Once Upon A Mattress (Store).........

Yeah, this post is entirely too long but it's really funny, completely factual, and has the potential to be turned into a very special Mattress Movie Of The Week.

So last week, the youngest Infidel son decided to cast himself in the starring role of a new reality show called I'm A Little PEEPOT! Yep, he's a little PEEPOT, alright, short and stout; he tipped himself over (onto my bed) and poured it all out.
My son, the mattress assassin.
I suppose it's only fitting that Senor Pissalot himself brought about the final demise of our long-suffering mattress since he was birthed into this mortal coil on that very same mattress seven years ago. It's akin to a mattress version of The Circle Of Life.
R.I.P Marital Mattress. For 14 years your creaky spring coils and saggy padding endured a lot of blood, sweat, and tears.......and crumbs.
All of a sudden, I feel like mournfully singing a verse or two of Sunrise/Sunset.
Up until last week I was still a mattress-buying virgin, pure and mild.
Nothing in my lifetime could have prepared me for the bed-hunting odyssey that came to pass.
The three oldest mini-Infidels and I wandered into a snooty furniture store to browse and found ourselves getting stalked by this unbelievably geeky, bespectacled salesman in a rousing game of mattress showroom hide-and-seek.
That was fun, especially when we ducked into the next display and watched the salesman devolve into a total state of confusion as he spun his reed-thin neck around Exorcist-style in a futile effort to scan the demo furniture landscape in search of his escaped quarry.
So then we sauntered off next door to the Mattress Expo store where I quickly located a Mattress Queen suitable for an Infidel Queen like myself and at a fairly reasonable price, too.
I sat across from the fusty and abrasive salesman as he wrote up the receipt and arranged a pick-up time for the next day.
At that moment, the other sales guy-who'd been content to passively plop himself down on one of the mattresses during the whole purchase process-seized upon the opportunity to unexpectedly lean over and growl into my ear: "Tomorrow, when you come to pick up your mattress, it'll be just YOU and ME because your kids will be back in school."
And then he sniffed my hair.
I'm very disappointed in Head&Shoulders anti-flake formula shampoo. That stuff should have been like Kryptonite to this flakey guy.
Thoroughly creeped out but too startled to speak, I glared over at this younger version of Jerry Stiller clad in a tacky olive green-hued bowling shirt while he simply smirked lecherously back at me.
I would have liked to christen him with an apropos nickname like "Pillowtop Pushing Perv" but I found out that he actually goes by "Scoobie."
Yes, Scoobie.
Old Scoobie going around sniffing for a Scoobie Snack but the only thing he'll ever get from me is a gigantic Scoobie SMACK!
The oldest Infidel son, Buster, puffed out his chest and curtly told Scoobie that he would be accompanying me to the store the next day and that he takes Kung-Fu.
Scoobie looked disappointed but that didn't stop him from jiggling his paunchy belly in our faces as he showed us his nerdy Ninja moves while singing "Everybody Was Kung-Fu Fighting" off-key.
Upon leaving the store, Scoobie sent my personal Creep-O-Meter soaring through the stratosphere. As we hurriedly stampeded towards the exit, he bellowed out: "Ma'am, don't forget that mattress has a 10-year warranty on it......but don't let ten years pass before you come in and see me again......"
Ewwwww.
I started to wonder if I'd inadvertently stumbled into someplace other than Mattress Expo. Could it be that some of their outside lettering either shorted out or fell off?
I mean, Scoobie acted as though he'd be more comfortable employed at a store called Mattress EXXXpo or Mattress Exposed.
Poor Scoobie is too short to work at Mattress Giant because he's a Mattress (Mental) Midget. Mattress King is also out of the question. The only regal title Scoobie qualifies for is Royal Pain In The Ash.
Mattress Firm? Ummm, no. Fuggedaboutit.
Later in the day, as I relayed the shocking events to my mom, she started laughing and told me that James, the surly salesguy who'd attended us, had hit on her when she'd gone in to pick up her mattress a few months ago.
According to my mom, James loaded the mattress up and then breathily told her that she couldn't possibly handle the mattress without help and that he'd just come home with her and set it up in her bedroom, free of charge.
She declined the offer.
I think Scoobie and James are suffering from a severe onset of delusions; likely a residual effect of inhaling way too many noxious mattress factory fumes during the course of their careers.
I mean, really, has any woman in history given in to these cheesy come-ons? Do these guys think that any lady, anywhere, will suddenly turn to them and sultrily say "Sure, let's go put some mileage on one of these mattress floor samples, right now!"
I bet there's some sort of Mattress Man Monthly publication that James and Scoobie are just dying to write a letter to that starts out with the ubiquitous line: "Dear Mattress Man Monthly: I never thought something like this would happen to me, but........."
Well, I don't happen to know anyone of the female persuasion willing to give them fodder for their steamy story swaps over at the annual Mattress Man convention.
Needless to say, the prospect of another Scoobie encounter didn't thrill me so I forced Papi to sign up for mattress retrieval duties.
I'm happy to report that Scoobie did not make a move on Papi even though he wore his most sexiest, butt-hugging pair of Levi jeans.
Scoobie must subscribe to the "It's 2009 and any lady, any at all, is just FINE!" philosophy.

*By the way, I do LOVE, LOVE, LOVE our new mattress set. It's like a Silent Springs 2000 model; necessary when you have children lingering only a thin wall away from you. We're still debating a proper use for our retired mattress. Here's what we've come up with so far:
A Really Ghetto Trampoline.
Placing the mattress in a corner of the backyard and surrounding it with scented candles so it can function as a specialized Suburban Animal Mating Center.
Donating it to the Princess And The Pea foundation.
Transforming the coils into homemade Moon Boots or Po' Folks Pogo Sticks.
Building our very own Mattress Stonehenge.....until the uptight HOA directors makes us take it down.
I'm open to outside input and ideas. :)*

Ross: You Stole My Chubby Heart With Your Chubby-Chasin Ways

Oh Ross, how can I ever possibly thank you properly for all that you've done for me?

Yesterday, I needed it. I needed it real bad. And you gave it to me!

It's no secret that something's been missing from my life for a very long time. Something that's left me feeling incomplete and exposed.

Until yesterday's fateful Saturday morn, I despaired of ever finding one who could fulfill my exacting demands and selfish desires as well as appreciating my cascading rolls of fat that I coquettishly like to refer to as "lovely lady lumps."

And then came you, Ross.....beautiful, beautiful, you.

For years I've tried desperately to deny how special you are, even going out of my way to distance myself by speaking ill of you in front of friends and family. I even remarked that I wouldn't ever visit with you or see you again-we both know I'm a dirty liar. Truth is, I just can't stay away from you, my dearest Ross. You're just so inviting. I'm no longer ashamed to let everyone know the deep and abiding love we share with one another.

Despite having to pay you for your services, Ross, that doesn't cheapen our relationship--not for one instant! You were worth every penny, too!

Thanks for providing me with all-day comfort at a low, low price. Not to mention how you hug my curvy hippo hips without ever doing anything rude or untoward like chafing my thighs or invading my butt crack.

I hope I don't wear you out too soon! I have a habit of doing that to the ones I love.

My husband, Papi told me I'm not allowed to visit you until next month. Blah, blah.....something about finances and budgets.....blah, blah. He just doesn't understand us and the gravitational pull we have for each other, you know?

I'm sure I can break away for a heart-pounding rendezvous with you sometime in early January. Keep the light on for me, okay?

All My Love,
Elasticwaistbandlady (Who Finally Has Some Comfy Non-Elasticwaistband Jeans!)

P.S. Ross, could you please tell your business associate friends that fat ladies don't necessarily like all of their pants/jeans to be freakin pedal pusher capris or made of knit cotton--especially in the winter. If we were truly pedal pushers-as the misnomer garment name implies-we wouldn't need to be purchasing a size XXX, now would we?

Newspaper Wars Part 2: The Carrier Strikes Back

One of my beloved Chronicle customers fails to grasp the concept that by obnoxiously blocking her walkway with 2 huge trucks, I can't possibly deliver her newspaper on said walkway without smacking into her trucks.....and yet she continues to relentlessly call in to the feckless Chronicle customer service line and demand that her special walkway delivery instructions be followed.

My first instinct was to write a curt little note pointing out that when she decides to turn a public street into a private parking lot with her vehicles she's putting hers and her neighbor's homes and lives in jeopardy. If I can't see the curbside house numbers neither can the Police, or the Ambulance, or the Fire Department. Well, that's assuming that a fire truck could even manage to get anywhere near a blazing inferno of a home due to all the vehicles scattered about. Not to mention what could happen in the event of a sudden Pizza Emergency and the delivery guy gives up all hope of ever finding you and it ends with you, weeping and frozen into a pathetic state of Pizza Withdrawal.

Even though I'm completely exhausted and supremely irritated with able-bodied people who think they're entitled to special treatment, I decided to instead stuff her paper with a little letter of whimsy bemoaning my lack of any supernatural newspaper-throwing powers.

Don't mess with me, people. I'm armed with a sharp #2 pencil and a pad of paper and I'm NOT afraid to use it!

If you can't read the above correspondence that I wrote to the obviously brilliant customer who presumes that I can throw newspapers straight through 2 tons of automotive metal, here's the transcript:

Dear Cherished Subscriber,

So, you think I possess enough superhuman strength that I can deliver your paper from great distances and over 2 large vehicles parked vertically in front of your walkway?

HOW YOU FLATTER ME!!!!

Alas, I am but a mere mortal who lacks the benefit of a bionic arm.

I physically cannot possibly chuck your newspaper to your specified delivery location. Especially since I'm so busy trying to navigate my way around the many vehicles clogging your cul-de-sac.

I can't leap tall buildings in a single bound nor can I stop a speeding train. Don't tell that to my boss though because he thinks I'm the GREATEST carrier ever!

Love,
Your Carrier

I consider this akin to a Public Service Announcement.
I'm calling my non-profit group, GIVING A CLUE TO THE CLUELESS.
You can make your donation checks out directly to me.
Thanks.
Or you may choose to support my other cause benefitting newspaper workers like me who suffer from non-evolved paper carrier genetics.
If only we could grow an extra arm or something it would have make our lives a whole lot easier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Behold--The Magical Cleansing Powers Of The Dollar General Store!

Me and my marshmallow moon pie-eating hordes of Infidel kinfolk are unabashed Dollar Store snobs. So, based on a selective match of 29 points of Dollar Store compatibility Dollar General sinks right to the lowest rank amongst our special little Dollar Store caste system. Why? Well mainly because Dollar General loosely translates into "In General, Nothing Is Priced At A Dollar."

Aside from their somewhat insidious misnomer of a store name they do possess a most amazing main attraction that I'm a trifle reticent to share with the world at large. See, one small step inside their linoleum-floored store and you'll immediately sense that it acts as some sort of cosmic Ex-Lax pulling and tugging at your innards and manipulating the forces of nature until you end up frantically doing the crab walk/butt clench combo down the seemingly endless ceramics kitsch aisle to find the bathroom and avoid the shame of having to purchase an emergency pack of Dollar General cotton panties stamped with a giant red 'IRREGULAR' mark.

I harbor an irrational phobia of public restrooms and yet even I'm powerless to resist the magnetic pull of the Dollar General toilets. Inexplicably, even when completely devoid of "poop feeling" I know that I'll soon be visiting their bathrooms before paying for my lava lamp keychain and Goo Goo Cluster candy. I should write a book about my Dollar General bathroom experiences. I'd call it 'An Inconvenient Poop.'

Anyway, I would so rock the casbah as their ad campaign manager by playing up this unique angle of their business. In such a crowded Dollar Store market its very important to focus attention on your niche.

Infertile women all over the world have scurried to Naples, Italy just to sit in a miracle chair that entices with a promise of delivering babies. People always flock to sites that they believe will miraculoulsy cure their medical ailments. So, Dollar General can advertise how they benevolently lend a hand to the constipated public with a slogan like, "Give us your plugged-up, your bloated, and your intestinally-challenged masses." I envision entire pilgrimage tours to the Dollar General store organized by the Irritable Bowel Syndrome Association of America.

Oh Dollar General, you may never have served in an official military capacity but I salute you and your position as a General of Poop Authority and I award you the special Infidel Brown Medal Of Honor.

A Walrus And His Bucket Are Soon Parted......And Then Happily Reunited Again!

Looking for the perfect Christmas gift this year for that special, special walrus on your holiday list?

The Ongoing International Saga Of The Noble Walrus And His Missing Bucket [1:20]

Thanks to the Dollar Store I can easily afford to pick up an individualized Butt Bucket for each and every one of my walrus friends for them to cherish forever........well, so long as they don't actually try to fit their walrus butts into the bucket. I already tested this product out with my own saggy, flabby walrus butt and it did not withstand the extreme fatty force very well at all.

I can haz buckit???!!?? Of course you can! Thanks Butt Bucket!

DISCLAIMER!

Gentle Readers,

Are you new to the jaw-dropping, eyebrow-raising, armpit-scratching, chin-plucking wonders of The Smiling Infidel? You are? What took you so stinkin long to get here??!? Now the beautiful Mexican Casserole feast I made for you is all cold and greasy, and the dancing burro I hired for the party is too tired to even do The Macarena. Oh well, I still have plenty of savory Spam Cupcakes left for everyone to partake of and find Spammy happiness therein-- The kind of happiness that only processed and canned meat by-product can bring you.

Smiling Infidel veterans know that I'm homeschooling a houseful of mini-Infidels on top of working a couple of part-time jobs--Jobs where I get my hands dirty and everything. [Dirty hands to match my occasionally dirty soul] Hey, with a husband finishing his college degree, someones got to keep this family in the luxurious lifestyle of 3 meals a day that we've all become accustomed to.

Consequently, I don't return comments in the expedient manner I'd like to. This vexes me greatly despite the pithy little 'Blogging Without Obligation' thing I slapped into the sidebar. Just know that I do eventually make the rounds because no blog comment or commenter gets left behind or forgotten!

May All Your Days Be Filled With The Happiness Of Chicken Dancing,
elasticwaistbandlady

This Chicken Ranch Special Always Includes Legs, Breasts, And Thighs!

Well, 'The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas' is fine and dandy and all, but I live in The Best Little Infidel House In Texas! And who rated them as the best, anyway? Is there some kind of whorehouse survey and customer comment card that they distribute to the clientele before they put their pants on and leave?
A local Houston legend passed away on Sunday and I felt compelled to memorialize him on my blog. The much ballyhooed and plastic surgery-enhanced, Marvin Zindler, campaigned tirelessly for the little guy, and hosted a weekly 'Roach Report' dirty restaurant review. His trademarked catchphrase? A loud bellowing of "SLIIIIIMMMEE In THE ICE MACHINE!" There's even a song about him and his pursuit of busting eating establishments with the dreaded slimy ice. The man is a bonafide legend solidified with his very own WIKI page. Outside of the Houston market, though, he's most notable for his part in shutting down the La Grange Chicken Ranch whorehouse and battling with local authorities who didn't want to give up their painted ladies and the revenue it brought it in.

Dom Deluise played a Marvin Zindler-esque character named Melvin Thorpe in the movie, but everyone knew that the basis was rooted in the true life account of the events that unfolded in 1973.

And now for a retro "Oh no, she didn't!" moment from my awkward youth:

My mom let me watch 'The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas' with her, even though I was only 9. My dad comes from a very morally puritanical family. How puritanical? Well, I'm related to Bill Hybels, the Pastor of the largest congregation in all of North America. So, all the family gathered together at an elegant Indiana restaurant that summer of 1983 for my Aunt's rehearsal dinner. As glasses clinked with festive toasts and chatter sounded above the knives slicing up the sumptuous Chicken Kiev (I have a photographic memory when it comes to food) I innocently asked the lady next to me if she had ever seen 'The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas.' You know how in movies when somebody drops an outrageous tidbit into conversation and everyone stops to stare slack-jawed at them? That's what happened to me. That is, until my very proper Grandma abruptly whisked me away to the bathroom to sternly tell me that 9 year old girls should never discuss anything related to the word 'WHOREHOUSE' in polite company. I wonder if using brothel, house of the rising sun, bordello, or No Tell Motel would have been more acceptable?

R.I.P Marvin Zindler-Who Will Rid Our City Of The Insidious Slime In The Ice Machine Now?

Wordless Wednesday Edition:"Contact BJ Services For All Your BJ Needs!"