Stop The Insanity!

"WTH? Mr. Xavier gave you a better name than my Mommy and Daddy gave me. Do you wanna trade birth certificates"?

I don't usually blog on Sunday because I believe in keeping the Sabbath day holy, but I just couldn't resist expounding on my prior rant about atrocious names foisted on living, breathing human beings instead of on a potted Fern or pet tarantula where they belong.

1. There's a local lady who's extremely active in the community. I see her name printed all the time in our regional newspaper, volunteering with a senior citizen center and various Church fundraisers. Turns out she's also a woman of fine Republican distinction. Her name? PERKY SAVAGE! I linked her name because I didn't think anyone would believe me. Perky Savage is my arch nemesis. Between a Smiling Infidel and a Perky Savage, we cancel each other out. In the end, there can be only one.....

2. My deceased stepfather had parents born in rural, 1920's era Mississippi, which likely explains their odd names. ORA LEE (yes, that is pronounced like orally. Sick freak.) and RUFUS CLAUDE. They used both first and middle names at all times too. My stepdad had the honor of being born last into the family during a time of Elvis and Western movie madness, hence his name, DON WAYNE. I kid you not. So, while pregnant with my brother, Rufus Claude, offered to pay my Mom $10,000 cash if she would consent to naming my brother after him. As greedy as my Mother is, she just couldn't do it. I mean, look, I love Rufus Wainwright as much as the next gal, and I still shake my rump to Rufus and Chaka Khan, but there are limits.

3. Charity Coffin. This is the special pine box option for the more destitute of clients down at Budget Mortuary.

4. A customer on my route has an obviously Swedish name, Benny Klingenporn. Every time I see that name though, I think of "Klingon Porn". Nasty. Now, we know what Lieutenant Commander Worf was really doing in his offhours on the Starship Enterprise.

5. An American toddler named Somerset, and a blog that I ran across where the husband wants to name the kid Adenine. Yes, Adenine, like the nucleobase in forming nucleotides. The Mom wants to name the kid, Abilene, which isn't much better. Has she actually been to Abilene, Texas before? It's a dusty, redneck infested pit. Hardly child naming inspiration there.

6. Dear Mr.Ron Howard: Place of conception names are gross for children to be forced to ponder your coital exploits every time they say or write their monikers. Yet, you saddled each and every one of your offspring with a conception name. Oh, and "The Grinch That Stole Christmas" was a really sucky movie.

Thanks a lot, Posh Spice and David Beckham for infecting the World with your tacky pop culture, oddly named children, and death knell anorexia look. Anyone seen a picture of David Beckham's hefty sister, Joanne? Looks like Posh is a skeleton now because Joanne refuses to pass the casserole dish during family dinner.

Guess Who's Coming To Town!

I'll give you a clue, it ain't Santa Claus.

This exciting announcement lied in wait for me to open yesterday in my e-mail inbox, and the entrepreneurial side of me started to ponder the many clownarific possibilities.

Do you have a special coulrophobe in your life? Sure! Don't we all? Exciting news then boys and girls, The Insane Clown Posse concert tour is finally coming to an arena near you.

Buy a ticket for you and your coulrophobic friend. Make it an evening they'll never forget with a gift package of the newly released DVD, "Killer Clowns From Outer Space", 2 Insane Clown Posse backstage passes, and one of these sweet little clown phobia T-shirts, all tucked inside a dual use hyperventilation friendly paper bag that boasts a super smiley BOZO face upon it. If you call and order right now, we'll even throw in a set of these superb "Evil Clown Nesting Dolls", guaranteed to bring hours of enjoyment.

This WOO-WOO moment of the day brought to you by Lianne's Maternal Alchemy wisdom: I've heard tale that retaining a deeply seeded fear of clowns results from repressed memories of alien abduction. It seems that the aliens take on a clown appearance to calm frightened children abductees. This apparently dispels the myth of aliens having superior intellect. The guy who wrote "COMMUNION", Whitley Strieber, documented these things and says that it happened to him while residing in a Northwest suburb of Houston. Ummmm, I passionately HATE clowns and I've lived in a Northwestern suburb of Houston since childhood. Definitely WOO-WOO feelings here!

The Delays - Valentine

Our musical obsession of the last few months revolve around all things, The Delays.

This psychedelic video is a visual masterpiece and the peppy song makes me want to don some leg warmers and do aerobics. There's just something so oddly feminine and sweet about the lead singer too. It's a classic that I guarantee won't garner much deserved American airplay. Valentine also became the official World Cup Soccer theme this summer for the BBC.

I know who you are and I know that you don't click on you tube links posted on blogs. You'll regret not listening to this at least once though. Do you really want to chance living with a lifetime of regret? I didn't think so. Push the play button already.

To Know Me Is To Love Me

My Kroger Love Nest

After years of waiting and wondering, it's finally happened. I've been hit on by an old man. In the interest of political correctness, I've earnestly campaigned to diversify my fan club for quite some time to include people of all races, ideologies, nerd level, and watermelon seed spitting abilities. Alas, the interest of a white man from the baby boomer generation eluded me.........until now.

Frequent Kroger shoppers that we are, the employees mostly know me and my Infidel spawn by name. My newest admirer works the graveyard shift because he's a teacher by day. Due to my glamorous occupation as a newspaper slinging "Lady Of The Night", I visit him frequently in the quiet pre-dawn hours. We've all come to know him as "Matzo Man". Whenever I park next to his car, it's usually filled with cases of matzo crackers, so I assumed that he must be Jewish. That is, until I noticed the huge Bible in the back window with the giant cross on the front. Turns out, he's on a low sodium diet and he picked up the unsold matzos at the end of Passover for a bargain basement price.

I've known him for years. He has a daughter older than me. I've met his wife. He knows my Papi and kids too. Okay, so it started with him sneaking up behind me in the store two weeks ago and he started rubbing my shoulders. I nearly pulled an Angela Merkel Chancellor defensive death move on him. Then, early Saturday morning, he strategically cornered me into a vulnerable position along the desolate Goldfish aisle and impishly said, "Hey, do you want my buns"? Ummm, what? Matzo Man repeated his line and then brought forth a plastic bag containing two sandwich buns left over from a package of 8. I rejected his buns because they looked pasty white and seedy. My Papi understands and appreciates the fact that I don't care for white buns! Then he proceeded to follow me through the store and placed his hand over mine while I pushed the shopping cart. Personal space intruder alert, personal space intruder alert!

What in the World has possessed my Matzo Man? Could it be the seductive way I sashay through the clearance section in my dollar store flip flops picking up dented boxes of Pop Tarts and nearly expired pickles? Is it the concentrated discernment I use to pick out only the fluffiest brands of toilet paper? Is it the allure of the ultra sexy polo shirts and khaki shorts that I always wear? Could I have unwittingly enticed him by my clandestine wedgie pulls that I thought nobody else could see? Perhaps, it's the way I shamelessly croon off key to the delights of Kroger Radio? Especially when they're playing "Everything I Own", by Bread, and "The Pina Colada Song". Maybe the mesmerizing jiggle of my enormous azz is the culprit? Could he have mistook my heavy breathing from loading newspapers as a veiled ploy? Could it be that he just likes fat, filthy, sweaty women covered in newspaper ink?

Why, oh why, have I been cursed with such irresistibly vixenish ways?

I'M ALL SMILES!!!

Why am I all smiles? Well, mainly because I have a gigantic pimple on my right cheek. Yes, that's correct, an oozing blight overshadowing my otherwise ravishing beauty. It's a cruel..... cruel summer.

Luckily for me, the pimple of doom is strategically centered on my crater deep right cheek dimple. Yeah, I have a pimple on my dimple. I've always enjoyed my dimple because I only have one, and that's relatively unique. My oldest son, Buster, is the sole winner of the genetic dimple lottery, and he sports his, smack dab in the middle of his right cheek too. Buster also has a Luke Skywalker butt chin that makes all the 8 year old girls swoon.

Since gaining weight, this means that I'm a true dimpled darling. You get to see a dimple from the front and dimples from the back too, but only when I'm wearing shorts.

I discovered that by smiling really wide, the pimple disappears into the vast nothingness of my dimple, leaving me looking like my usual unblemished plus-sized supermodel self. After parading around all smiley at Church yesterday, my cheeks ache, the facial muscles are screaming for mercy, and I think I made more than a few people nervous with my newly adopted Cheshire cat look. Seeing as how I'm The Smiling Infidel and all, I would have thought that my usual malevolent grin had conditioned the facial tissue. Tis not so. I suppose, there's a price to pay for beauty. I hearken back to the prophetic words of Fernando, who said "Remember darling, it's not how you feel, it's how you look; and you look mahvelous, simply mahvelous". Oh Fernando, ABBA was right to sing a song in tribute of your greatness. Can you hear the drums?

As a side note, did you know that Dimples is a fairly common name in India? Undoubtedly, a side effect of the over consumption of curry. So eat moderately when you go to the Indian Buffet, because America has enough problems without kids named Dimples running around.

Five Years Ago Today

Today is my Boo Boo's 5th birthday! He alternates between the boot scootin Texas cowboy look, super ninja, and Batman(minus the weird cod piece). Such a multi-faceted personality even at a young age.

A few things I've learned. Boo is Japanese slang for "fart", so essentially, if calling for my child by his nickname, it translates into, "Fart Fart". We must never relocate to Japan.

Everytime he hears the song, "Nephi's Courage", he gets all excited because his middle name is Nephi. Boo Boo always exclaims, "NEE PIE! That's ME"! That's the point where I fill in, "That's right. Now go and do the things the Lord commands, and quit terrorizing your sisters".

Boo Boo was born in our less than sterilized home, right in our very own bed. Sometimes, it feels a little weird to think about the fact that I'm sleeping on the exact spot where a new human being emerged into the World. He's the only one of our three homebirths the midwives actually got here in time to help with. Hooray for long drawn out excruciating labors!

I'm making him a cake shaped like a Lego block today. That's mainly because I'm pastry impaired and cake decorating with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Batman, or Scooby Doo seems way out of my league. Do you see that list of characters? Whoa, deja vu! It really is yesterday once more. As my girls clamor for Hello Kitty, Strawberry Shortcake, Cabbage Patch Kids, and My Little Pony merchandise, I feel like we're redoing the 80's all over again. Just with a much higher cost of living index, a very different Michael Jackson/Miami Vice/Dukes Of Hazard, and no parachute pants and Members Only jackets anywhere in sight.

Happy Birthday Boo!

Moths To The Left Of Me, Moths To The Right......

Here I am. Stuck in the middle with you.

Moth Update!

We've doubled up the armory placing not only the cloved orange in the pantry, but also positioning bay leaves on every shelf too. Yep, they're the moths on the run...... moths on the run. Sorry, sometimes my inner self switches over into Paul McCartney/Wings mode. So, while they're flying around all helter-skelter, we've ambushed them with fly swatter action. We're armed and dangerous, sucka!

My second oldest daughter, Monkey, noticed the growing accumulation of squished moths on the wall that we have to clean and remarked on the surprisingly pretty, shimmery irredescent silver mark that their flattened corpses leave behind. Then, Monkey turned to me all wide eyed and asked, "Mom, do you think that's where the ink in silver gel pens come from"?

If that were true, we could open our own silver gel pen factory. Heck, why stop there? We'll add a line of shimmery metallic eyeshadows, and maybe some body glitter too. A new hue of car paint. Irridescent Silver Moth Metallic. Beautiful and all natural. Making lemonade from lemons is my life philosophy! Are you inspired?

Edited To Add: This just in!!! Blogger Buddy, Wendela was inspired enough to make mention of me in her latest post. Thus feeding both the ego monster that lives in me, and the humble servant of gratitude that comes with someone appreciating my quirkiness.

The Battle Begins

I'm a war mongering woman, and this time I'm taking no prisoners. Our house has been invaded by an enemy so wretched, that even if you kill them they leave behind their larvae spawn that will eventually rise up and attack all over again. The cycle must be broken or they'll continually infest their chosen prey.........your pantry contents. Yes, this is an Indian Cornmeal Moth purported to be an irritating succubus creature, robbing hapless victims of their stored foods and squashing grocery budgets everywhere. I had to throw out almost all our boxed products thanks to them and it cost me a fortune to replace. Apparently, they particularly thrive on cornmeal thus giving them the name Indian Corn Meal Moth, and they enter one's home surreptitiously by hiding in store bought packages. They used my box of Cocoa Crispies as a makeshift Trojan Horse to gain entry into my pantry. Sneaky. Once in, they proliferate wildly (nasty horny moths), and eat everything in sight before pupating, and morphing once again into voracious mooches. Houston is ground zero for insects of all sizes, colors, creeds, ethnicities. We're so very diverse! The Indian Cornmeal moth has been the scourge of many a Houston family, but I'm determined to tenaciously fight their hostile takeover with all my magnificent weaponry.


This is my battle instrument of choice against these insidious vermin. Supposedly, a cloved orange is like Kryptonite to them, weakening, and driving them away to bug other people. Personally, I don't really have a problem at all with evicting them to go infest my neighbors house. So, I methodically studded the orange with a surge of hope in my heart for an end to all the madness. We try to avoid chemical sprays at all costs and we look to natural remedies first. Yeah, I DO own a pair of Birkenstocks and several tie-dyed shirts. What's it to you?

It was then that I realized that we had all the makings of an epic struggle going on right in our very own home. The studded orange looks an awful lot like the hellraisin Pinhead, am I right? So, essentially I'm sending in an effigy of him to fight my moth infestation battles.

Mothman, the fearsome winged creature that's incited many a nightmare and even inspired a movie, "based on a true story", no less. That's what I equivocate this skirmish to be. Pinhead vs. Mothman. Who will reign victorious? Who will go home with the consolation prize of one year free Bubbles car washes? Who will win the skanky groupie still hanging around from the Freddy vs. Jason fight? I'm putting my money on Pinhead. If he fails though, I have a back up super secret weapon to implement for round 2...............bay leaves.

Sharpe and Numan - Change your Mind

Feast your eyes upon this boys and girls! One of my favorite songs from a time when I had feathered hair, jelly shoes, banana clips, a neon T-shirt that proclaimed "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go", and thought that one day I would elope with my one true love, Simon LeBon.

I've never seen the video prior to yesterday but it features Gary Numan(yeah, the "Cars" guy!) vamping it up in black lipstick. The whole video resembles an alternate universe version of The Late Show. Look at the guy who's a ringer for a a young David Letterman, playing the keyboards while his very special psycho mime guest star glowers and boogies down simultaneously. Yeah, in YOUR French face, Marcel Marceau!

Now, THAT'S entertainment!

Something Wicked This Way Comes

My profound love of all things Febreze is no secret. This is truly a miracle product designed to whisk away the pungent sins that assault the olfactory glands. The many blessings that Febreze have brought into my home would boggle your mind.

Wal Mart has them on sale, so I stocked up. You can never have too many air freshener supplies on hand in case of a malodorous emergency. This seemed to prove fortuitous as there was an "incident" in our household yesterday.

I'm under a lot of pressure to finalize and perfect a skit and dialogue I wrote for the opening of our homeschool conference this weekend. When I'm under pressure, I tend to procrastinate and the stress manifests itself as "stomach problems". Ahem. So, yesterday, I'm traipsing backwards out of the restroom while simultaneously spraying copious amounts of Febreze in an obvious and discernible pattern. My daughter, Sunbum was sitting in my room and asked, "MOM? What the heck are you doing"? I told her in a very serious tone that I had taken it upon myself to perform an exorcism on the evil that resided within the walls of my bathroom. Sunbum perked up and said, "Yeah, um, okay. But why are you moving the Febreze can back and forth and up and down"? I didn't want to come across as sarcastic during such a somber moment but I responded as piously as possible, "Dur! I'm making the sign of the cross with the Febreze spray. How else can I ward off the evil spirits"?


I included this picture because it reminded me of the old Reese's peanut butter cup commercial where they talk about what a great combination peanut butter and chocolate is. "Febreze and BEANS. Some things were just meant to go together". You really shouldn't have one without the other. Amen!

Giving Credit Where Credits Due

Some people cite advanced college degrees as the source of their infinite wisdom, while others attribute their know-how to just attending "The School Of Life". Me? Well, apparently, I've garnered lots of information from decidedly less noteworthy places.

Last year, my friend, Miss Biotech Goddess, and I went to the Houston International Festival featuring India. As a cavalcade of costumed Indian Gods came strolling through the congested streets, posing for photo ops, and shaking hands, I realized that I knew who most of them were. Miss Biotech isn't ordinarily impressed with mundane me, as her pedigree and career have allowed her to travel the World. However, she was amazed that I rattled off the names of the elephant trunked God, Ganesh, and continued on with the others. Kali, Shiva, Krishna, Vishnu, and Brahma. Miss Biotech pointedly asked with a surprised tinged voice, "How did you know all that"? It was then that it dawned on me that I had absorbed that pertinent information on an episode of The Simpsons. I think the one where Apu gets married. D'OH!

So, I'm talking with Barbara at Exxon last week about music when she brings up a song that she didn't know the title of but has always loathed. Barbara starts singing, "I left my cake out in the rain, and I shall never have that recipe again......". Immediately, I blurted out, "That's MacArthur Park"! She looked shocked that I knew such an old song, but said, "Yeah, I think that's right. Where did you learn that"? Again, I allayed to the poignant very special episode of The Simpsons featuring Paul and Linda McCartney as guests.

When I first heard the song, "Sugar, We're Goin Down", by Fall Out Boy, I knew they had named themselves after a comic book character on The Simpsons. I regularly use these Simpsonisms for a quick laugh. "Hey is there a Butz here? Seymour Butz? Hey everybody, I wanna Seymour Butz"! Since we curtailed television two years ago, and I haven't watched The Simpsons, will it cause me to lose valuable I.Q. points? Will I lack the ability to impress family and friends with my tremendous wealth of knowledge? Will I ever again win a pop culture round of Trivial Pursuit in my lifetime? I wonder if I could earn an honorary degree from Simpson University?

It's A Small World After All

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Here at the House of The Smiling Infidel, we embrace a profound love of learning. We also hold steadfast to and liberally apply the wisdom of Aristotle's guidance to our everyday lives. "We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence then, is not an act, but a habit".

So, in the spirit of gaining knowledge through repetition and learning new things wherever one may happen to find themselves, we elected to purchase and hoist up a new shower curtain in the kid's bathroom featuring a detailed map of the World. I mean, what better place to increase your geography skills than when you're toilet bound? Based on the amount of time our kids spend using the restroom facilities, I'd say that we could potentially be churning out young National Geography Bee champions as soon as next year.

Battle Of The Sexes In Texas

As most of you know, we are the proud parents of FOUR daughters, and two sons. We've noticed a few glaringly obvious gender differences right from the beginning. Our boys will get mad and fight, but then it's all over and an hour later, they're back playing as though nothing ever happened. The girls, though, oh man, they will carry a grudge forever. They live and breathe for the drama and theatrics. As they teeter perilously close to fullblown puberty, the gender divide is widening.

Now, that our eldest daughter has reached the ripe old age of 11, Papi has made a few wry observations about parenting FOUR girls. First of all, Papi says that we should start buying Kotex feminine napkin stock, since in just a few scant years, we'll practically be the backbone of the company. As a sidenote, I laugh every time I read the term, "feminine napkin". Makes me think of tiny lace squares with embroidered flowers upon them, not products that you use to catch..............never mind.

The other stroke of parenting genius to emerge from Papi's mind came after planting a Vitex tree in our front yard last year. Pictured above is very similar to how our tree looks right now, but I was just too lazy to go out and take a picture. They're gorgeous and hardy in drought weather. They also go by the name Chasteberry, and the purple blooms were once used by ancient Grecians, who ground them up for use as PMS remedies. Upon learning of the beauty and practical application purposes of our Vitex tree, Papi said, "Crap, with four girls, and one hormonal woman, we might as well just plant our whole yard full of Vitex trees to offset the PMS symptoms. It'll make life easier for the rest of us that have to live in this house." That's the point where I always remind Papi that the lion's share of gender deciding chromosomes comes from the man, not the woman. Not to play the "blame game", but Papi largely contributed to the fact that we'll have four teenage girls in our house at one time all on himself!

The Wiggles Pump It

This video proves once and for all that Greg, not Anthony, is the hottest Wiggle.

A Rose By Any Other Name

Is there something about having the name, Sharon, that makes people a little off? I'm starting to see a disturbing pattern emerge here.

As a child, I had the most nightmarish baby sitter ever, named Sharon. My stepdad, already married to my Mother, was pursued relentlessly at work by an obese woman named Sharon, who was also married. Her grand pick up line? "Hey baby, do you wanna see my Rose Of Sharon"? My poor stepdad finally gave in, thinking that she would show him a vase with actual Rose Of Sharons(pictured above) in it, or a picture, but NO, she instead pulled out one of her saggy, floppy breasts to show off the giant red rose tattoo inked upon it. Flabbergasted, and possibly temporarily blinded, my stepdad said, "Oh good Lord, put that away"! Sharon smiled boldly and asked what he thought of her "Rose Of Sharon", to which my stepdad took an oath of silence. He ended up transferring out of there a few weeks later, mainly to get away from psycho Sharon.

Today, my Mom calls me with some disturbing news; her favorite bra was grievously stolen from her locker at the YMCA, while she exercised. No, she didn't lock it up like she should have. My Mom had her wallet, a gift bag for a friend and her lovely checkered ladybug pants (I have the matching pair!), all nestled together in the confines of the locker. Nothing else turned up missing but the brassiere. The lady who has a locker next to my Mom is named, surprise, surprise, SHARON, and the two of them have been feuding for the past several months. Nobody else was around at the time but Sharon. Usually, Sharon takes an inordinate amount of time primping and preening in the mirrors before she leaves. Well, today she left in a big hurry, still clad in her dripping wet bathing suit. So, my Mom is highly suspicious that she is indeed the unscrupulous bra thief. Irritated, my Mom had to meet her lunch date at a nice steakhouse; braless.

I told my Mom that I'd make her some giant posters featuring a replicated picture of the purloined brassiere this weekend to tape up in the YMCA dressing room.

REWARD
Missing Bra. White, stretchy, has extreme sentimental and uplifting value.
Answers to the name White Wonder.
Reward for any information leading to the recovery of the bra or apprehension of the wily bra thief who must be brought to justice.

Jonatha Brooke- Steady Pull

Dedicated to Patrick Henry who's trying to fight the internal love welling up everytime he hears Jonatha's stunning voice. Just because it's more sensitive music than you're used to, and you secretly enjoy it Patrick, doesn't make you a homo. Or does it?

You know that tingly feeling you get when you hear something really good? That's how I felt the first time I heard Steady Pull. Prepare to feel tingly!

By the way, this is probably the most Mormon Mom friendly music that I listen to. We can't all be hard core all the time. I own Air Supply's Greatest Hits and I know all the words by heart too, and I'm not ashamed.

Jonatha Brooke's video for "Better After All"

I LOVE Jonatha Brooke! We listen to her CD's repeatedly and never get tired of them. What an amazing talent she is, I only wish I could find more video footage for some of our other favorite songs from her. Most notably West Point, Linger, It Matters Now, and Steady Pull.

www.jonathabrooke.com streams all of her music on the website.

Age Before Beauty

I'm not sure how widespread these new self-checkout DVD rental kiosks are, but in Houston, we have McDonald's Red Box, and Kroger's now has a similar version of it too. Considering that Blockbuster Video charges $3.99 for new releases, while Red Box is only $1.00 a day, it's a rare bargain indeed. To every pro there has to be a con though. That's just how the universe works. Murphy always gets his cut of the action.

My eldest daughter, Sunbum and I, only went to Kroger's to pick up a few items for dinner, and to return a DVD. An elderly couple beat us there, and I could tell that they intended to take their own sweet time. So, I left Sunbum there in line and set out to buy our groceries. When I walked back up to the front, ten minutes later, she was still waiting. I forgot the refried beans, so I again strolled to the other side of the store, and came back another five minutes later, she was still waiting. Irritated, I asked her, "Sunbum, you're still here"? To which, the guy shot me a mean faced glance. Sunbum started to whistle to pass the time and he narrowed his eyes at us. Finally, I figured that our impeccable manners and patience wasn't working for us, so I might as well be as bitchy as possible. The old man asked a teenage sacker what movie he recommended, as the wife, hooked up to a nostril tube oxygen apparatus, scrolled through the computer menu for the umpteenth time. I dialogued with Sunbum in my most snooty British accent, "Yes Niles, what do you suggest off the menu for our evening jollies? Which flick possesses the robust bouquet to compliment a fine meal of steak tartar? Perhaps, we'd like to try the house special after all, because I don't care for the flavor of foreign productions". The man narrowed his eyes even further and threw in a snarly lip curl.

Finally, we hit comedy gold when the man turns to the young clerk and queries, "My wife really wants The 40 Year Old Virgin, but there aren't any more". That's it. Sunbum and I lost it, and started laughing like hyenas. The old farts and teenage boy, though, did not seem to catch the humor in it. Later, while at the checkout stand, I relayed the tale to the 60-ish cashier, and she started laughing too, as she told us in her southern accent, "OOH-WHEE! Let me know when they do find The 40 Year Old Virgin, and send him MY way"!

Dirty swingin seniors!

If Car Interiors Could Talk, What Would They Say?

Nothing follows up an entry on Islam better than a post with a little Jewish flavor to it. Yep, this blog absolutely meets stringent Kosher standards. Ahhh, but at least the two sides can co-exist peacefully here, at the home of The Smiling Infidel. Are you feeling the love, people?

Yesterday, we were in hot pursuit of an affordable bowling alley. Since when did the favorite sport of American white trash become so frickin expensive? So, we passed a building under construction with a lot of workers on top of the roof. My 8 year old son, excitedly called out, "Look at those guys on the roof Mom; but how come none of them have a fiddle in their hands"? Maybe this is a sign that we should lay off musicals for awhile or my son is going to catch the flaming gay virus, for sure. We watched the teen girly movie, Aquamarine, yesterday, and he proclaimed it his favorite movie of all time. I'm locking up my Streisand, Cher, and Erasure CD's, post haste!

I took my oldest daughter to work with me on Wednesday, and about a mile from our house, drove by a lady dizzily walking along the side of the road. From the look of the garish makeup deep in her wrinkles, and frizzy, bleached blonde hair, I'd put her age at a very minimum of a haggard 50. This woman had on denim shorts so teensy, her butt cheeks drooped out of both sides, and she wore a rainbowed tie dye T-shirt.........knotted in the front, thus exposing her pierced and stretch marked belly. She also had a lit cigarette dangling out of her mouth, and little red leather stiletto boots on. Quite a vision of demure loveliness. My daughter turned to me, aghast, and asked, "Mom, don't they have age limits in prostitution"?

Lastly, while driving and listening to the talk radio recap of the NASA space shuttle LIFTOFF last week, I felt that rumbly, tumbly feeling start. What could I do? I leaned over gently to the side and released my inner fart. Wow, that like, totally rhymes! My poor children were laughing and gagging simultaneously when I announced, "Houston, we have LIFTUP"!

The Smiling Infidel Goes Muslim

Well, for a few hours, anyway.

Our local mosque sent out a letter of invitation to Churches in the community, for the opportunity to experience and tour their newly built mosque, and also participate in a short presentation about Islam. Judging by their delighted reaction at our presence, I don't think there was exactly a thunderous Christian stampede, beating a path to their door. A representative of our Ward contacted them, and organized a meeting mainly for the youth of our Church, along with whoever else wanted to play voyeur too. I wonder if the nearby synagogue got an invitation extended to them also? I wanted to ask during the Q&A session, but decided that might be just a tad incendiary. I grew up in a semi-Jewish household. The animosity? I get it.

If you all receive a similar opportunity, make sure you upgrade to the V.I.P package. I hear that entitles you to a sneak peek at pictures of the 72 virgins, and all you can eat falafel patties. MMMM! So, the guy who did the talking is the superintendent of Iman Schools. No, you silly people, that is NOT where you learn to be a Somalian supermodel, and strut your burqua clad self all over the catwalk. He found lots of time to admonish America for injustices against black people and to liken the L.A. riots to the "fringe radical" Muslim skirmishes happening all over the World today. Hee-Hee, whooooo, I guess he kind of forgot that the riots didn't happen to involve suicide bombers or killing and detonating innocents in the name of their religion. Whoops, maybe he just had a momentary brain freeze? Interestingly enough, when asked about the true meaning of jihad, and a Quran perspective on Christianity, the guy all but looked at his watch and sheepishly said, "Whoa, look at the time". Yeah.

We then watched as everyone prepared for the prayer at sundown. As guests, we were allowed to stay and observe. Women and men are separated by a partition due to complete prostration on the prayer mats. Sheikh ALLAWI (wonder if he's related to Iraq's new P.M.?), commenced to singing amazingly long, drawn out prayers with nary a stop for breath, and selections from the Quran, while everybody faced Mecca. My oldest daughter leaned over and whispered, "Mom, that guy is kind of scary". I said, "Yeah, but I bet he'd kick American butt in a yodeling contest". We laughed quietly. Afterwards, they presented a lovely little buffet with my favorite treats like hummus with pita chips, baklava, fresh fruit. Alas, no pork rinds. We ate daintily as making a pig out of yourself in a Halal environment would most certainly be frowned upon. We also got gift bags with our very own English Quran in it. I promise we won't pull a "Gitmo". Both of our neighbors attend services there, and we got to socialize with some of the other members. The women, in particular, proved exceedingly friendly and easy to talk to. As luck would have it, I started a conversation with the only lady there who homeschools her kids. Her fellow Muslims disapprove of that , just like so many people I know at Church. We got along very well. Social pariahs always find each other. :) One thing I noticed; not everybody speaks Arabic. That essentially means that they can't possibly understand what the Sheikh is saying and that their responses, in turn, are largely just rote. Interesting.

Even though we got to wander around a place of worship in our bare feet, and that does really appeal to me, I think that my belief and testimony of the Christian faith remains safe and sound.

I'm Hopelessly In Love

It wasn't supposed to be this way. Once, I took my marriage vows, I promised that I would never pledge my love to anyone else. However, the past year has found me completely enamored with somebody I met on the Internet. He keeps me amused, raises my intellect, and most of all looks super sexy in nothing but feathers and a slinky garter. He does everything I ask of him too. That feels particularly empowering after living in such a patriarchal society. Upon demand, he'll pray, dance the funky chicken, poop, throw down his sofa pillows and clean them back up again, read a book, squat, crawl, moonwalk, sniff his armpits, jump on the couch, do the Y.M.C.A. and the Hokey Pokey, blow kisses, and most importantly, pledge his undying love to me. Don't ask him to do a naughty strip tease though. I guess some bestiality boundaries shouldn't be crossed. I LOVE you, subservient chicken, and I don't care who knows about it either! Finally, a worthy chicken dancing partner for me. With him by my side, maybe I'll make the Chicken Dance Competition Finals this year. Oh, to dream.

While I hate to share the love of my life, stop by, and give him some commands. He lives to abide by the rules of rapt obedience. Papi could learn a thing or two about how to treat a woman from him. Just shut up, and do as I say!
Subservient Chicken.

Nom De Doom

The day of reckoning has arrived, I'm finally admitting to my other Internet obsession aside from blogging. It's a crazy little forum where they passionately discuss entymology and onomastics; the study of naming origins. The opening page of Baby's Named A Bad, Bad Thing, features some priceless gems and snarky commentary on baby naming atrocities from the website's wily proprietor. Guaranteed for a hearty, trickle inducing laugh. Hope you're wearing your Depends!

So, here in the real world, I've noticed my fair share of craptastical names lately. As a paper carrier, I'm privy to not only addresses and phone numbers, but also customer names. Let me tell you, some of them have actually made me laugh out loud. Yes, the dreaded and reviled LOL! I do feel a twinge of pity for them occasionally. Only occasionally though.

My 17 year old high school Senior brother has a classmate named, Matt Pratt. Yes, I know he's really a Matthew, but didn't his folks think of the possible nickname beforehand? I always think, "Matt Pratt could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean".

A former commenter here and my ex-warehouse manager, Major, is actually Richard Payne. The man is only 25, therefore the nickname for Richard; Dick, had long since been established as a phallic euphemism. Think of being a young virile guy and introducing yourself as Dick Payne. He'll never be chosen as the cover model for Men's Health magazine with that name!

A boy in my son's class at Church has the misfortune of bearing the name, Russell "Rusty" Cox. I'm picturing it now. "Whoa there girls! Don't date Rusty, unless you've gotten yourself a tetanus shot"!

The esteemed, J.P. Fagg is one of my Chronicle customers. I'd like to suggest a few naming ideas to stay away from while choosing a moniker for his offspring. Absolutely, positively, NO Mia Fagg, Ima Fagg, Darrin Fagg (gay stuntman!), Tristan Fagg (I don't wanna know), Christian Fagg (Doesn't God hate atheist faggs?) or Gaylord Fagg. Similarly, other names should be avoided because of the many roll call lists that place last name first. Imagine it. Fagg, Hunter, or
Fagg, Gayla (A gala Pride parade?) or Fagg, Piper (Scottish musician run amok).

Another customer, who happens to tip very generously at Christmastime, is Dick Rentz. Now, I can see renting a tuxedo because you'll only need one a few times in your life, but some things need to be bought outright and not leased. A Dick may be one of them. If you don't purchase it, it'll always have a "mind of it's own". I really do like Dick Rentz, he's extraordinarily friendly but I do hope that he's at least on a rent to own option plan.

Our Church has possibly the worst sibling name set ever; Sampson and Lilah. EWWWW! What's next, a Romeo and Juliet, or a Tristan and Isolde sibling set? Someone should name their kids Al and Tipper as a tribute to the greatest couple of all time, seen immortalized in the sappy movie, "Love Story".

My brother's fiancee who's named April Lovely, had to endure school roll calls of Lovely, April and inevitably some redneck wise azz always shouted out, "NO, SHE AIN'T"!

Honorable Mentions go to: Candy Ball (melts in your mouth!), Crystal and Candy Cane(white-trash twins I went to school with), Liberty Bell(*sigh* At least she went by Libby), Dustin "Dusty" Rhodes(yeah, Mom and Dad, you're so very clever), and Heidi Hyde (Hyde is her married name;still funny though), and Tristine Chapell (again, marriage name).

Everybody should read Freakonomics and the chapter detailing the correlation between oddball names and sociopathic behaviors. Very Interesting. You guys should post some of the "unique" names that you've encountered throughout your life, here. Especially you Mormons. I ran across the Utah Baby Namer, and, oh my heck, retreated to wince and shudder in a dark corner. Proof that there truly is evil in this World.

Home Grown Patriotism

Here we are, waiting with baited (hot dog) breath and joyous hearts for the 4th of July festivities to begin.


Despite repeated warnings, Melody still picked up a hitchhiker in her wagon. It's okay, Alyssa didn't seem to have any hook hands or deadly intentions.

Melody's Sunbeam teacher, Brother Zentz, deemed her fabulously bedecked chariot as worthy of being pulled by his American Bulldog, Bruiser. Melody perched there like regal Cleopatra herself-blowing kisses and waving to the crowd. They were selected to lead the parade.

Here is the elusive Papi in all his glittery, patriotic glory! We called him, 'Tio Samuel' (Uncle Sam) most of the day. He's set to graduate soon and join the ranks of the nerdy accountants, so I usually call him, 'Senor Senior.' Although born in Mexico, Papi had the opportunity to take four semesters of American Government and American History. He found such respect and admiration for our Founding Fathers, that he's insistent that our kids make learning about them top priority. Hooray for pro-American Professors! Those two men must be the very last of a dying breed.

Despite our rampant frivolity, the meaning of the importance of the day wasn't lost. Thank God, we live in a country of opportunity, freedom, and unfettered potential for greatness. No country can claim themselves corruption free or perfect, but America feels as though it's the closest thing to perfection on this Earth. People risk life and limb to get here to our shores. While in other places, people risk life and limb to get out of their country. To all resident America haters who celebrated the day by burning American flags and defecating on your homeland- Go ahead, pick a better country, and move there. The rest of us don't want you here. Let's see how much freedom of speech you're allowed to criticize the government in other parts of the World.

God Bless America
(Does saying that make me unabashedly patriotic? Good!)

As Crafty As I Wanna Be

The suburban Mom take on an "old classic".


I've been busy, busy, busy making festive patriotic apparel for my four girls to wear to our Church's annual Fourth Of July party and parade. They usually give out prizes and my competitive spirit always gets the best of me when I hear the word, "contest".

Nearly everything you see here was purchased from the jeweled treasure of the South known as King Dollar. Oh, how I love King Dollar stores. So much so, that Papi calls me, "Queen Dollar", and says that when they see me coming, they roll out the red carpet in my honor. Well, I did buy my sparkling tiara and scepter there, and I AM keeping the King in his luxurious lifestyle thanks to my constant patronage..

If they ever hold an Extreme Makeover:Dollar Store Edition, I'll be the first one they call. My custom transformation of boring T-shirts, visor hats, and flip flops, is nothing short of miraculous. Watch your back, Martha beyotch! Lest anyone think I'm betraying my roots, no, I still hate scrapbooking. There's a limit to my craftiness guru side.

Just A Doin' What Comes Natur'lly.........

After a delightful fajita dinner, Papi and I laid down last night to catch a few hours of sleep before beginning a whole new week of tedious work. The glorious silence and darkness of our room was instantaneously shattered by a low rumbling noise followed by an intensely rotten egg smell that made my toes curl. Bleah, us carnivores emit extra stinkiness. Disgusted, but not about to be outdone by an amateur tooter like Papi, I unleashed my most furious, extended version helicopter fart. It echoed and ricocheted throughout the room for a solid 10 seconds. I rolled into a fetal position and shook the bed with hysterical laughter.

Papi took offense at my individual gaseous expression. Gaw, he's such a sore loser, I can't help it that I'm naturally gifted in the fart arts. So, remembering the song from one of my favorite musicals, "Annie Get Your Gun", I mockingly sang the classic, "Anything you can do, I can do better. I can do anything better than you". I wager Annie Oakley could outshoot and outfart her man too.

I may have stumbled upon the real reason that Papi passionately hates musical theater.

Picked A Peck Of Purple Perfection

We've gone two Saturday's in a row up to a farm about 30 minutes from our house to pick blueberries. This farm offers organic, pesticide free berries for 2 bucks a pound. Anyone who buys blueberries at the grocery store knows what a huge savings that is. As an added bonus, they happen to be the most succulent sweet blueberries I've ever eaten; even without sugar.

The first week, we took Miss Biotech Goddess along for the adventure. We had one hour before torrential rainstorms completely engulfed our area, and we rose to the challenge nicely. Here's the final equation:
1 Smiling Infidel + 1 Bulgarian Chick + 6 Infidel Spawn + One Hour Of Picking=14 1/2 pounds of blueberries!
Holy cow, we rock!

So, last Saturday, thinking that we would duplicate our former plucking glory, we returned to the farm. The equation looked much different:
1 Pissy Mom + 6 Whiny Kids + 2 Hornet Stings + 1 Blazing Hot Sun + 3 Hours Of Picking= 13 pounds of hard won blueberries.
Maybe, adding one Bulgarian Chick is the secret ingredient?

Day after day, I tell my kids, "Stop picking at your food", "Quit picking at your brothers and sisters", "Can you please stop picking your nose?", "Don't pick at that; you'll get a scar". They rarely listen, and usually continue picking anyway. Finally, they were able to put all those picking skills to work for a good cause. I AM impressed at their diligence, but after all, practice does make perfect.

Damn You Cruel Irony!

Our Church sponsors Enrichment meeting nights for the Sisterhood of the traveling flowered dresses, every few months. There they learn valuable skills, gossip, fun crafts, wretched scrapbooking , and lessons in home economics, gorging on food samples. The brethren apparently felt left out to see their women congregating in such a joyous fashion, so now they too have their own Enrichment meetings, lovingly dubbed , "MANrichment". I'm secretly wondering if they're going to encourage macho activities, because I'd certainly hate to walk in on them fixing each other's hair, pillow fighting, or discussing the latest Danielle Steele novel.

Between holding down two jobs, completing studies as a Senior at Sam Houston University, and tending six kids, Papi doesn't usually have the time for such frivolities. Last week though, he came to me with nearly a pleading tone in his eyes and he very meekly asked me, "Girlie, would you allow me to go to the MANrichment meeting on Tuesday. Please"? The fact that he used the word "allow", as though I'm his Master (not in the daylight hours, anyway), cracked me up, so of course, I allowed him to go. What a good wife am I.

I Was A Ballet Academy Dropout

Tis true, tis true. My Mom signed me up for ballet lessons in the hopes that it would teach me grace, and enough coordination to scratch my butt and walk at the same time while chewing gum. So, there I am, 10 years old, second tallest kid in the school, in a beginner's ballet class, when in walks Holly, the tallest kid in our school. Apparently, her Mom had high hopes for her "Pretty Little Princess" too. Thankful to have a fellow outcast to lessen the pain of being surrounded by tiny, perfectly pink tu-tued dancers, Holly and I clung to each other, and goofed off in a corner every chance we got. Mostly mocking the other girls. We also started skipping out of class early to go and buy Snickers bars at the convenience store next door. It wasn't long before the instructor and owner of the school haughtily informed my Mom that I should probably be removed from lessons and that I might be better suited for learning to play the bassoon. I'm not positive but I think this may have been intended as a slam against me, because nothing says gawky oaf quite like a bassoon. Holly got kicked out too. No word if she took up the bassoon though.

Consequently, to this day, I'm so uncoordinated that I even hopelessly lose my balance and flail around in flat soled shoes. This dashed any hope I may have had to join the stable of dancers at The Lusty Lady Cabaret. So, you all have seen my magnificent, resplendent bronze shoes, right? That's what I wore yesterday to Church. I'm teaching my Primary class and I walk over to the door. Inexplicably, my ankle twisted and I nearly fell. Instinctively, I knew that the beady, scrutinizing eyes of 7 year old children were upon me and that I'd never live this down if I didn't handle it properly. As an authority figure, you must show no weakness, or the terrorists will win. Slowly, I turned to face them and their big jeering smiles and casually shrugged my shoulders while sticking out one hand and putting the other on my hip, and I told them, "Eh. I was just practicing for the I'm a Little Teapot Dance Competition, coming up next week". It worked. They laughed, and nothing more was said about it. Hey, I may be stout, but I'm certainly not short. Please don't tip me over. Thank You.

It's A Dog Eat Dog World Out There

My kids and I noticed the brightly colored display at Kroger's immediately upon walking into the store. A gargantuan mountain of dog food bags, stacked up 7 feet high, with signs proclaiming its new product status and the advertised special of the week. We just watched, "Old Yeller", together as a family a few months ago, and so they recognized the beloved yellow dog featured on the bag. While moving past the display, I couldn't help but comment to my kids using my very best radio announcer voice, "Try new Old Yeller dog food today, with 100% genuine chunks and bits of Old Yeller in every bite! Your pet will love it". My boys laughed, the girls looked at me with sour expressions of "EEEEEEWWWWWW, Mom. That's so gross".

It got me thinking though,why in the World would the manufacturers choose Old Yeller as their icon and product name? As I recall, the movie took a tragic twist upon Old Yeller contracting rabies, and then his foaming mad self is shot down in self-defense by his Master. Yeah. "Let your dogs grow up to be strong and healthy, just like Old Yeller, by feeding them Old Yeller dog food. Now available at fine retail outlets everywhere".

They should have chosen Beethoven as their mascot because Lord knows, nobody wants to sit through another one of those awful sequels. Just how many Beethoven movies does the World need? Apparently, film producers are determined to see. Plus, I recently learned that not all dog meat is created equal. The Japanese regard Saint Bernard meat as a highly prized culinary delight. Perhaps, Americans get the Old Yeller brand, but they've marketed it in Japan as Beethoven dog food. Reportedly, Spuds Mackenzie was a contender too. However, during product testing, the dogs kept falling over drunk.

Whatever, as a nod to my first blogging buddy, Mormon Family Man, who broached a similar subject, I have to say that we only buy the very best for our dog, Reagan. After all, he IS our fresh meat food storage plan.

I'm Laughing On The Outside

And crying like a baby on the inside.

Broad Smile Of The Day: (Courtesy of Beach Boy daughter and singer, Carnie Wilson)

"I like, struggle everyday with my weight, because morbid obesity is a disease that I will always have".

Lucky for you, Carnie, that a cure for your "disease" has already been discovered. It's a regimented and prolonged treatment, but it's also highly successful. Put your fork down. As one fat chick to another, I know that when I take my daily dose of the cure, good things do happen and it combats my "disease".

Curled Lip Moment Of The Day: Former superstars, E.L.O, licensing their massive hit, "Evil Woman", to no-talent strippers, The Pussycat Dolls.

I seriously about swallowed my tongue when I heard their new song, "BLEEP". Not only is it nasty and insipid (typical Pussycat Doll material), but they sample, "Evil Woman".

I used to hold you in the highest regard E.L.O. I even forgave you for the horrifying "Xanadu" debacle. (Providing a soundtrack for a movie about muses on roller skates. Really?) You've pushed my patience too far with this one, though, E.L.O. I may have to use my E.L.O's greatest hits CD as a coaster now.

My Little Caterpillar Is Morphing Into A Beyootiful Butterfly

Today is the grand celebration of Caterpillar's 7th birthday! We call her Caterpillar due to her caterpillaresque furry little eyebrows. Yes, we've produced another future depilatory consumer. Like Mother like daughter. *sigh*

It's an unspoken law of femininity that whenever you get to know a woman, she will always, without exception, eventually tell you one of her birthing stories. Caterpillar is our first homebirth. We found ourselves lacking health insurance and decided to seek out an affordable birth alternative and found an amazing mother/daughter midwife team. They provided all of the prenatal care and things went smoothly. Early in the morning, I felt intense labor pain, but sent Papi off to work anyway. Meanwhile, I frantically cleaned the house. Too bad I can't bottle that maternal nesting instinct to spray on when I need cleaning motivation now, because I sure don't have it like I do while pregnant. I didn't want to make a spectacle of myself and have the midwives staring at me for hours of labor, so I waited to call them. Well, I delivered her all by my lonesome, in the tub, with three sleeping kids close by. As you can see, everything turned out fine despite the initial freakout at what happened.

When we went to Church the next week, members kept telling me that I was like a "pioneer" woman. That's laughable. I never once saw a picture of them traveling through the dusty wilderness with a garden tub perched inside a rickety ox-driven wagon, bringing forth the fruit of their loins while listening to soothing smooth jazz classics. Whatever, I still enjoy having a reputation as a tough old bird.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY CATERPILLAR!

Conversation From A Gas Station

I feel as though this post should be accompanied with a caveat. I'm currently sick. I mean, really, really sick. Fever, sore throat, runny nose, headache, ear infection, dizziness, the whole enchilada. It's also entering the fourth day of nonstop rain in Houston. Luckily, our end of town hasn't flooded yet, but Harris County and all surrounding areas are under flash flood watch. Keep this in mind, because under the influence of Theraflu, the following interaction might not be as funny as I perceived it in the wee hours of the morning.

Per tradition, as a "lady of the night", I often make a foray to the corner Exxon store for bottled water and such. I've gotten to know the attendant, Barbara, pretty well and we always have a few laughs when I stop in. Nearly every morning this short, skinny guy of about 40 stops at Exxon the same time I do. He's always clad in head to toe black and buys cigarettes and coffee. Personally, I think that's what stunted his growth. Anyway, at 3:30 A.M., he walks in, turns to me, smiles, and says, "Hey, you're in here all the time too. We must work in the same profession". To that, I laughed and said, "WOW! You're a caged go-go dancer too? What a coincidence." Barbara cracked up, and so did I. The man in black didn't. What a pity, I might've given him a fistful of dollar bills to shake it. Talk about missed opportunities.

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.

The Ties That Bind

I thought that I'd attempt a little something special today, by telling three different stories, both past and present, and tying them all together with a common thread.

Pictured above are my new shoes purchased at the grand Memorial Day sale held at Kohl's. At a size 10, my feet are large enough to cause panic in the streets of China, and probably Pain! At The Disco, as well. I'm no junior petite, and my feet reflect that; oh, so very well. They appear to have a golden tinge to them but they're actually bronze. Papi teases me endlessly about my "goldplated" shoes. To which, I tell him that they're not gold, because I'm not a first place champion, I'm only a third place loser. So, now he's started calling me "Hercules", every time I wear them.

(I have hideous, ant bitten, ugly-toed, feet. Refrain from examining too close, as it will be to your ocular peril)

As a kid, I had a friend with a yellowish mutt dog, also named, Hercules. One day, Hercules escaped from the yard and I assisted her in trying to locate and retrieve him. We walked up and down the street, yelling his name at the top of our lungs. Finally, we caught the attention of an old lady at the corner house who wrinkled her nose and asked, "What did you say"? We told her that we were calling for Hercules. Then she smiled and said,"Oh mercy me! I thought you two were screaming HERPES, all this time". We didn't know what that meant, but my Mom had a big laugh about it.

My Mom is an oft married and betrothed woman. My last stepfather came into the picture around my twelfth birthday. Looking back, I suppose that subconsciously, I wanted to sabotage their relationship. When the romance was still in it's infancy, I cut out a magazine ad that had amused me. It featured two people, walking hand in hand on the beach, looking at each other with eyes of love. The caption above read, "The hardest thing she ever had to face, was telling Roger about having HERPES". I don't know what possessed me, or why I thought it would be funny, but I pasted that ad right onto a piece of construction paper, and made a makeshift card out of it. Then, I signed my Mom's name on the inside and left it out for her new beau to find. I still didn't really know what herpes was, only that it must be something very shameful to have such a dramatic, full page ad. My Mom was pissed, to say the least. My future stepdad, Don, looked a bit concerned, and I got a spanking that I still remember to this day.

Thank you Mom...................for letting me live.

Birds Of A Feather

I have perfectly altruistic motives for wanting to win the neighborhood, "Yard Of The Month", contest. You see, the grand prize winner receives a princely sum to a local plant nursery, in the form of a gift certificate. I have that money earmarked for something special.

You can witness for yourself, from the rather exploitive photo, that our pink flamingos befell an unspeakable tragedy that spared life but took limb. My charity to raise funds for them, came up woefully short. They're increasingly hypersensitive about it too. Whenever the pantyhose commercial plays, with the tag line, "Nothing Beats A Great Pair Of L'EGGS", they whimper. We can't even enjoy our EGGO waffles for breakfast anymore because they grow petulant when we proclaim, "LEGgo my EGGO"! They tried to use their miniscule bird brains to argue with me about this, but alas, they just don't have a leg to stand on.

If I'm less than victorious in my plight for a gift certificate for my flamingos, then perhaps I could count on your sponsorship. With your generous gift, I can purchase at least one leg for my fine feathered friends. Then, they'll have a decent shot at marrying into the lap of luxury with an aging rock star. Please, won't you think of the flamingos???

What Atrocity Have You Unleashed On An Unsuspecting World, Simon Cowell?

Jaw dropping, brake squealing, abject disbelief moment of the day.

I like listening to my XM Satellite Radio while working in the morning. One of my favorites is the Euro Trash station, UK POP. Initially, the song playing sounded vaguely familiar, then I realized ,with wide eyed disgust, that it indeed was a pitchy lounge lizard, cabaret version of Outkast's, "Hey Ya". Isn't it a little bit early to release a remake of such an already execrable ditty? It gets even better. The singer, Will Young, happens to have the distinguished honor of winning the very first Pop Idol contest (American Idol's counterpart) in England. Please, be a responsible citizen. Just say NO to cheeseball remakes of cheeseball songs.

If you want a sample of some of England's finest, I highly recommend The Delays. Their new single, Valentine, is superb, and making the rounds as the official BBC background music for World Cup soccer coverage. I'm linking their blog here. Your assignment is to scroll down and watch the video for Valentine. Highly entertaining, and catchy. Don't blame me if the song causes you to suddenly start dancing wildly and shaking your moneymaker all around. Just one of it's pleasant side effects.

Pride And Prejudice (The Smiling Infidel Version)

These pictures reveal the culprit as to my erratic blogging ways this past week. I've been mowing, digging, weeding, planting, watering, fertilizing, and waging a fight to the death against predatory fire ants. All accomplished while working directly under the scorching sun, and in temperatures reaching the mid 90's.

My secret hope is to finally win the long coveted prize of, "Yard Of The Month", but competition around here is cut-throat. Most of our neighbors hire professional landscaping services to put in their planters and keep up their weekly yard maintenance. We're probably the poorest folks in the whole neighborhood. Consequently, I take care of our yard by myself, with occasional assistance from my own amateur crew of six kids, who handle minimal gardening, mosquito swatting, and lemonade fetching duties.

Papi takes great delight in telling people that he's a Mexican man that has a white lady taking care of his yard. Then he smiles and mentions how he's an integral part in obliterating stereotypes one at a time. Whatever.

Death Of A Saleswoman

Numerous times over the past few years I've had friends tell me that I should give up my lucrative newspaper career (as if!) and work from home selling catalog merchandise, like Pampered Chef, or Creative Memories. I'm a little disappointed that nobody has ever asked me to host a sex toy party, though. Maybe I just strike people as too virginal and pure of thought for such carnal things. Number one, I'm not all that sociable, and the thought of opening up my home for hostess parties makes my stomach lurch. Number two, I'd rather work consistent manual labor than attempt to make a living by selling things because the truth is, as a sales person, I absolutely SUCK. My heart palpitates just thinking about the dreaded duty of collecting money. That's the key reason to why I refuse to organize any more homeschool field trips or have any part of an activity that involves monetary transaction because it makes me feel awkward and uncomfortable to harangue deadbeats to pay up.

My peddlerphobia started back in my high school days. As a sophomore with one open elective, I decided to get in touch with the natural Infidel within and take a Wildlife Management course with the F.F.A (Future Farmers Of America) program. Mainly because we got to cut school sometimes to go fishing as part of the 'rigorous' curriculum. As a preppie wannabe complete with Girbaud jeans and Polo shirts, I distinctly stood out among all the Bubba rednecks and cowboys in the class. I didn't own a pair of boots, hated NASCAR, and I coudln't even line dance or sing "Achy Breaky Heart". It was the ultimate slacker class for me and the only thing I clearly remember from that year in AG involved more chewing tobacco techniques than you could shake a shiny spittoon at.

Every single school organization holds fundraisers and F.F.A proved to be no exception. However, they did things a little bit differently. While the Choir, Band, and Drill Team sold candy, gift wrap, and overpriced cheap novelty crap directly imported from China, for their Fall Fundraiser, we sold sausage. Yes, sausage. Swallowing my pride and extreme embarrassment, I took that glossy colored sausage brochure up and down our block. Often, I tailed right behind the more successful candy selling students who were unloading their chocolate at a clipped pace. At first, I felt encouraged, and cheerfully chirped out, "Hi! Would you like to buy some sausage to support F.F.A?" To which, people either laughed or gave a wrinkly nosed, emphatic, "NO!", really quickly, and shut the door. What??!!?? They acted like nobody's ever sold them sausage at their house before. I tried another sales maneuver by using my very best Oliver face and voice. With sad, hollowed eyes, I hit the next potential customer by saying, "Please sir, would you care to buy a bit o sausage?". Still no luck. I finally gave up at the end of our very long street when a guy asked me if the sausage was any good. I told him that the brochure described the product as "farm fresh and delicious". Still doubtful, he asked again, "Yeah, but have you actually tried it?" Feeling irritated, I sighed heavily, and not a little snarkily told him, "Well sir, If I had the product available to me, I would have toured the neighborhood with my Mom's electric skillet strung around my neck dispensing free, hot samples. Just like the sample lady at Kroger's. Then would you deign to honor me and revel joyfully in my sausage"? The man mumbled something about me being a "smart ass teenager", and slammed the door. Don't despair, all was not lost. My Mom bought a bunch of sausage out of pity, and it really did taste good. At Christmastime, while the other groups sold poinsettias and pecan logs, we peddled cases of fruit. Another wildly UNsuccessful venture.

Question Of The Day: What's the weirdest thing you've ever been involved with selling? I defy you to top being a door to door sausage saleswoman.

The Measure Of Success

To most people, this is an invaluable exercise device called a pedometer. It's used to calculate the total amounts of steps taken and give a digital read out of calories burned.

McDonald's had a promotion recently where they gave pedometers away with food purchase. Considering this unlikely source for fitness guidance, we all just laughed about it, but then something struck me. In Spanish, the word for "fart", or "flatulence", for you more genteel readers, is PEDO. Thus making a true PEDOmeter, a measure of one's farts. Constantly recording and accurately counting your every toot. How would you like to have a digital display of that? I wonder how many calories farting actually burns? My Dad says that the average American passes gas 14 times a day. I'm ready to strap on a pedometer and do the scientific research on this myself because I AM The Smiling Infidel, seeker of truth and knowledge in all things.

Revisionist History

Just a quick addition to this post made back at the end of March regarding hidden meanings, ulterior motives, and surprising facts about modern music and entertainers.

Add two more for the "self love" category:
1. Dancing With Myself- Billy Idol

2. Imaginary Lover- The Altlanta Rhythm Section

Truly, I never thought twice about either song until I heard the XM radio DJ snicker when he played both selections. I'm so pure of thought, mind, and deed!

What's The Difference?

Yesterday proved to hold a myriad of priceless blog gems supplied by the befuddled confusement of my eldest daughter, Sunbum.

So, as we traveled down the road towards yet another plant stop at Home Depot, something reminded me of Ozzy Osbourne and I began to tell her of all his frenzied exploits back in the day, including ruthlessly decapitating bats and doves before live concert audiences. Sunbum turned to me aghast and asked, "WHAT??!!?? He did all that? But I thought he was a sweet Mormon guy". Apparently, she thought of Donny Osmond, not Ozzy Osbourne. Well, after all, they ARE both family guys involved in music, but the comparison made me laugh.

There's a new store at the mall called, Forever XXI. From the outside it appears to be your one stop shop for underage streetwalker gear, not my kind of establishment at all. We've never been inside, but when we passed it yesterday Sunbum got all excited and begged me to go in. Sunbum is a pudgy 11 year old girl who comes from a family so obsessed with modest dress that she doesn't even wear sleeveless shirts. Naturally, I was curious as to why she would want to go into such a store. Then she said it, "But Mom! It's got a double XX in the name, that means it's for plus size women". (Scary sidenote:An 11 year old girl at Church talks about her clothing from this place all the time)

Finally, while swimming at the neighborhood pool last night, Sunbum and I discussed the lady water aerobics class that my Mom goes to at the YMCA. I likened them to "Old Mermaids". Sunbum got upset and said that old mermaids are slow swimmers and consequently they always get trapped in tuna nets and then processed into cans. I may never eat a tuna sandwich again.

Lastic, You Got Some Splaining To Do

But Ricky! WAAAHHHHH!

It has come to my attention that former blog readers and contributors here now think that I regularly peruse Internet porn due to an unfortunate link that I posted on another blog. Nothing could be further from the truth and I'd like to offer my own explanation of a convoluted situation.

During an intensely intellectual discussion of fart euphemisms, someone referenced her personal favorite, "Sitting on a duck". To which I informed her how grotesque that seemed to me after seeing the following picture circulating on the Internet. Then I posted the first link that I found by googling the key words, "Donald Duck ride-on toy picture". I once saw this on a message board and it perplexed me to think about how such a thing could be manufactured without someone contemplating a possibly negative interpretation. Well, I didn't investigate any further, but apparently the first link I found with that picture is a somewhat risque site. So naturally, everyone now thinks that I'm an Internet porn perv.

For the record, I AM, after all, an Infidel, but I'm a wholesome, porn free Infidel who will henceforth be much more careful when wielding links around here