And This Is Why You Shouldn't Shop On An Empty Stomach And An Empty Mind

So, me and Sunbum, the oldest Infidel daughter, hit up the grocery store one late and lonely Saturday night.

Heed our warning: Fatigue and Hunger can make for a dangerous shopping excursion combo.

Everything in the store either made us drool uncontrollably or laugh hysterically.

I'm sure the other patrons were absolutely thrilled to share the narrow aisles with our picture-happy selves.

I'm sure of it!

This super special Texas "Boomerang", that suspiciously looks like a Frisbee, will always come back to you--well, provided that you recruit someone for catch and return duty. I guess one could say that Texas discourages people from playing with themselves.

A Smiling Infidel EXCLUSIVE! We spotted a rare albino Yeti lying in hibernation on the shelves. Sunbum played Yeti-Human Goodwill Ambassador and gave that Yeti a big ol' bear hug.....and you saw it here first way before the tabloids have a chance to run the story along with another "Obama Is Secretly A Reptilian" headline.

I was walking around the refrigerated section minding my own business when BOOM! a little pea salad invaded my life. You just never can predict when and where a random pea salad will happen to you. 

And your life will never be the same as every immature pea/pee joke enters your mind causing you to linger in front of the coolers laughing and spraying spittle on your sacred pea salad container. (Hey, look at me! I'm singing "I got the whole pea salad in my hands....I got the whole pea salad in my hands")

Oh, Sweet Sue, wondrous mistress of canned meat. We had never before encountered such a mystery grocery specimen as an entire chicken stuffed into the confines of one diminutive can. Naturally, I just had to spread the gospel of canned whole chicken with all our fellow grocery store patrons. I was on a mission with a Sweet Sue proselytizing quota to meet. My final victim was an unsuspecting lady in the parking lot who exclaimed "Really?!!!??? That's so weird" when informed that she too could be the proud owner of a canned chicken that by now I'd lovingly dubbed "Lucille." (Want to see what Sweet Sue looks like on the inside? I warn you, it's pretty as in pretty disgusting. HERE'S the link. There's also a Facebook Fan page of which I'm a proud member.)

Tortilla Heaven.......We're going there someday to frolic with the Churro Angels under a Fajita Sky.

Just primping and preening for our Tortilla Heaven publicity photo packet. We'd make the perfect Tortilla Heaven spokesinfidels, don't you think?

I thought the gang of little gagging & magging Dots on the box was funny. Look at their horrified expressions. One would think that they posed for the Dots artist right after returning from the terrifying new film "Nightmare On Dots Street" where the Dots buffet scene sent them over the edge.

A box featuring a gaggle of clearly grossed-out characters is certainly an interesting marketing strategy. Here's my best Dots impression.

This is quite possibly the best named product on store shelves. I can just envision a young J.J Walker, of Dy-No-Mite! fame, bellowing out My-T-Fine! as he slurps up a heapin' helpin' of pudding.

How many people looking for love cruise the grocery store aisles in search of Mr./Ms. Right? Now they can tell folks they picked up a My-T-Fine and sweet little sumthin' sumthin' at the store last Friday night. Oooohhhh baby, you lookin' My-T-Fine!

Join us Infidels next time as we share even more scintillating Texas-styled store-ies with you!

All Hail The Mighty And Powerful Smiling Infidel!

Apparently, Dr. Laura is retiring from talk radio life effective at the close of 2010.
She cites multiple reasons including the fact that she desires to continue giving advice in an unrestrained manner devoid of corporate repercussions......I don't believe that for a second.
It's glaringly obvious that she read my criticism of her and her increasing brusqueness just a few scant weeks ago.
Yeah, losing big sponsors like Motel 6 and Advance Auto Parts hurts but doesn't begin to compare to the stinging pain of being chastened by The Smiling Infidel.
Oh, the omnipotent power I wield with this lowly blog is frightening.
Who should the next target be?
My first vote would be two different shows/channels on XM Satellite Radio.
The Rosie O'Donnell show is indescribably bad. She actually interviewed a trio of brothers who became YouTube mini-sensations after filming the repulsive removal of a candle stick-looking chunk of ear wax from the one brother's ear.
Scintillating talk show fodder, right?
Second to go would have to be the Cosmo channel, a radio counterpart to the insipid Cosmopolitan magazine.
I've only listened twice and found that five minutes was the maximum amount of time I could withstand their endless Valley Girl drivel.
Two ladies in their late 20's and early 30's employed as professional commentators really should refrain from peppering each and every sentence with an inane multitude of "uhhhh's", "like, like, like's", and "whatever's."
They seemed particularly thrilled with their own brand of genius by using the analogy that finding the right man is like two puzzle pieces fitting together perfectly.
Yeah, brilliant. I've never heard that one before. It was really worth repeating ad nauseum and throwing in like, like, like to the infinite power as though that would somehow render their point significant in some way. 
Hopefully, someone slips them something into their Cosmo glass the next time they go out--something like a pill-shaped Cleverness Infusion or maybe a potent Get A Freakin' Clue vitamin supplement.
Now that the irresponsible Jet Blue airline steward and Hissy Fit Queen, Steven Slater is being inundated with TV reality show offers it's become quite clear that anyone can have their own broadcast medium these days......but that certainly doesn't mean that they should.
R.I.P Discriminating Taste And Broadcast Standards

We're A Family Suffering From The Ill Effects Of IRA

You don't have to probe too far back into Infidel family history to find early IRA victims. Do you know IRA? You should. It's quite likely that you or somebody you know struggles with the heartbreak of IRA or as its better known Inappropriate Reaction Affliction.
See, I'm like my father. We both lack the necessary sentimental gene required to make it through ballad night on American Idol. It's an absolute physical impossibility.
I laughed uproariously during the entirety of the schlocky New Moon movie while my sisters-in-law were furiously hushing me in between dabbing away their endlessly flowing tears.
My mom, however, is a living embodiment of a Mrs. Butterworth's Syrup bottle nestled snugly inside a bag of extra cheesy Cheetos.
She's subsisted on a steady diet of treacly sweet nonsense and shameless cheese for so long she has to have built up an impressive dual cheeseball/syrup storage system somewhere around her spleen.
So anyway, my parents divorced when I was 2.
A few years before passing away my father confided in me that after the divorce he was inconsolable and listened to Elton John's despondent song, Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word non-stop for several months.
I was deeply moved by his uncharacteristically emotional outpouring so I naturally assumed my mom would be equally touched by the soul-crushing pain he endured but kept so well hidden from her and everyone else for the past 30-something years.
My mom's response? She collapsed onto the sofa and shook with laughter for a good five minutes.
IRA strikes whenever you least expect it.......Curse you IRA!

"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.

Imma Be, Imma Be, Imma Imma Imma Be

Imma Be finishing up the first leg of my back-to-school odyssey very soon.
I just completed my Business Law final exam and I'm moving on to summer semester #3.
All of this means that I only have 4 classes left before I can finally leave community college as one of their most ancient sophomores and start my junior year this January at either Sam Houston University or University of Houston.
I haven't decided which one yet to target for admittance into their esteemed institution with my beg, boogaloo, beguile, and bribe with Infidel cupcakes campaign.
Yeah, I did say BOOGALOO. I may or may not be considering a bright future in the breakdancing profession, okay?
Add to that, my incredibly sharp and hard-working 15-year-old daughter Sunbum will henceforth be embarking on her third semester at college this Fall.
Papi and I are in the preliminary phases of our master plan entitled EMPTY NEST EXTRAVAGANZA and Sunbum is operating according to our grand scheme.
Now, we've called in 14-year-old Monkey for duty. She's headed to the college tomorrow to take the entrance exam and start Phase Two of the plan.
Excellent!
It may be a bit cocky but I believe that I can count my chickens before they hatch.........and then chicken dance with them in reckless celebratory abandon after they hatch.

Now I Know How The "Hard Core" Peoples In H-Town Roll!

While traversing the neighborhood last week, I spotted a young, pimped-out, pierced, tattooed, fried-and-dyed Mohawk-wearing punk standing in his driveway.....I know, big freakin deal, right? Wrong.
So, was this poster child for "Extreme Body Makeover" outside listening to some thrashin' death metal music? Or perhaps perfecting his vandalism techniques while training his beloved Pit Bull, "Lucifer's Beast" how to kill on command?
The correct answer is: None of the Above.
I witnessed this proud member of Hell's Army meticulously cleaning his midnight black T-shirt, that featured a big white pentagram on the front, with a lint brush. 
Yeah, I actually circled back around just to catch another amusing glimpse of this obsessively fastidious devil worshipper in the middle of some serious grooming action. 
T-shirt fuzz......the leading strategy in taking down OCD-afflicted minions of darkness.  
It's common knowledge that cleanliness is next to godliness but who knew that cleanliness is also next to satanliness?
Got an avowed devil worshipper on your gift-giving list? Buy a super-duper lint roller for them! Keeping the forces of darkness clean and aesthetically pleasing.......that's how they roll!

There's Only You And Me....And We Just Disagree

Ordinarily, Church doesn't qualify as a contentious experience for me. Ordinarily.
However, one of the speakers last Sunday touched on a viewpoint so incredibly outrageous and just plain wrong that I couldn't help but loudly vocalize my concern.
So there I was, perfectly in control of my attention span-challenged self and doing what I do most every Church meeting......dreaming about possible post-Church dinner recipes to try.
That's when the Sister assigned to speak interrupted my food fantasies with the most troubling of questions.
Sister Skinny actually articulated the following sentence: "Wouldn't it be great if you only had to cook and eat ONE time a week and that would be enough to sustain you?"
Flinging my precious few tidbits of self-control to the ravenous self-control eating wolves encircling my Church chair, I loudly bellowed a feisty "HECK, NOOOOOOOO" in response.
(Folks, I do, in fact, have Self Control. It's track 212 in my iPod library. I love me some Laura Branigan.)
Papi quickly shot me the Mexi-eye which is 100 times spicier and meaner than your average, ordinary stink eye. Think a laser beam made out of Tabasco.
The congregants seated behind us tittered with semi-reverent hushed laughter while my oldest son nodded his head in silent agreement with me.
The truth is, that for the Infidel family, we discuss what to eat for our next meal while we're eating a meal. I can't tell you the square root of 1,04,000 or tell you who put the ram in the rama-lama-ding-dong but I can probably recite every momentous food occasion I've ever participated in during the course of my 35 years.
I'd like to bear my testimony that eating can indeed be a very spiritual experience.
Not coincidentally, Sister Skinny is but a mere white waif of a woman.
She was immediately stricken from my mental list of potential Buffet Buddies. I'm guessing Sister Skinny's a one-plater kind of gal and not a Leaning Tower Of Melamine Dishes chick like me.
Hey, I may not wear a size negative zero but at least I always have a cheery rosy red glow to my cheeks--unlike Sister Skinny's saltine cracker pallor. Of course, the energy exerted from bending over to pick up a hymn book causes my skin to flush and turn scarlet with the mere strain of it all.
Sure, my outburst qualifies me as a contender in the Rude Olympics, but hey, that's what Sister Skinny gets for treating Sacrament meeting like it's some sort of audience participation event.
You shouldn't weave questions into your talk unless you want people to actually answer you.
She's fortunate we're not Evangelicals because if she'd followed up her most horrifying query with a peppy "Can I Get An AMEN All Up In Here, People??!?!?" I'm thinking she would've most likely been met with awkward silence.
My favorite first counselor to the Bishop--and Secret Agent Man with the F.B.I--once made the following remark a few years ago: "We're not a charismatic Church."
As I panned around the Chapel and noted a good 50-60% of the members (mostly male) nodding off or already zonked out, I had to murmur an emphatic "Right On Brother Obvious, you got that one nailed...."
He knew how to make an impactful statement dripping with truth.
I'm thinking that Food Network is not Must See T.V. for Sister Skinny. She likely doesn't worship at the altar of Alton Brown, either and she'd never, ever run away to become a Gordon Ramsay groupie. Ever.
It's an eat-or-be-eaten world out there. I fear for Sister Skinny. Maybe us larger folks are here on earth to protect the dainty among us from harmful things like sudden gusts of wind or evil food.
In which case, I take my duties very seriously.
I shall sacrifice myself and rid all the world of Hostess cupcakes.......one delicious morsel at a time.

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.

My English Professor Has Banished Me To The Land Of B-List Misfits......

I'm currently under attack from an onslaught of Killer B's.
Does it sting?
Oh yes, does it ever.
Sadly, I don't think there's any sort of exterminating spray on the market to make it go away either.
My Professor, Professor Meso Smart, may not have ever listed the position of "Professional Head Shrinker" on his resume, but he does indeed possess an amazing knack for shrinking a Jolly Green Giant-sized ego down to miniature pea status using nothing more than a scribbly wave of his red pen.
You know, I didn't even get the benefit of receiving a nifty little dangling shrunken ego keychain to carry around with me afterwards. Is it too much to expect that Professor Meso Smart at least enshrine my deflated little speck of ego into a glass display box so I can pimp it out like a freaky side show spectacle and maybe make a little ka-ching?
I ran a little experiment to test the boundaries of Professor Meso Smart's sinister grading pen.
The rought draft for my assigned opinion essay consisted of nothing more than the blandest of facts and statistics. I then proceeded to sprinkle it with some milquetoast regurgitations of wholly uninspired data to support my opinion. Pure, unadulterated drudgery.
That effort won an emphatic "A+" from Professor Meso Smart.
I labored and agonized over the final copy of the essay for a week. I passionately employed brilliant personification and mixed it with sharply pointed verbage designed to evoke an unforgettable landscape of mental imagery in the reader's head. If you can't unleash the searing fire burning in your soul within the confines of an opinion paper, then where can you?
Professor Meso Smart read my final copy and chose to sting me with yet another Killer B.
While he declared my paper to have achieved "the highest plane of critical thinking as evidenced by my argumentation and reasoning" he also said that my "exceedingly excellent paper was marred by the usage of turgid wording."
Yes, "TURGID" as in wildly exaggerated or embellished.
Other words used to describe my masterpiece: "bombastic" and "florid."
I may have tumbled off the A-list bar stool like the uncoordinated Shirley Temple-drinking lush that I am, but last week's class set the scene for my ultimate vindication.
While reading aloud to the class from a featured article in The Houston Chronicle, Professor Meso Smart stopped to slobber and praise the writer's stuffed-full-of-adjectives style as "magnificent!" He then inquired of the class: "Who in here can write like this?"
Without hesitation, my hand rocketed straight into the air as I blurted out "ME! I write exactly like that."
Stunned, Professor Meso Smart paused, momentarily closed his eyes, and then, after a brief interlude of reflection, quietly admitted "Yes, Elastic, it's true. You DO write like this."
Victory is mine!
It's not as sweet as a warrior team of A's bursting into the classroom to vanquish the Killer B's back into the realm of scholastic injustice from whence they sprang, but just instigating a moment of stark epiphany in Professor Meso Smart made the moment so very worthwhile.

Special thanks to my flappy friend, clean counter confidant, and Vicodin muse, Carrot Jello who assures me that Professor Meso Smart refuses to award me an "A" because he's so insanely jealous of my genius. I'm convinced that's the real reason.

I Finally Called It Quits With Bernard On Monday

I really thought that things were going to work out between Bernard and I.
He came highly recommended. In fact, multiples of noteworthy people testified as to Bernard's greatness......and then tattooed it all over his backside. They used glowing terminology filled with praise like "an instant classic!" and "amazingly brilliant!" These accomplished folks swore that once I got involved with the genius that is Bernard, I'd never be the same.
They were wrong.
For the past three weeks Bernard and I remained steadfast and inseparable companions. I gave him a chance to win me over. Yes, I really did, but he disappointed me at every turn.
Ours was a co-dependent relationship. Sure, I desperately needed Bernard, but his silent nagging to pick him up whenever I had a free moment really grew tiresome.
I fervently believed that by focusing on developing an intense love, or at the very least, some sort of deep understanding of him, it would conquer all our problems.
Instead Bernard lorded his academic superiority over me. He insisted on using lofty verbage so archaic that not even the combined super sleuthing team of Merriam &Webster could decipher what the freak he was talking about.
I knew from the beginning that Bernard was a bit cerebral. I struggled with his difficult, plodding nature, but I always had faith that I could change Bernard by cradling him in my arms for hours at a time while tracing his every curve with my highlighter-stained fingers.
Don't judge me, but once, in a fit of sleep-deprived insanity, Bernard and I carelessly tumbled into bed together.
Turns out he's just as boring in the sack as he is everywhere else.
Sad.
I could never take Bernard out in windy weather. Mostly because he's so dry he'll spontaneously burst into flames and cause an epidemic of wildfires. I can't have that on my conscience.
Weekend At Bernie's? Yeah, try THREE Weekends with MY Bernie. He's a little slice of pocket-sized deadweight.
So on Monday I summoned up the courage to tell Bernard that he had caused me a lot of headaches and untold grief. Bernard didn't even respond when I pulled the final plug from the respirator keeping our relationship alive. And then I told him that I never, ever, ever want to see him again.
Bernard took it surprising well when I banished him to the corner of my kingdom to sleep forever with the fishes......the silverfishes, that is.
Enjoy the Bernard Buffet, little paper-eating critters!

I Keep My Friends Close And My Chin Hairs Closer

You know how certain weed species get introduced to an area outside their native habitat and they immediately set out to virulently choke out the natural landscape? Yeah, well, wiry chin hairs keep cropping up to destroy my natural beauty despite the Herculian efforts aimed at eradicating them.
As I pondered the uses that an overabundance of chin whiskers can provide, I indulgently chuckled. I envisioned myself taking the hoity toity art world by storm as I create abstractly avant garde masterpieces using only the bristles of my custom chin hair paintbrush. I'm a humanitarian at heart but I'm woefully short of the required hair length necessary to weave a wig for Locks Of Love. I'd like to maybe make my own line of chin toupees for the hair follicle-challenged hipsters out there. It must be agonizing to attend poetry slams and indie rock concerts devoid of the de rigeur goatee. How I weep for them. I yearn to transform my own hirsute misfortunes into soul patch happiness for others.
I try to remain optimistic about life despite my smooth skin shortcomings but then I ran into my old friend Mrs. Sam at the park on Saturday.
As we chatted, my eyes kept disobediently gravitating towards Mrs. Sam's jutting chin. And then the stark realization occurred that Mother Nature is nothing more than a cruel and insidious harpy.
Mrs. Sam and I go wayyyyy back. So far back that I've actually blogged our most scintillating tales complete with hand-drawn pictures from the second-oldest Infidel daughter. From making a binding verbal pledge vowing that we'd never cannibalize one another's family in a time of famine to animated discussions of us potentially teaming up to run for President/Vice President, Mrs. Sam and I have mused about many things.
At the time (2006) Mrs. Sam seemed adamant that I ascend to the top of the ticket since a black candidate could never win a Presidential election in America. Surprise!
Mrs. Sam And I Are Both Immortalized In That Song Called "Doin Tha Butt"
An Anti-Cannibalism Contract Between Friends Who Don't Have The Last Name Donner
Anyway, I'm 30-ish, white, and I suffer with the heartbreak of strikingly noticeable black chin hair that furls and curls as it makes its way across my chin like a giant scraggly tumbleweed. Mrs. Sam is 50-ish, black, and suffers from an extreme proliferation of shaggy white chin hair as though her face is merely masking her real identity as the Abominable Snowman.
Ebony and ivory NOT living together in perfect harmony. Side-by-side on our chin pores, so gross, oh Lord, why can't weeee(afford electrolysis).
Do you see the unfairness of the situation?
Everyone desires to stand out in a crowd but this just isn't the way to go about doing it.
A chin hair swap would absolve both of us of our heavy unwanted hair burdens. I have what Mrs. Sam wants and she has what I need. If that's not possible, how about just some decent chin hair camo or chin hair ammo? Is that too much to hope for?
How I long to one day have the authority to truculently shriek: "Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin.........cause I don't have any" to an advancing foe.
*sniffle*

I Got Friends In Low Places.....

But my 9 year-old daughter Caterpillar has friends in high places!
Very high superstar-level places, that is!
And isn't that what parenting is all about? We raise our kids with the expectation that they'll become more successful in life than their parents.

I was stunned when Caterpillar received an invitation to a pizza party on Saturday to celebrate the birthday of none other than Matt LeBlanc!
I don't have a ton of money. I hope Matt really likes the Incredible Hulk action figures I got on clearance at the Dollar General store!

I grew up with a Michael Jackson who epitomized the whole "White&Nerdy" thing. He used to sign our class yearbooks like this: "Beat It! Cuz I'm The ONLY Thriller In This School! Michael Jackson 4Ever!" And then he'd draw a little white glove next to it. Yeah. I'll never forget when Michael Jackson's mom bought him a pair of black parachute pants in an effort to try and help her son fit in with his more urban savvy peers. They were 2 sizes too big and he wore them with a navy blue T-shirt that featured the Alka-Seltzer boy on it. You didn't get much street cred in the 80's wearing T-shirts that screamed out "Plop, Plop, Fizz, Fizz, Oh, What A Relief It Is" in big white letters across your back.

And now my gorgeous daughter can share in the celebrity classmate tradition with her own short and freckled version of Matt LeBlanc. Caterpillar may even be able to parlay this into a fledgling tabloid reporter career as she reveals such shocking headline-worthy news like: "I Saw Matt LeBlanc Pick His Nose Like He Was A Pro On The Pick-N-Flick Competition Circuit" or "Matt LeBlanc Chews His Bologna Sandwiches Into The Shape Of The Virgin Mary Every Day At Lunch." One article she'll for sure be able to write after Saturday reads: "I Partied With Matt LeBlanc And Have The Pepperoni Indigestion To Prove It."

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?

A Proverb From Physicians Running Behind Schedule: Patients, Entertain Thyself

Scheduling Doctor's appointments for all 6 mini-Infidels last week turned into an exercise in extreme patience.
We sat there at the clinic for an excruciating 3 hours on Friday. And then on Monday, we tacked on an additional 4 to our Frequent Vinyl Bench Sitters Rewards Program.
When will these public waiting rooms ever learn that vinyl in 90 degree Houston heat can only cause the heartbreak of excessive leg sweat?
Rivulets Of Leg Sweat: The key to keeping vinyl furniture looking shiny and smooth.

You know what I think? I think that plopping you down into an examination room/holding cell for hours on end with nothing to read except a tattered copy of Golf Digest, is the preferred method the office staff uses to administer an effective temperament test without you even realizing it.
Little do they know that 4 of us are bloggers. We're accustomed to sedentarily staring straight ahead at nothing in particular for hours on end while restricting all movement, outside of the clickety-clackety motion of our typing fingers.
We remained determined to not let the winds of boredom declare victory on us. After all, we freakin know how to make our own entertainment in a sterile and humorless room!
First thing we did was thoroughly read the instructions on the hand sanitizer dispenser. That was fun. Just as we were about to start crafting our own cast of tongue depressor characters for a rendition of Popsicle Stick Theater, I remembered that I brought along my trusty camera sidekick.

Naturally, Sunbum, the eldest mini-Infidel, remained the least inhibited.
Here she's a little bubble of unbridled enthusiasm stuffed into a fashionable Pyramid inspired gown.

And this is the precise moment where the Nurse pops that bubble of unbridled enthusiasm with a hypodermic needle filled with the meningococcal vaccine.....followed by a tetanus booster......followed by a chicken pox booster....followed by a Hepatitis A shot.....followed by a TB test.....followed by a blood screen and a urinalysis.

Sunbum is now ready to expand her circle of friends to include those afflicted with the above conditions.
You can submit friend applications here.

As several earnest but hollow promises of"The Doctor will be with you any minute now" drug into tedious hours, we started to give up hope.
Sunbum remarked that the privacy sheet she was given to cover her lower extremeties during the exam reminded her of something you'd see on a crime drama where they use a white sheet to cover up a corpse. I guess this shortened sheet is the one reserved for use on a person who's only half-dead--or for midgets.

Bored, Sunbum started fashioning her sheet into a gallery of remarkable designs. I encouraged her to. Mainly to stop myself from tying sheets together to make an escape from our third floor prison.....or a noose.
I'm going to field a guess and say that in this picture, Sunbum's representing the under-represented class of Constipated Shawl Wearers...........

Ready To Tie On The Feed Bag With A Customized Bib Guaranteed to Catch All Drips And Dribbles...........

Striking A Pose Suited For An America's Next Top Model Competition.....Or Doing The Robot. I'm not entirely sure.

People Jump Ship. People Jump Rope. And Some People Even Jump, Jump For Your Love- But Only When Listening To The Pointer Sisters. Instead, My Sunbum Jumps Sheet........

Working On Her New Line Of Du-Rags That Double As A Baby Burping Cloth........

Only A Clorox Sponsored Superhero Would Dare To Wear A White Cape........

Ghost Costume: You're Doing It Wrong!
Virgin Mary Costume: You're Doing It Right!

Sadly, not all of the mini-Infidels were so thrilled with the photographic attention as they actively shied away from the digital spotlight.

Stay tuned as next month The Smiling Infidel gang and their multitude of toothy problems, invade an unsuspecting Dental Office in hopes of depleting them of all their complimentary toothbrushes to resell on the toothbrush black market.

I Got The Most Amazing Quickie With My Papi Right In The Middle Of The Grocery Store!

At first my Papi was understandably reluctant. I mean, we're both adventurous spirits and we enjoy trying out new things, but we'd only ever gotten our Quickies over at the Dollar Store.

What would it be like getting a Quickie in the middle of the grocery store's cleaning aisle?

Just the idea of such bourgeois indulgence made me flush with a temporary sense of shame.

Still unsure, Papi leaned towards me and with the soft lilt of his Mucho Mexi accent he hesitantly asked, "Are you sure that you actually need a Quickie right here, right now? Or do you just want a Quickie? There's a big difference between needing and wanting a Quickie, you know."

To which I burst out with a much more enthusiastic response than I had intended as I exclaimed, "YES! Yes! Yes! I definitely need a Quickie!"

Papi finally relented and agreed to my persistent demands for a grocery store Quickie.

As I tightened my grasp on the smoothly rounded hardness in my hands, I knew that this was so right and so very satisfying beyond even my wildest fantasies.

The Quickie experience left me breathless.

It really got the job done.

My dishes have never been cleaner.

The Smiling Infidel Family Versus Hurricane Ike

Thanks so much to all the very special-verrryyyy special-guest bloggers that have been standing proudly on the Smiling Infidel poop deck the past few days and navigating her through the choppiest of blog waters.

We are now on Day #5 with no sign of restored electricity in sight. Like Noah releasing a dove from the ark to seek out dry land, we keep tossing our sneakers that have been tied together up in the air, praying for it to find an intact power line to string themselves up on. So far, no good.

Out of sheer boredom, Papi and I are now gold star members in the Hurricane Club. It's kind of like the Mile High Club, except you get blown (around) more and leave behind a lot of damage and debris.

So, here's the post I was slaving away on last Friday moments before we lost power courtesy of Hurricane Ike:

It's nearly 11:00 at night. We're just a few hours away from the much ballyhooed arrival of Hurricane Ike.

The tempestuous gusts of tropical storm wind has really begun to increase as evidenced by the swaying of the pine trees surrounding us..........and the special brand of Houston "Trash Tumbleweeds" blowing down the now-empty residential street where the Infidel family resides.

So did you bring back that permission slip that I gave you? You're going to need it because I'm taking you on a picture-filled field trip into the heart of our Hurricane Ike Preparation Day. Hurry up, go forge your mom or dad's signature.

Come on, you know this isn't the first time you've ever done such a thing.

Observe our special assembly of The Rainbow Flashlight Coalition. We're a very diverse family that doesn't discriminate against flashlights regardless of color, size, or shape.

CRANK THIS, Souljah Boy! Thanks to my years spent honing my hand-cranking skills on the Championship Homemade Ice Cream circuit, cranking up out little Freeplay radio is a gripping but simple task.

It's Wednesday now. I'm not giving you an updated picture of my pantry because it's starting to look sad. Below is how it looked last Friday.
We've been eating our meals straight out of cans just so we don't have to wash out bowls and plates. We're sinking lower and lower down the scales of civilized society. I think we're now just one step away from eschewing the life of finger bowls and salad forks forever. However will we get invited to a Posh Spice Dinner Banquet now, I ask you??!!??

My water bill has erroneously read $700.00 for the month. I say erroneously. The water company says "NOT erroneously. Pay up." At least our bottled water only set me back around 15 bucks.

The oldest Infidel son, Buster, will henceforth be referred to as "The Little Water Drummer Boy."
Buster made sure our water drums were cleaned, filled, and ready to go. I'm hoping that our Homeowner's Association narc that keeps harassing us about weeds in the cracks of our driveway stops by so we can play a little dunking game with him using our large-enough-to-hide-a-man's-body water drums. Wouldn't that be so much fun??!?

The mighty Infidel truck found secure housing in our garage for the first time ever.
The Infidel spawn call it a "GAY-RAJ."
I sincerely hope that we never actually meet a gay guy named Raj because that might be a bit awkward.

*Special Thanks to our neighbor who has allowed us to run a line to his generator today. He thinks I'm using it to vacuum and cook. Right. I have priorities, people!*

What's Fishier Than a Catholic on Friday? I Am!

I know what you Infidelphiles are thinking. You think you have me pegged. "I know a lot about Elastic. I know her butt sweats profusely," you're thinking. "Her husband's name is Papi and he's a sexy-Mexi hunka hunka burnin' queso dip. Her six mini-Infidels spork-fight like nobody's business and one kid was accidentally born in the tub. Elastic yelled the F word at that guy once. Yeah, I have Elastic pegged."

I'm here to tell you, in the midst of my Rocked-like-a-Hurricane Blogtopia, that you don't know me as well as you might think.

What many of you Infidel-ites may not have realized is that I have utter and utmost love for all things seafaring. Seafood, sea urchins, seamen, Chicken of the Sea... no creature residing in the Seven Seas is safe from me and my undying fishy affection.

Why, just the other day I was telling a fish story to my adorable, charming, mustache-bleaching friend, the incomparable Millie Chicken. I said to Millie:

"Millie, my love, whose lips are impossibly moist and appealing..."

Millie was a bit grossed out by this, I could tell, but continued to listen politely because that's what she does at any cost: listen politely. She's just that kind of girl.

"... Millie my angel, do you know what I love most in the world?"

"Me?" she guessed, tossing back her mahogany hair and batting her eyelashes.

"So close, but sadly, no... there is one thing on earth - OK, seven other things on earth - that I love more than you. No, actually eight, because Papi and the six kids are the first seven and then I was going to tell you this other thing that I really have a hankering for and I got so discombooberated that I lost count."

"Uh-huh," Millie intoned. I could tell she was getting bored. Of course - the topic had turned away from herself to something else.

"I really love fish."

"Fish?"

"Yes. Fish. I love to eat them. I even love to write songs about eating fish. How's this: Fishedy doo and a fishedy dye... Sammy Davis, Jr. had one glass eye..."

Millie tried to covertly glance at her watch - it was obvious she was uncomfortable - and then looked up at me. Her face was strange: it wore the look of someone who'd recently rocked out hard to Rod Stewart's "Infatuation" but had suddenly remembered that headbanging is best left to people under the age of twenty. Either that, or she was suffering a sudden attack of gas.

Then, it finally hit her. I'm talking it probably took a good fifteen minutes.

"You. Eat. FISH?"

"Yes, my choicest morsel."

"That is just sick," she spat in my face.

"Why, my dear, my darling one?"

"My... best... friend," she sniffled noisily into a yellow embroidered handkerchief, "was maimed by a harpoon!"

She whipped out this picture:

"They even had her STUFFED and MOUNTED!" she sobbed into my shoulder.

Well. Was my fish-face red that day.

I didn't stick around to get the rest of the story - a nagging voice in my fish-addled brain wondered how this was even possible - but you can imagine how awkward things have been between me and my beloved Millie ever since.

And that, my friends... is a fishy story.

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.......*

Make Sure You Have A Tissue Ready Before Reading This Post........

My sucktastic job has a rather long history of shafting their hardest workers. They continually deny carriers any pay increases to help offset some of our ever-staggering fuel costs despite the company enjoying a record profits gain last year, courtesy of their ad revenue ka-ching.

Lately though, they've taken their nickel-and-dime scrimping to all new depths of Scrooginess. The corporate powers-that-be have evidently decided that us lowly inkprint-stained peons are not even worthy enough to bother stocking toilet paper anymore down at our stinkhole warehouse. 

So now when us community newspaper carriers hold our weekly pity party at the warehouse it'll be a B.Y.O.B.W (Bring Your Own Butt Wipes) event.

Naturally, we weren't apprised of the T.P. cutback measures in advance.  My oldest Infidel daughter, Sunbum and I had to find out the hard way last week.

I hearkened onto Sunbum's pitiful cries as she bellowed out to me from the restroom: "Moooooooom, I need some toilet paper....PLEASE!"

Paper, paper everywhere....but not a square to wipe with. I know that theoretically the warehouse supplies plenty of multi-functional paper sufficient for our wiping needs, but the thought of smearing newspaper print across my giant jiggly-juggly rear end makes me shudder with revulsion. I remember pressing newspapers to my arm as a kid so I could watch the black typed letters magically transfer onto my skin. My friends all did it, too. It was the Poor Man's version of temporary tattoos. You should have seen my Silly Putty back then. It was a tattooed freak!

So after ransacking my truck in search of something, anything to help out my poor toilet-bound Sunbum, I just gave up and started singing this catchy little song I made up on the spot to the tune of Paul Simon's Slip Slidin' Away: Drip Dryin' Today, Drip Dryin' Tooddaaaay.....When You're Out Of Toilet Paper You Know You'll Be Drip Dryin' Today! 

Sunbum emerged from the restroom completely unamused. Meanwhile, I laughed so hard at my Weird Al-inspired lyrical cleverness that I found myself in need of the facilities too. 

My dutiful little Sunbum uncovered a long-forgotten pack of tissue paper, that we'd used to wrap a last minute present, shoved into the door of the truck.

What choice did I have? Of course I used the tissue paper. After all, my body is a gift, so why not use gift paper on it? Delicate tissue for my delicate tissues.......

*I left the remainder of the tissue for the next commode inhabitant to pamper themselves with because I'm considerate like that*

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.