I Perish The Thought Of Ever Hearing My Papi Whistling, "Man! I Feel Like A Woman!"

I've known my sexy-Mexi husband, Papi, since I was still a bright-eyed teenager brimming with equal parts vim, vigor, and stupidity. Fine, it wasn't really equal parts. The stupidity/naivete portion comprised at least half of my teen-aged being on any given day. Occasionally, I'd hit that full 100 percent stupidity mark.

Yay for being 100 percent perfect at something!

Papi-a recently-immigrated Mexican National and recent return missionary-decided that he wanted to find that special someone who believed in the idea that marriage should comprise teamwork and partnership. (Apparently his dating history involved a lot of spoiled Mexican-American Princesses)

Not to worry, this story isn't going to turn into a third-rate romance novel cover that reads something like....."He was a bronzed, uptight immigrant-with a chest like a hairless chihuahua-out looking for love, adventure, and authentic chimichangas in a foreign land. She was a flaxen-haired Goofball Goddess in overalls whose proudest moment in life was finally realized when she mastered the hand motions to M.C. Hammer's, '2 Legit To 2 Quit.' Through a series of hilarity and hijinks plus one positive pregnancy test, fate will conspire to bond them through the eternities....."

Basically, Papi confided that he chose me as his betrothed because I was the only white chick he had ever met who didn't mind working 2 manual labor jobs while attending school at the same time. He also said something about me being a hard worker "just like a burro." I've tried to make his sweet words sweeter by blocking out that uncalled for donkey comparison.

To that point I hadn't found anyone willing to laugh at the myriad of weird things I frequently blurted out. When Papi acted as my own personal Comedy Club audience, I knew he was the one for me. Nevermind the fact that while Papi did speak perfect English, he didn't quite understand the nuances of American humor- he was only chuckling because he reasoned it was the polite thing to do instead of saying, "Huh? I don't get it. Are you on crack or something?" I really thought that "Pull My Finger!" transcended all languages and cultures. Sad.

It turns out that no matter how hard-working or astoundingly fertile or personable I am, I'm still lacking in the domestic skills category. If Papi had made a Perfect Wife Checklist prior to getting married, I wouldn't have fared too well:
Cook- Ummm, well, that is my mom's maiden name...soooooo....I guess, technically, yes?
Clean- I mastered the art of wiping and that's about it.
Iron- Heck Yes! I take 2 tablets every day!
Vacuum- Only for emergency liposuction, roach carcass disposal, and finding lost earrings.
Sew- A needle-pulling thread? La....a note to follow sew?
Knit- No, I'm lice-free and nit-free, thanks.
Scrapbooking- Well, I once did that Slam Book thing in Junior High. It made a girl cry inconsolably. Does that count?

Luckily, Papi excels in all the areas where I'm deficient. He's my personal Iron Man. For reals, y'all. He's as delicate with my silks as he is steamy with my cotton-blends.

Sometimes, Papi's long-hidden talents rises to the surface after lying dormant for so many years.

Our daughter, Caterpillar, recently attended a Church Activity with other girls and they learned how to knit. Yeah, they be turning my daughter into a knitta. Maybe she can one day join Knittas, Please!, H-Town's premiere knitting gang.

Anyway, I didn't have a clue as to how to help Caterpillar finish her knitting project at home. I suffer from acute Yarnophobia- so I have a legitimate excuse. Naturally, Papi stepped in and wowed us all with his nimble fingers and knitty know-how. *le sigh* Is there nothing that man of mine can't do?

Whenever I think about our future together I get this vision in my mind of a stark role reversal. In it, I'm sitting around on our front porch swing in my dungarees, smoking a (bubble) pipe and scratching at the wiry old people-hairs on my chin. My grand-children will all congregate at my feet, begging for me to tell them another story about when I was a young whippersnapper. I'll instead take out my false teeth and wave them about as an instrument of terror while chasing my screaming progeny. Papi will look resplendent in his calico apron. He'll content himself with silently watching us from his rocking chair-a bemused smile etched upon his weathered face as he lovingly knits me a pair of legwarmers so I can show our grand-kids how to shake it like that chick in Flashdance.

I have seen the future. And it is good.

Oh For The Love Of All Things Holy And Decent.....Are You Wearing That Shirt Again?

I'm practicing repeating the title line to this post because I can see that it's going to be the most oft-used phrase in the Infidel house for awhile. I know the truth of all things without even resorting to using my special all-knowing, all-seeing Magic 8 Ball.

The oldest Infidel daughter, Sunbum makes no secret about her love of Edward Cullen and now thanks to blog friend ALICE of the Honey Pie Manor she can proudly display her love wherever she goes! Yes, Edward is not only in Sunbum's heart but he's also now emblazoned across her heart (and chi-chi's) too.

I'm kind of a genealogy slacker- but to the best of my knowledge, we don't have even a drop of Cullen blood in our ancestry. However, yesterday, when the package bearing the name of Sunbum arrived at our house, and she tore into it and lifted out the T-shirt destined to become her main wardrobe staple- I could swear that she was sparkling just like a bonafide member of the Cullen Clan. It was a beautiful sight.

Pictures....BEHOLD!

THANKS ALICE!!!!! May you only encounter vegetarian vampires and horny-but-harmless werewolves all the years of your life.......

*Now to figure out a covert and secrety hiding place for the shirt on Sundays so Sunbum won't try to wear it to Church!*

(And as a sidenote......THIS IS THE WORST EDWARD PICTURE EVER!!! The FUG......it burrrnnnsss. Picture courtesy of gofugyourself.com)

They're Trying To Tell Us Something.....If Only We'd Listen!

Did you know that I'm a mover and a shaker? Yes, it's true. To be more specific, it's actually my tremendous derriere-resembling a hot air balloon with a giant seam running up the middle- that's attained the official mover and shaker status. The Cheek Family-residing somewhere on the Infidel Southside Backside- are proud to announce that they're not only mover/shakers but they're also esteemed gold members of the Wiggly-Jiggly Club, too.

Lately, though, I'm starting to think that my right butt cheek is desperately trying to send me a message through a fat tissue Morse Code system that goes like this:
Twitch-Sag-Twitch-Twitch-Spasm-Still-Pulsate-Twitch
Can anybody translate that for me?
My left butt cheek remains wholly silent. It very well could be mute but I don't know since I haven't had my butt cheeks tested for disabilities.

The oldest Infidel daughter, Sunbum, confided in me this weekend that she too felt weird involuntary movements in her right butt cheek. Naturally this led to a lengthy discussion delving into the deeper meaning of it all:
Sunbum: "My right butt cheek feels weird whenever you play your loud cantina music.....almost like it has a pulse.....pulsating to the rhythm of the beat."

Me: "Ewww, a pulse? That's one place you don't want your heart located- just think of the nasty stuff it'll pump through your body."

Sunbum: "True dat!"

Me: " My right butt cheek feels a lot like when I was pregnant with all you mini-Infidels. It's almost as if something is on the inside kicking and pushing and trying to get out. That's all I need is for my butt cheek to suddenly birth yet another butt cheek. I don't want another mouth to feed or another butt crack to wipe."

Sunbum :(Laughing Irreverently At My Butt Cheek Pains And Concerns)

If I ever somehow decipher the mysterious Butt Cheek Morse Code I'll post the key here. Maybe all of our individual butt cheeks are working as a collective with bits and pieces of a bigger apocalyptic message and we must work together to solve the mystery before it's too late!

I am so sending this post to M. Night Shyamalan for screenplay consideration.

My House Is More Ghetto Than Your House: Home Bra Repair Clinic

All teenage girls have to suffer through bouts of unimaginable humiliation in public at the hands of their mother. I'm not generalizing here. I wrote ALL TEENAGE GIRLS and I most certainly do mean ALL TEENAGE GIRLS.
Admittedly, I registered pretty high on the Dork-O-Meter as a teenage girl. However, not even my super geekiness could spin a magic bubble to insulate me from the embarrassing things my mom did.
Really, there's just so many stories to choose from regarding my mother but the one incident that stands out at the forefront of my cerebellum involves the time my mom put her intimate apparel on display for the whole world to see.
Okay, maybe that's a bit melodramatic. I mean, my mom wasn't writhing about in a bullet bra and garters like Madonna while moaning the words to 'Like A Virgin' or anything like that but she did decide to liquidate her entire outgrown bra and lingerie collection at our neighborhood garage sale one balmy Texas Saturday.
I helped my mom lug the endless boxes of crap out of our house and then I arranged it all on tables for strangers to pick through. I always enjoyed watching bargain hunters show up to haggle with my mom because she expertly disguised her true nature as a Master of the Wheel And Deal behind her blond suburban mom coif and big smile. Her years growing up in farm country and going to auctions served her well.
Anyway, through the hodgepodge of mislabeled boxes that were souvenirs of our last move my internal alarm barely registered a blip when I spied the gigantic cardboard container with the word BRAS written in wide-tip black Sharpie marker across it.
And then my mom affixed a sign to the front of the box that read 'ALL BRAS-$1.00.'
Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo........................
I got all disgusted with my mom and I kept shouting at her "What if the neighbors see this? What will they think? What about my friends? What if they show up and they go and tell everyone that my mom is a second-hand booby holder dealer? And furthermore, who the freak even buys used bras at a garage sale?"

My mom assured me that people would buy the bras......and buy the bras they did!

Big bras, little bras, bras to match your crocs, ugly bras, pretty bras, and even bras with red dots like chicken pox!

Hordes of bra hungry women excitedly rummaged through the Big Box Of Bras. Some of them even slipped the bras on over their shirts while they exaggeratedly puffed out their chests and paraded them around our driveway like it was some sort of Goodwill brassiere fashion show. (It's significantly less popular than the Victoria's Secret one.)

I looked at the scattered menagerie of bras that fell to the ground during the height of the bra stampede and I said a silent prayer of thanks that at such a brisk sales pace the bras should be gone before anyone we knew could see what nefarious offerings my mother was peddling at her garage sale of iniquity.

Granted, now that I'm an adult I fully understand what kind of ka-ching a good bra costs-- but I still can't imagine purchasing undergarments at a garage sale unless it's sponsored by a Maidenform sales rep.
Shamefully, I also have a whole drawer full of non-operational bras. It is really hard to find a comfortable titty restrainer.....it really is. You know, the friendly clerk inside the Kohl's Intimates Department is nice enough but she's not going to let me test-drive a new bra off the showroom floor--and really that's what I need. I need to test a bra out in all conditions to see how they adapt to my lifestyle. Can I work comfortably without it riding up on me? Does it make me have the dreaded Third-Boob Syndrome after a few hours of use? Are the hook enclosures easy to manage?
These are all important factors to consider. When I find a bra that I like I'll go back and stock up on that one bra model. Sadly, most of them fail the Infidel Boob Test so they get retired to the bottom of the drawer in my 'Emergency Bra Use Only' pile.
Here at La Casa De Smiling Infidel, we are on a very tight budget. There's no wiggle room for frivolous expenditures like frilly lace ta-ta torture chambers or brand new bazonga binder cups. No, I must make do with the crusty but reliable bras I already have.
In the spirit of resourcefulness unbounded I've started my own at-home bra rehabilitation clinic to extend the life of my bra favorites just a little bit longer...... Every day I fend off the deadly clutches of the Brassiere Grim Reaper.

Observe the stretched-out condition of this bra and how all the elastic strands have started showing through.

This is an easy Bra Doctor remedy that only requires the surgical precision of a good pair of sewing scissors.

See, a few snip-snips here and a few snip-snips there and it's like new once more!(Make note of the elastic amputees cast off to the side. It was quite a successful operation!)
I'm also skilled at bending the bra hooks back into shape with a pair of pliers. I'm an expert at severing the silly rose thing manufacturers stick in the middle of the bra giving you the appearance of having three nipples. I've sewn straps down that were trying to make a clean break away from the life and times of being an Elasticwaistbandlady bra. I've wielded a Super-Glue tube like nobody's business and permanently glued the adjuster clip thingies to ensure they don't slip down suddenly and leave me "hanging."

They tried to send me back to bra rehab. and I said YES! YES! YES! There's no shame in admitting you need bra help. Let me, your amateur Bra Doctor, assist you in your journey along the brassiere restoration path.

Wow, My Dreams Are Bigger Than Even My Gargantuan Rear End.....

This morning, as I arrived at the warehouse where I work during the blackness of the eerily quiet predawn hours, I couldn't help but glance around and notice several teen boys milling about, helping their fathers.
Yes, I mentally noted each of the teens' youthful bronzed skin and lustrous black curly hair owed to their Spanish ancestry-- and then a lofty and unexpected idea formed in my mind........with portly Lou Pearlman out of the way and in jail I could totally become the next boy band creator/guru this world so desperately needs.

Holy wow, I'm going to be RICH!
I'm envisioning kind of a Menudo boy band of old paired with a Jonas Brother sound of today. I want to overhaul these mop-topped teens and turn them into a kind of Mexican Jonas Brothers trio! First, I need to know if the sons of my co-workers are willing and able to learn to perform the Jonas Brother song catalogue in Spanish.
In my mind, my little imaginary Telemundo announcer is going crazy and screaming out in his deeply exaggerated voice, "Los Hermanos Jonas(Ho-Nas) en vivo a todos Fiesta supermercados!!!!Yaaaa!" (My Spanish sucks. Forgive me.)
Today I'm going to see if I can take out a small business loan. I hope they'll give me the money even when I tell them that I need it to buy tight and shiny metallic pants and matching leather shirts for my new boy band.
The next order of business is to draw up documents giving me 50 percent of all the boy band's future earnings.....and then getting the boys to sign it without reading it.
My 10 year old son, Buster practices his rap skills daily courtesy of Christian Rock hip-hop guy, Toby Mac. Buster has expressed interest in being that token rap guy who always jumps into the middle of a pop song with no warning and breaks it down. He already has a BLING chain that I bought him from the vending machine at Kroger's. I also have 4 daughters that with a nice pair of vinyl go-go boots would make great back-up singers.
The Mexican Jonas Brothers........I don't know. My sleep-starved brain works in very mysterious and devious ways. This all seemed like such a plausible and fantastic idea before I took a nap.

I Have A Very Exciting Announcement.....I'm Finally Ready To Write My First Novel!

As you know I've been seriously mulling over the prospect of penning a book for quite some time. I've spent many a night tossing and turning while visions of a glossy book jacket bearing an author line that reads: By Elasticwaistbandlady, danced in my head.

I could feel the distinct presence of the muse of inspiration visiting me this morning as she flitted about, enlightening me with a brilliant story idea. Yes, I could literally feel this presence way down deep into the darkened recesses of my bowels.......literally.

What kind of book am I planning to write? Well, technically there's no specific categorical label for my kind of stuff just yet but I'm working on it. I think you could accurately describe this piece as being in the newly created (by me) 'Gastrointestinal Horror' genre. Barnes and Noble will likely shelve my novel somewhere in between Stephen King and Paula Deen. Maybe they'll let my book get all close and comfy on the same shelf as Morgan Spurlock and his revolutionary 'Supersize Me' documentary.

So, the basic premise involves international intrigue and high stakes drama that all takes place within the confines of my body.

I work non-stop to bring home the bacon between Tuesday and Thursday every week-- as a result I'm working so hard I don't even have time to fry up the bacon that I'm bringing home. We rely fairly heavily on frozen foods and leftovers for family sustenance on these two days. Well, as you know the Infidel family is ALL about diversity......so much so that we ate burritos for lunch yesterday, leftover sauerkraut and sausage for dinner, and I polished off 8 piping hot potstickers fresh from the skillet for breakfast this morning.

See, I bet you didn't even know that Mexico, Germany, and greater Asia were embroiled in a war, did you? But they are. Right inside the battlefield of my stomach. I'm a sort of pacifist and I can't tell you how much all this strife has made my heart burn. I may need to enlist the assistance of Major Maalox to come up with some battle strategies.

Anyway, my book will be comprised of 3 short stories entitled:
The Sauerkraut Always Rings Twice
Little Shop Of Burrito Horrors
The Potsticker Strikes At Midnight

I need to work out some pertinent details with my publisher-- especially my plan to have this novel printed on comfy 2-ply paper in case my tales of gastrointestinal horrors scares the everliving sheet out of the reader.

*My oldest daughter, Sunbum has been experiencing "difficulties" since yesterday, too. Sunbum's war only involves Mexican and German in-fighting, though which is kind of ironic because Mexico and Germany comprise Sunbum's ethnic background. She's at war with herself. Read all about it on her blog HERE.*

My Mini-Infidels Found My Secrety Time Capsule Buried Inside A Rubbermaid Container....

Irritatingly enough, the discovery made them undergo a metamorphosis process from a handsome bunch of Infidel spawn into a braying, cackling herd of donkey escapees from Pinocchio's Pleasure Island.

I'm not all that sentimental but I have held on to a few of the last cornball vestiges from my childhood. The hand corsage from the 8th grade dance is long gone but the cruel things my peers wrote in my middle school yearbook lives on.

The two oldest Infidel daughters (12&13) almost suffocated themselves from laughing so hard while they read through the flimsy "yearbook" my middle school provided. It's really just a bunch of blank pages stapled together with the school name and mascot printed on the front. I knew I was opening myself up to a world of ridicule when the Infidel daughters noticed the not-so-prestigious name of the academic institution in which I attended.......Wunderlich. (WONDER LICK) There seems to be a recurring theme throughout the bright, marker-festooned yearbook pages--mostly that theme involves "friends" writing out every synonym that they could conjure up for the words "gullible and slow." Observe a few sample pages below where I'm referred to as dense and dingy. A quick flip through the book will reveal other such descriptive joys like goob, airhead, and nerd. I'm really not sure how this book has survived for so long without me chucking it into a giant S'More-making campfire.

The Incredible Disintegrating Swatch Watch Collection!
I loved, loved, loved Swatch watches back in the day. I could pretty much count on getting a new watch to add to my awesome Swatch hoard every Christmas. So if you calculate the roughly 8 Swatch watches in my possession and all of them going through a rotation of use that brings along the expected wear and tear......then these things are really just pieces of prettily colored plastic crap! I haven't worn any of them for close to 15 years-- and yet their sedentary life just lying around in a box was too much for them to withstand so they had to start peeling and breaking off big chunks of the wristbands.

When I was a little young (I was never little) girl...........I spent my free time writing to TV shows and getting autographed pictures. And now I look back and think, "Wow, that's so weird. I really was a dingy air-headed goob after all." I did manage to score a picture of the uber hot MacGyver among a few others but they're stored in a separate (but equal!) Rubbermaid container somewhere in my closet. My only claim to fame arose when the TV game show, Double Dare actually used one of the Obstacle Course ideas that I sent to them. You know the one where the contestants have to search through a rancid cheese filling lining the holes on a gigantic plastic Swiss Cheese to find the flag? Yep, that was mine! What did I get in return? A Double Dare T-shirt and an autographed picture of the host, Marc Summers. Wow.

This is a shameful part of me that I tried desperately to hide from you. It's true, I succumbed to peer pressure and wore these mega-ugly painted wood necklaces that never should have see the light of day outside of a nursing home Bingo Hall.

Here's a closeup of the Country Scene necklace. Quite inexplicably, the farm girl is sporting a ravishing femullet. Look at her.....she's all serious brunette business from the front but when you turn her over it's 100 percent sassy blond party action! Well, that's only if you're having a Little House On The Prairie party, but still.

I hate to sully my reputation like this-- but as a teen, I really got around. I worked at all three of these places before I ever hit my 20's. For some unknown reason, the capable name tag maker person at Randall's did not spell my name right. Having an extra consonant thrown into my name may have made me look more special than the scads of plain Melissa's running around there at the time but it didn't go too far towards helping me with my cashier career......Randall's made it into my personal Record Book under 'Shortest Working Stint Ever.' I preferred my Kroger name tag. I liked to wander the store and steal goofy stickers off different products to add to my tag. Sometimes I was Juicy, sometimes I was 100% Lean and on certain days I was 'Crusty On The Inside.' (stolen from a French Baguette loaf). I can honestly say that this was the only time in my life that other people would stare directly at me before saying "Hey, look at Melissa, she's Fat Free today!"
Yeah, my very first job was at Captain D's seafood when I was only 15. Got a dirty fish joke? Save it because I've already heard them all.

And now I know the real reason why they bury Time Capsules deep into the ground. I should've taken a life lesson from History and done the same thing!

There Always Has To Be At Least One In Every Family.....

I'm talking about camera hogs.......shameless, ruthless picture stealers who will stop at absolutely nothing to ensure ingratiating themselves into a photo frame a split second before the camera button clicks--thus immortalizing their photowhoring visage for many generations to come.
Meet my 6 year-old son, Logan. All I wanted to do was document my Melody's blissful joy as she realized her life's dream of winning the Sam's Cup Tournament. (That would be the Sam's SODA Cup) We rarely drink soda at home so when Melody slurped her first sip of Sprite mixed with Fruit Punch through the straw, her little face just lit up. (It was probably just gas) Of course Logan also wanted a piece of the Sam's Cup bounty hence his fierce expression and oddly arched Jack Nicholson eyebrows.

The only possible way to defeat a camera hog on the prowl is to use stealth and cunning. Apparently I lack both because my next picture attempt screamed out ABJECT FAILURE just like the first one.
Here we see Logan demonstrating his 'Give-Me-Prune-Juice-NOW' look.

I had to call in backup assistance to handle Logan. My enforcement team lured him away with the promise of cheese pizza leaving me just enough time to snap this lurvely portrait of Melody sharing her Sam's Cup Styrofoam Trophy with big sister Sunbum.

This picture is dedicated to Sunbum's online twin, Lauren Face who's visiting the not-fictional town of Forks, Washington (you know, where Bella and Edward live) even as I type this. See Lauren? You're not the only one who got to visit Forks this weekend!

We Saw The Incredible Hulk At The Dollar Store....And Boy, Did He Look Cheesed Off!

I always heard it speculated that the number one rule for managing The Incredible Hulk was: "DON'T MAKE HIM ANGRY." So why then would they cross-promotion this rippling green mass of fury with foofy bows meant to adorn presents?
If you notice, the corkscrew strands of ribbon identically match The Hulk's own skin and hair color. Hey, maybe that's not even ribbon after all! I mean, think about it, it is curly and it is green- that could very well be Hulk pubes out on display. No wonder the guy is so irritable- you would be too if someone was harvesting your curly dainties to make into bows.

We found Hulk hanging out in an undignified locale next to the likes of Dora La Pedora and frilly pink Pretty Princess bows. My son Buster used to be a huge Hulk fan but even he couldn't hide his disappointment and rage at Hulk's sellout. Buster has green eyes too, you know, and you don't want to make him angry, either!

Luckily for us, we were within arm's reach of an emergency Beef Jerky bag. That's the secret weapon to quelling the furious storm that occasionally brews up within Buster.

Back in my day we didn't have this wussified superhero product endorsement. Nope. Our superheroes championed awesome stuff designed to make us stronger like non-flame retardant pajamas and toys held together with nothing but poisonous lead paint.......and gosh darnit, we LIKED it! With the Hulkster now brazenly hawking resplendent gift-wrapping bows, I'm sure that a line of Incredible Hulk skin cream and lacy lingerie can't be too far behind.....

It's So Quiet You Can Hear An Egg Drop.....

Steel Yourself: I'm about to allow my unabashedly disgusting self run free and wild. If you venture further into this post you run the risk of never being able to accept a dinner invitation to a Chinese buffet again. And really, wouldn't that be tragic?
Okay, I've noticed that most public restrooms insist on stocking the frustratingly useless phenomena that is 1-ply toilet paper. I guess they haven't figured out the financial truth yet that the money saved by purchasing inferior TP will only end up being spent on a bigger supply of anti-bacterial soap. Why? Well, because in test study after test study in my very own home, I've discovered that your digits will inevitably tear through the toilet paper at the most critical moment leaving you with the nastiest of gorilla fingers. (Buy the quilted toilet paper- for the bum you save just may be your own!)

How dastardly is this stuff? Secret agents should use it to pass along confidential information because it practically dissolves on contact.

Anyway, I'm utilizing the facilities at McDonald's and as per natural for me I turn around to have a gander at the bounteous waste swimming around in the bowl before I flush. I rationalize that it's a medical necessity to take notice of any and all things shooting out of your body. I mean, I don't obsess over it....it's not like I drag out my little magnifying glass during Potty Time to correctly identify everything I ate for dinner embedded in the solid chunks. I'm just a strong proponent for staying cognizant of your physical being because detecting a change early-on can prevent serious repercussions from potential illness. Aside from all that, bodily expulsions are just plain interesting. Why else would the 'Milk, Milk, Lemonade' song still make me have to entreaty the assistance of Kegelling to keep from peeing myself? So, upon my quick pre-flush examination, I noticed that the coarse 1-ply toilet paper had predictably disintegrated immediately and transformed into a mushy glob of swirling, white comma-shaped pieces ebbing and flowing against a pale yellow backdrop.

It looked exactly like a toilet bowl full of egg drop soup.

Fortune Cookie Of The Day: Confucius Say Tis Better Not To Ask The Origin Of Egg Drop Soup And Try Sweet-And-Sour Soup Instead.

Elastic And The Hellacious Case Of The Heat-Rashed Rack.....

Alternately Titled:
Elastic And The Sun-Baked Boobs Of Doom

I'm usually loathe to admit this.......buuuuut, I am a woman chock-full of B.S.
Some days I'm so overflowing with B.S. that it's actually quite painful. The B.S. also seeps out onto my clothing in public which is a grossly mortifying experience.

Oh, don't you even try to sit there all smug while you self-righteously judge me and my glut of B.S. Scientifically speaking, you too have suffered from acute B.S. affliction at least once in your life. Yes, the heartbreak of Boob Sweat knows no gender or species barrier. It can adversely affect man, woman, and chicken alike. I know, because I've seen those sweaty chicken breasts under the heat lights at KFC.

Sadly, if left untreated, B.S. (Boob Sweat) will continue to progress and morph into full-blown Rack Rash. Just last week I fell victim to the most agonizing onset of Rack Rash while out working in the hellishly humid tropical clime that defines Houston during the summertime. I could scarcely breathe because the slightest chest movement triggered a new round of stinging pain and me squealing "Ow Ow Ow Ow Ow Ow Ow." There's no governmental discrimination protection for Rack Rash sufferers' either. All my dreams of one day waitressing at Hooter's have been dashed.

And then, just when I'd tearfully resigned myself to a life of itchy, sweaty, burning bazongas, bloggy friend Alice "If There Was A Problem, Yo I'd Solve It" Honey Pie rode to my rescue and sent me this fine product in the mail.

Skeptically, I broke my conservative nature by liberally applying a heaping helping of Anti Monkey Butt Powder straight to the stricken Ta-Ta Territory.

What happened in the next 24 hour period can only be aptly described by the cast of Fiddler On The Roof: "Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles!"

This BEFORE picture allows you to clearly observe my depiction of the epidemic boob outbreak without me showing you my actual boobs. Look at them, pity them...... it's as though someone messed up a line of Shakespeare and demanded that "a pox be upon you and your bosom!" A chicken pox.

And now here's the dramatic artistic rendition of the events that unfolded after the use of Anti Monkey Butt Powder. Do you see what I see? The proof has manifested right before your very eyes that Anti Monkey Butt Powder really does perform the stupefying feats that the label claims.....BEHOLD! Just a sprinkle a day helps keep boob sweat away......

(Don't be alarmed. Only the irritating rash vacated my mountainous premises when I used the powder. My boobs didn't really disappear.)

I've been converted to the House Of The Anti Monkey Butt True Believers. That talc powder miraculously eradicated the angry spotty-dots. It took me from Reddish Rack Rash to Calm And Collected Calamine Cleavage in less time than it takes for Fergie to choke out the words to her 'My Humps' song.

Ahhhh yes, sweet relief. Thanks to Alice and the Anti Monkey Butt Powder, my delicate alabaster boobage has been restored. I got my humps, my humps, my lovely lady lumps.....Now, NEW AND IMPROVED WITHOUT ANY BUMPS!

Christian Rock Totally Inspires ME! (To Have Weird Thoughts)

We're currently slobbering all over this boss song by Houston Hometown Boy, Jimmy Needham. As me and my mini-Infidels sat in my truck this afternoon totally soaking up his Jason Mraz meets Jesus Freak guitar-drenched sound, I couldn't help but think that with a last name like NEEDHAM it's probably a good thing that he's Christian and not say, an observant Jew or a Muslim.

Yeah, calling out "NEED HAM" during a mosque or synagogue activity might be rather awkward for the cleric/rabbi involved.

*Squeeeeeeeee.....Jimmy Needham is playing a concert not too far from our house next week and tickets are only 2 dollars. Now if I could just figure out a way to wiggle out of work for the evening.*

JIMMY NEEDHAM- LOST AT SEA

And in further happy, happy Infidel news somewhat related to the influence of Christian Rock.....remember Mr. Ash Hole? Well he had the unmitigated gall to call in to the office and report that I purposely swerved my truck to the side so I could hit him! Okay, if someone almost mows you down with their vehicle, wouldn't you call 911? If it was such a matter of urgency, why did he wait 2 weeks to call the office? I told my boss that I wrote about Ash Hole and I have it documented on my blog that it happened 2 weeks ago. Hey, truth is Senior Girly-Man wanted to play the part of an elderly Bad Azz by standing in the middle of the street. At the last minute he thought better of going up against a 1/2 ton pickup and moved his butt to the safety of the curb when I revved the engine and jammed on the gas. I won this round of Chicken and Mr. Ash Hole is just a sore loser!

My House Is More Ghetto Than Your House: Our Misfit Microwave

It's a heartbreaking fact of life- our deformed microwave will never be able to send out communicative signals across the ether to CB Radio users.
If the microwave suddenly did develop that power ala some bizarre twist of fate that only a complicated sci-fi movie plot can explain, I imagine the conversation would likely go as follows:
CB Radio Operator: "10-4 Little Buddy. What's your handle?"
Misfit Microwave: *sniff* "But, I don't have a handle.....why, oh why must the world discriminate against the hapless handle-less?"

Handle With Care

When the handle unexpectedly snapped off into my hands I vowed to take what was broken and make it whole again. So I did what all mothers with huge herds of destructive children do........I threw it into the pile of broken crap that gets lovingly pieced back together with Superglue or Duck Tape at the end of the week.

Shockingly, not even Gorilla Glue contained enough brute strength to get a handle on this no handle situation.

"I Can't Handle It Anymore!!!" Yeah, literally.

So what does one slightly impoverished Infidel woman do when replacing an expensive kitchen appliance is out of the question and out of the budget? Well, she consults her handy book, Secret Confessions Of A Compulsive Jerry-Rigger for an easy-fix solution.

Epiphany! I can knife the microwave to get it to open up and give me what I want.

It's not what you think......we began implementing the use of our butter knives- sticking the ends of the knife into the microwave door crevice while we pull and tug and pry the door open.

You see, all those crowbar techniques learned out on the mean streets can be modified into some mighty practical domestic skills!



*Yeah, that's our 5 year old, Melody cheerfully knifing the microwave. Our kids learn early on that it's every man for himself around here. If you want your instant oatmeal cooked in the morning you better learn how to manipulate the intricacies of the handle-less microwave. Survival Training!*

Spectacularly Stupid Things I've Done: Watch Where You're Walking Edition

I whole-heartedly embrace the bare-footing movement. Yes, that's right, my feet are unabashed nudists. Shocking, no? My fat little tootsies are like wild horses-they refuse to be tamed and made prisoner inside some hellishly sweaty footwear prison. On occasion though, my feet do have to endure a few short stints inside a shoe-shaped holding cell.

You all know my dear Vitamin-A enriched bloggy friend, Carrot Jello, right? Well, she's so kind she would give you the shirt right off her back. When I met her last summer we happened to be wearing the exact same shirt so she instead gave me the shoes right off her feet. Really, she did!

Everytime I wear those black and rubbery Croc-knockoff shoes I think of Carrot Jello and delight in the fact that while we don't live close to another at least our foot sweat can co-mingle inside the same pair of shoes.

As most fellow and former Houstonians know, Houston maintains a stifling 100 percent humidity level even during the night hours.

I wouldn't describe myself as having a "lead foot" but a "hot foot" would be wholly accurate.

So as I was toiling away during the pre-dawn hours the salty perspiration dripped from my every pore. Yes, the sweat just rolled off my Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes, and likely from my Eyes, Ears, Mouth, and Nose, too!

Looking for relief I kicked the Carrot Jello Croc shoes off as I got out of my truck to load up some more newspaper bundles from the back.

Humongous curbside piles of discarded pine needles is a pretty common sight around here so I thought nothing of it when I parked next to one such Pine Needle Welcome Mat blanketing the street.

Blithely I walked barefoot to and fro from the back of the truck to the front of the truck each time stepping on the oddly squishable pine needle pile.

It took about the fifth round trip for the neurons in my brain to communicate with the neurons in my feet and in one startling moment they both realized, "Heeeeyyyy, these pine needles aren't crunchy when we step on them. Where's the familiar stabby sensation they usually make on our bare feet?"

So I squatted down to have a closer look at what I perceived as a friendly Pine-A-Palooza Party..........and then I started screaming, for there, lying in the gutter, was a completely flattened one-dimensional squirrel carcass that I'd been traipsing across as though it were a Squirrel Skin Rug.

The poor Mammalian rodent was so steamrolled it could have been used to write stuff on and then rolled up and secured with a whimsical piece of ribbon. The Dead Squirrel Scrolls.

How I wished that I had a private nurse so at that moment I could turn and bark at her, "Nurse, sterilize these, STAT!" as I held out my festering feet.

If squirrel guts hold some sort of mystical power that'll transform dull, crusty skin into a thing of radiantly flawless beauty, then I shall have the most prettiest feet ever.

*This post won Runner-Up in the essay contest, 'The Roadkill And I Joined Together And Became One......'. Elastic was rewarded a beautiful new squirrel skin cap and squirrel nut ear muffs. Congratulations Elastic!!!*

Emergency Food Storage Furniture!

Entrepreneurial Skills.......I Haz Them!

Sure, my grandiose plan to start a blog two years ago thinking I would hit it big like Dooce so the ad revenue would support me and my merry band of mini-Infidels didn't quite come to fruition-I think Dooce appeals to a larger audience because she never talks about weird things like The Secret Adventures of The Fat Flap Spy Girls- but now I'm channeling my time and energy 100% on my next grand money-making scheme.

Most ideas are borne out of a need. Well, we have 8 people trying to co-exist peacefully in a smallish house which leaves virtually zero space for food storage.
Sitting on cans of stacked-up SPAM proved pointedly painful to our derrieres, so, ever the problem solver, I'm going to start a furniture company- and not just any furniture company- a food storage furniture company.

I'm thinking of calling my new business, 'YOU'RE SO FULL OF IT!'
My first product line centers around gigantic bean bag chairs stuffed with actual beans.
Product testing reveals that black beans and kidney beans make for superior fillers resulting in unabounded squishy bean bag chair fun. Sadly, our surplus of Mexican Jumping Beans failed all product tests as did the Borracho Beans.

Here's some other brilliant ideas I have just walking around in my brain with their thumbs stuck out and a little hobo stick over the shoulder waiting for someone to give them a ride out:
1. Waterbeds filled with clean, drinkable water to fulfill your water storage requirements.

2. Potato Pearl/Flake Pillows (Not recommended for those who drool. We cannot be held liable for any mashed potato damage to your bedding)

3. Inflatable Sofas Filled With Cracked Wheat (They're such a lovely neutral shade of tan sure to match any home decor)

I can't wait to embark on my latest GET RICH QUICK! serious and long-term business opportunity. Whenever someone utters the phrase 'YOU'RE SO FULL OF IT!' I want you to automatically think of me and my ingenious solutions designed to make your life just a little bit easier. Thank you in advance for your support.

With Fondest Regards,
elasticwaistbandlady



*The baby pictured above is NOT part of any recommended food storage plan. A baby on a bean bag chair is technically a "Beanie Baby" but we're refraining from calling it as such to avoid incurring any trademark infringement action*

Do You Have What It Takes To Join The Ranks Of The Fat Flap Espionage Elite?

Hello, my name is Elastic and I represent the FFC (Fat Flap Central). We're currently looking to recruit some of the finest fat flappers this country has to offer.
The Flapper movement has come a long way since its inception during the swinging 1920's era. See, back then our covert operatives spirited away top secret documents and other items of interest by concealing them within specially made compartments located under each fringey tier of their flapper dress.
Times have changed though, and to keep up, we've had to modernize our stable of Flapper spies. I guess you could say that we're bringing 'FLAPPY' back. Yeah!
So ask yourself this, do you listen to your "gut instinct?" Do you have a jiggly Jell-O fat roll? Is your belly a flippy, floppy flap of flub? Would you describe your abdominal area as a prominent protruding pouch of pooch? Then YOU have all the qualifications necessary to start an exciting new lucrative career with us!
Stop laying around letting your belly collect dust, lint, small objects, stray kittens and put your flab to work for us.
We will train you how to utilize your girth into becoming the perfect smuggling tool. You'll learn the finest techniques of stealing and then securing the sensitive information underneath the confines of your own gut.
Big baby bellies.....they're not just for hanging over the waist band of your pants anymore!
We'll also instruct you how to use the specialized technology afforded to us by the Ziploc plastic bag company so you don't ruin any of the classified documents with your blubbery sweat.
I've long since retired as a field agent but let me tell you I honed my fat flap concealment skills by sneaking individually wrapped packages of cream-filled Ding Dongs out of the kitchen. If I didn't have a built-in place to hide them then I would have had to contend with my kids pouncing on me and begging, "Mom can I have some of that, pleeeaaassse?"
Sure secret agents look all glamorized in the movies but we're 100 times more efficient than any Bond girl that ever walked the planet.
Think about it, Halle Berry or Denise Richards stroll in and all eyes immediately fixate on them. Meanwhile, people can't look away fast enough from us fat flappers .
It gives us the perfect cover to infiltrate where the stunningly beautiful can't.
We may be portly but we're still patriotic and we won't put up with any double agent activity.
I remember one especially fiendish double crossing operative who tried to play us for a fool. We caught her using her secrety belly roll to secretly smuggle out the secrets to Burger King's secret sauce. She had plans to sell it to the Chinese.
We took swift action to ensure that her Fat Flap spy days were over. Our in-house plastic surgeon gleefully performed a mega-tight tummy tuck on our Commie loving ex-agent. Yeah, that'll show her!
When I read about former Clinton National Security Advisor, Sandy Berger getting busted filching important documents from the National Archives by stuffing them inside his socks, all I could do was shake my head. What an amateur Sandy Berger is. If only he could have harnessed the hiding power that his belly flap had to offer.
We here at the FFC have dispensed with the cliche expression for keeping something a secret. 'Keep It Under Your Hat' has now become 'KEEP IT UNDER YOU FLAP!' Surely, this is a motto to live by......
So if you're interested in joining the FFC team we'll have recruiters out at all nationwide Krispy Kreme locations.

Sorry Coldplay, This Is ROYWORLD You're Living In, Baby!

My apologies to any Coldplay fans but I personally HATE Coldplay's new CD, VIVA LA VIDA. I especially dislike the way all the radio stations from FM to XM are whoring up the first track 'Violet Hill' which is the most meh, blah, and tepidly mediocre single from Coldplay in years. But that's the standard modus operandi for most stations- it's all HYPE, HYPE, HYPE for the established bands which leaves little air time for something newer and more interesting.

I found something newer and more interesting anyway. They're called ROYWORLD and they remind me of Coldplay when Coldplay used to rock. ROYWORLD also performs this one song entitled 'Elasticity.' *sigh* Yes, they wrote a song about Elastic City. How could I not be totally in love with them? ROYWORLD's latest release is the melodic and super catchy 'Dust' and it secures a place as the Infidel Jam Of The Month. Oh, and just because the song is called 'Dust' and the video is full of actual, you know, dust it's still completely safe for those with allergies. The video should have a disclaimer....Will Not Cause Watery Eyes, Congestion, Sniffling, Or Wetting Your Pants While Sneezing.

ROYWORLD- DUST

*Check out the piano guy passionately pounding the keys while patenting his smooooooth chicken neck moves*

The Day I Plopped Down In The Bathtub And Plopped Out A Baby!

This is a story that's taken me 9 years and a lot of nagging (elizabeth-w) to write. I guess I never thought to hash and rehash everything out in written form because most of the people I know detect the first mention of an impending 'Miracle Of Life' story and they instinctively double over-feigning a massive diarrhea attack in the hope that they can escape and run far, far away.

We totally planned on delivering Caterpillar at home all along via the two really experienced midwives we hired..........but you know what they say about the best laid plans.


I woke up around midnight on June 21, 1999 with that horrible cramping sensation that only occurs when you eat way too many chili dogs at the Sonic Drive-Thru. It also happens when your labor powers suddenly kick into ACTIVATE mode. Within the hour I knew that this was the real deal and the birthing process had begun. As M.C. Hammer should have sang to expectant mothers, it was STOP! Labor Time!


This was to be our first at-home birth so I really only had the medically invasive experiences of my three prior hospital births to apply towards my Masters Degree in Baby Pushing.
I figured that laboring would constitute a long arduous process so I ignorantly waved Papi on to work around 2:00 A.M. I then harnessed the power of my nesting instinct and set about cleaning the house in super turbo gear. The last thing I wanted was for the midwives to arrive and have to assist me in birthing my baby while standing in the middle of a dirty underwear pile. Apparently, keeping busy and moving around progresses labor much faster than laying in a hospital bed moaning and groaning and cursing at your husband. Yeah! I was single-handedly proving Newton's Law Of Gravity without even realizing it! Plus I didn't have to wheel an awkward I.V. pole to the toilet with me.


I didn't telephone the midwives right away because I didn't want them or anyone hovering over me until it was absolutely necessary. You know, a watched pot never boils is equivalent to a watched pregnant woman never births. Well, by the time that moment of "absolute necessity" arrived it would be too late.(oooh, ominous foreshadowing)


Somewhere around tidying up my ceramic pig collection and enjoying the quiet solitude of my home while our 3 kids under the age of 4 were sound asleep, I got kind of shaky and weak.


I decided to fill up the bathtub so I could sit down and take the edge off the labor pains. I switched on the radio in our room and lowered myself into the tub. Immediate relief whooshed over me as the warm water helped ease the increasing pace of the contractions. Then the soft sounds of Kenny G. and his lilting saxophone filled the room and I was thinking, "Oh crap. How the freak did it get on this lame station?" That sneaky Smooth Jazz station lured me in with the sounds of The Doobie Brothers 'What A Fool Believes' and made me think I was on the lite rock channel. The last thing I needed was a craptastical array of Smooth Jazz favorites to compound my increasing labor pain. I mean Kenny G. may be aight for baby making music but he certainly isn't fit to provide the soundtrack for baby birthing.


Suddenly, I was rocked with excruciating pain so intense I started mini-hyperventilating. I knew I had to call someone NOW so I started with Papi and told him to come home immediately. Then I phoned the midwives and talked to the mother of the mother-daughter midwifery team. She tried to console me as I incoherently babbled about how I felt like my hoo-hoo was a burning ring of fire bigger than anything Johnny Cash could ever imagine.


I guess the midwife knew that was an imminent sign that she wasn't going to make it to the house on time. She very kindly didn't apprise me of that information until much later so she could try to minimize my freak out at being alone and in pain. While she was en route I suddenly screamed at her, "Ohhhh Noooooooooo I feel like I have to push" and then I dropped the phone.


I made a snap decision that if I had to deliver the baby myself, I could see more clearly what I was doing if I got out of the dimly lit bathroom and laid down on the bed. Unbelievably I was still annoyed at the gaggy Smooth Jazz blaring on the radio. Part of my big plan to haul my massive laboring body over to the bed involved throwing the radio across the room to silence it forever.


As I got on my trembling knees in the tub and leaned over the side in an effort to hoist myself up, I started pushing uncontrollably.I will never-as long as I live-forget the tremendous 'PLOP' sound the baby made as she exited my body and landed in the warmth of the tub water. Frantically, I turned around to fish her out.


I'm not exaggerating when I say I was terrified that something was wrong with her, especially since she never uttered even one cry. I sat there, stunned, in the yuck tub water holding her and blubbering all over the place while I kept apologizing out loud to her that she had a stupid mother that was too stupid to even know she was in advanced labor. It's a good thing we're not Scientologists because all my wailing and carrying on probably left a big imprint on Caterpillar.


Ummm, my Caterpillar did nothing but look up at me with these dark grey eyes while she made the perfect crinkle-nosed newborn face that seemed to say "WTF is wrong with you, woman?" It usually takes children until their teenage years to perfect a look that reveals they think their mom is insane and my baby got it down within minutes of her birth. I am so proud.


After I was sure she was breathing okay, I wrapped Caterpillar up in a towel and waited. I mean really I could have gotten out of the tub and started walking somewhere to get help but I wouldn't have ventured too far with the giant dangling umbilical cord still hanging down out of my nether regions. It would have looked like I was walking my pet baby on a weird looking leash. Mercifully, thankfully none of our other kids woke up because I'm not sure I would have been able to deal with that on top of everything else going on.


Papi got home about 10 minutes after the birth. I started laughing as he nervously took the cord clamp, iodine, and scissors out of our homebirth kit with his super shaky hands as he announced he was going to cut the cord. That was anything but reassuring. I didn't need Papi's trembling hands to miss and give me an unexpected episiotomy so I advised that we should just wait for the midwives to get there so they could deal with the umbilical cord and deliver the placenta.


So, the midwives arrived a few minutes later and took care of the rest of the post-birth details like weighing Caterpillar and examining her and giving me the all clear to go and take a much needed shower. We didn't have plans to eat the placenta or bury it under a tree or anything so we graciously allowed the midwives take it with them.....for FREE!


I remember Papi and I marvelling over Caterpillar's body that was so tiny except for her ginormous butt. Papi called her 'J.Lo Booty' and kept telling me, "Wow girlie, I'm not amazed that you were able to squeeze her head out without any help but the way you delivered those giant nalgas took a small miracle!"


When we rolled into Church a few days later with our newborn, word of her somewhat unconventional birth had already gotten around. Church members started calling me 'The Pioneer Woman.'
Dang, that would have made a great blog name. :)


Anyway, as you can see, the story has a very happy ending. Whenever someone asks Caterpillar where she was born she always yells out exuberantly "In The Bathtub!"

My House Is More Ghetto Than Your House: Window Covering Solutions

The Problem:
Our back door is located in the kitchen area and it faces West. The afternoon sun intrusively barges in through the large rectangular windowpanes practically blinding us while we're trying to stuff our faces at meal time. The back door window also lets in too much heat making an already stiflingly hot kitchen just unbearable. Our back door offers a scenic view of the 2-story home behind us whose bored kids constantly sit in their upstairs window watching our house like they're on some sort of Food Patrol surveillance. I think they want to steal my super secret Tater Tot Casserole recipe so they can pass it off as their own and rise to the top of the Mediocre Cooking TV Show circuit.

Another Problem:
We don't exactly have the money for store bought window treatments right now. Yeah I own a sewing machine but I don't know how to measure or follow a pattern so the solution to our window dilemma will have to lie elsewhere.
(Here's my Stef showing the problem back door and how we're constantly 'Blinded By The Light.' At least we've never been "revved up like a deuce!"

In total hot flash frustration and with beads of sweat dotting his upper lip, Papi spied our large ream of crafty paper. He then set about using his genius-and many, many pieces of duct tape- to engineer us a makeshift curtain so exceedingly fine it would make all of Shanty Town weep with envy!

The Final Solution:

Voila! No more solar penetration! (Why does that sound so dirty?) It's also nice not to have our beastly crotch-sniffing wonder dog, Reagan jumping up on the window with his big, pitiful 'Please Sir, May I Have Some More?' face while he watches us eat our dinner.

You won't find tips for making your home Ghetto Fabulousssssss here. However I do offer the finest advice available if you're interested in a Ghetto Practicality mentality. Ching!

I Should Probably Just Change My Name To The Hypocritical Infidel Now

I'm a big fat hypocrite.
Yes. Yes, I am.
I'm such a humongous hypocrite that I should actually be referred to as a HIPPOcrite
If I was a board game I would be Hungry, Hungry HIPPOcrites.
So anyway the hot, hot Houston heat has been relentlessly stifling the past few weeks- often nearing the 100 degree mark.
It's so hot here that I developed an ugly heat rash right smack in the middle of my cleavage. Yeah, I'm suffering from Booby Heat Rash Affliction and it hurts like a mofo, too.
I placed a folded paper towel in my bra yesterday in an effort to soak up some of the boob moisture with the hope that a drier boobage area would clear up the heat rash.
Let that be a lesson to you. You know how your Aunt Nadine always pulls a Kleenex out of her bra to offer you when you have the sniffles? Don't be fooled, that tissue isn't stuffed in there for mucous purposes. Your Aunt Nadine packs her bra with paper products to try and stem the tide of booby sweat!
Why did I just switch topics from HIPPOcrite mea culpas to the weather and then inexplicably to burning bazongas? Am I trying to change subjects and divert your attention? No. It's all relevant.
Due to the excessively high temperatures I've been trying to work exclusively during the nights. As an added bonus, working during the night as opposed to the day usually means that I encounter less traffic and less people milling about in the streets.
I think that Houston is slowly transforming all my fellow citizens into summertime vampires because right now the reverse is true--the neighborhood streets are empty during the day and people only start venturing out of their homes under the cover of darkness.
So I'm out throwing the free community paper and as I careened around one of the endless cul-de-sacs on my route I spotted potential trouble.
When I see people out in their yard and I know I have to turn around and drive past the house again, I instinctively withhold the paper until the return trip. See, if they're ash holes they won't have the paper to use as ammunition to throw back at me while they spiral down into a full-on temper tantrum.
Yeah, they could call the office and place a STOP PAPER. Or they could, you know, actually bend their butts over and toss the thing into their recycling bin or trash but some people have nothing to live for outside of making this planet miserable for others.
Well, I accidentally tossed the paper at this house before I noticed the old man standing in the driveway in front of his SUV. Unfortunately for me it was also before I was safely turned around to make my escape from the cul-de-sac of doom.
As per typical, the old man was indeed an ash hole. He stood in the middle of the street with the paper in his hands ready for battle.
I don't stop for anyone on my route. Years of dealing with unpredictable crazies has taught me that. Neither will I put up with being harassed or assaulted in any way.
I saw Mr. Ash Hole and started revving my engine and then gunned it. It worked. He was scared enough to step out of my way. Since he couldn't get me to stop he attempted to throw the paper at me through my open window.
He failed. The paper ricocheted off my truck and smacked him instead.
I don't usually use profanity outside of those words sanctioned by the Bible like ass, Hell, and damn. My brand of profanity is sanitizing potentially offensive words and running them through the laundromat of my mind so that they're cleaned up into a more socially respectable form. Ass becomes azz. Sh*t magically transforms into SHEET. And the F word? Well, I don't even venture into that territory outside of using 'freakin'. The really bad four-letter F word for me is FICA. (That's a self-contractor joke)
I don't really know or understand what possessed me but I slammed on my brakes and started cursing a blue streak. A blue streak that began and ended with the F word.
My end of the conversation went as such:
"F*** You! Don't F*** With Me Because I F***in Know where You Live!"
And then I sped off and stopped around the corner because I was shaking so bad.
As I tried to regain my composure my ears were filled with the joyful music still playing on my XM Satellite Radio.
I had it programmed on the Christian Rock station called The Message!
There is nothing like spewing forth the foulest cuss word bile you have in your bad language arsenal to the perky beat of a Christian Rock background.
I know what you're saying. You're gasping and sputtering out something like "Oh Our Lady Of The Filled-Up Swear Jar, Do You Sing Praises To Your Lord With That Filthy Mouth?"
Apparently the answer to that is yes, I guess I do.
I'm horrified at myself and totally repentant as well........ mainly because I don't want to spend my eternity roasting next to Mr. Ash Hole for my sins.