And The Award Goes To.........

From this day forth, let the record show that The Smiling Infidel has advanced past the mere title of "Crass Musings", and shall henceforth be known as an award winning, nay, make that a multi-award winning blog.

The Smiling Infidel was first recognized for its greatness in grossness with the bestowing of the prestigious "Bloggernator" title. The fantastic and unfairly overworked Queen Wendela held a lavish ceremony at Burger King in my honor, where I was knighted and tapped on the shoulders with a scepter crafted from drinking straws, and a paper jewel encrusted crown placed upon my dandruffed head ( I HATE Garnier Fructis). To celebrate the occasion, I wore my nicest T-shirt with the resplendent "State Farting Champion" logo emblazoned across the front. A gift from one of my many admirers, Mormon Family Man. A sumptuous feast culminated this momentous event and we gorged ourselves upon dollar menu flame broiled goodness. Then, flushed with confidence at my new Knight status proceeded to disregard the rules and height maximum regulations set forth at the indoor playground. Rules are for the little people, after all. I took my rightful place at the front of the line for the slide causing some of the children to weep. We were then promptly asked to leave the premises. I wonder if Sir Paul McCartney has to endure this kind of treatment too?

The coveted BLOG GOD AWARD came as a complete surprise to me this week, especially considering I was the darkhorse candidate in the "Excellence In Flatulence" category. Luckily, my breakthrough blog performance that secured me the beautiful gold skirted man I've nicknamed Fergus, came with the entry involving the sweet smelling world of my Papi's armpits. To GLO and the rest of the venerable BLOG GOD Committee, I humbly accept this statuette and I hope you don't mind if I use the podium onstage at the Awards Show to further a few of the causes so near and dear to my heart. First of all I'm begging for all my earthly brothers and sisters to embrace peace and unity. Please, you guys, will you stop fighting with your family and friends over the first Eggo waffle to pop up out of the toaster? "Leggo My Eggo", is so intolerant and divisive a phrase. Can't we all just get along? Secondly, lets remember our comrade in arms so wrongfully incarcerated simply because he was hungry and stole a few morsels of food from a greedy corporation. Yes, please join me in signing a petition in the movement to Free Hamburglar. If we combine our voices, we can truly make a difference.

Thanks again to everyone who made these cherished awards possible. That includes you, the finest blog readers and commenters in the entire blogosphere. You guys validate me, humour me, and reward me with your responses to my meandering nonsense. You complete me.........and satisfy the attention whore within. *lifting trophy high in the air and waving it around triumphantly* I LOVE ALL OF YOU!!!! See you back here next year, same Infidel time, same Infidel place. Peace out.

Dearest Award Committee: Next time will you please honor my request for deep fried Twinkies and chili dogs at the Awards Banquet? Smooches!

I Hate It Even More When......

I didn't intend to create an ongoing series listing the things that I loathe, but nonetheless here's a few more of life's little annoyances, and Part One in case you missed it. But I know that as a faithful blog reader you would never miss any of my insightful and mature posts. I'm practically the next Dr.Phil already, only without the cornball analogies. Well, and I do have the trademark mustache.

1. Using public bathrooms makes me hyperventilate, especially if my kids are with me. There's nothing worse than examining every stall for that one sanctified toilet worthy of you and your cootyphobic rear end. You know the one where you open the door and the angels start to sing, "Hallelujah", and you swear that those are heavenly sunbeams shining down on the glorious gleaming white potty, only to plop down on the seat and find that it's wet. My mind races while sitting there if this is someone else's nasty pee I'm marinating in and now I'm going to die of a dreaded urine based disease, or is it just the droplets of toilet water that sprayed up when the previous roosting person flushed?

2. There's a silent killer stalking my shirts......the dreaded TOOTHPASTE BOOB! I lean way over my sink when I brush my teeth to ensure dental hygiene perfection. Unfortunately, the boobage dangles way over the sink with me. I've lost count how many times I've looked down to see the telltale white frothy streaks across the boobal area. Oh yes, they call me "The Streak!" Between the errant deodorant lines that show up on my clothes combined with the toothpaste drips, The Streak comparison is well deserved.

3. There are those who walk among us that are hiding a most disturbing secret; they lick their fingers while in the buffet line. If I ruled the world, this "special" group of people would be rounded up and sent to their own quarantined little "Hog Heaven Buffet", where they can sit around and slurp their food, cut in line, let their kids run roughshod over the restaurant, and lick themselves clean like an animal instead of using the more conventional napkin. I ALWAYS end up behind these less than genteel folks. ALWAYS. What makes them think that other people want to touch the germy serving spoon they used after lovingly caressing their soiled hand with their own tongue? I saw a grown woman contentedly lick her arm like a fleshy lollipop after dribbling ice cream onto it at the Sweet Tomatoes buffet. My 7 year old daughter, Caterpillar, offered her a napkin and sweetly said, "Here, I think you might need this!" The lady looked mortified. Good. I'm raising my kids in the ways of righteousness and good buffet manners. We're on a Potluck boycott, but that's another horror for another time.

4. Where in Murphy's Law did it mention that if you clandestinely try to pull a wedgie out of your butt, someone will inevitably spy you and your butt picking activities? I'm serious. If the world comes to an end I know that as the last woman left on earth I'll be able to find the last man simply by reaching around to pull out my creviced panties. When I look up, he'll be right there with that jeering, "I know what you're doing" smile. Jokes on him though. Fine, see if I'll repopulate the earth with you now, sucker!

Anything you want to add? This is the place for all those negative thoughts you had to set delicately aside in order to write in your Oprah approved Gratefulness Journal. Come on, let your inner whiny complainer roam freely. Confession is good for the soul and good for blogging too!

Life Really Is Like A Bowl Of Cherries....

But I'm Happy With The Pits!

My husband Papi is most assuredly a delightful man from head to toe, but there remains one part of him that stands out from the rest. His armpits.

I'm going to admit it right here and now, others may be "Naughty By Nature" but I'm definitely stinky by nature. I'd be the first contestant voted off of "Survivor", for sure, because devoid of my beauty routine of extra strength deodorant, mouthwash, and anti-bacterial body soap, I'm a one woman olfactory assault force. Sometimes, I move from the shower to putting on my clothes and I catch an underarm whiff so offensive it makes me gag. I occasionally double and triple layer my deodorant too. Think that's bad? My Great-Grandma was bathed once a week before she passed away in Hospice, using Listerine to kill the bacterial skunkiness. Wanna know something even worse? My Mom and I both have special "butt towels" that we place on the drivers seat of our vehicles to absorb sweaty booty stench. It's a family thing. Just like Fiddler On The Roof, it's "Tradition!"

Papi, by contrast, is a sweet smelling soul. Even perspiring in Houston heat and 100 percent humidity doesn't penetrate his bubble of heavenly scented goodness. Never has he lifted up his arms to reveal an insidious green sweat patch staining his shirts either. Not even one time. The man is a Prince among men, and our marriage is further proof that opposites attract. But there's more, oh so much more to his armpits than just the naturally built in stink shield.

We experienced the joy and wonder of giving birth to colicky babies, so in the ensuing effort to comfort them, Papi would gently rock and cradle the baby in his armpit, where they would promptly quiet down and fall immediately to sleep. Many a night finds my Papi with a sick child or a fat wife nestled into his irresistible armpit. With 7 of us though, those pits are in high demand. We started referring to this strange phenomena as "Papi And His Magical Armpits." Behold the power of the pit, for it transcends even family bonds. Papi took his magical armpit public a few years ago (check NASDAQ listings for more info.) to his workplace. A bunch of his co-workers had squalling infants and newborns that they would bring to the office to show off. Being the only male, they assumed that it would be a bit awkward to offer Papi a chance to hold their babies, but he proved them wrong. Whenever the various infants would cry, Papi confidently held them in his magical armpits and miraculously EVERY SINGLE TIME the babies instantly clammed up and relaxed to the point of drifting off to sleep. Papi was heralded throughout the office for his amazing magical armpit skills. He's made armpit appearances at Church functions and other events too, leaving all those in attendance in abject awe and pit jealousy. The United States should feel proud having won this man away from his native Mexico, he's practically a national treasure!

Yes, all you feminists, marriage really is the pits, and I say "Praise Be!" Oh, what a PITy for all those that desire my Papi though, tough. Him and his pits are mine, all MINE. Forget about Brad Pitt, Papi PIT is where it's at!

What Did You Say??!!!???

My son Buster just turned 9 years old last week. Unfortunately, he suffers from an ailment that directly descended from the genetics of his Great-Grandma Dee. Buster seems to misunderstand and confuse things with alarming frequency. The problem is that it manifests in his mind as the gospel truth, and he's not easily swayed to the contrary. Sometimes, it does make for a good laugh though.

We went bowling this summer and all Buster could talk about was how much he loved "juiceboxes." I mean, who doesn't enjoy the delightfulness of artificial flavors and preservatives and colors crammed in a box for your drinking pleasure? Buster kept saying that he wanted to put money in the juicebox and then listen to it. I thought, well, ummmm, okay, perhaps the kid is planning to utilize it as a makeshift piggy bank and wants to hear the coins tinkle around inside it. It wasn't until he excitedly scurried over to the JUKEBOX in the corner and asked me if he could have some money to play a Backstreet Boys song that I figured out what he meant. It meant that he both confused "juicebox" for "jukebox", and that he has really crappy taste in music.

Granted, we do live in Texas, self proclaimed Tex Mex restaurant capitol of the world, but Buster even got confused with that, referring to cell phone "text messages" as "TEX MEXages".

The latest in his ever expanding doofy repertoire happened last night. I checked out a Cirque Du Soleil DVD from the library because heaven knows we could never possibly afford 8 tickets to such a grandiose performance. It's the circus where humans perform, not animals, and it completely mesmerized my kids. Confident that this was something they could watch unattended, I turned my attention back to my book reading. Then I heard Buster spitting with built up fervor as he shouted out, "That man is walking on crotches! Look at him walk on those crotches." Immediately, my internal Mommy mode switched into high gear and I snapped to attention. The screen showed only a man dressed as an injured insect hobbling across the stage on CRUTCHES. So, I shook my head and resumed my reading. Then, Buster sputtered out again, "Look, he DANCES WITH CROTCHES!" That struck a nerve and all my girls that understood his error couldn't stifle the rolling fits of giggles that followed. Poor Buster, he just kept shrugging his shoulders and saying, "What? What's so funny?"

My son just single handedly came up with the plot and title for the long awaited sequel to Kevin Costner's classic, "Dances With Wolves." Royalty checks may be made out to THE SMILING INFIDEL, ok' Kev?

I Hate It When......

A movie or T.V. show features an amorous couple who inevitably enjoy a big gratuitous love scene, and then when it's all over, they either sickeningly canoodle (that's THE worst word ever created), or they just lay there under the covers smirking and carrying on a conversation. I don't struggle with Obsessive/Compulsive Disorder by any means, but I find this to be completely unrealistic behavior, and it tops the "Things That Make My Lip Curl" list.

The unfailingly practical part of me wants to scream out, "Ewwwww! What are you thinking, lady? You already have a buttload of laundry stacked up next to the washing machine, do you really want to add a bunch of squishy bed sheets to the pile?" Another voice in my head reasons, "Don't you want to get up and take a shower to wash away that 'not fresh' feeling? You're really going to sleep all night in a puddle? How come you're still talking and giggling? Aren't you tired yet? Don't you have to get up for work in the morning or for a big PTO meeting, or something?"

Okay, tell the truth, am I the only neurotically plagued blogger here or does this bother ya'all too?

From The Infidel WTH? Files.......

Do you remember the story in which I regaled you of the trials and travails of having the most sought after crusty van in all of suburbia? Okay, it happened again today thus obliterating our old record of one inquiry a month to two just for September.

So, I'm out doing some Fall gardening and I was bent all the way over with my enormous bum up in the air pulling weeds when a black Chevy pickup truck came cruising by real slowly. I straightened up to see two young guys in the cab with the driver leaning out the window, mouth agape. I wanted to tell him that we're poor folks and I know seeing my huge arse up close like that probably temporarily affected his vision but we don't carry "Butt Blindness Insurance."

My son, Buster said, "You know what Mom? I think they're going to ask if they can buy our van." I scoffed at him, I mean we already met our crazy people wanting to take ownership of a crappy green van quota for the month. Well, they passed my driveway, backed up, and called out to me, "Hey lady! Is that green van for sale?" Total surprise gripped us, and my girls fell over laughing while Buster kept pumping his fist in the air gloatingly screaming, "I knew it! I knew it!"

I do hate being such a wily little vixen playing with the van lusting hearts of men. Well, sometimes. Maybe I really should start charging admission and taking people on a crusty van tour right in my own driveway.

SEE the tattered remains of my Bush/Cheney 2000 sticker. (Man, that really was soooo yesterday)

FEEL the awesome power that is 2 working speakers out of 8.

EXPERIENCE the fun of the "Guess That Smell" game being played right on the van's first bench seat where baby car seats have sat for 8 years plus.

LIVE like you're a bonafide member of a lower middle class family for 30 exhilarating minutes. All yours for a small one time fee!

Chronicles Of Appalling Parenting: Chapter Six

Click On The Title For An Amusing Surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Run For Your Lives!!!!

I'm gonna blow. Caution! The forecast calls for a torrential salty typhoon of self pity ahead followed by large nasal drips. Moderate to severe bellyaching also sweeping across the blogger horizon today.

It's not like me to lose my sunny outlook on life, but the past few days have really worn me down. Why can't maladies show up one at a time instead of waiting for me to pass that dimly lit back alley where they're all hanging out, just waiting to gang up on me? Who taught them how to Kung Fu fight? Hey, I guess by this point, everybody really is Kung Fu fighting.

Here's my list. It's a malady cavalcade!
1. I'm sick. I already know that I'm a sick freak. No, not that kind of sick. The coughing, aching, sneezing, shaking, boogers out of the wazoo kind of sick. I'm not pointing a finger of blame at anyone.......oh what the heck, yes I am! I want to point a particular middle finger towards the guilty party. Do not attend homeschooling activities or any other event where there are lots of people and lots of babies if you know that you have a cold. I've been in agony since Saturday night, and can barely breathe or swallow because my throat is so inflamed. Luckily, the germs stopped with me so I don't have to contend with whiny, sick children rubbing their slimy noses on everything in the house. The sofa has seen enough mucous crust for one lifetime. See? I am still able to point out the bright side of things. Good. Although, from my current vantage point, the bright side is located somewhere at the end of the dark tunnel that faceless voices keep calling me to come towards. "Walk towards the light, walk towards the light." It might be a trap.

2. I have two hideous pimples on my cheek that not even my famously deep dimples can camouflage.

3. We switched shampoos because I can only tolerate those with a mild fruity scent. I guess that's because I, myself, am also mild and fruity. Just so you know, Garnier Fructis shampoo/conditioner combo gave me raging dandruff. I have a massively huge bottle of it left to finish. I'm trying not to be wasteful. Looks like Houston's gonna have that improbable White Christmas after all.

4. The glamorous life of a newspaper carrier means that you have to work even when you feel like crap. I've gone to work while in early labor, delivered a baby, and then returned the next day. Beat that! Somehow, this doesn't feel like what Helen Reddy had in mind while belting out, "I am woman, hear me roar." Although, I really am "too big to ignore." Too loud, too. Sometimes, I feel really bitter when I hear women complaining about vacations they've been privileged to take. Then complaining about their husbands who are never home. Ummmm, that's because they're out supporting YOU, so that you may have the time to complain about them.(military wives excluded) Then moving on to complain about how much they struggle to be perfect. Where is the perspective? Yes, I DO get the irony that I'm complaining about people complaining.

5. We have a leaky roof and an exorbitantly high insurance deductible. It won't be long before I can teach my children all about Toxic Mold and maybe delve into a little Mycological endeavor, because we'll have mushrooms growing right in our very own living room. Educational opportunities abound!

There's more, lots more, but I'm all out of energy. Even my fingers ache. Yes, I have a tremendous amount of blessings in my life too, but for just one teensy tiny moment I'm feeling pity for myself and annoyance at feeling that pity. It's MY pity party, and I'll whine if I want to, whine if I want to, whiiiiiine if I want to. Oh, how the internal struggle battles on.......

I Know What Boys Like

I Know What Guys Want. I Know What Boys Like. Boys Like....

My crusty 8 year old Chevrolet Astro Van!

Something strange is afoot in the suburbs of Houston. Something that men seem completely powerless to resist. Something so alluring, they feel inexplicably drawn to my front door. What forces of nature are at work to render men so hypnotized by a dented, ugly, pukealicious, forest green, metal mass? Not even the famed Inspector Clousseau can solve this one.

The first inquiry came about six months ago with a middle aged Hispanic man rapping on my door wanting to pay me cash on the spot for my van. Laughingly, I told him that it wasn't for sale. Internally, I thought, "Holy crap! You can't perpetrate April Fool's Day jokes in March. What's wrong with you?"

Another month passed, and again a man knocked on my door with a hopeful, pleading look in his eyes wanting to purchase the van. Okay, that's just weird. I kindly explained that this is our paid off, trusty work vehicle. For the right price, we would sell, but not for the pittance people have offered. Disappointed, he trudged back down the driveway to his BRAND NEW BLACK HONDA SPORTS CAR! What?!!!!???

This was no fluke. No less than six men in six months have come a knocking, seeking possession of this by now, exalted, sacred cow like vehicle. I looked online and discovered that Chevrolet stopped production of their Astro model back in 2005, thus making my van a highly sought after prized jewel. It's built on a truck chassis, making it sturdier for work purposes than other mini vans that are constructed on a car frame. That means it's strong enough for your friendly neighborhood amateur Sumo Wrestling Team (don't forget to put towels on the seats. Ewww!), but made for a typical suburban soccer mom.

Should I inform the next potential bidder about the fossilized French Fries in every compartment? Or that you can decipher the age of the vehicle by counting up the crusted milk rings left on the upholstery? Maybe the surefire selling points would include the lack of air conditioning, and crayon graffiti scribbled across the back of the seats? It also holds that delightful scent of butt sweat odor that permeates when you don't have the luxury of air conditioning in a climate of 100% humidity. My daughter, Sunbum, once asked what the purpose was for all the little pull out trays with cigarette symbols printed on them. I told her that it meant that our van was chock full of ash holes.

Don't go ogling my van unless you got the money, honey. It may become so rare, that I can start charging admission to my driveway just to look at the Dodo bird of cars. I'll start opening up online bidding soon. Who wants a near extinct van loaded with top of the line A.M/F.M radio, sticky cup holders, and lots of big ash holes?

And All Shall Know The Name Sunbum

and shall tremble in mortal fear before her!

This is my eldest daughter, Sunbum, in whom I am well pleased. Today marked the beginning of flag football season and Sunbum's debut as the only girl on her team. Don't let that congenial smile fool you, she's a defensive force to be reckoned with.

The Coach psyched out her team at practice last week with tales of how skilled and cohesive the opposing team had grown since the same kids played summer league together. The Coach held out little hope of victory but encouraged the kids to try their best. My heart sank when I saw that the players were issued team shirts with "Texans" emblazoned across them. Bad omen. Undeterred, the kids went ahead and confidently named their team, "Invincible." Good omen.

Sadly, her very first chance to run with the ball, Sunbum found herself taken down by the only girl playing for the other team. She rebounded though, and made two huge interceptions, a couple successful passes, and proved instrumental in some good old fashioned flag pulling. One boy fell prey to Sunbum and not only lost his crimson red flag in the ensuing struggle, but also his entire belt. Yep, she's definitely defense material.

Final Touchdown Score: 4 to 1. "Invincible" certainly lived up to their team name! I pinned all my early retirement hopes on the athletic prowess and buttloads of money earning potential of my two sons. Maybe it's time to redirect that goal onto my daughter. NFL...... here she comes!

Whatever Shall I Do???!!!??

The scrapbooking event of the year happens this evening at another Church member's home. One night only! Space is limited, so reserve your spot at the crafting table now!!!!.

I naturally assumed that after my uncouth exploits at the last get-together, I would not be extended a welcoming hand to further scrappy galas. However, one sweet Sister told me that she hopes I can be there tonight because I make her laugh.
I made somebody laugh. That frightens me.

Here's the problem; everybody has a project to work on except me. You know, I don't want to go all scriptural on you but "Idle hands are indeed the devil's tools." Why do you think I blog so much? Gotta keep my spirit fingers busy. I have a lot of interests, just nothing that will conveniently pack up into a traveling case that I can later spread out on a table to work with side by side with other people.

For instance, I am one of the World's foremost shower hair artists. I bet you didn't know that! I expertly re-create anything from Picasso to Vermeer using nothing but the discarded hair strands wadded up in the shower drain. Making beauty out of the unexpected is what I live for. Sadly, I can't take my shower with me to show off my handiwork to fellow crafters, so I've started brainstorming some crafty alternatives using the assistance of the Internet.

This is pure genius and something within my realm of artistic capabilities! A highly renowned New York artist uses his own pubic hair as an art medium. Go on, admit it, I bet that's the most gorgeous soap masterpiece you've ever been privy to feast your eyes upon! As a bonus, I happen to have lots of that kind of art medium to work with too. Meaning, I won't drop a fortune at the local craft supplies store. The only thing I need to complete a project like this is a hair straightener.

I still have my unfinished Smurf latchhook kit from 1984 that I could bring along. It's never too late to liven up a room with handmade Smurfy goodness. Or, I could just sit around and make people gasp in utter surprise again.

Decisions, decisions.

Pieces Of Me

No, not "Pieces Of Me" like the execrable Ashlee Simpson song. Strictly for your blogging entertainment pleasure, I shall attempt to dissect myself for all the World to see. Please no snap photography or plaintive cries of, "AAARRRRGGGHHH! She blinded me with science!" Thank you for your cooperation. Bring on the formaldehyde! I desperately need self preservation.Ones choice in jewelry represents a visible outward expression of our personality and style. Many delineating factors can be taken away simply from eyeing what other people have draped themselves in. Chunky necklace "BLING" is synonymous with a certain cultural aspect just like James Avery charm rings meant you must have attended high school in the suburbs circa 1991. Strands of pearls enjoy an iconic First Lady connotation while many religions have their symbology represented through various pendants. Jewelry is often totally reflective of our lifestyle. Given that knowledge, this past weekend proved a perplexing and worrisome experience for me.

I'm just like that Adam Ant song, "Goody Two Shoes." I don't drink, don't smoke, none of your business what do I do. I'm also not tattooed nor do I sport a shiny pair of nipple rings. However, I used to be a bit wild before turning subservient (HA!) Mormon wife and Mother. President Hinckley admonished Church women for adorning themselves with more than one pair of earrings, but part of me feels like this is the last hellion bastion I have left. As such, I refuse to take out that second piercing. It reminds me of that small rebellious spark I once embraced before acquiescing to the mundane.

Mostly, I have a modestly conservative slant on fashion and jewelry, so absolute surprise overtook me when I walked into Blockbuster video and saw that the diminutive and obviously gay man working behind the counter had the exact same two earrings as me worn in the exact same way. I'm the Queen around here, how dare he show up in public wearing the same thing. I would have pulled the hair of that beyotch, but alas he's balding.

Irritated, I picked out a video and my family and I proceeded to Pancho's Mexican Buffet for dinner where a mammoth guy stood in line in front of us wearing boxer exposing saggy shorts, a Texans football jersey (loser), and lots of gold chains gangster style. Ummm, he also bore the same two earrings as me. My kids kindly noticed that too and pointed it out. "Hey Mom, that big dude is wearing your earrings!", at which point, big dude turned around and smiled at me. The humiliation came full circle while eating. From our viewpoint it looked like a tall cowgirl dressed in a lilac colored Western shirt festooned with swaying white fringe. We only caught a glimpse from behind as this person made their way down the fresh condiment bar. We marveled at the gorgeous purple cowboy hat and embroidered teal boots. Then, we noticed the earrings. Yep, the same two as mine. My son exclaimed, "Wow, look at that! A real live cowgirl." Slowly, the "cowgirl" turned around to glare at us where it was revealed that this was no cowgirl but instead a COWBOY. Well, at least a cowboy of The Village People persuasion. Oh, SNAP!

So, drawing a connection between jewelry exhibiting the truthfulness of our inner selves, does that mean I'm secretly harboring the internal feelings of a lisping homosexual man, a ghetto superstar wanna be poser, or a flaming cowboy getting ready to lasso him up something with his velvet rope to hog tie for the night? Hmmmmm.

As a sidenote, I did try to minimize my Elvis like sideburns when snapping this photo. Thank you, thank you very much. You've been a great audience.

There Must Be Fifty Ways To Leave Your Blogger

Did anyone miss me? Anyone at all????!!!!?? I'm not going to break it down Paul Simon style and bore you with the actual list of fifty things that kept me away from all of you, my favorite bloggy friends, mostly because I can't make my list rhyme like the more talented Mr.Simon can. So, without further ado......

1. Our Internet connection has been all wonky since we have new construction going on all around our house.

2. Sunday marked my Papi's birthday! I bought him all new shirts for school in varying shades of green because he looks sexy in that color. Then again, we all know that green has a long standing reputation as the horny color. Right? That's why eating green M&M's makes you a dirty skank. In school, I pretended that I didn't eat the green M&M's to avoid the shaming of my peers, but then I put them in my pocket and ate them later ala Napoleon Dynamite and his Tater Tots. That's the real reason we had six kids in seven years. Too many green M&M's consumed in my adolescence. I also serenaded Papi with our special song, "Freak Like Me." What? Were you expecting something staid like "Because You Loved Me?", or "I Will Always Love You?" or the craptastic, "Love Will Keep Us Together?" No Way! Tender ballads suck! I changed the words to Freak Like Me just for Papi too. When Adina sings, "I need a ROUGHNECK brother that can satisfy me", I sing, "I need a REDNECK brother." Papi has long since ditched his preppy Mexican ways and now opts instead for country music, big belt buckles, and wearing cowboy boots. He's my Mexican Redneck! Happy Birthday Papi!


3. Homeschool Book Club is back in session. Customary to our "wait til the very last minute and then suffer major FREAK OUT!" bad habit, we spent a large portion of the past few days finishing this book. It's a sequel to the popular movie/book, "HOLES." We gave it a "MEH" rating. Not too bad, but not too good either. "HOLES" was definitely a better read.

4. Caterpillar resumed her dancing classes last month along with her siblings Buster and Monkey who have decided to try their hand at Tae Kwon Do. My oldest daughter, Sunbum, is playing football this season. Yes. Football. Flag football to be more specific. Sunbum is the only girl, but she's damn good! At her practices nobody gets by her without suffering at least one flag being ripped away. NOBODY! I think the boys are a bit intimidated by her if not downright scared. Awesome. Her first game is on Saturday, pictures to follow.

5. My class had the dreaded Sharing Time presentation in Junior Primary on Sunday. I loathe speaking in front of people, even little kids, but thanks to Papi this lesson was a rousing success. Well, at least more successful than the other Sharing Times I've had to do. He made this magical little oven as seen here, complete with a trick compartment in it. Papi lined everything with metallic silver so that it actually looked like the inside of an oven. So, when I put the pan of gloppy mess into it from our "recipe for faith" lesson, I then magically drew out a tray of perfectly shaped cookies(thanks Kroger's!) from the secret panel. David Copperfield has nothing on my Papi. Well, except for maybe the love of a hot German supermodel, adoring fans around the world, and millions of dollars, but whatever. I also made cute little chef hats out of cardboard and plastic grocery bags. Mine said Chef Infidel, of course! If any of you ever need, want, or desire a magical cardboard oven, I got your hook up right here.

6. There ain't nothin going on but the rent, baby! I still have to work everyday of my young life. I've only had 4 days off in over two years. *sigh* Where's Ed McMahon when I really need him?

7. The goofball dancing practice for the Homeschool Talent Show continues! I wanted to add flaming hula hoops to it to ensure victory, but the kids refused to jump through them. Wussy children!

8. I bathed our noble beast, Reagan, over the weekend.

9. Went swimming. Burned my boobs again.

10. Got into a fight with an unreasonable co-worker who thinks the whole world is persecuting him because of the color of his skin. Name calling and threats ensued. Wheeee!

11. Spent time pining over the loss of Internet communication with all of you, because my name is Elastic, and I'm a bloggeraholic!

The World May Not Be Ready For This!

OK GO- A Million Ways

I've been shirking some of my blogging duties lately, but it's all for a good cause.

There's a homeschool talent show looming on the horizon in approximately one month. I'm doggedly preparing my kids for it because I want to bedazzle the homeschooling masses with our bombastic style.

There are those among our homeschool elite who have shown off Ancient Egyptian projects complete with a mummified chicken they made. We also have one "so talented it hurts" family that can play Rachmaninoff on the bagpipes, and they raise exotic animals on their farm. Then there's the usual assortment of kids that can juggle, karate kick, play the Harry Potter theme on the piano, and sing. So, where does that leave my merry band of goofball homeschooled kids in this competition?

Our one and only true talent lies in bizarro dancing. My Sunbum broke it down Macarena style to a mariachi accompaniment in the middle of a Mexican restaurant. She earned a smattering of applause among the gaping mouths and raised eyebrows. Point is, we show no fear in looking ridiculous while shaking our groove thangs in public.

I've loved this song by OK GO, for some time now, and when I spied the goofy dance steps in this video, I just knew that we had to emulate it for the Talent Show. I mean, anything that has the Sprinkler move alongside The Charlies Angels, has to be good, right? So, the intense training continues on. I've started noticing an itching desire to wear black turtlenecks with a black sweater tied around my shoulders. I've also started speaking with a lisp and I snap my fingers limp-wristedly while simultaneouly screaming, "Okay people, take it from the top one more time. 2......3........4! Let me see more spirit fingers!" I'm furtively fighting the inclination to chain smoke and wear lycra pants too. Is this cause for concern?

What Goes On At The Scrapbooking Party Stays At The Scrapbooking Party

I'm known by many titles in this mortal coil. Mother of the Year, Trophy Wife, Sauerkraut Taste Tester, Monkey Sock Supermodel, Champion Chicken Dancer, just to name a few. As of last Friday, I can finally add a new dimension to my list of distinguished accomplishments.......as a Scrapbooking Queen.

I know what you're thinking, "Isn't this the same woman who openly mocks scrapbooking, scrapbookers, and everything that they stand for?" Yes, that would be me. I even wanted to create a blog header declaring this blog a "Scrapbook Free Zone". So, why the sudden change of heart? Well, we ridicule and fear the things we don't understand. I've never attended a Scrapbooking Party in my entire life until last week's scrappy soiree at a Church members home, and I must admit, it gave me some newfound perspectives.

At first, I hung back, reluctant to say or do anything because I felt like a filthy scrapbook voyeur, silently watching the every snip and paste hand movement in the room. After a few Oreo's in me though, I loosened up considerably, and this is the final condensed document of all that transpired.

1. I casually dropped in a "camel toe" joke while talking about how Rocky Mountain jeans fit, causing tittered laughter, gasps, and a few of the more pious Sisters to actually cover their gaping mouths with their hands. WHAT???!!!?? I guess I need a list of Scrapbooking Conversational Etiquette Rules, because I don't think camel toe is anything shocking. My daughters and I even have a special covert hand symbol we utilize while wearing our bathing suits that lets the recipient know that they need to attempt a delicate frontal extraction. Hey! Maybe I should scrapbook that. Lesson Learned: I'm too potty mouthed for prime time socialization with church folk.

2. While feigning interest in one of the Scrapbook lay outs, I innocently remarked on the spelling of the word splayed all over the page. I noticed that the word had been spelled with an "I" instead of the appropriate "A". I honestly thought that the "I" had been supplanted for the "A", because there's no way that the meager amount of space would have accommodated any letter wider than an "I". I remarked on how clever the alternative spelling was which set off a shockwave of incredulous disbelief. Apparently, the lady didn't actually know that the word was indeed misspelled. A flurry of women scattered to console her because she seemed visibly upset. *sigh* Lesson Learned: Scrapbooking women must be ardent perfectionists.

3. After talking for a brief time with a new lady from England, I commented on all the BBC shows the kids and I check out from the library, our favorite being, "Keeping Up Appearances". Then, I dazzled her with my best Hyacinth impersonation. Things were going swimmingly, until I said the word, "Wanker." I had only commented that I see that word bandied about quite often on a website I visit with numerous British members. Apparently, that word is much worse than I once imagined. So, now I learned a lesson in offending people from England. I can now say something vulgar in nearly 6 languages. I have harnessed the power to offend on an international scale. Go ME!

4. A homeschooling acquaintance and I couldn't stop laughing about cliche Mormon stories. I contributed a platter of brownies to the party, which immediately sprung this story to mind. The conversation progressed, and we compared how many times we've had to sit through the same stories at Church, and how Mormonism needs a few fresh writers. Chief among them has to be the allegory about the train engineer who sacrifices his son to save the train of people crossing a bridge, the analogy of one skinny boy who steals lunches and he cries when the bigger boy in his class voluntarily takes the whipping punishment for it, and everyone's favorite about picking up dying starfish and throwing them back into the ocean. When, one of the ladies interrupted and looked absolutely crestfallen. It seems her husband had used the brownie/dog poop story just the week before with his Church class, and she wanted to know how we could have possibly heard the same tale. Lady, are you serious? We've all been subjected to that lame story at least two to three times per year. I'm a convert, and I've heard it so often, I can actually mouth the dialogue right along with the presenter. Lesson learned: I hold the power to crush people's feeling that they are somehow original.

5. Lastly, when discussing music, one Sister lowered her voice to a whisper and peered around the room all shifty-eyed like she felt guilt ridden, and told us, "I have a wild side too, you know. Sometimes, I listen to matchbox 20." That did it. I started laughing, thinking that she employed the art of sarcasm quite well for a cute little scrapbooking person. Nobody else even cracked a smile. It wasn't a joke. I have a playlist that includes Korn, Rammstein, NIN, and Ministry. Ummm yeeeeaaah, my kids have listened to wilder music than matchbox 20 on Radio Disney. Lesson Learned: I'm musically incompatible with scrapbookers.

I didn't intend to be so uncouth. Good gracious, I didn't even fart. Not even one time. I promise. I'm just honestly looking for a few good, like-minded friends to goof off with. Oh well, I have another chance at scrapbooking bliss next week. That is, if I haven't been banned by the Scrapping Cabal for my insolence. If I have, then I'm like soooooo gonna take pictures of them and scrapbook the moment using a horned devil themed background.

When Life Hands You Scraps....

Make a funny T-shirt about it.

Thanks to my friend, Mormon Family Man, I now have the most fashion forward ensemble to wear to the next Scrapbooking meeting. He used his unfettered genius to create this stunning apex of T-shirt perfection. I'm predicting that I will be the belle of the scrapbook ball, sure to win hordes of new friends and banish my pariah reputation among the glittery, coordinated, and cute.

Act now, and for the low, low price of $15.99, this T-shirt can be all yours. Or you can buy the thong version of it for that special scrapbooker in your life. Hey, Omar, wouldn't the wife look stunning in one of these? Great Christmas gifts! They're also "Made In The U.S.A". Thank goodness, because I know that personally, I only want good, old-fashioned, American know-how going into my thongs. I shudder to think of our lucrative thong market here outsourced to foreigners, don't you? We must rally together, and only buy American made thongs or the terrorists win!

Don't Mess With Mother Nature

When Man And Beast Collide
(SHUT UP! This is so NOT an ode to bestiality. Sicko!)

My beloved Infidel Mobile suffered a few minor wounds last week after a freakish accident. I throw a rural paper route out in the boondocks on Mondays. Buttloads of lovely scenery, minimal traffic flow, cool country breezes, and wildlife galore. However, as Crocodile Hunter learned today, even a friend of nature can be struck down in a heartbeat.

A month ago, Sunbum and I encountered the mythical "wasp of the undead." This annoying thing just adamantly refused to go away or die. Not unlike Paris Hilton, except she's a W.A.S.P, not a wasp. This creature flew into our truck causing Sunbum to hurdle from the back seat to the front with amazing agility. I slammed on the brakes, turned around, and then squashed it with a rolled up paper. This thing laid in scattered pieces against the back window. Yet, a mile further down the road, Sunbum again scaled the seat shrieking, "It's ALIVE! It's ALIVE!" I openly mocked her, but then, out of the corner of my eye, I witnessed the tiny wings flapping and the antennae moving around. Horrified, we both jumped out of the car screaming. Wielding my newspaper instrument of death, I began smacking the wasp again. A concerned resident came outside to check on all the commotion. Sunbum had fits of hysterical tears streaming down her face, while I couldn't stop laughing. I assured her that everything was fine, and I picked up the wasp particles in a plastic bag to dispose of it. I couldn't resist shaking the bag at Sunbum one last time and telling her, "Look! It's still moving". Yes, she started screaming again. Obviously, I'm an unfit Mother.

Last week, we lived through another live edition of "When Animals Attack". Summer sees explosive deer population growth, and they meander around foraging for food and trying out for Bambi:The Musical! God graced them with incomparable beauty to compensate for their incomparable stupidity. The deer hordes often run out in front of my truck at the very last possible minute, forcing me to swerve. Playing a game of "chicken" with deers really sucks. I always lose. I spied the two does at the side of the road from a fair distance and prepared to step on the brake. Sure enough, they dashed across the road, causing me to come to an abrupt squealing halt, and sending Sunbum and I violently lurching forward, rendering our neck and shoulder instantly sore. Luckily, I did miss colliding with those two deers, only to have a stray buck dart out of nowhere and crash headfirst into my truck, both denting it, and damaging the bumper. Startled, the deer got up and ran off into the woods. Happy ending for deer lovers, sad ending for Ford truck lovers, and venison eating people.

And All My Hope Is Gone.......
(Morrissey understands completely)

Featured in the top frame, is the remaining figment of what was once a majestic flowering Esparanza bush filled with sunny yellow blooms. The bottom photo, illustrates how it looked in all its former glory, before the hot Texas sun laid waste to it. Esparanza means "Hope" in Spanish, therefore, I am now completely hopeless.

Well Done Boobs
(But I ordered medium rare)

And finally, I took the kids out to the pool a few days ago sans sunscreen; for ME, not for them. Let's just say that I'm glad my name isn't Robin, because I would henceforth be referred to as "Robin Red Breast". I'll have to curtail wearing V-Neck shirts until the sunburn subsides, lest someone assumes that I am indeed the infamous "Scarlet Infidel", with a scathing mark branded across my chest to prove it. Notice the lack of corroborating photos on this one? Nature has proven itself cruel and vengeful enough without me temporarily blinding you with my natural assets too.

I'll One Up Your One-Upper

Because I'm the undisputed Queen of One-Upmanship. Yeah!
Not to be outdone by blogger feiend Radioactive Jam's latest pathetic attempt to make a monkey out of me, I just upped the monkey ante in our high stakes monkey showdown. This time, it's personal.........

This is Infidel daughter number #2, nicknamed, "Monkey" at one year of age due to her goofy personality, incredibly long ape-like limbs, and a frustrating penchant for fearlessly scaling the kitchen counters and then jumping off them. No, you animal, we don't call her Monkey because of her flea pickin grooming habits, nor does she engage in throwing her poop at anyone. She's a perfectly lovely and civilized Monkey, she is, whose main diet staples consist of bananas, banana pudding, and banana bread.

So, what you see here is a living, breathing "googly-eyed" Monkey wrapped inside another monkey while holding a miniature pet monkey and thinking about monkeys as she stands there in her monkey socks. Hah! Beat that! You can't, because I'm the Queen of this here Banana Republic. (20% off all khakis. This week only.) Just crown me with the Bubbles approved hairball tiara already.

Don't Let Them Shoot Your Kite Down

What sage philosophical advice that is!

Nick Heyward-Kite

My daughter, Monkey, is completely enthralled with this song as well as the most delicious Englishman in a tweed blazer to ever live, Nick Heyward. I suspect it's because they both have cute little matching overbites and earnest puppy dog eyes.

This song is so infectiously perky, you'll lose all bodily control and will find yourself powerless to resist tapping your foot, nodding your head, humming along, and lusting after cute geek Nick Heyward. Powerless, I tell you!

This video looks like it was filmed using the exact same location and extras from the "She Blinded Me With Science" set, minus a few wild haired Einstein look alikes.

The Smiling Infidel Theater Proudly Presents........

A Reversal Of Fortune

Crikey! I wrote the script for this little beauty mahself. It's based on a gripping true story, and takes inspiration from Meryl Streep's classic, over the top, gnashing of teeth/ rendering of garments performance in the 1980's weepfest, "A Cry In The Dark".
*All the dialogue is spoken in a cornball Australian accent that only classically trained actors possess*

Here is our brightly colored protagonist, Dingo. So fresh. So munchy. So youthful and pink with a seemingly bright future ahead until tragedy strikes.....



MY BABY ATE

THE DINGO!!!!!

Well, to be more precise my baby ate a whole Dingo pack. Look at his face, you can see that alpha canine, Reagan, feels deeply ashamed at decimating an entire pack of Dingoes. Or maybe his countenance reflects remorse due to the churning blur of "real chicken bits" combined with pig lips and monkey hips, swirling around in his paunched belly.

I don't know mate, but I better win a "Best Accent" blogger award for my stunning narration skills. I also had to sacrifice and eat ten pounds of chocolate glazed donuts everyday to gain weight and dye my hair "Jethro's Black Gold" color, just for this role. Now, go throw another shrimp on the barbie and fetch me a medium rare Skippy burger, and bring me that Crocodile Hunter guy so I can poke him with a stick while saying, "OOOOHHH. He doesn't like it when I do this." Now, that I've mastered the same foreign tongue and mannerisms as Greg Wiggle, he'll beg me to give him a starring role in my next production. Then, he'll be mine! All mine.......

Let Me Hear You Say This......

Sock Is Bananas
B-A-N-A-N-A-S
BANANAS
This Sock Is Bananas!
B-A-N-A-N-A-S
Envy is one of the Seven Deadly Sins written about by everybody from Chaucer to Pope Gregory XIII to the screenwriters of the gruesome crime film, "Seven". I couldn't eat spaghetti for months after watching this movie. Do you hear me? Months! Envy corrupts your mortal soul and affects not only your salvation but also how you live your life and deal with your fellow man on a daily basis.

As such, I'm calling out my blogger feiend, Radioactive Jam, as a sinner, because he will soon feel the pain of extreme sock envy. RAJ thinks he's cornered the market on goofy monkey socks. Au contraire, mon frere! Monkey see, monkey do. My Monkey socks are better. WOO HOO!

I have a matched set that not only features an amusing monkey face but also has a cascading series of appealing, golden-ripe bananas, and profound life altering words printed along the bottom. I envision it as advice Gwen Stefani herself would issue if she ever became a self-help guru. "Just GO BANANAS, my child, and set yourself free".

Notice, that unlike Radioactive Jam who refused to allow his foot to be photographed for our entertainment purposes, I, The Smiling Infidel, have no such qualms. In fact, I once enjoyed a lucrative career as a monkey sock supermodel until a tragic mishap with some confused simians at the King Kong disco afterparty cut my promising future short. We all know very well how revolting GORILLA FINGERS can be.

So, how bout them nanas, Raj? Think you can outmonkey a monkey? Think we can literally go toe to toe in monkey sock competition? I bet you don't have the bananas to even try. I have three words for you.......BRING IT ON!

I Believe In Miracles!

Hallelujah and praise be! Generally, I'm not the holy roller type at all. However, amazing grace entered into my life today and I can only interpret it as a sign from above that somebody up there likes me. I mean, really, really likes me. (Channeling Sally Field always lightens my mood)

No, I didn't find an inspirational image of the Virgin Mary delicately etched into my Pop Tart this morning. Nor did I convert to the revolutionary Church Of The Farting Preacher. Instead, I've fretted countless hours this week about the Sharing Time assignment given to my Primary class at Church. It involves props, 7-8 year olds, and horror of horrors, public speaking. Whenever public speaking is required, I nearly hyperventilate, and I start praying like a school child for a Snow Day to cancel the event. Given that I live in Houston, my Snow Day prayers have never been answered. Thankfully, the Lord does work in mysterious ways.

Last night, I opened up my e-mail to find a glorious message declaring all Church meetings canceled today due to the heavy fumes permeating the Chapel because of recent renovations. It's a freakin miracle! The heavens doth opened up, and poured me a blessing, the likes of which my heart could not contain it all.

This means, of course, that I now have a whole other week to squander and procrastinate. HE knows me so very well. Amen.

Do Loose Lips Really Sink Ships?

Mine don't!

As you all well know, I lead a double life. I am also known as, Infidel:Mistress Of The Night, due to my occupation as an "Independent Contractor".

Daytime proves difficult for me to stay awake and alert. Often, I blog while my kids practice reading out loud, just to keep my borderline attention deficit mind focused. The more gregarious side of me emerges in the wee hours of the night.

So, I've forged friendships with many like minded people toiling during the graveyard shift too. I have Barbara at Exxon, Matzo Man and June at Krogers, Gus the overnight delivery guy, and my bald little Police Officer friend, I'll call, "Bubba".

I keep Bubba plied with a complimentary newspaper every day, and extra coupons on Sunday for his wife. In turn, he looks the other way as I careen around corners, run stop signs, and terrorize the neighborhood animals. Actually, I just stop to converse with the animals in the street using my annoying, high pitched faux British accent, and they usually scamper away frightened beyond belief. Dr. Dolittle, I ain't. Bubba and I laugh, we talk, we gossip, and I pinpoint him to neighborhood trouble. I'll tell him where I see raucous parties, and he keeps the drunken, pain in the ass teenagers out of my way. It's a beautiful symbiotic relationship.

Papi's always telling me that I need to stop lingering to talk so much. He says, "Just get your work done, girlie, and come home". Well, today, he had to eat his words because sweet vindication is mine.

Running late for work, Papi hurriedly flew out of the house this morning, forgetting to take even his wallet with him. Twenty minutes later, he called me all sheepish and embarrassed. He had been stopped for speeding and needed me to give him his license information. A few more minutes passed, and then Papi called me back. Turns out the officer who pulled him over was none other than my Bubba. After figuring out that Papi is indeed the husband of the chatty newspaper lady in the red truck, Bubba didn't write him a citation, telling him, "I'm only letting you go because I'm friends with your wife". SCORE!

My incessant middle of the night banter has led to the generous offer of seedy buns by Matzo Man, free hot chocolate from Barbara, and now curried favor with one of Houston Police Dept.'s Finest. HA! My blah blah saved Papi's butt. I kept him afloat. Maybe, I'm actually living up to my reputation as a "dinghy" wife, and it's not such a bad thing after all!

Skye Edwards - What's Wrong With Me

Oh Skye, Morcheeba just isn't the same without you.

However, her new solo effort is the official INFIDEL flavor of the week. Amazing song. LOVE IT! Albeit the video is also amazingly disturbing. The lovely Skye Edwards apparently is not a product of nature after all, but instead cobbled together from bits and pieces like a Nubian Princess version of Frankenstein. So, that's the real secret to her beauty, hmmmm?

Where's Igor when I really need him?

Shaking The Family Tree

While I'm on the subject of my little Stinkbug, Melody, I asked her today what color my shirt is (lime green), and she told me, "You give me chocolate and then me tell you". We've literally created a monster, but then given her genetic pedigree, I'm not all that surprised.

My Grandma Dee is a fiery red headed force to be reckoned with. Back in the days where no woman ventured into upper management she braved the uncharted frontier and found herself as the head of computer security for Miles Laboratories. Yep, that's where they make "PLOP PLOP FIZZ FIZZ Oh, what a relief it is", Alka-Seltzer. I had lots of those T-shirts as a kid and a lifetime supply of Flintstones chewable vitamins too. Point is, my Grandma is a hard line, domineering woman, that had solely men in her employ, and they trembled in fear before her.

From birth, our Melody has exhibited a lot of these finer qualities, including a fierce independent spirit. Melody also overcame the dominant Mayan Indian genetics to closely resemble my German/Irish Grandma Dee, right down to the squinty green eyes. As such, Papi has taken to calling her, "MINI DEE", instead of Melody.

We must train her to use her powers for good instead of evil.......

A Deeper Shade Of Soul

We live in a multi-cultural and diverse world. As such, we have felt parental compulsion to teach our children that judging others by the color of their skin is inherently wrong and displeasing to their Heavenly Father who regards us all as his spiritual sons and daughters. We've emphasized the philosophy of embracing color blindness so tenaciously that we are now reaping the fruits of our labors.

Our 3 1/2 year old daughter, Melody, cannot and will not distinguish colors at all.

In an effort to persuade her to learn them, I use the one technique she always responds positively to.......CHOCOLATE. So, last week I purchased the huge 2 pound bag of brightly hued, candy coated goodness that is M&M chocolate candies with the intention of teaching colors using a reward system. Whenever she correctly identifies the candy color, she's earned the right to claim it as her own. Man cannot live on the knowledge of M&M colors alone, so I change up the routine every few days. Yesterday, I asked Melody, "What color is my shirt"? (It was purple) Puzzled, she stared long and hard at my shirt before furrowing her brow and declaring, "Me not know". After a week of working on color concepts with her, I lost my patience and rudely sighed while brusquely telling her, "Fine then Melody. What color is my butt"? To which she smiled and yelled out, "WHITE"!

That earned her a whole sandwich bag full of M&M's.

The Smiling Infidel Theater Presents........

The movie extravaganza known as , "Snakes On A Plane", opens in theaters today!

I'd like to think of myself as a sort of well rounded Renaissance type of woman, (emphasis on the well rounded part), who enjoys acquiring new talents and skills. So, now I'm going to try my hand at screenwriting. Today, will see the advanced blog screening of my film project proposals bound for Hollywood executives.

You know how movies go in spurts? One genre or plot will find wild success, and other film projects will typically scramble to follow suit and capitalize on the trend. Remember all those body switching movies of the 80's, kicked off by Tom Hank's flick, "BIG", only to find a resurgence now in a new millennium with the remake of "Freaky Friday", and "13 Going On 30"? I think "Snakes On A Plane" will kick off a new era of a different kind of action movie combined with upfront honest titles.

Without further ado, allow The Smiling Infidel Theater Productions to lull you into a euphoric mood with a perusal of our exciting film offerings below. Possibly, coming to a cinema near you in the future.

Now, START scrolling downwards to gawk at the proposed setups that I'm just waiting to be greenlighted.............

CAKES On a Plane!

A group of ecstatic Weight Watcher members, returning from their complimentary trip won for most pounds lost, find themselves a victim of the ultimate sabotage. Jealous Jenny Craig conventioneers willfully distribute cakes and assorted calorie dense, sugary sweet, completely irresistible treats throughout the cabin and overhead compartments. Facing the moderation fears they have worked so diligently to overcome, the trapped bevy of newly svelte Weight Watchers silently pledge to stay calm and not touch the offending pastries, but one lick of delectable cream cheese icing off the tip of a finger instigates a manic feeding frenzy. Chaos and havoc ensues as the flight attendants lock themselves in the galley out of sheer terror. By the time the plane lands, half have eaten their way into a sugar comatose state, while the other half have emergency personnel slicking them up with Vaseline for easier removal from the aircraft.

Atkins Diet Products have offered to bankroll this one for me. Body By Jake Inc. wanted in too, but when I nixed the title, "JAKES On A Plane", they rescinded their offer.

RAKES On A Plane!

A seemingly uneventful flight from Salt Lake City to Palmyra, New York turns ugly when a gaggle of rogue Three Stooges impersonators start performing their routine on the plane. Hijinks abound when they pull the old upside down rake trick in the aisles and people inadvertently walk into them, thus smacking themselves silly upside the head. The action heats up as a group of Jerry Lewis impersonators on their way to to perform at the MDA telethon, take them on in a midair rumble. Chaos and havoc ensues as more than a few innocent bystanders are poked in the eye, bopped on the head, and told some really corny jokes that only the French could appreciate.

FLAKES On A Plane!

Or is it??!!!???

This screenplay is largely inspired by the "What's grosser than gross?" jokes that I grew up with.

The action takes place as the unsuspecting passengers on an extended flight to the Capital city of Djibouti which is also, head smackingly enough, Djibouti. There's no finer vacation destination than Djibouti in the summertime. Personally, I love any country that sounds like 'yo booty' when pronounced. Eventually, they give in to their ravenous hunger, and thanks to scaled back airline amenities, are only served a cereal breakfast as opposed to a hot meal.

Happily, they crunch away, enjoying every moment of the scenic flight while eating their Bran Flakes. Only, unbeknownst to them, a cargo of biomedical waste has found itself stored on board rather than the cargo hold, and has been unwittingly unleashed in the galley. It's an entire wooden crate full of crusty scabs, and now the box has turned up mysteriously empty. Chaos and havoc ensues, as well as a shortage of airline passenger barf bags.

The next scene finds them making an inexplicable detour to New York City and discovering that grosser than gross is exemplified by a man they witness jumping off the Empire State building and landing on a bicycle with no seat.

The Edited Children's Version Of "Snakes On A Plane"

Featuring everyone's favorite plastic celebrities outside of Hollywood, The Little People!

Here's the script outline:

The ill fated journey of the Little People begins as they board the special Little People "short" plane bound for the World renowned Chicago Zoo for a special seminar on, "Differentiating Feces In The Animal World". While en route, a cargo of dangerous plastic snakes wiggle out of their crates and havoc and chaos ensues.

True to action/horror movie stereotypes, we implausibly find our little friend, Omar, taking the helm of the plane instead of the Captain seated behind him. Why, you may ask? Because everyone knows that regardless the situation, minorities get axed first in these films. People engaging in any sort of amorous tryst are usually next up on the chopping block. We had to delete those steamy "Mile High Club" scenes between the two clowns to qualify as child friendly. We're still cleaning up the walls from smeared white face paint and vacuuming up little curly orange hairs (hopefully from their clown wigs. EEEK!) out of the plane's lavatory.

Every child's movie has to include a moral of the story. The Little People learn that while real, live, cold-blooded reptiles, pose an imminent threat to real, live, warm-blooded people, plastic persons are the preferred prey of plastic snakes. Thus, teaching the kids that everything on Earth likely has a predator looking to destroy them. So, might as well face adversity with a maddening plastered on smile that never fades, just like the characters in our little tale. Life simply isn't all sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows everything children. Let's just say that there's going to be some vacancies in Little People Town. Immediate occupancy available.

The Five People You Meet On Your Way To.......

Hometown Buffet!

Why is this man smiling? Because he had a brush with Smiling Infidel greatness five years ago, that's why.

That's right, I've actually met Mr. Samuel L. "Snakes On A Plane" Jackson. As customary in our quest to sate our refined culinary palate, the family and I chose to dine at one of the more upper crust establishments that North Houston has to offer, Hometown Buffet. Fine, it's not exactly champagne gourmet fare, but they do serve a mighty delicious prime rib. The silvery buffet steam table ambiance is also superb.

There we sat at our table for 7, gorging ourselves silly on fried shrimp because it happened to be Seafood Night, when suddenly I noticed a distinctly familiar man sitting at a table directly next to us, on the other side of the white beadboard partition. He sat there in his trademark red Kangol cap focusing on his plate while quietly eating. Well, after a few more trips to the buffet bar to soothe my nerves, I worked up the courage to approach him. Shakily, I asked, "Hey, has anyone ever told you that you look exactly like Samuel L. Jackson"? Startled, he looked up from his plate of chicken fried steak smothered in cream gravy, and with a mysterious grin, accompanied by a deliberate shake of his Kangoled head, said, "No. Nobody has ever told me that before". Well, by the time I scampered around the partition, leaving a treasure trail of breaded shrimp in my wake, to tell Papi that I just talked to a mega star, he abruptly disappeared, leaving nothing behind except a half finished plate of chicken fried steak. I've eaten the chicken fried steak there before. I did him a favor.

Okay, boys and girls, Mormons and Wiccans, leftists and right wingers, taste great and less filling, boxer and brief, paper and plastic, sinner and saints alike. Share with the masses your very best celebrity encounter. Of course, I also actually shook hands with Greg from The Wiggles. Jealous much?

The Death March.....Now With Conga Line Dance Steps Added To It!

The passing of one life into another is never an easy transition for those of us left behind. Here at the home of The Smiling Infidel, we feel and understand this sense of tragic loss, and we'd like to offer our unique services to bring enlightenment and mirth to you in your time of profound need.

My daughter, Sunbum, and I are always completely somber and reverent whenever we pass a cemetery......... with the exception of last Tuesday. As we drove past the lushly green graveyard around 9:00 A.M., a funeral service had already begun. Just so you know, we are complete Broadway Musical freaks. I've lost count how many times we've sat and watched "My Fair Lady", both at home and on stage. So, as we silently grappled with our inner morbid curiosity that usually coincides with such an event, we asked ourselves "I wonder who died?", "I wonder how old they were, and how they passed from this mortal realm?" When, all of a sudden, Sunbum and I simultaneously burst into song. A rendition of the classic My Fair Lady tune, "I'm Getting Married In The Morning", revised to "I'm Getting Buried In The Morning. Ding Dong The Bells Are Gonna Ring"!

Epiphany! I think we have a bright future as funeral entertainers. Forget Oliver Twist and the paid mourners of the past. Parodied show tunes is the newest innovation for a good time to be had by all at your next graveside family gathering. I'm going to start printing up business cards right away, but I think handling advance reservations will be tricky and possibly incriminating.