I Bid Thee Farewell.....

Until We Meet Again, My Friends.

The kids and I are leaving for a destination deep in the heart of Texas today, where the stars at night are big and bright, and the cowgirls cry "Yippee Yi." Sadly, or gladly, depending on how technologically attached you are, this is also one of the only pristine places left on the face of the Earth that features neither Internet access nor cell phone reception. Yes, we literally are going to "Butts Camp" for a refresher course along with our fellow homeschooling comrades, and then much fun and adventure await us as I handle six kids single handedly in the wilds of the San Antonio metropolis. We're on a special mission to find Pee Wee Herman's red bike in the basement of The Alamo!

Ya'all come back now, ya hear? Yes, peruse these exciting blog events scheduled upon our return back to civilization.

1. The unveiling of a brand new Smiling Infidel. Now with 68.8675% more smileys!!!! Much thanks to the creative efforts of super feiend, Omar, and his gift of a facelift to me. Not that I need a facelift mind you. I need a tummy tuck, electrolysis, liposuction...... Well, to clarify, it's a blog facelift. All the wrinkles smoothed out with nary an injection of botulism.

2. Nestled between the scheduled return of Lianne from France and Halloween, the Infidel will proudly present, "WOO WOO WEEK", as a nod to the Goddess of Woo Woo herself, Lianne. Better gather up your extra Depends adult diapers and nitroglycerin pills, boys and girls, because I'll be retelling all the truly strange, and occasionally horrifying paranormal things that have happened to me and people that I know. Chills and mini freakouts galore!

3. Think you have what it takes to be a member of The Smiling Infidel gang? We'll show you all our covert hand gestures, gang initiations, slang, and the official Infidel gang snack, YooHoo chocolate drink. Yes, if you're prepared for some grueling tasks and learning cornball lingo to hang with us, then have your smiley faced doo rags and bandanas at the ready.

4. The monkey sock mania continues as I once again show off a new pair sure to make Radioactive Jam seethe in blinding monkey socked jealousy. This one had him conceding victory to me, as he sensed my monkey sock supremeness over him.

5. A Tale Of Two Kitties. The youngest of my spawn, Melody, will show off her true fashion loves, her kitty cat dresses.

6. To all blog friends, old and new, I'll miss you. To all you lurkers, you know who you are, and I'm certainly not above employing guilt complex techniques to call you out. Comment already!!! Let's work together to shatter the previous comment record of 36 here. Even if you just stop by and write, "Your blog is a total waste of time for me to read, and yet I can't stop myself from coming back for more.", it's all good, and counts as one more towards beating the all time high of 36.

I'll bring you guys back lots of cheesy souvenirs, and the requisite vacation picture slide show. Yay! How excited are you for my blog return now, huh? And with that, I bid you all a fond adieu.

As The Worm Turns

And so, it was with extreme trepidation that I answered the phone last Sunday evening. For those of you who lack familiarity with the Mormon faith, Sunday nights are prime Bishropic pickings for catching members and extending callings and speaking assignments to them. I know this. Papi knows this. Yet, he still answered the phone and handed it to me.

Our genial second counselor oozed warmth and enthusiasm as he greeted me. I mumbled a "Hello. Yeah. Doing fine", back to him dreading what was to come next. My seven years of good luck had finally run out, Brother Porter asked me to speak during Sacrament meeting next week. *cue the recorded scream soundtrack* He remarked that when asked for names of fellow converts in the Ward, mine stood out like a beacon above all the rest. Brother Porter informed me that my mission, should I choose to accept it, is to make a short delivery to the Ward regarding how I came to know the Church, what propelled me to accept it and get baptized, and my own convert perspective testimony. During the whole length of his end of the conversation, I kept thinking, "Oh CRAP! Why me?" Visions of my beginnings in the Church flashed before my eyes, and they weren't all that spiritual. No, definitely not the stuff quality Sacrament talks are made of.

So, I knew Papi from work and we became friends. One day he invited me to go to Church with him. Thinking that he's Catholic, I agree. Oh surprise, we pulled up outside an LDS chapel. Papi promptly introduced me to two missionaries, and my 19 year old self promptly developed a crush on one of them. I started feeding them at my apartment every Friday, and taking the Gospel discussions with Papi by their side. I liked one of the Elders, but his companion liked me. During Sunday School when I didn't think that my butt could get any number from 3 hours of monotonous sitting, Elder Gardner started speaking of holy things in my ear.............using a Kermit The Frog voice. Not to be outdone, Papi competed with him by pretending to pick out imaginary monkey fleas out of my hair, examine them, and them eat them. The two broke into an all out GOOFBALL Competition to win my affection. I'm no raving beauty, and I had never commanded so much attention before, so I just basked in the glow of two men and their less than reverent antics. I did feel moved by the words of The Book Of Mormon, and I did feel peace at the organization of the Church itself, and their teachings. However, I made the decision to baptize before I was ready just so the Elder that I liked could be the one to baptize me before he went back home. Thus, I immediately went inactive until my oldest daughter turned 3, and now have found my faith and reverence much stronger than I did as a silly, clueless teen girl.

It's shameful, I know, and not something I want to share with everyone. Papi frowns on rejecting any calling or request made of me by Church leaders. With a resounding sigh, I told Brother Porter that yes, I would give a talk. He sounded thrilled as he told me not to forget October 22 as the big day. "What??!!!??", I asked, trying to keep my voice from sounding too excited. Brother Porter again mentioned October 22 as the date to reserve. To which I laughingly replied, "Oh Brother Porter, I'm soooooooo sorry, but I'm going to be out of town that day." What a reversal of fortune, for now I became the chirpy, jubilant creature while Brother Porter transformed into the sighing reluctant person I had been just minutes before. Ha Ha, I escaped from the nerve wracking clutches of public speaking duty once again. Here's to an additional 7 years good luck without Scarament talk assignments.

Add another entry to my already voluminous Big Book Of Sins.

The Manwich Incident

As I lovingly prepared yet another delectable feast of a dinner for my cherished family, my hamburger browning solitude was interrupted by the endless barrage of badgering questions by our resident finicky eater 7 year old, Caterpillar. Meal time is a constant rehash of Caterpillar bugging me about what I'm cooking, and if it's any good, what's in it?, and will she like it? This from a girl who used to eat her own boogers. So, last night the ritual began anew.

Initially, it all started with the Manwich. We don't usually dine on such declasse greasy spoon fare, well at least not from a can because I have a really good Sloppy Joe recipe for the crockpot, but I digress. I made Manwich one night, and Caterpillar started in with her skeptical attitude about my cooking prowess. When she got to the, "What's it made out of?" question though, I simply turned to her and said, "Read the label, honey. It's MANwich, made from 100% real authentic man." Ha, I know my single sister-in-laws would argue that a REAL man is hard to find, let alone to come in a can. Caterpillar gagged and informed me that I was disgusting. Hey, 1 million plus cannibals can't all be wrong, can they? Well, this marked the start of a new family gross out tradition.

Yes, we've incorporated this line of thinking into many of our meals. Thursday evening, the Casa De Infidel special of the night featured hand stuffed manicotti with breadsticks and salad. Of course, it's de rigeur to torment Caterpillar now, so as I cooked I told her that we were going to feast on MANicotti, stuffed with bits and pieces of real man. Caterpillar replied to this news with her sullen voice, "Oh, man." My older daughter, Sunbum then asked me if that makes us like Nelly Furtado's song, "Man Eater." I told her that Nelly Furtado produces filthy whorish songs, and that for every time she listens to one of those Promiscuous Girl ditties , she has to take in six hours of Christian Rock to make penance for it. I'm taking a zero Nelly stance in this household. I then explained that we're more genteel like blue eyed soul singers, Hall And Oates version of, "Man Eater."

It breaks down like this. ZITI is a despised dish in this household because they pronounce it as ZITTY. Nobody wants to eat something with acne connotations to it. When I make my famous stew, I tell them that we're having Little Stew for dinner. We call it that ever since watching the Stuart Little movies. I inform them, "Yep, there's a Little morsel of Stew in every bite." I know it's spelled differently, but it still gives my little non-literate kids pause, and my older kids to question just how far meat from a mouse will go in feeding a family of 8. When we eat chicken fingers, my Papi takes his turn teasing our spawn with, "Oh, poor little chickens, walking around without their fingers because you horrible children chose to eat them." In the interest of maintaining a certain level of couth, I shall refrain from printing what he said about the "Chicken Balls" spotted on the steam table at our local Chinese Buffet.

I know that the feminists are pushing for equal rights in all respects, but I, for one, will rue the day that I see WOMANwich in a can, and a menu describing the delectable WOMANicotti dish. Already, we have to suffer through the consumption of ladyfingers, isn't that harsh enough?

We Are A Very SPECIAL Family

We, as a family, have developed some rather odd proclivities and behaviors.

1. I can't pinpoint the actual day when it all started, but we are absolutely obsessed with looking at the feet of the UPS delivery people. One day, I noticed that they had the cutest little monogrammed socks, and then I noted that neither DHL nor FedEx personnel had such nifty footwear. Now, whenever we pass one of their open doored trucks, we all crane our necks to see the driver. When those luscious brown, trademarked logo socks are spotted we all yell a victory cry of, "UPS SOCKS........YAY!!!!!!"

2. We love Port-A-Potties. Well, not to use them, mind you. A fateful trip to the India Festival during August cured us of any desire we may ever have to sit inside one again. Two words; humidity and curry. Stinkorama! There's a company here that provides Port-A-Potty rentals called, "Tanks A Lot." That name definitely wins the Infidel Seal Of Approval. When we drive out through the countryside there's always shouts of, "We love you baby cows!", and "We love you horsies!" from myself and my kids. Seeing Port-A-Potties though, inspires the same kind of fervor. Sometimes, we transfix our eyes upon two, side by side in the same color, and we feel compelled to yell, "Awwwww, look at that, twin Port-A-Pots!" After reading about outhouses during a unit study on the Depression, they also call them privies. Melody just finished excitedly yelling, "I Love You Baby Goats!", when she spied a portable potty and finished her declaration of admiration with an "I LOVE YOU TOO PRIVY!" Last week, I took her to work with me only to have her shout very loudly, with the truck windows open, I might add, at an orange cat. Three year old Melody screamed, "I love you owange kitty", until something else caught her eye. Melody then proceeded to yell out, "I love you Mexican man!" to the startled landscaping crew. We grow them politically incorrect in the Infidel household.

3. The entrance to our subdivision is marked by a traffic light and a slight incline that's steep enough to make the car seem like the Dukes Of Hazard's General Lee in mid air slow motion action when crossing it at a high rate of speed. Mostly, though, our exploits are squashed with the crimson of the red light. But on those rare occasions that we make it to the entrance, and the light is in our favor, I recklessly step on the gas to ensure nonstop intersection passage. When we make the light without ever having to stop, and the truck crests the top of the pavement hill, we all throw our arms in the air and scream, "WHEEEEEEEEE!", as though we were on a roller coaster ride. Irresponsible? Yes. A funny tradition? Absolutely.

4. Tuna and macaroni casserole night means we're all required to sing, "Tuna Mac", to the tune of Martha Reeve's classic song, "Jimmy Mack." *singing* "Tuna Mac, when are you coming back? Tuna, oh, tuna. Yeah, tuna mac you better hurry back." Secretly, though, nobody is in any real hurry to have tuna mac nights back at our house for the evening meal.

Our family chant should be: "We're odd, we know it. We're odd, we SHOW it! Don't be frightened, share what makes you and your family "special" too!

Man Against Beast!

Few realize what a perilous occupation I have, for the life of a newspaper carrier is fraught with danger and intrigue at every turn.

A paper comrade once gave me wise counsel when he stoically said, "Giiiiirrrrlll, you don't stop your truck for nobody, and I mean nobody." He went on to tell me that he won't even halt his vehicle for a dog in the middle of the street because it could secretly be a nefarious trap. Given that I'm working in the heart of suburban bliss amongst splendorous homes situated on lush golf course greens, I generally don't feel frightened to step out of my truck, even if it is the middle of the night.

Last week, I threw the notoriously gigantic Houston Chronicle Sunday Edition. Each one weighs in excess of five pounds, and makes a lumberjack's eyes glitter with delight. When I double backed down one particular street I saw nothing but litter mayhem. My customer's newspapers were strewn haphazardly everywhere, and I didn't have any extras with me, so I got out to salvage what I could. While bent over cobbling sections back together, I heard a low, rumbling sound coming from behind me. Usually, that means I'm flatulating, but this proved not to be the case this time.

I turned around slowly to find two vicious dogs growling and baring their teeth at me. One, an obvious mottled brown colored Pit Bull, while the other appeared to be some genetics experiment involving a collie gone terribly awry. They approached menacingly towards me, forcing me to retreat further backwards into the street. Escaping to the safety of my truck wasn't an option because of the distance and my painful lack of running speed. The Pit Bull snapped dangerously close to me, and adrenaline took over. I swiftly picked up two of the gigantic newspapers still in the plastic bag, one for each hand, and I deftly started swinging them around like lethal weapons. Surprised, the dogs continued growling but backed up a little. There's me, wielding two newspaper like nunchucks, flipping and slicing the air with them and yelling threats at the dogs. The collie gave up, and went running like the Hell Hound he is back to his yard. The Pit Bull though, snapped at me again forcing me to bring down the awesome force of the Sunday paper on his back, followed by a shouted expletive laced sentence that startled even me. He turned tail and ran down the street whimpering. Shaking, and scared, with visions of Pit Bull mauling stories running through my head, I climbed back into my truck.

I told my kids about it and even demonstrated my newspaper weaponry stance. Instead of them gasping that their beloved mother almost became a midnight snack for a dog, they laughed and laughed. They told me that I looked like a fat, white ninja on a street corner looking to kick butt, take names, and then hawk the newspapers for a meager profit. That's me, doing proud tribute to the memory of oafish Chris Farley everyday. Well, except no self respecting paper carrier would ever wear an all white outfit because it shows the newspaper ink stains, and we must never reveal our true identities during the daylight hours. (That's mostly because people laugh at the thought of adults throwing newspapers)

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.