"And Then They Told Us That We Had To Leave The Church Because Our Kids Were Too Loud........"

That is the precise snippet of conversation I overheard last week while cruising the clearance section in Target's toy department.
This 30-ish mom was animatedly telling another 30-ish mom with 3 well-behaved toddler girls in tow why nobody should ever go to this particular non-denominational church because they were so rude to "kick them out" just because the "kids were too loud."
Guess where the precious, saintly, old-enough-to-know-better boys of Senorita Clueless were at that exact moment in time? Go on, guess!
They were several aisles away where the two had helped themselves to an array of sporting goods equipment such as a baseball bat, baseball, glove, and helmets.
The misguided spawn of this oblivious mombie alternated between hitting the ball into other customers and smacking the boxed merchandise on the shelves with the not-paid-for bat leaving big dents and damage everywhere they went.
Meanwhile, Mom of the Millennium continued loudly prattling on about the injustice her family endured while never once stopping to catch her breath and find out that her boys were terrorizing everything and everyone around them.
Sadly, this scenario is becoming far too common as the dreaded Entitlement Epidemic has hit critical mass where I live--unduly affecting parents and their undisciplined children in droves.
I'm no psychic but given all I know about the worst entitlement offenders I can pretty much guarantee that the poor beleaguered minister and/or his staff politely asked this lady to get her monsters under control because they were in a church and not ringside at a WWF Smackdown event.
Naturally, she thinks that nobody should ever dare criticize her or her "little gifts from God" even if they are laying waste to Target or a house of the Lord as though it were a demolition derby.
People need to get a grip.......and then they need to get a grip on their kids.
There's waaaayyy too many parents that have lost the words "NO, NO, OH HELL NO!" from their vocabulary.

You Know That You're A Warped Mother When.....

You start screeching dialogue at your kids culled directly from the pinnacle of all horrendously tragic child abuse movies, "Sybil."

My own mom allowed me to watch it when I was but a young Smiling Infidel. Either she was confused and thought Sally Field was reprising her flying nun role or she just wanted me to see real suffering so that she'd look like an Angel Mom sent down from on high by comparison.

Come to think about it, my mom and I also watched "Mommie Dearest" together when it was on a non-stop HBO marathon run. Maybe that was her way of instilling a deep and abiding appreciation of padded hangers.

Anyway, the pivotal scene in "Sybil" shows the monstrous mother giving poor Sybil an enema on the kitchen table. The mom then strolls off to play a peppy little ditty on the piano while she cackles in a lunatic voice: "Hold your water, Sybil! You hold it until the very last note, you hear me?"

Horrible movie. And yet I can still quote it.

It's like pulling hen's teeth to get my oldest son to brush his teeth. Which, come to think about it, if he keeps up his unhygienic ways he just may need some hen's teeth transplants in the near future.

I decided to pin all my hopes for an eternity of cheap dental visits on the Toby Mac toothbrush I found on clearance at Wal-Mart.

My son LOVES Christian rock artist, Toby Mac. I love that the Toby Mac song plays for over 4 minutes and the toothbrush won't work until it senses brushing motion. I never thought I'd advocate kids putting Christian rock in their mouths.......pet rocks? Maybe.

It just so happens that after years of diligent practice, I've perfected my own cackling in a lunatic voice skill. I often use it to yell at my son, "Keep on brushing, Buster! You keep on brushing until the very last note, you hear me?"

In my defense, my son never brushes his teeth while lying down on the kitchen table. I don't even know how to play piano. That makes it okay.

Don't feel powerless in your struggles with tooth decay. Invoke the name of Toby Mac to act as your personal dental hygiene savior!

I would encourage all of you to stuff some Christian rock in your mouth today. Here's some for your ears.

Even More Things That My Mother Taught Me......

My mother, the all-knowing, all-seeing font of feminine hygiene wisdom, once instructed me to always make sure that I dry myself off completely "down there" after taking a shower or bath. She said that doing otherwise would leave the area open to mold, fungus and the possibility of mushroom growth.

It's not true. Don't ask me to divulge all the nitty gritty details of my towel-less escapades, just know that it's not true. That should be good enough for you. And thank the Merciful Overlords Of The Fungus Kingdom that it's not true either because if it was you'd be looking for a Gynecologist who also holds a degree in Agricultural Studies. And can you even imagine the tragedy that would befall you if you unwittingly stumbled right into the middle of a stampeding herd of specially trained truffle-sniffing hogs and you got trapped there?

No, my friends (MY FRIENDS??!!? WTF? Am I turning into John McCain?!!?) you probably don't want to sully your pristine towel by applying it to your nether regions, and that's perfectly okay. The laws of nature won't punish you for it.

*This goes a long way towards explaining why I hated mushrooms as a child. I also felt pity for those poor little Smurfs, forced to live inside a whole stenchy village constructed of nothing but slimy butt mushrooms.*

Things My Mother Taught Me......

When I was 5 years old, my beloved Grandfather passed on.
My mom tried to soothe away my profound sorrow by explaining that Grandpa hadn't really left us. She said he'd transformed into a beautiful angel who was watching over me....and everything I did.........all the time.......no matter where I was........Grandpa would ALWAYS be there, WATCHING me.

I refused to shower without my bathing suit on for nearly 6 months after that. I dressed myself in the darkness of my closet and slept underneath my bed at night. I constantly worried that Grandpa was going to rat me out for hiding my morning vitamins in the light fixture that hung over the table.

I feel guilty about that last one. I'm sure my Grandpa is more ARCHangel than NARCangel.

Grandpa, wherever you are........don't give up any of my trademark beauty secrets or my one-of-a-kind Fish Stick Casserole recipe. I know that you know but just keep it on the low, aight?

So Then We Were Game Playing While Role Playing While Playing At The Pool......ALL At The Same Time!

I believe in evolution.

In the beginning of the summer, the oldest of my mini-Infidels, Sunbum found her thrill on BOOberry Hill. She'd slowly and silently ascend from the depths of the shimmering pool water with her face completely veiled by her long, dark hair. Then Sunbum would turn towards me and whisper "Seven Daaayyyyyssss" in her most chillingly malevolent voice.

Now, my Sunbum retains a bronzed mochalatta-coloring to her skin. Sadly, this automatically disqualifies her from auditioning for the lead role of Samara if ever they produce a third installment of The Ring movies. The American film was adapted from Japanese cinema, so I guess Sunbum could wait around to see if Mexico will make their own version of it. In which case, Sunbum should be practicing hissing out the Spanish translation for Samara's big line: "Siete Diiiaaassssss."

You know, that Samara probably was a real terror but only because she got freakin sick and tired of having to channel her best Scooby-Doo ghost voice to keep chanting "Seven Days. Seven Days. Seven Days", ad nauseum. I can imagine her wanting to break out of her two word rut only to be shut down by the dictator-like director bellowing at her, "Samara baby, nobody really cares about your thoughts on global warming or your tips on how to decorate your well with rustic charm. Just give us the phrase that pays."

The same thing happened to that nice old lady from the "Where's The Beef?!!!" commercials.

Us Infidels may homeschool, but that doesn't mean that we're sitting around trying to outclever each other by transforming our geeky thoughts into a super-secrety, anagramatically-correct code.

Well now it's closing in on the end of the summer and Sunbum has grown weary of repeating her "Seven Daaayyysss" tag line. So, she began mixing it up a little by flipping it into an odd sort of word association game between the two of us.

Anyway, in me and Sunbum's improv word association repartee, I like to pretend that I'm really the announcer on Password guardedly whispering out the answers in hushed, secretive tones while wearing a gaudy, powder blue polyester suit.

Here's how it works: Sunbum stays in her demonic child character and gives me fresh, new phrases to work with in order to make a complete sentence.

A Few Of Our Recent Favorites: (My Answers Are After The Dotted Line)
Seven Eggs................To Make A Proper Souffle
Seven Berets...........The Kind You Find In A Second Hand Store
Seven Craig's..........And I Bought Them All For Cheap On Craig's List
Seven Cakes............For Seven Brothers
Seven Meg's..........If You Add In Seven An's You'd Get Seven Megan's
Seven Ches..........Down At The Communist Assassin Clone Production Plant
Seven Lays(potato chips)..........Told You I Couldn't Eat Just One
Seven Chang's..........To Beat The Crap Out Of The Five Browns.
Seven Pegs............ In The Lost&Found Down At The Legless Pirate Bar
Seven Legs..............My Pet Octopus After His Unfortunate Smoothie Machine Accident

Okay, it's your turn to add on!

*Sunbum did not actually watch The Ring or The Ring 2 or Ringu. She already has me for a mother. Isn't that psychologically damaging enough?*

You Should Never Sing Wildfire At The Top Of Your Lungs In A Crowded Movie Theater...........

I think that qualifies as a federal offense or something.

I didn't intend to make this an all-classic rock-all-the-time theme week. Maybe I was unknowingly possessed by the ghost of a 1970's radio DJ during the night and he's controlling my every move. That would go a long way towards explaining why I wanted to dress up in a crochet vest today and why I keep asking everyone-even the dog- "Hey baby, what's your sign?"

When I was a little whippersnapper my mom had the sheet music to Wildfire. We spent many hours of my youth wailing for Wildfire along with the earnest Michael Martin Murphey. My mom and I also sang the Bumblebee Tuna jingle over and over. Bum-Bum-Bumblebee, Bumblebeeeee Tuuunnnaaa.......... I think she was grooming me to land some commercial work and bring home either a check or a lifetime supply of canned Bumblebee Tuna.

Anyway, I ran calling Wiiiilllldfiiiiire so often that I'm surprised I wasn't branded by the neighborhood residents as The Girl Who Cried Wildfire. No, we didn't live on Yellow Mountain. I think those people got accustomed to a lady screaming "Wildfire!" a long time ago.

There's a particularly memorable line from that song that goes:
There's been a hoot-owl howling by my window now
For six nights in a row
She's coming for me, I know
And on Wildfire we're both gonna go

When the oldest of my mini-Infidels were younger we had a scintillating discussion about owls because an owl family decided to nest in the tree right outside their bedroom window.
The conversation turned towards that line in Wildfire. I explained that Michael Martin Murphey (Seriously, that name is so freakin long. Why can't we just call him MMM?) wrote that because according to Indian legend, an owl perched outside your window means that somebody is going to croak off and croak off soon.

That was a big mistake. One that should be chronicled into the humongous tome filled with my sometime appalling parenting skills.

The three of them were terrified of sleeping in their rooms because with every piercing Hoo-Hoo of the owl they grew more and more certain that signified death swooping in to take them away.

So traumatic. When I was a child I was terrified of owls, too. But that's only because I knew they couldn't be trusted to be honest with you if you gave them your Tootsie Roll pop and asked them to tell you how many licks it takes to get to the center.

The owl family eventually took their Hoot-a-Palooza across the street to our neighbors. They have a magnificent oak tree with branches that extend towards the heavens and a trunk big enough to shield me when I duck behind it to avoid the Boy Scouts peddling popcorn on our street. It's far superior to our lowly pine. Snobby owls.

So there you have it. Need a guest room? Import some owls to live in your trees and then tell the Indian Legend of Certain Death to your smallish children. They'll refuse to ever step foot back in that room again and you'll have gained valuable bedroom space.

Michael Martin Murphey On Letterman Performing Wildfire

*Holy freak, MMM aged really well. He retired his 70's blond bob look that he stole from Toni Tennille along with his puka shell necklace and he now looks like a respectable older cowboy. A cowboy that wears impractical non-weatherproofed fringe suede, but you know. He should have passed his ten-gallon cowboy hat around the audience to take up a collection. Maybe MMM made a lot of money selling Wildfire to the glue factory at the same time he was selling copies of the Wildfire song and doesn't need the cash that bad. Who knows? He ran calling, whooooo will buy Wildfire..........He ran calling, whooooo will buy Wildfire.......*

The Science Of Isolating And Deleting The Hoochie Gene

Nature vs. Nurture: Do you believe in it?
Is it possible to overcome some of our more negative genetic traits and predispositions simply through discipline and corrective behavior?
My answer formerly would have been a resounding YES!!! but now I think it's just much more complicated than that.
We've known a family in our neighborhood for a long time. Their oldest daughter is the exact same age as our second oldest daughter. They used to be good friends as they both shared many of the same classes prior to our decision to withdraw our kids from public school in order to homeschool.
The girl is 12. Her parents chose to let her know from an early age that she was adopted and she's even had limited contact with her birth mother over the years.
Here's the thing.....the mom told me awhile back that the birth mother is the embodiment of all things hoochie including her manner and style of dress. The mom further confided that despite a Christian upbringing in the church and strict parenting their daughter shows a natural inclination towards picking out trashy clothes and acting inappropriately.
Fine, flash forward 3 years and its like the parents have given up all hope. The girl is snotty and shockingly rude as she backtalks her parents and prances around in a barely-there bikini at the neighborhood pool.
The girl has decided that my daughters aren't cool enough to hang out with (YAY!) and snubs them.
Yesterday took the proverbial cake, though.
This girl spent the entire time at the pool hanging out with an obese teenager who also insists on cramming herself into a bikini.
What were they doing together? Why, the jail bait duo were extremely busy FLIRTING outrageously with the lifeguards complete with hair flip sass, sideway hip thrusts, and running their hands over the much older lifeguards . :0
It gets even more appalling. Someone had drawn tattoo-looking pictures all over this girl's body with a Sharpie marker. (Think Goldie Hawn on Laugh In)
I kept waiting for the girl's mom to tell her kid to get her skinny azz back in the pool or they were going home but she did nothing but continue flipping the pages of the book she was reading. Un-Freakin-Believable.
Both of the parents were older and struggling with fertility issues when they adopted the girl as a newborn.
So I wonder if being at a more advanced parental age means they're just too tired to care anymore or if maybe they made peace with the way their daughter is because they want some semblance of serenity at home.
Who's to blame? The sex-drenched media encouraging promiscuity? The public school influence? The parent's seeming surrender? Or do you think there's certain attributes so ingrained in us that we're doomed to be the sum of our genetic quality?

Chronicles Of Appalling Parenting: Sunday Night Palm Reading

So, me and the mini-Infidels were sitting around on Sunday evening just chillaxin and reading each other's palms.
What? Doesn't every religious family break the Biblical commandment about divinification and read palms on Sunday immediately following church services?
Anyway, my daughter, Caterpillar(so named for her giant, furry eyebrows) played the part of an 8-year old soothsayer.
She carefully examined the deep crevices stretching across my palms. She answered all my questions without hesitation; deep, profound questions like:
Will I die before I'm 30?
Will I have children?
What am I going to cook for dinner tomorrow?
And then it was Caterpillar's turn.
I lovingly took her small, bronzed hand in mine and announced that the long line across the middle of her palm was the designated "Eyebrow Indicator." I showed her that a continuous line means that she's destined to have an eternal uni-brow and one day grow up to assume her role as Bride Of Uni-brow and have many uni-browed children running around.

The oldest of the mini-Infidels, Sunbum then led us gaily into song.
There's nothing quite like the soaring sound of a family singing as one harmonious a chord.
Did we gather around the piano to sing from the hymnal?
No.
Did we use the Children's Songbook from Church for uplifting musical inspiration?
No.
Sunbum directed us while we heartily belted out Hall & Oate's song, Maneatear.
"Ooooh, here she comes. Watch out, boy she'll chew you up!"
We often sing Maneater while walking through the aisles at Sam's Club.
Sunbum is so well-rehearsed at it that she throws in this hand-snapping motion as she sways from side-to-side and jazzily shakes her shoulders.
With those moves, Sunbum will definitely land a major role in Hall & Oates:The Musical!

Well, in my defense as a mother, Hall & Oates are always described by music critics as "blue-eyed soul."
Technically, we all engaged in singing sweet, sweet music full of soul on a lovely Sunday evening.
Yes sirree, it was quite a hootenanny until my youngest son asked to be excused.
I guess his soul was all filled-up courtesy of Hall & Oates.

It's Fantastic-Frou-Frou-French-Food Friday!

This Frenchy-French Crepe Cafe opened up here in the Houston suburbs last summer. It's a welcome change of pace to have a bit of Ooh-La-La added to the landscape since we've already reached the maximum quota allowed per capita of Mexican restaurants that specialize in serving food identical to your favorite Banquet brand heat-and-eat frozen dinner entrees.
I guess as parents we just haven't infused enough culinary culture into the life of our mini-Infidels because oldest daughter, Sunbum had no inkling that there even existed a magical world of crepes nor did she have the knowledge of how crepes function as a pancake-like vessel bringing a hidden treasure of tasty fillings right to your plate. In fact, so hopelessly crepe-incompetent was Sunbum that she kept pronouncing crepe as "creep."

So, a few moments after picking up the Crepe Cafe menu and making the obligatory offensive Gay Paree jokes, Sunbum began reading over the menu and making Mmmmmmmmmm noises and commenting about how Italian creeps looked really good to her and how bad she really wanted an Italian creep.
Shocking as the moment was I had to pull it together and inform Sunbum that as her mother I would neither condone nor support her dream of having an Italian creep. I reminded her that as enticingly hot as an Italian creep may appear on the outside that the inside stuffed full of excessive body hair and gold chains was sure to disappoint-and isn't what's on the inside that really counts? It worked. Sunbum conceded that maybe a powdered-sugar strawberry crepe was more suited to her tastes. (Should I also worry that my daughter has a thing for fruity creeps?)

Thank heavens. I really would hate to have to send out wedding announcements regarding the nuptials of my oldest daughter, Sunbum Soprano.


Look, to the best of my knowledge, humor-blogs is not a Mafia-affiliated organization and they don't employ narcs. However, they do still know when you click on this linkie for me because your click moves me up to the deee-luxe apartment in the sky instead of moving me down to sleep with the fishes. CLICKETY! Gracias.

The Ties That Bind.......Are Made Out Of Toilet Paper!

It's a Smiling Infidel Theme Day! Yay! See if you can guess the cleverly hidden main idea that runs through each short paragraph.

My boss had the nerve to give me my paycheck in this pissy little envelope. Third best? Third best??!!!!? Who is he kidding? None of his other employees would have gotten their bruised and battered body out of their completely demolished truck to go finish their route. None of them have gone to work the day before delivering a baby. I'm a distinct cut above the rest of his stable warehouse of manual labor donkeys. So, I waved the envelope in his face while haughtily demanding to know, 'What's The Deal, Yo?' My boss just laughed, until I told him, 'If you don't make me number #1, I'm going to throw my number #2 at you.'
I watched with eyebrow-raised interest as Mini-Infidel Daughter The Second, ironically enough, nicknamed, Monkey, crawled stealthily across the living room carpet on her belly like a jungle predator waiting to pounce. I wondered aloud if she was preparing for a home turf war by practicing some form of 'Guerilla Warfare Technique.' Monkey simply looked at me and grunted. So then, I lept off the sofa and went running all crazy towards her with my fingers extended and wiggling, while frothily yelling, 'Oh yeah? I'm declaring Gorilla Finger (thanks Urban Dictionary!) Warfare on you!' Monkey started screaming and frantically trying to retreat before finally surrendering to me and my imitation Gorilla Fingers. Sweet Gorilla Finger Victory! Perhaps I've stumbled upon a useful weapon to use on the battlefield.
(If I ever chance to meet Naomi Watts or Jessica Lange, I'm going to tell them they smell like Gorilla Fingers!) And finally, amid a chorus of vocal discontent emanating from my girls' room, I peeked in to find them walking in circles around the perimeter of their bedroom. Apparently, they feared that my son, Buster, had taken up permanent residence in the toilet, and they all got struck with poop feeling at the same exact time. Buster instructed the girls through the bathroom door, that the best way to stave off crap cramps is to walk around in circles.....and so they did. Hear the song playing? That's Soul Coughing's song 'Circles.' It goes: "I don't need to walk around in circles, walk around in circles, walk around in circles....." Well, how very nice for him. Apparently, he doesn't have to share his crapper with a gaggle of bloated siblings.

Better Never Sing 'Hit Me With Your Best Shot' To Heather, Because She Will!

Every since my oldest mini-Infidel and I heard news reports about the former Mrs. McCartney, Heather Mills, savagely beating Sir Paul over the head with her prosthetic leg in a fit of rage, we've worked it into an endless amount of jokes. (I bet 64 year old Paul never anticipated this turn of events when he wrote his song 'When I'm 64)

Our favorite? Well, whenever the radio plays 'Legs' by the legendary bearded H-Town band, ZZ TOP, we start giggling about Heather Mills. I always thought that song trite and stupid. I mean, I've got legs, and I'd venture to say that the overwhelming majority of women do. Do I know how to use them? Certainly I do. To stroll to the counter at the Donut Shop. To chase my laughing mini-Infidels in an effort to recapture my bra that they're wearing as a hat. To conduct human hair growth experiments to see how long the leg hair gets in between shavings. For serious things too, like putting both legs in so I can do the Hokey-Pokey and turn myself around. There's just no limit to the uses for my lower limbs.

So, um, Heather Mills also has legs, prosthetic or otherwise, and boy, does she know how to use them! We silently dedicate 'Legs' to Heather each time we hear it, and we even have our own made-up choreography where we flail our arms up and down in a chopping motion. Maybe she was really influenced by John Mellencamp's song 'Get A Leg Up,' well, before she brought it crashing down on a Wing-less man.

(In case anyone thinks I'm grossly insensitive, I thought Heather did an amazingly fantastic job on Dancing With The Stars)

Melody.......Grand Master Of The Tit-For-Tat Game!

My Melody got a cute new fishy bathing suit courtesy of the end-of-summer-clearance onslaught going on at all the local stores. As if. We wear flip-flops and shorts in Houston 9-10 months out of the year. Yep, we're just one long continuous season. One long continuous HOT season interspersed with a few hurricanes and tornadic activity, that is. Yeah, Richard Marx was definitely singing about H-Town in his song, 'Endless Summer Nights.' So, what goes better with a picture of an adorable girl than an adorable story?
As I sat on the sofa, talking on the phone with my mom and fending off nosy Melody with my free hand, she mentioned something about Melody's chubbiness. I put the phone to my shoulder, and teasingly told Melody that her Grandma said that she had a fat butt. Melody blinked her eyes, and asked, "What Grandma?" I told her it was my mom. Melody smiled and blurted out, "Oh, your mom? The one who pooped her pants?" I couldn't stop laughing, and at that point my mom sighed mightily as she hung up and asked if we were ever going to let the story of her dire misfortune go.

No, we probably never will.

Sins Of Light-Minded Laughter Abounds!

While I sat, perched at the computer last week, my oldest daughter, Sunbum, nosily peered over my shoulder so she could read my iTunes play list. Of course, the only thing she noticed immediately was the one marked with a bright red 'Explicit' next to it. Sunbum asked me, "Mom, whys that song marked expliSHIT?" After I got done laughing at her ironic gaffe, I explained that objectionable language probably earned the track an explicit rating.

So, yesterday, as we're frolicking through Michael's Craft Store for yet more ribbon to add to my ever-growing, obscenely massive ribbon collection, Sunbum suddenly shouts to me from a couple aisles away, "Hey Mom! Do you know how to CROTCH-STITCH?!!??"

Well, if I did, I could have sewn myself back together after her very painful birth. Now, that's expliSHIT!

Pop Tarts: The Box That Pandora Opens When She's Looking For A Treat

The Infidel family wields our sanctified purity like a big stick. So, naturally, when I realized that unscrupulous marketers, eager to oversexualize our impressionable children, had moved onto furthering their seedy agenda with the animal cracker market, I knew that the time had drawn nigh to seek out a snack food without heathen ties to it. Pornographic images of copulating animal crackers do not belong at our hallowed kitchen table. I felt an inspired prompting to begin buying Pop Tarts as a wholesome alternative to the X-Rated animal crackers. Sadly, the heartbreak of Pop Tart addiction soon followed.
Ummmm, NO, not these supposed Pop Tarts that are really Cheeseballs in Pop Tart disguise. We've received divine instruction to partake of all things in moderation. I couldn't stand idly by and allow my beloved mini-Infidels to spiral down into the swirling vortex of Pop Tart dependency, so I forced them to face their empty calorie addiction and stop cold turkey. The Infidel Homestead has remained Pop Tart free and clean for 2 weeks now, but the hallucinatory withdrawal symptoms linger on. I say.....Be Gone Devil Cat Of Doom In The Pop Tart Box. I know who ye are!

Pop Tarts have proven a cruel mistress. Look at their blindingly shiny packages that beckon and tempt us weak mortals, flauntingly playing on our love of reflective things to lure us into their sinfully delicious web. We're Texans, and as such, my boys wear cowboy boots and big belt buckles. The Pop Tart demons that we worked so diligently to defeat, once again reared their ugly heads yesterday. My boys polish up their cowboy boots every Sunday for Church using the pre-moistened wipes infused with shoe polish that you see pictured on the right, next to its Pop Tart twin. Some hapless soul left that Pop Tart package doppelganger out on the kitchen counter, thus forcing all who passed by its leering metallic shininess to pounce upon it and scream with obvious insatiable Pop Tart lust, "Pop Tarts! We have Pop Tarts in the house again. Rejoice!" My strong moral compass wavered, as I too fell victim to the ruse, and stampeded over my kids in an attempt to try and grab the assumed Pop Tart package first and claim it as my own.

Such wicked and unholy deceptions.

Fertilize This!

Look at me. Look at how happy I am. Nothing makes me feel more fulfilled than fertilizing the weeded jungle that is my yard. I just can't get enough of it. Whenever I catch sight of my super duper special fertilizer spreader, my smile just grows ever broader. I practically prance joyfully as I push around my lethal weapon on wheels and listen to the plaintive cries of the weeds as I crush the life out of them.
Ummm, no. That's not really me. Truthfully, I would never garden in a clean and starchly pressed button down shirt. Who does that? Wouldn't wearing a belt impede bending over to do the nasty deeds involved with gardening? And look at that lady, you just know that she's only giving a cheesy smile for her big photo op and as soon as her moment in the flashing gardening paparazzi sun is over, she'll drop that fertilizer spreader like a hot potato and relinquish control of it back over to Jose and his landscaping crew that has dutifully tended her yard for the past two years. Hey, I'm just here to keep it real. For real, y'all.

So, how much of a lazy gardener am I? Well, I waited until a forecast of torrential rain before I dragged my mardy bum out to the garage to pull out our fertilizer spreader that only sees the light of day twice a year. You see, I didn't want to have to fertilize and water it into the yard too. Crap, what do you think I am? A gardening machine? No, better to let nature take care of the watering part. Here's where it gets good. My little monkey spawn, eager to escape the confines of the house, begged me to set them free with a promise of helping out in the yard. I told those little barefooted heathens that they better put on some shoes first. I squatted down in the yard and waited patiently for them to emerge from the house. They all burst happily through the front door and then just stopped, mid-step, to stare at me. My oldest daughter, Sunbum, screwed up her face, and asked me what I was doing. I told her simply, "Just fertilizing the yard without using environmentally damaging chemicals, honey. It's the Al Gore endorsed way." I then waved to the rest of my underage landscaping team, saying ,"Come on, you guys better hurry up and squat down to do your business too. We have a lot of ground to cover here."

And that, parents, is how you take crap from your children and use it to your advantage.

Chronicles Of Appalling Parenting: Chapter Six

Click On The Title For An Amusing Surprise.

In yet another thrill-a-minute installation from the continuing journal of poor parenting practices implemented at the house of The Smiling Infidel, we bring you episode number 6 entitled, "You Don't Know SQUAT."

Delivering 6 babies in 7 years, and changing diapers nonstop for a decade, permanently alters brain function and capability. I'm holding constant exposure to overpowering toxic fumes culpable for my mind warp. Back then my days were nothing but crap. Literally. Cleaning crap from babies, dog, lovebirds, myself. If only we knew how to harness the power of methane gas at home...............

What does it mean when a child suddenly stops, drops, and grunts? I think we all know the answer to that question. Countless times I felt dread welling up in my heart as I recognized the straining sounds coupled with the loathed squat position. It could only bring poopy diaper changing sorrow for me and monetary happiness for the Diaper Genie company and Huggies. My once sound mind is defiled with the imprinted connection between squatting and cleaning feces out of the every dimpled crevice of a squirming toddler. Not pleasant.

It all started out on a whim; whenever one of my kids would stoop down and close their eyes, I'd rush over and playfully topple them while yelling out, "No squatting allowed!" This patented caca warfare tactic usually surprised them enough that I could then proceed to scoop them up to make an emergency toilet run, thereby avoiding unnecessary butt scrub duty.

My poor example has irrevocably tarnished the otherwise genteel nature of my impressionable children. They're scarred to the point that they cannot tolerate seeing anybody squat down without having to suppress the urge to push them over, and triumphantly declare, "Hey! No squatting!" Every single one of my children has guiltily engaged in this unbecoming behavior. They terrorized their peer group at camp two years ago. Nobody felt safe to crouch in the presence of my two older girls. Nobody. Sunbum acted as a one woman S.Q.U.A.T team as she ambushed a whole group of squatting boys; knocking them over like bowling pins. So far, my spawn have managed to control their "push and run" impulses. Only kids their age and fellow siblings are likely to fall prey to the oppressive "No Squat" regimist task force. I sincerely hope that they can continue to contain the squatting fury that roils inside of them.

Perhaps, this is the year that our homeschool studies should include a few lessons on "Squatter's Rights." Unless a territory is labeled, "A No Squat Zone", then legally they don't have the right to prevent others from enjoying a good squat in public. I'm hoping to at least get them to a mental place where they can watch, "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon", without telling the characters, "Get up! No squatting!" Such lofty goals, have I.

Chronicles Of Appalling Parenting: Chapter Five

This moment in classic INFIDEL gardening history brought to you in part by a grant from The Mommy Dearest Society Of America. "May all your hangers be padded".
Three of my kids harbor an extreme aversion to getting wet outside of a shower or the pool. Even if it's just a few droplets, they completely freak out about it and throw a pouty little leprechaun tantrum. I say leprechaun because they stomp their feet like they're performing an Irish jig.

So, my Melody thought she escaped from my evil clutches by running into the presumed safety of our house. There she stood in the window taunting me and sticking out her tongue. Unfortunately for her, she neglected to notice that the window was wide open to catch a rare cross breeze blowing through. Taking full advantage of this, I made my move. The blast of the water hose on "JET" setting, easily hit its mark. The force of gushing water startled Melody so bad that she just froze in a pose of disbelief. Finally, she started screaming at the top of her lungs and ran to get Papi so that she could tattle on me. Melody kept telling Papi, "Mommy's bad girl. You need to spank her". As though that's even a punishment for me.

In summary, yeah, I had to wipe up all the water inside the house. Yeah, it was a mean thing to do. Yeah, I did laugh myself silly about it. There goes my "Mother Of The Year" nomination.

Chronicles Of Appalling Parenting Chapter Four

KANDOO. The Official mascot of The Smiling Infidel.
I changed my avatar to feature the World's most beloved frog, KANDOO, because of the significant contribution he has made in my household. After great reluctance from our toddler son to potty train we started purchasing some of the hygiene products from this amazing line manufactured by Pampers. The flushable wipes are fantastic and has helped our son to master the art of arse wiping without all the yucky laundry that goes along with that sort of training. We convinced him to use the toilet by showing him the butt wiping frog and telling him that if a frog can use the commode, wipe his little froggy derriere, and wash his webbed fingers with foaming soap all by himself while bearing a large smile, than surely a smart 3 year old can do the same. Added bonus is the beguiling "Tropical Jungle Fruit" scent. My Papi likes to use them too and I can always tell what he's been up to when I whiff the unmistakable fruitiness as he saunters past me. Tropical Jungle Fruit scented butt is indeed a lovely fragrance to behold.

What, may you ask, does all this have to do with former 80's superstars Hall and Oates? Well, while driving around the other day their big hit, "I Can't Go For That", started playing on the radio. My kids and I listened intently and sang the lyrics that we knew when all of a sudden my toddler son, Boo Boo, noticed that Daryl Hall passionately belted out the words, "I can't go for that. No I, NO CAN DO". My Boo Boo got all excited and said, "Mom, do you hear that? He no have KANDOO"! We started laughing, but then I paused to think about what a thankless job that must be to wash out the skidmarked panties of a faded superstar who doesn't utilize the advantage of KANDOO. Maybe that's one of the jobs filled by an illegal worker just doing the job us Americans don't want to do. The upside of Hall And Oates and their "No KANDOO" status, is that crappy underwear is a sure deterrent for a "Man Eater". Maybe instead of adding your kiss to their list, they'll instead add a box of KANDOO to it. Somewhere, a Rich Girl and Sara is smiling.........

Chronicles Of Appalling Parenting:Chapter 3

When you spawn a lot of kids in a short amount of time, it's inevitable that some long standing familial traditions will become lost along the way due to sheer parental exhaustion. We decided to follow through with the timeless charade of 'The Tooth Fairy'. You know, the benevolent winged being that appears out of the ether and descends towards a child's pillow during the nocturnal hours. They deftly maneuver around the streams of kiddie drool to swap out lost and bloodied teeth for money.

After awhile, the fallen teeth really started to pile up around here. So much so, that I freakin could have gone into a denture making business. Occasionally, I found myself without the proper coinage to make the sneaky switch. One morning we woke up to two sounds. The first belonged to our oldest daughter, Sunbum, who was sobbing inconsolably that the Tooth Fairy had forgotten her. Sunbum followed that mournful observance by announcing that she had wet her bed........ again. Any sort of sympathy or parental guilt over the forgotten tooth/money exchange dissolved immediately when looking at her sodden, wet sheets. The overpowering stench rivaled a men's urinal down at the decrepit neighborhood sports bar. (Don't ask me how I know that)I turned to her whimpering 5 year old self and told her in my best super sacharrine mommy voice, "Oh, this is really awful, baby. You peed your bed again and drowned the poor Tooth Fairy in a big, nasty pee puddle". Even worse, I informed Sunbum that the Tooth Fairy received a swishy toilet funeral and farewell because the weather outside proved too cold to dig a hole and carry forth with proper Tooth Fairy burial rights.

Thus far we've blissfully escaped giving out lost tooth money for the past 5 years. However, the other children continue to glare menacingly at Sunbum and point the finger of blame towards her for their missed financial opportunities. BAD, BAD PARENTING SKILLS! But then, is it really right to propogate lies and pretend that we're tooth obsessed fairies, giant chocolate egg bearing bunny rabbits, and a fat man with a milk and cookie fetish?

Chronicles of Appalling Parenting:Chapter 2

Listening to Dr. Laura dispense her brand of tough love and pious advice over the radio airwaves has become a guilty pleasure of my daughters and I. Dr.Laura has stated emphatically on many occasions that there is no such thing as 'repressed memory'. I beg to differ with her.

One of the most amusing phrases that I heard during my teen years was, "Shake it, don't break it, it took yo mama nine months to make it". It was oft repeated amongst my friends. Subconsciously, I absorbed that into my own vast wealth of knowledge(yeah) right alongside scintillating memorized quotes from luminary figures like Twain and Washington. Over the years I'd forgotten the original source of such wisdom. As my children enjoy replicating daredevil antics combined with the fact that we've occasionally lacked health insurance for long periods of time, I regularly quote that line, and then we all laugh. Imagine the horror while listening to my beloved XM radio as a song came up entitled, 'Pop That Cootchie', by none other than the infamous 2 Live Crew. A depraved group of men banned from many countries for their hedonistic onstage exploits. As the song played for a moment the knowing air of familiarity enveloped me and then I heard it, my favorite phrase, and it reassured me that I am indeed slated for future residence in the Telestial Kingdom.

Never would I knowingly sing the lyrics of a 2 Live Crew song to my impressionable young children that we're trying to instill moralistic values in. There's only one culprit for such an atrocity and repressed memory be thy name. If my children grow up to be filthy exhibitionist rappers, that's what I'm using for my defense.