I Finally Called It Quits With Bernard On Monday

I really thought that things were going to work out between Bernard and I.
He came highly recommended. In fact, multiples of noteworthy people testified as to Bernard's greatness......and then tattooed it all over his backside. They used glowing terminology filled with praise like "an instant classic!" and "amazingly brilliant!" These accomplished folks swore that once I got involved with the genius that is Bernard, I'd never be the same.
They were wrong.
For the past three weeks Bernard and I remained steadfast and inseparable companions. I gave him a chance to win me over. Yes, I really did, but he disappointed me at every turn.
Ours was a co-dependent relationship. Sure, I desperately needed Bernard, but his silent nagging to pick him up whenever I had a free moment really grew tiresome.
I fervently believed that by focusing on developing an intense love, or at the very least, some sort of deep understanding of him, it would conquer all our problems.
Instead Bernard lorded his academic superiority over me. He insisted on using lofty verbage so archaic that not even the combined super sleuthing team of Merriam &Webster could decipher what the freak he was talking about.
I knew from the beginning that Bernard was a bit cerebral. I struggled with his difficult, plodding nature, but I always had faith that I could change Bernard by cradling him in my arms for hours at a time while tracing his every curve with my highlighter-stained fingers.
Don't judge me, but once, in a fit of sleep-deprived insanity, Bernard and I carelessly tumbled into bed together.
Turns out he's just as boring in the sack as he is everywhere else.
Sad.
I could never take Bernard out in windy weather. Mostly because he's so dry he'll spontaneously burst into flames and cause an epidemic of wildfires. I can't have that on my conscience.
Weekend At Bernie's? Yeah, try THREE Weekends with MY Bernie. He's a little slice of pocket-sized deadweight.
So on Monday I summoned up the courage to tell Bernard that he had caused me a lot of headaches and untold grief. Bernard didn't even respond when I pulled the final plug from the respirator keeping our relationship alive. And then I told him that I never, ever, ever want to see him again.
Bernard took it surprising well when I banished him to the corner of my kingdom to sleep forever with the fishes......the silverfishes, that is.
Enjoy the Bernard Buffet, little paper-eating critters!

I Know Where James Bond Lives

Even without the numbers I knew it was his place.

There was a Moonraker Landscaping Service pruning a giant Thunderball topiary and James was out grilling some fresh Octopussy with this guy who had a Goldfinger.

So much for Bond's private hideaway lair as being "For Your Eyes Only." He practically had the whole Casino Royale there partying it up with him at his makeshift Baccarat table. (It used to be one of those Thomas The Tank Engine tables with real wooden bridges and stuff!)

The Spy Who Loved Me? Uh-uh, sister, he's The Spy Who Loved Everyone! Good thing that Diamonds Are Forever because James Bond's love sure isn't.

Well, Tomorrow Never Dies and we can all Die Another Day, right?

Even though the party was an easy View To A Kill target for The Man With The Golden Gun he chose to drink a martini instead. It was a chocolate martini with a toothpick-skewered gummy bear in the middle.

Whew, that guy like so didn't scare The Living Daylights out of me. Good thing, I'm a Live And Let Die kind of gal, you know?

If I was James Bond's security adviser, I'd recommend replacing the telltale 007 numbers on the mailbox with a nice bronzed set of 99's and getting a nameplate for the top that says "Maxwell Smart" or "Ethan Hunt" you know, something a little less obvious than a nameplate that reads " Bond...James Bond...."

My Baby Is Growing Up So Fast.......

Can you believe it? Ophelia, the youngest member of the Infidel family, is already driving!
Granted, she doesn't have a license or insurance or even a Jack-In-The-Box antenna ball, but hey, those missing qualifications don't seem to stymie the thousands of folks driving every single day in these here United States.
Naturally, while elated at Ophelia's developmental progress, I'm still a trifle disappointed with her and the way she brazenly displayed her innate carjacking skills.
Poor Barbie was caught completely unaware as Ophelia ambushed her, nibbled on her head, and then crawled into the Barbiemobile for a quick joy ride around the living room.
I am Ophelia's mother and so of course I very sternly admonished my little guinea pig heathen for her criminal behavior before sentencing her to punishment in the Time Out Corner.
She pooped all over the Time Out Corner.
Such defiance!
I guess I'll have to dispatch the Rescue Heroes patrol car (with real working siren and lights!) to lay down the law with Miss Ophelia.
I should probably warn Jake Justice beforehand though that Ophelia has a thing for plastic men in uniform. He needs to be prepared when she strikes with sharp-toothed retaliation.
Ophelia, the Chomp&Gnaw Outlaw Scofflaw.

P.S. Ophelia won't be receiving her PHD, but we are working on a custom plate that says "OH GEE!" in reference to her initials O.G.

Well, I Guess Just Anybody Can Get A PHD In Texas These Days.....

Here I am, struggling with the very basic of courses at a community college while my neighbor tools around town flaunting her PHD to anyone and everyone.

It sickens me.

It enrages me.

It makes me want to march down to the Courthouse and demand that I be given my PHD, too!

Surely, by this time, I've earned a PHD in Blogging with a Master's in the Art of Sedentary Living.

The Courthouse only awarded me a paltry and inconsequential GDS.

What the heck am I supposed to do with a flippin GDS??!??!?

Become a Greasy Donut Server? Maybe a professional Gigolo Date Scheduler?

"I'm just a Gigolo, and everywhere I go, I take Elastic the Scheduler with me....."

How about a Gay Dar Salesman? I'd suck at that. I defended George Michael's hetero manliness until the very day he got caught by Police buying chorizo inside a Los Angeles public restroom.

Perhaps a Giant Daisy Sniffer would be a nice career change for me. I already have the requisite super-sensitive nose skills along with tons of expert daisy-sniffing experience.

Guardian of Dirty Seals? Yes, all the bronzed statues will show me holding a scrubby brush in one hand while patting the head of a smiling but filthy seal with the other.

Grave Digger Supervisor? I've already done that.

R.I.P. Goldilocks the fish and Jasper the dachshund.

I hate my neighbor and her sudden windfall of good fortune.

I wonder if I can put my Grave Digger Supervisor background to work?

I wonder if my neighbor's PHD is transferable............

The Smiling Infidel's Shop of Homemade Valentine Cards Is Now Open For Business!

Caterpillar, my 3rd grade daughter with big bushy caterpillaresque eyebrows, decided to make her own Valentine cards for the class exchange.
I elected to join the artsy fartsy extravaganza too since it's not often that we drag out the multitudes of crafty buckets, and crafty crates, and crafty boxes from the crafty storage locker.
John "Thank God I'm A Country Boy" Denver himself inspired me to create this one-of-a-kind construction paper masterpiece for my beloved husband, Papi.
OUTSIDE:

INSIDE:

If you've been reading this blog since 2006, then you understand the joke. If you haven't, then you need to dedicate the next two weeks to soaking in all 650 posts. Pronto!

Okay, back in April 1994, as Papi and I drove to Pancho's Mexican Buffet to enjoy our first date, we heard the news that the dead body of Nirvana front man Kurt Cobain had been discovered. I wrote a post using all Nirvana titles HERE.

Anyway, I'm not a Sentimental Lady at all (much to Bob Welch's disappointment) but because of Kurt, I'll never forget the momentous occasion of our first date.

Here's my scrapped Valentine's Card rough draft:

YOU FILL UP MY SENSES.....

LIKE A DEAD GRUNGE ALT ROCKER

I decided that wasn't as romantic as reminiscing over me and Papi's shared love of Pancho's delicioso chili rellenos.

Neither was discussing our post-date adventures:

YOU FILL UP MY SENSES....

LIKE THE STINK IN THE BATHROOM

Papi's a lucky, lucky man, for this year he'll celebrate with not one but TWO fancy cards custom-

designed especially for him by his loving wife.

OUTSIDE:

INSIDE:

There's a lot of naughty hidden messages on this card. You can squint and holler at Lurlene to fetch you your readin spectacles all you want, but you won't be able to read them. I used a special ink that can only be deciphered by the eyes of my one true love.

I'm also going to make some scandalous lingerie out of crepe paper streamers, gingham fabric scraps, and some googly eyes.

One day, when Sinnamon Bunns from the Shady Lady Cabaret gets her own craft show, then she can give you a personal tutorial on how to construct the classiest nipple pasties you've ever seen out of heart-shaped crafty foam.

I cannot tell a lie:

Taco Bell Hot Sauce moves me to do strange and wondrous things with scrapbooking scissors and a hot glue gun.

OUTSIDE: (SAUCY!)

INSIDE:(Needs a sample pack of Preparation H)

HAPPY VD EVERYONE!

VD=Valentine's Day not Venereal Disease....which is too bad because I've got this great idea for a line of VD cards that feature a real condom in the middle......

Oh Great, Another Mouth To Feed......

It's a GIRL! After going waaayyy past a Christmas due date, she's finally here! I'd like to formally announce the newest addition to the Infidel Family:
OPHELIA GUINEVERE
If we'd gotten a boy we would've named him OTHELLO LANCELOT. And then we'd have had to promptly hide all the little swords and itty-bitty action figure weaponry we have in this house.....you know, just in case.
Ophelia's furry like me but she takes after Papi in the super smarts department.
It won't be long before she can jump through flaming miniature hula hoops while wearing a purple tutu and playing Dueling Banjos.......and then we'll get a nice tip box and open a booth at the Flea Market to showcase her phenomenal talent.

Not to be outshone in the constant competition for attention around La Casa de Infidel, Reagan (The crotch-sniffing wonder dog) shows the world his talent: Brilliantly rolling himself up in his bedding like a gigantic Reagan Taco/Burrito.
I should be more circumspect about what pictures I post here. I know that "some" people in "some" cultures will misinterpret these photos as a recipe idea.
Well, good luck finding tortillas. Although, one could probably improvise with wonton wrappers for some delightful Reagan Egg Rolls.......

What You See Is What You Get, Right?!!??

In my English class we're expected to dissect, describe, diagram, and discuss the various essay selections within our textbook.

So, we've focused in on this one excerpt culled from a novel discussing the tragedy of illiteracy in America. It's written by the foaming-at-the-mouth education reform radical, Jonathan Kozol.

My Professor clicked his tongue at me for calling Jonathan Kozol "dangerous," but I careth not. I don't mince words. I call em' like I see em'.

Mr. Kozol initially endeavored to write books with the interest of persuading teachers to adopt an educational model based on those being used in such lovely bastions of human rights as Communist China and Cuba. He even added text instructing teachers to hide their leftist point of view while they indoctrinate the children into opting out of saying The Pledge of Allegiance. Kozol has toned down his anti-America rhetoric a bit since that first novel in 1980. Consequently, he's risen to prominence among the academic Illuminati who celebrate him and make sure his novels are de rigeur reading for our future educators.

Not to mention the eerie fact that Kozol looks like he was cloned from the wild-haired DNA of accused celebrity murderer, Phil Spector.

Like I said, dangerous.

If you desire to read his 2 page essay that's completely devoid of the actual factual, it's right here:

The Human Cost of an Illiterate Society

You'll really love his pointed jabs at what an execrable society we are based wholly on hyperbole-laced fairy tales emanating from a giant talking butt somewhere in the land of magical conjecture.

Is illiteracy a huge problem in the United States? Yes. Are some schools failing our kids? Yes. However, Kozol loves to pontificate without offering any solutions, nor does he bother to dig underneath the epidermal layer to see what's festering below.

Here's Some Of The Highlights From The Response Essay I Wrote:

(Kozol tells the woeful tale of a destitute woman on welfare who bought a gallon of Crisco because she thought it contained a magical plate of golden fried chicken like the picture on the front showed. It didn't. She had no more money. Her family starved to death. It is your fault, you uppity Americans, for failing her.)

1. I too have been deceived by the rampant chicanery these marketers foist upon us lowly, uneducated consumers. My sister-in-law desperately wants to get married. I thought my prayers were answered when I saw the ruggedly handsome man beaming out from beneath the plastic wrap on a package of Brawny paper towels. Wow, a sweet 2-for-1 deal! I can score a husband for my sister-in-law while still getting the benefit of super absorbency to clean up whatever B.S. may spill out of my English book. Imagine my crestfallen face, creased with the agony of disappointment, as I got home and eagerly tore open the package only to discover that there was no knight in shining flannel there to rescue my sister-in-law. I was so sad. I'm going back to the store next week. I think that studly, lemon-scented Mr. Clean guy may be more her type anyway.

2. This essay is a mesmerizing piece of fiction--especially if you're a fan of Charles Dickens. Kozol writes with the intention of reducing people born without a sense of discernment into a sniveling, salty puddle of tears. He wants you to wail and weep and wave your garments around like you've just landed a spot in the supporting cast of a really cheesy straight-to-video Bollywood production.

(I'm not heartless. I do have compassion for the plight of the less fortunate. But I'm not looking to bank on it and build a career out of the trials and tribulations of others like Kozol has done. Neither do I think it right nor productive to perpetuate a victimhood mentality. After articulating the many extenuating circumstances that do indeed trap illiterate people, I had to point out one last thing......basic human nature that applies to ALL of us.)

3. The sad truth is that you could erect a magnificent fountain of knowledge right there inside the living room of an illiterate person. You could even hand them a silver-plated chalice engraved with their name, but you can’t physically FORCE someone to have the desire, drive, and motivation necessary to dip that cup into the font and partake of it. That is called free agency. In this country, we are the masters of our own destiny.

4. Jonathan Kozol actually states: "If even one third of all illiterates could vote, and read enough and do sufficient math to vote in their self interest, Ronald Reagan would not likely have been chosen president."

Really, Jonathan? May I call you Jonathan? So, you're basically equating the principles and ideology of the Democratic Party with a horde of illiterate would-be voters too stupid to know what's good for them? That's certainly an interesting indictment of your own views. May I quote you on that? Ooops, I already did!

Further research on Mr. Kozol reveals that he's adamantly anti-choice when it comes to education despite big city mayors like Baltimore's Kurt Schmoke singing the praises of single-gender schools and the school voucher program.

Beware the man who seeks to strip you of dominion over your own life.
Kozol wants your kid to be stuck in their crappy school without any options of escape. He wants you to sit around and cry and blame all your troubles on the public school system. If you succeed, he fails. When you realize that you have the power to overcome all obstacles, he and the other misery profiteers will be out of a job.

There's a valid reason that Jonathan Kozol is #9 in the scathing tome "The 100 People That Are Screwing Up America" penned by the self-described liberal writer Barry Goldberg.

Like I said, dangerous.

*I ain't skeered of comments. I'm just too busy to pay much attention to my blog and whatever comments, good or bad, this post will trigger.*

No Wonder Most Politicians Have No Qualms About Bleeding Us Dry Through Taxes

If you, the general American public-bereft of advantageous upper-crust connections-neglect to report or pay your taxes properly you can expect anything from a hefty fine to the confiscation of your property to satisfy the debt.
If you, the average American politician-with enough clout that you can buy and sell your upper-crust connections-neglect to report or pay your taxes properly you can expect to be rewarded with a seat in the current Presidential administration!
I guess an obligation like taking care of taxes is only for us "little people."

Tom Daschle, former Senator, House Majority Leader, and unscrupulous health care lobbyist has now been appointed as the nominee for the position of Secretary of Health and Human Services.
No, that doesn't sound like a conflict of interest. Not at all.
Anyway, Daschle owes the United States government over 140,000 dollars in back taxes. Super. He traveled to Washington from the frosted plains of South Dakota to do good.....and he's done very well indeed!

Timothy Geithner, our newly sworn in Secretary of the Treasury, has been audited by the Internal Revenue Service more than once. The media revealed that he owed over 60,000 dollars in back taxes- a fact that Geithner blamed on his incorrect usage of the Turbo Tax program.
Seriously, he's in charge of the nation's money and he uses Turbo Tax. No, make that: He uses Turbo Tax incorrectly.
Super!
So, seeing as how Geithner now presides over the I.R.S did he simply get his fancy new Cabinet Club pen to write out a big, fat 60,000 check to himself or did he just surreptitiously wave the debts away to Never Never Land using his special Secretary of the Treasury magic wand?

I hoped for change, I really did, but it seems that we're just going to get more of the same B.S. from President B.O.

This just in......Obama's Chief Performance Officer, Nancy Killefer is forced to withdraw due to..........interlude.......duh...duh...duh...dramatic prairie dog moment.....UNPAID TAXES. What a surprise. Can anyone in the Obama administration figure out how to pay their taxes? Maybe they should commission my genius accountant husband, Papi to come on up there to D.C. and give them a helping hand.

I nearly forgot about the Democratic Congressman from New York, Charlie Rangel. He's the chairman of the powerful tax-writing House And Ways Committee. He also owes over 70,000 in unpaid taxes to the I.R.S.
Yes, we the people need to keep shining a light on these tax-evading cockroaches. I doubt any of them will scurry away with shame like a normal cockroach but at least we'll know who we're dealing with when election time rolls around again.

I'm waiting for the next novel to be released: The Audacity Of Auditing

Elastic's Got A Brand New Bag!

For the past 15 years I've lived, laughed, and loved per the bossy instructions on those cloying Mary Engelbreit magnets. I'm still working on fulfilling Mr. Spock's admonition to "Live Long And Prosper" but it's hard to obey the powerful messages broadcasted on cheesy merchandise all the time, you know?
A whole decade and a half. That's how long I've endured a bag lady evolution of sorts.
At 19 I carried a book bag to school that dazzled and amazed all who passed by with its brightly festooned cowboy boot motif.
My college career cut woefully short, I traded the Boot Scootin bag in at the age of 20 to make room for the plastic shopping mall bags that often held a recently purchased handbag or two like some sort of weird Bag O' Nesting Dolls thing.
It's ironic but those sets of bags were courtesy of my job which involves newspaper bags.
Later that same year bags symbolizing gluttonous spending were forever replaced by grocery bags brimming with the ingredients necessary to achieve a state of sublime marital utopia; bags from the maternity store soon followed.
By 21, I added a diaper bag to the mix which unexpectedly became my constant companion over the next 10 years and throughout 5 more mini-Infidel births.
There's a gym bag lost somewhere in the chronological order. It lived a short and uneventful life ferrying around a couple pounds of lethargic guilt at letting my fitness club membership lapse. Its remains lie somewhere alongside the Hello Kitty lunch bag purchased when I got on a kick to eat healthier.
The frightfully gray and puffy bags of weariness taking up residence under my eyes have traveled on this entire journey and cognitively recites the Tales Of The Tired to all who look upon me.
But now my bag lady life has come full circle for as of January 12, 2009 I am once again an Infidel chick who parades around the hallways of school, book bag swinging from my arm.

Papi's Christmas present to me looks similar to the model above. Is there anything sexier than a practical utilitarian bag stitched from more olive drab khakis than you'd find at a Gap store employee meeting? No, most assuredly there is not.
I'm also on a diet which means no more Buffets. I'm so sorry Jimmy......at least we'll always have Margaritaville. Golden Corral Buffet: Don't send out the search and rescue party, I'm just fine.........for now, anyway. But if you insist, can you make sure they bring me some of those delectably fluffy rolls and maybe a little steak filet or two....or three?
And as if the Infidel family couldn't get any more in the makeover phase, we're also fervently striving to budget better in 2009.
When I skimmed over the Top #10 New Year's resolutions list I realized that I'm personally attempting about 7 of them.
You should hear me belt out Tim McGraw's "Live Like You Were Dying"; it sounds more along the lines of "You Sing Like You're Dying" but at least I'm doing everything humanly possible outside of riding a bull named Fu-Manchu to bring some hope and change to the Infidel homestead in this upcoming year.
Man, hope and change. I went there and used that. Maybe I should just declare this the historic year of the cliche.
I'm a windbag/bag lady not yet sure what bag will be accesorizing my life in the near future. As long as I'm not being carted away in a body bag the possibilities are as limitless as the hairs on my chin.

I Keep My Friends Close And My Chin Hairs Closer

You know how certain weed species get introduced to an area outside their native habitat and they immediately set out to virulently choke out the natural landscape? Yeah, well, wiry chin hairs keep cropping up to destroy my natural beauty despite the Herculian efforts aimed at eradicating them.
As I pondered the uses that an overabundance of chin whiskers can provide, I indulgently chuckled. I envisioned myself taking the hoity toity art world by storm as I create abstractly avant garde masterpieces using only the bristles of my custom chin hair paintbrush. I'm a humanitarian at heart but I'm woefully short of the required hair length necessary to weave a wig for Locks Of Love. I'd like to maybe make my own line of chin toupees for the hair follicle-challenged hipsters out there. It must be agonizing to attend poetry slams and indie rock concerts devoid of the de rigeur goatee. How I weep for them. I yearn to transform my own hirsute misfortunes into soul patch happiness for others.
I try to remain optimistic about life despite my smooth skin shortcomings but then I ran into my old friend Mrs. Sam at the park on Saturday.
As we chatted, my eyes kept disobediently gravitating towards Mrs. Sam's jutting chin. And then the stark realization occurred that Mother Nature is nothing more than a cruel and insidious harpy.
Mrs. Sam and I go wayyyyy back. So far back that I've actually blogged our most scintillating tales complete with hand-drawn pictures from the second-oldest Infidel daughter. From making a binding verbal pledge vowing that we'd never cannibalize one another's family in a time of famine to animated discussions of us potentially teaming up to run for President/Vice President, Mrs. Sam and I have mused about many things.
At the time (2006) Mrs. Sam seemed adamant that I ascend to the top of the ticket since a black candidate could never win a Presidential election in America. Surprise!
Mrs. Sam And I Are Both Immortalized In That Song Called "Doin Tha Butt"
An Anti-Cannibalism Contract Between Friends Who Don't Have The Last Name Donner
Anyway, I'm 30-ish, white, and I suffer with the heartbreak of strikingly noticeable black chin hair that furls and curls as it makes its way across my chin like a giant scraggly tumbleweed. Mrs. Sam is 50-ish, black, and suffers from an extreme proliferation of shaggy white chin hair as though her face is merely masking her real identity as the Abominable Snowman.
Ebony and ivory NOT living together in perfect harmony. Side-by-side on our chin pores, so gross, oh Lord, why can't weeee(afford electrolysis).
Do you see the unfairness of the situation?
Everyone desires to stand out in a crowd but this just isn't the way to go about doing it.
A chin hair swap would absolve both of us of our heavy unwanted hair burdens. I have what Mrs. Sam wants and she has what I need. If that's not possible, how about just some decent chin hair camo or chin hair ammo? Is that too much to hope for?
How I long to one day have the authority to truculently shriek: "Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin.........cause I don't have any" to an advancing foe.
*sniffle*

I Was So Hungry Last Night I Could Have Eaten A Whale.....And So I Did!

I inadvertently stumbled upon a miracle of the evolutionary process as I prepared a tray of garlic bread slices for the oven.
From the thoroughly scientific research I did in my kitchen I've concluded that whales originally descended from bloated commas and whimsical paisley patterns.
Need to see some hard data that backs up the validity of my hypothesis? Just look at Photo Evidence #1 down below.
By shifting the bloated commas and bread paisley in a clockwise position, they wondrously transformed into a pod of baby Shamus!

Photo Evidence #2

Some lucky souls have witnessed the miracle of the Virgin Mary appearing before them on their tortillas while others have unexpectedly come face-to-face with the image of Elvis himself-and all his sideburned glory-embroiled upon their fried peanut butter & nanner sandwich.

Me? Well, my oven and I got to play host to a whole loaf of Orca-shaped bread.

The spirit of Free Willy lives on through the power of yeast!

Notice the perfect oval eye? All the better to see you with, my pretty!

See the small indention where Shamu's mouth is? Who knew he kept his lips pursed like a whale version of Napoleon Dynamite? I wonder if his lips hurt "real bad" too?

Look at the curled-up position of the tail. Okay, that's enough looking at whale butt. Gosh, if this whale tail isn't safe from ogling, what hope does my own whale-sized butt have?

Also make note that this particular miniature killer whale species was marked for immediate extinction. Yeah, you can blame us Infidels for making them disappear and disappear quickly but it should also be said that death was imminent for this Shamu bread family.

Just take one long look at them, they're completely brown and crunchy. That's what they get for not putting on proper sunscreen.

Their blowholes laso have the remarkable capability to spout cascading streams of garlic-tinged butter.

That butter-peddling harlot Paula Deen probably goes on Whale Toast Watching Tours all the time......and she never closes her mouth either.

Ahhh, better than a butter I.V.

If you happen upon a pod of Shamu bread lurking quietly on bakery shelves, I would seriously advise against placing them in your aquarium.

Your mail-order sea horses will conquer and devour them.

Instead, buy a box of Goldfish crackers to feed your adopted Bag O' Orca.

How about inviting your oddly eccentric friends, Jonah and Captain Ahab over for a Whale Eating party??!??

The moment that reps from SeaWorld see this post they're going to start opening up food booths featuring outrageously over-priced slices of Shamu toast. You know I'm right.

I hope they deal me in for a profit percentage.

The dinner ended in tragedy. Despite my conservationalist spirit arising to encourage the Infidel Family to "Save The Whales" they continued on, ignoring my whale-saving pleas until there weren't any whales left to save.

Poor me, sitting here all leftover whale deprived.

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

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

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

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

It's No Coincidence That You Can't Have Brawn (Or Brains) Without A B-R-A!

For years I've remained cognizant of the cryptic messages that my XM Satellite Radio has wordlessly sent to me via its display screen; but I'm truly baffled to explain this latest digital outburst.

Fight Like A Bra.....what exactly does that mean, XM Satellite Radio?
Should I fend off mortal enemies and foes using a soft cup technique which entails me just kind of aimlessly batting them around with my hands encased in pillowy cushions? Or should I take a few battle cues from the padding and smother those suckers like how the foamy lining chokes the will to live out of booby skin?
If I were to Fight Like A Bra right this very moment, it would be a clean fight. However, if we'd engaged in a vicious quarrel a few minutes before my shower, I'd have absolutely guaranteed you a very down and dirty bra skirmish.
Bottles of Boob Sweat: Guaranteed to repel any and all attackers
Should bra fighting ever become a national sport we all know that the underwire and all its malicious poking, tugging, and boobage-cutting maneuvers would win the grand championship.
I suppose there'd be a training bra/featherweight boobs division too for those perky young whippersnappers who haven't honed their brassiere war strategies yet.
Personally, I think Fight Like A Bra gives some interesting insight as to why I detest wearing a bra so much. You see, its warring nature is wholly incompatible with my genteel ways.
Although if bra fighting really did make headway into the world of competitive arena sports like bull fighting has, I'd have to cheer for my sturdy Playtex bras. I know they'd beat the snot out of those flimsy lace things that Victoria's Secret has to offer........ One good snap, and they're OUT!
Heavens, I force Playtex to take the 18-hour bazonga-holding challenge on a regular basis. Of course they're well equipped to fight it out with other bras. That is some superior durability at work right there.
To ensure victory we'd first have to make sure that the Madonna line of I-Stuck-My-Boobs-In-A-Pencil-Sharpener-To-Make-Them-Pointy bras are disqualified.
Madonna can take those grotesque boulder-holder abominations she foisted on an unsuspecting public and get into Unicorn or Rhino fighting or something.

I'll have to have a more in-depth chat with my XM Radio display about its too frequent communiques rife with odd advice and what exactly it wants me to do with it.
Not too long ago it was flashing graphic things at me like You Give Good Love, I Want Your Sex, and I'm In The Mood For Love, and I was all like "Pardon me, XM Radio? Are you coming on to me? You need to mind your manners."
I also hate it when it asks me geographical stuff like Do You Know The Way To San Jose? I mean, gosh can't it just talk to one of its GPS buddies? I'm not a freakin cartographer. And no, I don't know how to take you down to Funky Town either.

Okay, so perhaps the XM Radio isn't exactly a useful tool to rely on for life-altering guidance but the next time you find yourself embroiled in an escalating confrontation just remember the promptings of my XM Radio and employ some Fight Like A Bra moves; sure to make any opponent feel squeezed, manhandled, strangulated, and profoundly uncomfortable just like my own breastages do every single day of their young, fleshy lives.

I Thought I Really Knew My Husband......But That Was Before I Saw His Naked Pictures On The Internet

Yes, there's really 3 photos of my Mexi-man showing off his naked Mexi-CAN right on the Internets.
See, when Papi was but a young and saintly 19 year-old missionary he had the unfortunate luck of both getting called to an area that lacked indoor plumbing and being coupled with an impish companion who possessed a wicked prankster prowess......or should I say possesses a wicked prankster prowess in the present tense?
While perusing a web site and catching up with his fellow mission companions this weekend, Papi was shocked to see nudie photos of his backside posted up for all the world to see like some sort of Papi Posterior Pictorial.
I've enjoyed going clickety really fast through the pictures; it makes it look as though Papi's doing a sultry Mexi-Can-Can Dance just for me.
That's right Papi, shake it a little more for your Elastic Mammacita!
Papi remembers that this particular companion enjoyed sneaking up on people and pulling practical jokes.
Papi even vaguely recalls the day his companion hid around the corner of the outdoor bath and snapped his picture as he got into the concrete stall; he just can't believe that the now 36 year-old man would post them on a mission web site like that!
Sometime during the mission, another missionary-undoubtedly seeking revenge- turned the tables on this unethical Elder and snapped a picture of him entering the bath with his own camera. Conveniently enough though, he censored that picture on the site while leaving Papi's intact.
I could potentially zoom in and order poster-size prints of Papi's naked nalgas to give to all our closest loved ones next Christmas.
Of course, I would make sure they're tastefully done. I'd alter the photos' natural brown coloring to a more classic and artistically appealing black&white. Sadly, that would shoot my art gallery exhibition idea. I wanted to call it either "Brown Is The New Black" or "Look At What Brown Can Do For You!"
I met Papi when he was 22. I didn't get a private Papi posterior showing until he was 23. Seeing these pictures was like taking a quick Time Machine trip......a Time Machine trip sponsored by Playboy, that is.
It's very naughty to admit this about viewing exploitive pics of a man who's dedicated himself to serving God for 2 years, but Papi was totally hot!
I only wish his companion would have snapped an even dozen candid Mexi-CAN shots of my Papi so I could have ordered an Elder Papi: Missionary Man calendar made for my personal enjoyment.

*EDIT: Here's some pictures of my Papi in action on his mission. Make that fully-clothed Papi in fully-clothed action on his mission. Sorry to get you ladies all excited like that.
I have to admit that I'm somewhat grateful for that sly Elder Davis and his photography fetish. Thanks to him I'm able to see pics of missionary man/action figure Papi for the very first time since Papi left all his film back in a Mexico City storage unit. So, thanks Elder Davis!*
[Papi is the cute toothy guy on the right]

[Papi is the cute toothy guy on the left :)]

[I keep teasing Papi but he swears he's not wearing a Walkman. I think it's a mini fanny pack but Papi denies it.]

[The upcoming sequel to James And The Giant Peach......Papi And The Giant Mango!!!! Shot live on location.]

[Papi is the cute toothy one on the right again. They said "Choose The Right" and the man sure did listen!]

Instead Of The Midas Touch, We Infidels Have The Gigundo Booty Touch

The Gift of The Gigundo Booty manifests itself in any number of ways at La Casa De Infidel.
A minute on the lips, forever on the hips? Not at our house.
It all goes straight to our built-in, back-end, super-squishy seat cushions.
We've recently begun diversifying our Gigundo Booty portfolio by adding a free annual Gigundo Booty bonus courtesy of our local credit union.
It really isn't fair to our competition who lack the magical Gigundo Booty Touch that us Infidels have; but then the competition can sit comfortably in teeny-tiny chairs, so I guess it all balances out in the grand scheme of the universe.
See, for the second year in a row a Gigundo Booty-blessed mini-Infidel has beaten out all other contest entrants to win the top prize at the credit union.
Here's Stef looking smug with all the trappings of her stocking contest success:
(Stef is a little over 5'5 to give you an idea of how tall the stocking is)

And here's Sunbum from last year showing off the rewards one can reap when possessing an awesomely mystical power like Gigundo Booty Touch.

My girls' Gigundo Booty skills are in high demand. They have a date with Ed McMahon and the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes entry in a few weeks so you need to book them early.

*Some of the contents were duplicates of last year. For instance, we're now the proud owners of fuzzy little King Kong twins. I'm betting they'd make a great pair of ear muffs or a really fun bikini bra. Stef also got an authentic Gwen Stefani doll that came complete with her own Alice in Wonderland costume. Sometimes I think that swallowing weird potions in little bottles would explain an awful lot about Gwen and her music/stage persona.*

When Cutting Edge Indie Rock Loses All Street Cred

I've been amused beyond all measure of reason by the recent playing of hipster alterna-rock at the most unexpected and definite non-hipster places.

We went shopping at HEB grocery store on Saturday night and started laughing when we heard the latest darlings of the college music scene getting blasted over the HEB Radio speakers.

Vampire Weekend- The Kids Don't Stand A Chance

While shopping for such novelties as Jeffy (Foxworthy) Jerky and Delta Burke lingerie at Big Lots off-price store (don't ever buy food there) we were treated to the strains of Guster's Satellite mixed into a Big Lots Broadcasting set list comprising of mostly super edgy hits from superstar acts like Bernie Higgins (Sailing Away To Key Largo) and Lou Rawls (You'll Never Find).

Guster- Satellite

Poor Peter, Bjorn, and John. One day you compose a song worthy of head-bobbing, shoulder-shaking from the hippest of the hip. The next day it starts to get played over the in-store radio at the most milquetoast of places. We've heard it at both Marshall's discount clothing chain and the 99 Cents Only store.


Peter, Bjorn, And John- Young Folks

I guess 20 years from now all these songs will end up as elevator Muzak.
I need to figure out who to ask and where to apply for the in-store radio DJ job......and then I'll just wait for the music label promotion money to start rolling into my greased-up little palms.

*This Just In! We heard The Kooks getting airplay on Ross in-store radio.*

I'd Like To Dedicate A Song To The Surgical Staff Who'll Be All Up In My Business Tomorrow

At first I considered a nice Weird Al spoof for the occasion. Perhaps "Like A Surgeon" would be apropos even though really Weird Al is so flippin timeless and classic no matter the reason or the season; but instead I'm going with my final selection: Diana Ross.

Diana sums up all the meaningful things I desire to articulate when she gustily sings "Touch me in the morning......then just walk away..."

I don't really want to be touched at all, mind you. I'm not one of those kinks with a surgical fetish nor do I have to rely on my HMO to hook me up with some good touchy/feely action.

Well, normal people wouldn't give a second thought to the minor procedure I'm undergoing in the morning, but I'm not normal; I'm freaked out.

When I relayed my fears of anesthesia to the registration nurse at the hospital during my pre-op visit she simply laughed and then proceeded to ask me if I had a Living Will and if I'm an Organ Donor.

Wow, so reassuring. Yeah, I don't mind entertaining paranoid delusions of croaking on the table while the doctor harvests my plump and ripe organs like it's dollar days in the Piggly Wiggly Produce Department. I don't mind at all. Thanks registration nurse! I'm guessing you failed Compassion And Caring 101.

The best part is that I'll be working all night in 30 degree weather. Wait, no, that's not the best part. The bestest part is that the nurse admonished me with a firm "No Drinking Or Eating After Midnight Prior To Surgery" command.

She didn't specify why. Is it an instruction from The Gremlins Handbook? Will I turn into a wickedly voracious monster if I dare stuff my face past the stroke of midnight? Or is the Hospital trying to avoid another unfortunate Code Brown incident in the Operating Room? Only my physician can say for sure and I won't be seeing her until a minute before they gas me.

I'm only spending the day with the fine folks at Our Lady of Holy Moly Hospital. I'm a little hurt that they didn't want to spend the night with me, but I guess I'll get over it.

In case you're curious, we'll just categorize tomorrow's proceedings in the "Personal And Feminine In Nature" file folder.

Whoever assumed that I was going in for a sex change operation, you're wrong. I don't feel like going to all the hassle it would involve to transform this blog into The Macho, Macho Man Infidel. I'm not suffering from the heartbreak of hemorrhoidal flare-up either and I'm not getting that superfluous vaginal plastic surgery(Vagiplasty?) that's become so trendy lately.

So, if I don't see you all before Thursday, Have A Very Merry Christmas!

The Infidel Way To Deal With A Christmas Spirit That Suddenly Turns Ugly

What's more natural than taking your family on a festive holiday hay ride during the weeks leading up to Christmas?
Well, leave it to us Infidels to turn something wholesomely natural into something grotesquely unnatural.
So there we sat cheek-to-cheek on the back of a hay-stuffed trailer along with a bevy of shivering strangers.
Aside from an occasional cough or sneeze the hay ride adventure lurched forward with nary a peep.
I spontaneously tried to rally the mini-Infidels into singing some Christmas carols to break the chilled winter silence and bring cheer to our fellow passengers.
One chorus of Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer later, I sullenly pulled my knit cap down to cover my flushed face as the entire trailer of sour-faced people glared at us.
I didn't realize that we had stumbled onto the "Silent Night/Quiet Night/Shut The Freak Up Night" hay ride tour.
Hey, getting your heiny stabbed through your britches with a thousand points of dried-out hay isn't pleasant for anyone but we must think of our brave hay ride pioneer ancestors and how they soldiered on with a song on their lips and bugs in their teeth.
As though our failed attempt at turning a lackluster hay ride into a cheery Hay Ride:The Musical! event wasn't mortifying enough, then my second oldest mini-Infidel, Stef had to act like she was a couple jingle bells short of a Jingle Bell Choir by making some very oddball Christmas music comments.
Stef actually remarked out loud that she gets The Carol Of The Bells and Tubular Bells mixed up.
Okay, one tune rejoices in the coming of the Savior while the other one provides an ominous backdrop for a demonic exorcism.
Yeah, I certainly can see how those two songs can be confused.
I may have to one day explain to Stef that Chuck Berry's rowdy sing-a-long "My Ding-A-Ling" isn't really about bells on a string........ No, it really isn't. Sorry if I ruined the illusion for you.
So, while still laughing at Stef, the rest of us started dreaming up a collaborative Medley Of Bells to accompany any nice Christmas exorcism. A tune soaring and dramatic enough to make old Ebenezer Scrooge smile perniciously as he gets the drop on his visiting spirits with a strategically placed Ghostbuster brand ghost trap now with ectoplasm inhibitors.
Ebenezer Part 2:Revisited.....He Ain't Fraid' Of No Ghost(s)
We got as far as combining AC/DC's Hell's Bells, Tubular Bells and the always creepy Michelle, My Belle before we knew we had hit upon a Christmas Exorcism music gold mine!
And if that fails to vanquish evil spirits, you can always use the special demon-smashing Silver Bell included with every Bell Medley CD purchase.
Ooops, Up, Side Yo Head, scary possessed thingie!
Just hear those demon slay bells jingling ring-ting-tingling too. That's right it's lovely weather for a nice exorcism with you.
*The official Bell Medley Pack may also be used to ward off annoying family, co-workers, and bill collectors, too;but only on Christmas. Product expires December 26.*

I Do Not Condone The Mocking Of Religious Leaders In Any Way, Shape, Or Form.....Unless It's Really, Really Funny

JOEL OSTEEN'S TEETH WHITENING KIT (YOUR BEST TEETH NOW!)-3:06
I don't know how this young kid managed to master Joel Osteen's corn pone accent, aw-shucks mannerisms, and cheeseball dialogue, but he did--and he does a fantastic job.

Delta Burke Hates Me: She Tried To Strangulate My Lady Bits Last Week!

Be warned: Just because someone's a washed-up television star from the 80's doesn't mean they should be handed complete creative control over their own intimate apparel line.
But, if they did, we would have seen undergarment products from former big-name stars lining the shelves of department store underwear sections a long time ago.
How about Gary Coleman's Big Boy Briefs? Or Shelley Long's Long Johns? Or maybe a nice pair of Joan Collins' Cougar Thongs.

Okay, so while shopping at Big Lots discount store in pursuit of the perfect birthday present for my friend Carrot Jello, I found a 2-pack value box of Delta Burke brand girdles on sale.
Really, is there any better way to tell someone how much they mean to you than sending them a couple of lace-front girdles?
The Sisterhood Of The Traveling Girdles: A Movie For The Less Physically Fit.
Since Carrot and I wear the same size, I figured that I'd keep one and send the other to her as a kind of gut-minimizing, fat pouch-eliminating take on the old Best Friends heart necklaces we all coveted during our schoolgirl days. Although at no time did I consider writing "Best" on one girdle and "Friends" on the other.
A girdle is the perfect gift of friendship. It literally girds you up when you're feeling down. Girdle Twin Power.....ACTIVATE!
Just so you know: One girdle's black and one girdle's ivory. Kind of like a Girdle Yin&Yang.

Then suddenly, before I could ship the girdle to Carrot's house, a most unfortunate girdle tragedy struck the Infidel home.
You never think it can happen to you.......
On the day of Papi's company Christmas Party I couldn't find my steadfast and true girdle sidekick anywhere and trust me, I freakin needed it so I could squeeze into my dress.
I searched high and low for it. I even commissioned our dog Reagan to go on a girdle rescue mission since he has fantastic sniffy capabilities. But it was all to no avail.
Duct taping fat rolls to smooth them out doesn't work as well as I thought it would.
In desperation I turned to Delta Burke to solve my girdle emergency.
Initially the ivory-colored girdle slid right on with ease but then, much to my chagrin, it stopped somewhere between my navel and lower belly pooch.
I read the package. It did not mention anything about it being a pack of low-rise girdle bikinis. And yet there I was, standing in something that looked like and pinched like an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny little Delta Burke bikini.
I may be grossly rotund but my pubic area is not where I need to focus slimming efforts.
The thought flashed into my mind of Papi's co-workers gossipping about me and saying things like: "Wow, Papi's wife has the most toned and svelte pubic area I've ever seen. It's a shame the rest of her is so hefty."
In disgust, I hurled the hoo-hoo oppressing garment across the room.

My mom had a similar experience with Delta Burke.
She purchased a Delta Burke brassiere in a slightly larger size to ensure a good fit.
The bra not only refused to cup her bosoms properly, it also had the audacity to mock my mom as she futilely struggled and strained and grunted to hook the tiny clasps in the back.

I speculate that Delta is a fat lady who secretly hates other fat ladies. She probably takes out her aggression on the portly population by manufacturing undergarments in smaller sizes than what the label says so that the buyer will feel like a total blob of billowing blubber when they try to wear it.
Delta is banking on the fact that the low-rent stores who carry her inferior shrinky-dinky apparel don't have dressing rooms. See, then large-and-in-charge women won't know the true discomfort and trickery Delta is serving up until they get home and find themselves totally compressed by the vacuum-sealed Delta girdles.
They'll undoubtedly feel too fat and ashamed to return the stuff because they don't want to have to recite the sad tale to the customer service manager about how their big butt refused to be harnessed and confined into such a ridiculously small polyester prison.
Brilliant marketing strategy!

Delta Burke should go work for the people over at the Just My Size clothing manufacturer. She's had a lot of practice selling stuff that really is just her size and her size only.
But one thing's for certain, Delta Burke may hate me but I hate that panty-pushing hussy even more.
From this day forth, we are enemies.
Delta will never be allowed into the sanctity of my underwear drawer ever again.