front girdles?
The Sisterhood Of The Traveling Girdles: A Movie For The Less Physically Fit.
Since Carrot and I wear the same size, I figured that I'd keep one and send the other to her as a kind of gut-minimizing, fat pouch-eliminating take on the old Best Friends heart necklaces we all coveted during our schoolgirl days. Although at no time did I consider writing "Best" on one girdle and "Friends" on the other.
A girdle is the perfect gift of friendship. It literally girds you up when you're feeling down. Girdle Twin Power.....ACTIVATE!
Just so you know: One girdle's black and one girdle's ivory. Kind of like a Girdle Yin&Yang.

Then suddenly, before I could ship the girdle to Carrot's house, a most unfortunate girdle tragedy struck the Infidel home.
You never think it can happen to you.......
On the day of Papi's company Christmas Party I couldn't find my steadfast and true girdle sidekick anywhere and trust me, I freakin needed it so I could squeeze into my dress.
I searched high and low for it. I even commissioned our dog Reagan to go on a girdle rescue mission since he has fantastic sniffy capabilities. But it was all to no avail.
Duct taping fat rolls to smooth them out doesn't work as well as I thought it would.
In desperation I turned to Delta Burke to solve my girdle emergency.
Initially the ivory-colored girdle slid right on with ease but then, much to my chagrin, it stopped somewhere between my navel and lower belly pooch.
I read the package. It did not mention anything about it being a pack of low-rise girdle bikinis. And yet there I was, standing in something that looked like and pinched like an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny little Delta Burke bikini.
I may be grossly rotund but my pubic area is not where I need to focus slimming efforts.
The thought flashed into my mind of Papi's co-workers gossipping about me and saying things like: "Wow, Papi's wife has the most toned and svelte pubic area I've ever seen. It's a shame the rest of her is so hefty."
In disgust, I hurled the hoo-hoo oppressing garment across the room.

My mom had a similar experience with Delta Burke.
She purchased a Delta Burke brassiere in a slightly larger size to ensure a good fit.
The bra not only refused to cup her bosoms properly, it also had the audacity to mock my mom as she futilely struggled and strained and grunted to hook the tiny clasps in the back.

I speculate that Delta is a fat lady who secretly hates other fat ladies. She probably takes out her aggression on the portly population by manufacturing undergarments in smaller sizes than what the label says so that the buyer will feel like a total blob of billowing blubber when they try to wear it.
Delta is banking on the fact that the low-rent stores who carry her inferior shrinky-dinky apparel don't have dressing rooms. See, then large-and-in-charge women won't know the true discomfort and trickery Delta is serving up until they get home and find themselves totally compressed by the vacuum-sealed Delta girdles.
They'll undoubtedly feel too fat and ashamed to return the stuff because they don't want to have to recite the sad tale to the customer service manager about how their big butt refused to be harnessed and confined into such a ridiculously small polyester prison.
Brilliant marketing strategy!

Delta Burke should go work for the people over at the Just My Size clothing manufacturer. She's had a lot of practice selling stuff that really is just her size and her size only.
But one thing's for certain, Delta Burke may hate me but I hate that panty-pushing hussy even more.
From this day forth, we are enemies.
Delta will never be allowed into the sanctity of my underwear drawer ever again.

Hey, I Wear The Pants In This Family Too......Even If They Are Crotchless

It's finally happened. Temperatures dropped in Houston out of the sweltering 90 degree range down to a brisk and happy 56 degrees.
I am so ready to give my saturated butt sweat towel a final ceremony to properly celebrate the closing of butt sweat season.
So, my usual boudoir ensemble features the very titillating delights of my all-cotton elastic waist band shorts.
They have bleach spots on them and the drawstring hangs disproportionately longer out of one side.
I hate that.
Whenever I make a midnight potty run that stupid string always dangles down, brushing against my leg and sending me into full scale panic attack.
See, my not yet fully conscious morning mind registers it as a cockroach that's decided to stealthily stake claim on the Infidel Southern Territories that include Mt. Hairy Knee and the Temple Of The Fatted Calf (Calves). And then I start screaming and slapping at the imaginary insect foe. Every time.
Anyway, cooler weather means cooler nights which means that it's time to break out my slinky bedroom winter gear.
You should see my sexy sockwear and matching thermal nightshirt. It's hawt.
So, I don't know how this tragedy befell me but, my favoritest sweatpants in the whole world went into closet storage with a minor hole smack in the crotchal seams and now, just a few months later, the hole has metastasized into the circumference of a personal pan pizza.
That's an ad slogan that will never be used by Pizza Hut.
"Our personal pan pizzas are as large as the hole in the crotch of your sweatpants!"
I put them on anyway figuring that as long as I acted all ladylike and stuff and kept my legs closed, nobody was going to notice the gaping gulch.
Unfortunately I can't watch TV without sprawling about, treating the bed like I'm in stirrups on the Gynecologist's exam table.
I'm terribly uncouth in the confines of my own home.
Well, my man Papi came wandering into the room and was immediately smitten by my racy new evening wear and its innovative "ventilation" system.
Yes indeed, the wonder of crotchless sweatpants combine all the warmth and comfort you've come to expect from your sweats while also showing off your secrety slutty side.
Crotchless Sweatpants: Redneck Lingerie At Its Finest!

The exclusive Crotchless Sweatpants line can be found at all Lurlene's Secret stores or at fine Billy Bob's Of Dollywood retailers everywhere.

I Perish The Thought Of Ever Hearing My Papi Whistling, "Man! I Feel Like A Woman!"

I've known my sexy-Mexi husband, Papi, since I was still a bright-eyed teenager brimming with equal parts vim, vigor, and stupidity. Fine, it wasn't really equal parts. The stupidity/naivete portion comprised at least half of my teen-aged being on any given day. Occasionally, I'd hit that full 100 percent stupidity mark.

Yay for being 100 percent perfect at something!

Papi-a recently-immigrated Mexican National and recent return missionary-decided that he wanted to find that special someone who believed in the idea that marriage should comprise teamwork and partnership. (Apparently his dating history involved a lot of spoiled Mexican-American Princesses)

Not to worry, this story isn't going to turn into a third-rate romance novel cover that reads something like....."He was a bronzed, uptight immigrant-with a chest like a hairless chihuahua-out looking for love, adventure, and authentic chimichangas in a foreign land. She was a flaxen-haired Goofball Goddess in overalls whose proudest moment in life was finally realized when she mastered the hand motions to M.C. Hammer's, '2 Legit To 2 Quit.' Through a series of hilarity and hijinks plus one positive pregnancy test, fate will conspire to bond them through the eternities....."

Basically, Papi confided that he chose me as his betrothed because I was the only white chick he had ever met who didn't mind working 2 manual labor jobs while attending school at the same time. He also said something about me being a hard worker "just like a burro." I've tried to make his sweet words sweeter by blocking out that uncalled for donkey comparison.

To that point I hadn't found anyone willing to laugh at the myriad of weird things I frequently blurted out. When Papi acted as my own personal Comedy Club audience, I knew he was the one for me. Nevermind the fact that while Papi did speak perfect English, he didn't quite understand the nuances of American humor- he was only chuckling because he reasoned it was the polite thing to do instead of saying, "Huh? I don't get it. Are you on crack or something?" I really thought that "Pull My Finger!" transcended all languages and cultures. Sad.

It turns out that no matter how hard-working or astoundingly fertile or personable I am, I'm still lacking in the domestic skills category. If Papi had made a Perfect Wife Checklist prior to getting married, I wouldn't have fared too well:
Cook- Ummm, well, that is my mom's maiden name...soooooo....I guess, technically, yes?
Clean- I mastered the art of wiping and that's about it.
Iron- Heck Yes! I take 2 tablets every day!
Vacuum- Only for emergency liposuction, roach carcass disposal, and finding lost earrings.
Sew- A needle-pulling thread? La....a note to follow sew?
Knit- No, I'm lice-free and nit-free, thanks.
Scrapbooking- Well, I once did that Slam Book thing in Junior High. It made a girl cry inconsolably. Does that count?

Luckily, Papi excels in all the areas where I'm deficient. He's my personal Iron Man. For reals, y'all. He's as delicate with my silks as he is steamy with my cotton-blends.

Sometimes, Papi's long-hidden talents rises to the surface after lying dormant for so many years.

Our daughter, Caterpillar, recently attended a Church Activity with other girls and they learned how to knit. Yeah, they be turning my daughter into a knitta. Maybe she can one day join Knittas, Please!, H-Town's premiere knitting gang.

Anyway, I didn't have a clue as to how to help Caterpillar finish her knitting project at home. I suffer from acute Yarnophobia- so I have a legitimate excuse. Naturally, Papi stepped in and wowed us all with his nimble fingers and knitty know-how. *le sigh* Is there nothing that man of mine can't do?

Whenever I think about our future together I get this vision in my mind of a stark role reversal. In it, I'm sitting around on our front porch swing in my dungarees, smoking a (bubble) pipe and scratching at the wiry old people-hairs on my chin. My grand-children will all congregate at my feet, begging for me to tell them another story about when I was a young whippersnapper. I'll instead take out my false teeth and wave them about as an instrument of terror while chasing my screaming progeny. Papi will look resplendent in his calico apron. He'll content himself with silently watching us from his rocking chair-a bemused smile etched upon his weathered face as he lovingly knits me a pair of legwarmers so I can show our grand-kids how to shake it like that chick in Flashdance.

I have seen the future. And it is good.

Oh For The Love Of All Things Holy And Decent.....Are You Wearing That Shirt Again?

I'm practicing repeating the title line to this post because I can see that it's going to be the most oft-used phrase in the Infidel house for awhile. I know the truth of all things without even resorting to using my special all-knowing, all-seeing Magic 8 Ball.

The oldest Infidel daughter, Sunbum makes no secret about her love of Edward Cullen and now thanks to blog friend ALICE of the Honey Pie Manor she can proudly display her love wherever she goes! Yes, Edward is not only in Sunbum's heart but he's also now emblazoned across her heart (and chi-chi's) too.

I'm kind of a genealogy slacker- but to the best of my knowledge, we don't have even a drop of Cullen blood in our ancestry. However, yesterday, when the package bearing the name of Sunbum arrived at our house, and she tore into it and lifted out the T-shirt destined to become her main wardrobe staple- I could swear that she was sparkling just like a bonafide member of the Cullen Clan. It was a beautiful sight.

Pictures....BEHOLD!

THANKS ALICE!!!!! May you only encounter vegetarian vampires and horny-but-harmless werewolves all the years of your life.......

*Now to figure out a covert and secrety hiding place for the shirt on Sundays so Sunbum won't try to wear it to Church!*

(And as a sidenote......THIS IS THE WORST EDWARD PICTURE EVER!!! The FUG......it burrrnnnsss. Picture courtesy of gofugyourself.com)

My House Is More Ghetto Than Your House: Home Bra Repair Clinic

All teenage girls have to suffer through bouts of unimaginable humiliation in public at the hands of their mother. I'm not generalizing here. I wrote ALL TEENAGE GIRLS and I most certainly do mean ALL TEENAGE GIRLS.
Admittedly, I registered pretty high on the Dork-O-Meter as a teenage girl. However, not even my super geekiness could spin a magic bubble to insulate me from the embarrassing things my mom did.
Really, there's just so many stories to choose from regarding my mother but the one incident that stands out at the forefront of my cerebellum involves the time my mom put her intimate apparel on display for the whole world to see.
Okay, maybe that's a bit melodramatic. I mean, my mom wasn't writhing about in a bullet bra and garters like Madonna while moaning the words to 'Like A Virgin' or anything like that but she did decide to liquidate her entire outgrown bra and lingerie collection at our neighborhood garage sale one balmy Texas Saturday.
I helped my mom lug the endless boxes of crap out of our house and then I arranged it all on tables for strangers to pick through. I always enjoyed watching bargain hunters show up to haggle with my mom because she expertly disguised her true nature as a Master of the Wheel And Deal behind her blond suburban mom coif and big smile. Her years growing up in farm country and going to auctions served her well.
Anyway, through the hodgepodge of mislabeled boxes that were souvenirs of our last move my internal alarm barely registered a blip when I spied the gigantic cardboard container with the word BRAS written in wide-tip black Sharpie marker across it.
And then my mom affixed a sign to the front of the box that read 'ALL BRAS-$1.00.'
Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo........................
I got all disgusted with my mom and I kept shouting at her "What if the neighbors see this? What will they think? What about my friends? What if they show up and they go and tell everyone that my mom is a second-hand booby holder dealer? And furthermore, who the freak even buys used bras at a garage sale?"

My mom assured me that people would buy the bras......and buy the bras they did!

Big bras, little bras, bras to match your crocs, ugly bras, pretty bras, and even bras with red dots like chicken pox!

Hordes of bra hungry women excitedly rummaged through the Big Box Of Bras. Some of them even slipped the bras on over their shirts while they exaggeratedly puffed out their chests and paraded them around our driveway like it was some sort of Goodwill brassiere fashion show. (It's significantly less popular than the Victoria's Secret one.)

I looked at the scattered menagerie of bras that fell to the ground during the height of the bra stampede and I said a silent prayer of thanks that at such a brisk sales pace the bras should be gone before anyone we knew could see what nefarious offerings my mother was peddling at her garage sale of iniquity.

Granted, now that I'm an adult I fully understand what kind of ka-ching a good bra costs-- but I still can't imagine purchasing undergarments at a garage sale unless it's sponsored by a Maidenform sales rep.
Shamefully, I also have a whole drawer full of non-operational bras. It is really hard to find a comfortable titty restrainer.....it really is. You know, the friendly clerk inside the Kohl's Intimates Department is nice enough but she's not going to let me test-drive a new bra off the showroom floor--and really that's what I need. I need to test a bra out in all conditions to see how they adapt to my lifestyle. Can I work comfortably without it riding up on me? Does it make me have the dreaded Third-Boob Syndrome after a few hours of use? Are the hook enclosures easy to manage?
These are all important factors to consider. When I find a bra that I like I'll go back and stock up on that one bra model. Sadly, most of them fail the Infidel Boob Test so they get retired to the bottom of the drawer in my 'Emergency Bra Use Only' pile.
Here at La Casa De Smiling Infidel, we are on a very tight budget. There's no wiggle room for frivolous expenditures like frilly lace ta-ta torture chambers or brand new bazonga binder cups. No, I must make do with the crusty but reliable bras I already have.
In the spirit of resourcefulness unbounded I've started my own at-home bra rehabilitation clinic to extend the life of my bra favorites just a little bit longer...... Every day I fend off the deadly clutches of the Brassiere Grim Reaper.

Observe the stretched-out condition of this bra and how all the elastic strands have started showing through.

This is an easy Bra Doctor remedy that only requires the surgical precision of a good pair of sewing scissors.

See, a few snip-snips here and a few snip-snips there and it's like new once more!(Make note of the elastic amputees cast off to the side. It was quite a successful operation!)
I'm also skilled at bending the bra hooks back into shape with a pair of pliers. I'm an expert at severing the silly rose thing manufacturers stick in the middle of the bra giving you the appearance of having three nipples. I've sewn straps down that were trying to make a clean break away from the life and times of being an Elasticwaistbandlady bra. I've wielded a Super-Glue tube like nobody's business and permanently glued the adjuster clip thingies to ensure they don't slip down suddenly and leave me "hanging."

They tried to send me back to bra rehab. and I said YES! YES! YES! There's no shame in admitting you need bra help. Let me, your amateur Bra Doctor, assist you in your journey along the brassiere restoration path.

An Infidel Newspaper Carrier's Guide To Training Your Most Beastly Customers

As a newspaper carrier of many years I've learned to endure a lot......harsh weather, crappy pay, getting followed/stalked on my route, extra work for zero compensation, higher gas prices, having to pee in the middle of the night without a toilet in sight, irascible customers. I liken it to hard-core training. See, I'm stoically building up my strength both physically and mentally. It all grows thicker each and every day too because steely carriers like me don't get days off. One day I'll just naturally evolve and my chest will become bullet-proof and I'll sprout a titty arsenal like Austin Power's Fembot mercenaries.

Anyway, there's this one customer in particular on my route who suffers from an extreme bout of A-Hole Entitlement Syndrome. Poor thing. He's quite fond of standing outside in the pre-dawn hours with the express purpose of bellowing at me while waving his arms around wildly. You'd think that balding, middle-aged men residing in half a million dollar homes would have better things to do than harass their paper carriers, but no.

He demands his paper at 5:30 A.M. on the dot. That's not a problem for me because contractually that's the delivery deadline anyway. However, he's such a freakin Hershey Squirt, I purposely re-routed my entire delivery area to ensure that his paper will not arrive even one minute before 5:30. Mr. Hershey Squirts favorite trick is to wait outside on his sidewalk, cell phone in hand, to call the Chronicle the second his clock displays the magic numbers of 5-3-0 to report a 'NO PAPER' complaint. He does this incessantly even though at that same exact moment he can plainly see me making the curve to deliver his house. For those lucky individuals ignorant of the customer complaint system, the carriers get charged for complaints and it affects our overall service performance ratio. Yeah, as though this job isn't sucktastic enough. The least Mr. Hershey Squirt could do is call in a 'LATE PAPER' even though that's as dishonest as his 'NO PAPER' complaints and he knows it.

Our passive-aggressive tete-a-tete has gone on for the past year. Unbeknownst to Mr. Hershey Squirt though, my boss hates his pissy whining and always convinces the Chronicle to erase the fraudulent complaints off my record. So, basically the war between us had reached an impasse as both sides stalled in our obnoxious tacticas de guerra......until a few weeks ago.

The fluorescent green numbering on my truck clock read 5:31 A.M. I had already thrown the paper on the other side of the massive yard to escape the wrath of Mr. Hershey Squirt. He was waiting for me. He stepped out of the shadows and commenced to screaming hysterically while flailing his arms around.

Mr Hershey Squirt: YOU'RE LATE!!!! YOU'RE LATE!!!""
(He was so Mad Hatter-ish in his indignation I almost started singing, "FOR A VERY IMPORTANT DATE!" as a retort.)

After I made sure I had distanced myself enough from him that he could hear me but not box me about the ears with his fists of fury furry, I stopped my truck and frosted him:

ME: "According to my clock I am NOT late. And you know what else? (I began crazily pointing my thumbs to my chest) I'M THE COMPLAINT PERSON! That's right. Every.single.time. you call in a complaint it goes directly to ME, sucka!"

And then I sped away with my heart thudding and my newly woken up 12 year-old daughter, Stef Knee, sleepily rubbing her eyes while saying "Wow, I had this weird dream that you were calling some guy a sucka."

Yesssss, I have reigned victorious. Mr. Hershey Squirt has not called in a single complaint in three weeks. I emasculated him. I owned. I broke his spirit. I said I was going to bring it and I done brought it. I made him worship at the altar of Elastic. You see, Mr. Hershey Squirt is a wild and woolly rodeo beast in dire need of taming. If he was featured on Animal Planet he'd be classified as: a hideous hybrid creature consisting of mostly horse's patoot. I've been training for the big showdown with Mr. Hershey Squirt for nearly a year now. Who knew that the grand finale would boil down to an intense 8 seconds just like something out of a cowboy movie? 8 seconds was all it took to bring Mr. Hershey Squirt to his pudgy little knees. 8 seconds to reclaim my dignity and honor as Houston's number one newspaper carrier. 8 seconds to GLORY!

*As though you needed any further evidence of my awesomeness, here's my ranking as of May 12th. That's right, numero uno, baby! It's now May 27th and I've only received one complaint for the entire month. I told my boss that he should just address me as 'My Number One Carrier Of All Time And Eternity' from now on because it's the truth and the truth shall be proclaimed!


*I actually prefer working at night under the cloak of darkness. It's like a secret club and I can allow the naughty side of me to shine through more than I ever dare during the daylight hours. This------------> is how I "wave" to the select few customers that seem hell-bent on making my already difficult life even more difficult.

Oh Yes, It's Ladies Night And The Feelings Right.....Oh, What A Night!

Admittedly my time spent prowling around the Ladies Night scene has long since ceased. Getting married to my Papi and birthing our six mini-Infidels kind of put a damper on that flame. I saw a Ladies Night promotional flyer back in April for a local establishment. I simply couldn't resist the allure of enjoying one last Ladies Night fling before declaring myself officially too old for such frivolities.

I debated with myself over what to wear. Should I strut my stuff and accentuate my floppy, flappy baby gut with a tight pair of gold disco pants or should I opt for the glittery black velvet mini-dress my mom called her 'Millennium Dress' right before she bequeathed it to me? (It's called a 'Millennium Dress' because nobody wants to see it more than once every 1,000 years) I decided that I wasn't going there to impress anyone so I wore my standard khaki pants/knit shirt uniform.

As I drove to the Ladies Night festivities I mentally warned myself not to get too crazy. I knew I needed to adhere to a two-drink restriction since I didn't have a designated driver with me. I also worried about what people at church would think if they saw me going in there. Would they assume I'm just a cheap hussy?

Originally, I didn't set out for Ladies Night with the intention of playing the part of a 'Pick-Up Artist' but I'm weak and prone to giving in to lusty temptations. I couldn't control my busy, probing hands; they were everywhere! Before the evening was even half-over, I scored. I silently hoped that Papi wouldn't be too upset with me for bringing home my conquest that I just bagged an hour earlier. He really hates it when I go out and score without him.

Thanks To Ladies Night At Nauvoo Books And Their Accompanying Sale I Scored:
1. A book, Starchild, found on clearance for the oldest Infidel daughter, Sunbum. (By the way, Sunbum LOVES this book)
2. A new pocket-sized Primary Children's Songbook to replace our old one with the broken binding and missing pages.
3. And also on clearance, a Book Of Mormon sticker variety pack.

This was the first Ladies Night I've ever attended that I didn't sorely regret the next day. :)

Ladies, Wouldn't It Just Be Easier To Buy A Branding Stick With Your Initials On It To Mark Your Man?

We spotted this super macho Ford truck today...CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP....... deep in the heeeeeaaaaart of Texas!

Manly Chrome Package: Check
Masculine Toolbox Installed: Check
Testosterone-Tinged Bumper Sticker Referencing Beer, Strip Clubs, Or The Confederate Flag: NOOOOO!
Here's a close-up of the bumper sticker. Yes, he loves his wife so much that he slapped this tacky declaration of redneck amore right across his dirty bumper. Is this ironic irony at work here or some sort of gummy adhesive sarcasm?
Or maybe I have it wrong and there's an alternate bumper sticker explanation. Perhaps it was specially manufactured by the W.H.A.P (Whipped Husbands Acting Penitent) Society which his wife is the President and founder of. Maybe the poor guy tried to intimate to the world that he, and he alone remains the sole alpha leader of the house and then he dared hang a pair of those detestably swingy Truck Nutz from his trailer hitch just to prove it. Maybe his wife gave him the bumper sticker slapdown as a punishment when she confiscated his Bumper Balls. Maybe he's just waiting for her to kick the bucket so he can change the W to an F and make that sticker read, 'I Heart Fife.' Fife as in Mayberry's own Barney Fife. What, isn't it manly to secretly heart Barney Fife?

Whatever. One day when I'm too lazy to show my Papi how much I love him through works and deeds and action I'll show just throw an 'I Heart Papi' sticker onto my truck bumper. That should take care of it.

A Woman And Her Skin Tags Are Soon Parted

I've got tags hanging off me. Yes, tags. Lots and lots of tags. I'm like a modern day Minnie Pearl, only much fatter and my dangling tags don't have prices stamped on them because they're skin tags.
I guess those guys who laboriously write out your name on a grain of rice could pen some numbers onto my skin tags but really I'd just rather remove them than even contemplate skin tag decorating ideas.
Now you know the heartbreaking truth. I suffer from the aesthetic agony that is excessive skin tags. I'm too young to have so many skin tags. Sure, I just referenced Minnie Pearl and I have wild fantasies involving hottie Fred McMurray from My Three Sons, but I'm still young, dammit!
I know what you're saying to yourself right now as you stampede away from me, my blog, and my flawed skin, SKIN TAGS?!!?? Oh nooooeeesssss. Just know this: I'm taking care of the problem all on my own.
I started playing Tag by myself last week. Yeah, Solitary Tag...... Like that song Neil Diamond sang, "I'll be what I am, playing Solitary Tag. Solitary Tag." Wait, maybe that was 'Solitary Man' but I'm sure that Solitary Tag is what Neil meant. I bet he too suffers from haggy-baggy skin tags.
Soooo, just how do you play Solitary Tag? Well, it involves steely determination and a really good pair of tweezers.
I've given birth completely unassisted in the bath tub of my own home. I figure that gives me enough cojone power to conquer almost any obstacle.
I squeezed the nasty little skin bugger until it finally surrendered. It gasped its last breath and a few days later the detestable skin tag fell off my face and more importantly off the face of the earth, too.
I couldn't even find it to display in a graphic but tastefully done scrapbooking layout. It was just gone. I don't believe in skin tag reincarnation, either. Well, unless that pimple on my butt is really the reincarnated skin tag from my face! Ewwwww (I saved you the trouble from having to say it yourself)
I'm looking into having my trusty sidekick, Senor Tweezers, immortalized in bronze and mounted on a special plaque for the willingness to go above and beyond the call of tweezer duty in order to annihilate the enemy.

Come On In And Have A Seat!

I'm not quite sure how I should handle a delicate situation that's erupted between me and one of my kitchen chairs. It's as though this chair is determined to rebel and break out of the pack no matter how much kindness I show towards it. I don't have these issues with the 7 other kitchen chair siblings that I lovingly adopted from Goodwill last year. I guess that statistically speaking I'm fortunate to have only ended up with one bad seed, but lately my chair has been taking some rather inappropriate liberties with my rear end. I have to draw the line somewhere. I can no longer tolerate this kind of booty harassment in the sanctity of my home.

Yeah, my chair seat has a break.....a fissure......a crevice.....a crack....a line of demarcation that perfectly matches my own line of demarcation located right down the middle of my butt cheeks.

Whenever I think that we've worked out all our problems and it's safe to sit down once more, the sneaky chair will go and pinch me bum all over again. I got my derriere lecherously pinched quite a bit in my younger years so I've built up some sort of a grab-azz immunity. It's Papi that I'm really concerned about. See, like most hetero males he feels threatened if anything or anyone touches the preciousness of his mocha posterior. After being repeatedly victimized, Papi now swears that our kitchen chair is gay. I disagree. The chair seems to enjoy an equal opportunity pincher status. It's also divided in two. So, obviously, it's a bi-chair.

Since it's nearly impossible to curtail the wily impulses of a bi-chair, I think we're going to have to just sell it. I'm thinking about making it part of a Do-It-Yourself kit for the lovelorn. The kit will include a vacuum cleaner (vitally necessary for creating self-induced hickeys), a hand-held shower massager :), and the pinchy-chair to recapture a time when your butt was irresistible to the pervy and lobster-clawed. I'm secretly hoping the Sit And Be Fit exercise lady on PBS will buy it as a ratings gimmick with people tuning in just to see the reaction of that one old fart unlucky enough to get stuck with the bi-chair that week.

Just think of the rousing games of Musical Chairs to be had! Just think of sitting relatives you despise in the chair at family gatherings! Just think of the butt boils you can lance yourself at home! There's nothing the bi-chair can't do. So, who is willing to take on the duties of Infidel Chairperson in 2008?



Clickety! Gracias.

Dressed For Nursing Success

Ladies: Have you ever wanted to go out clubbing but you just couldn't find a babysitter for your still-suckling infant? It looks like the fashion industry has solved all your problems! Now, you can shake it on the dance floor while simultaneously breast-feeding your baby in these shirts that won't encumber or restrict your boobage in any way.

Me and my merry band of Infidels hit the mall on Monday and uncovered this revealing new trend in apparel. Uncovered and Revealing being the optimum words here. Who knew that the Janet Jackson's House of Exposed Titty Fashions would catch on?

*These Stores Received An Infidel Citation For Most Appalling And Inappropriate Sexualization Of A Mannequin Since The Crappy Andrew McCarthy Movie, 'Mannequin'*

When Good Bras Go Bad........

There's a sinister conspiracy afoot. As your intrepid Infidel reporter I feel compelled to bring you all the details though I risk life, limb, and the wrath of the Bra Rose Manufacturing lobbyists to do so.

I've uncovered top secret information that the Bra Rose companies have aligned themselves with the brassiere bow factories for years now and they reign supreme over the garment lobby up in Washington D.C.. Yes, they're in cahoots and working together to make women's undergarments just that much more undignified. What purpose could the sewing on of insidious satin roses and tiny, ridiculous bows possibly serve? This isn't an episode of MacGyver where we can pluck the thumbnail-sized flower off and transform it into a lethal weapon by flinging it at our enemy's eye or hiding it in their Vienna Sausage Casserole to choke them to death......as though a Vienna Sausage Casserole wouldn't kill them off all on its own.

Us women already have to deal with unsupportive bras that sag and droop and create the dreaded 'Third Boob Syndrome' in the middle of our chest-- must we also contend with this extra aggravation? I just don't appreciate giving passing strangers the illusion that I have three nipples to go along with the pushed together 'Third Boob' thingie and that's precisely how it looks when you have a small, round object smack dab in the middle of your boobage. It's something that only a nursing set of triplets or a man with three hands would get excited about. No, a Triple-Nipple just ain't flattering on a woman at all. Or a man for that matter. Remember Chandler on 'Friends' who went to great lengths to get his supernumerary nipple surgically removed? I'm sure that if women wanted a Triple-Nipple look we can get a prosthetic to achieve that effect.

I understand that my harsh criticism will likely lead to a bra securities task force being created to investigate scandalous Bra Rose misdeeds and corrupt pay-offs. It could even lead to massive bra ornamentation factory lay-offs......but the truth shall set us free. No longer will we stand idly by and be used as walking specimens for some bra creator's Triple-Nipple fantasies.

The Smiling Infidel Shower......Where All Good Bottles Go To Die

Welcome to the empty bottle graveyard. Please tread softly through with an awed hush of reverence as we memorialize these wonderful bottles and the short but productive life they led. We understand that it wasn't the eye-catching packaging that made them so special, rather it served as a mere vessel to house the more important contents within them. Yes, because, truly, it's what they had inside that counts.

I keep my vast assortment of personal shower necessities shelved in the rack that hangs suspended from the shower head because that's the designated place for them. Sadly, I'm not the sole Infidel butt that gets scrubbed in this shower stall turned communal mini-Infidel bath house. Between our two youngest children, Papi, and all of my gear, it makes for more shampoo/soap/scrubbies/sponges than you could shake a whole flock of animated Scrubbing Bubbles at. Naturally, the wee Infidels need their bath stuff placed at a convenient, easy to reach level, so I gave them their own shower corner. Papi, though, has decided to litter the entire shower bottom with his manly man variety of masculine hygiene paraphernalia. Wait! Before you all go "Awwwwwww" at how harmonious and utopian our shared shower collection arrangement seems, there's trouble in Infidel shower paradise. I discovered that nearly all the bottles have long since run dry. The ones that look full? They're full alright......of stagnanated water from the kids filling them up. It took the large size Target bag to deal with the removal of all the crap culled from our shower bottom yesterday.

Apparently, the rest of my shower sharing clan have adopted a "See No Trash, Hear No Trash, Speak No Trash, Pick Up No Trash" policy. Which leaves me to fulfill the official duties of The Shower Undertaker, all alone. Father Al Gore will jump for joy when he learns that we believe in reincarnation, though. Yes, one day, through the mystical sorcery performed down at the recycling plant, our bottles shall rise up to live once more.

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?