What's Grosser Than Gross?

Chewing a piece of gum and realizing that an escaped strand of hair has embedded itself into it. The feeling of pulling the hair out of your mouth and untangling it from the gum is indescribable. YUCK!

A Sister in our Ward who's sweet as can be and graciously volunteered to bring my family a home cooked meal post birth of our fifth child. The same Sister has gorgeous, brilliantly lustrous raven black hair that descends all the way to the middle of her back. However, it looks much better on her scalp than the numerous long hairs we extracted from her cucumber salad and mystery casserole that was nondescript due to the shimmery grease pools floating on top.

Finally, I miss Major, my Brokeback Mountain watching comrade and contributor of amusing comments.(Look closely Major, I'm blowing kisses to you via the Internet) Sadly, he is no longer employed at the same glamorous warehouse that I am but I wish him well. Our boss is 40 ish, tall, and jogs on a regular basis. Granted he does have some fine looking legs, but he insists on wearing these little itty bitty nylon running shorts. One of the last quotes relayed by Major that I will cherish always is, "Damn, if his shorts were any smaller, he'd have to wear a hair net".

I cut my own hair once every year and a half to donate to Locks Of Love, but it's not for purely altruistic motives. The most awkward thing ever is engaging in conversation and having to pause mid sentence to fish some stringy hair out of your mouth. When in the company of people that I'm less comfortable with, I've just swallowed it and then felt like I was going to choke to death. The scratchy feeling of hair pressed against my windpipe is nastiness personified. I totally empathize with cats and their battle of the hairballs. So, if you're searching for a support group for hair atrocities, you've come to the right place. My sympathy lies with you.

You May Call Me Gypsy Rose

While innocently strolling down the hallway at Church one gloriously bright Sunday afternoon last year, I was humming a song, and feeling at peace with the World. Then, it happened.

The above picture of my favorite Church uniform doesn't appear at first glance to be a weapon of mass embarrassment but don't allow yourself to be deceived. While passing the women's auxiliary room (Relief Society) the buckled closure on my wrap skirt decided to break free and present itself as an unwrapped skirt. Hordes of people were present to see that errant flap of fabric reveal my undies. Thank goodness my modesty begins at the foundational level and I never opt for commando style. One of the Church brethren acted without haste and she shielded me while I quickly maneuvered the tie back into place.

I found it most disappointing that nobody tossed any dollar bills or even threw an, "Ooh La La", my way. Nothing. Gaw! What a bunch of pious holy rollers. This must signify that I don't have a bright future awaiting me onstage down at The Caligula Gentleman's Club. Some dreams just never come true even if you wish upon a star.

Chronicles of Appalling Parenting:Chapter 2

Listening to Dr. Laura dispense her brand of tough love and pious advice over the radio airwaves has become a guilty pleasure of my daughters and I. Dr.Laura has stated emphatically on many occasions that there is no such thing as 'repressed memory'. I beg to differ with her.

One of the most amusing phrases that I heard during my teen years was, "Shake it, don't break it, it took yo mama nine months to make it". It was oft repeated amongst my friends. Subconsciously, I absorbed that into my own vast wealth of knowledge(yeah) right alongside scintillating memorized quotes from luminary figures like Twain and Washington. Over the years I'd forgotten the original source of such wisdom. As my children enjoy replicating daredevil antics combined with the fact that we've occasionally lacked health insurance for long periods of time, I regularly quote that line, and then we all laugh. Imagine the horror while listening to my beloved XM radio as a song came up entitled, 'Pop That Cootchie', by none other than the infamous 2 Live Crew. A depraved group of men banned from many countries for their hedonistic onstage exploits. As the song played for a moment the knowing air of familiarity enveloped me and then I heard it, my favorite phrase, and it reassured me that I am indeed slated for future residence in the Telestial Kingdom.

Never would I knowingly sing the lyrics of a 2 Live Crew song to my impressionable young children that we're trying to instill moralistic values in. There's only one culprit for such an atrocity and repressed memory be thy name. If my children grow up to be filthy exhibitionist rappers, that's what I'm using for my defense.

Always The Last To Know

I'm trying to determine if I possess a charming naivete or if I'm just plain clueless when it comes to matters of common pop culture knowledge.

*Warning: Some of the revelations below may be shocking to the less informed. Proceed with caution.*

1. I was literally floored, mouth gaping open when revealed to me the true meaning of Frankie Goes To Hollywood's massive hit, 'Relax'. Understandable if I had still been the 10 year old child during the original release date, but no, I just found out by a radio announcer last year. Apparently, the song is an ode to manly self love.

2. Devo's song 'Whip It', long a childhood favorite and a favorite of my own kids. Again, the same radio announcer pointed out the true meaning of the lyrics also pertaining to *ahem* manly self love.

3. Was I the only person alive who thought Salt-N-Pepa's song, 'Push It' was referring to a dance move? Yes? Okay then, forget I said anything about it.

4. One hit wonder artists, The Vapours song, 'Turning Japanese', is supposedly about the scrunching up of one's eyes during passion. That's a new discovery for me. I make it a point to learn something interesting every day regardless of how useless.

5. I furiously defended the good name of my favorite 80's group, 'The Pet Shop Boys', when my friends smeared them as being gay. Absurd, I told them, especially because I had a huge crush on Neil Tennant. Proven wrong once again.

6. How dare anyone impugn the reputation of George Michael. Why he must be straight because George is featured sexily cavorting with supermodels in his videos, and he dates women. The L.A. park bathroom lewd and lascivious behavior arrest was embarrassing for more than just George Michael. I hope he feels terrible guilt over making me look like an ass. I lived with two gay men for a period of time and I thought they'd never let me live this one down.

7. I didn't know Bruce Springsteen's seemingly anthemic hit, 'Born In The U.S.A', was actually a slam on America and the Vietnam War. Yet, they still play it religiously every year at our Church Fourth Of July party. Maybe I'm finally less clueless about this one than other people.

For the record, I did NOT lead a sheltered life. Perhaps I have qualities of childlike innocence combined with denial, and a touch of stupidity? Anyone else?

Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

O'Henry Striking A Pose

It's only been one day and we miss you terribly Miss Biotech Goddess. We hope that you've arrived safely in England and that you'll enjoy the Mad Scientist Convention. If your collective of inventive geniuses demonstrate a breakthrough in cloning technology, I shall like you to bring me a cloned version of myself. Wouldn't it be fun if everyone had their very own stunt double for those precarious everyday lifestyle situations?

Oh, and lest you worry about O'Henry, we plan on tending to him this afternoon right after Church. I've mastered a new dance to entertain him to the melodic sounds of 'Dare' by Gorillaz Inc. If that fails then I'm not above using catnip to gain feline trust and affection.

Don't stress! Just remember that you only have 5 days in the den of lions before you break free and head for a well deserved reward of relaxation and picture taking in Bulgaria. I still want some souvenirs, and my heart is set upon a pin up poster of Prince Charles to hang above my bed. Something about those ears really does it for me. Until we meet again, my friend.

World Upheaval And Crappy Musicians Signify The End Of The World

I wanted to blog about President Bush selling out our National Security once again, this time to the Chinese, but it's just too distressing for me. Surely, today's entry will still ruffle some feathers though.

Top 40 musicians or bands that have made it big and achieved stardom and opulent fortunes but I've never liked even one of their songs.

1. The Smashing Pumpkins- There is just something so unsettling about Billy Corgan's voice. No tears in my root beer when they dismantled the group.

2. Aerosmith- A 30 year career, and I hate every single one of their songs. Unfortunately, you can't escape them because they have airplay on the oldies station, top 40 hits, classic rock, lite rock, and adult alternative stations. It's futile pushing your car radio buttons because inevitably it all leads back to Aerosmith.

3. Bon Jovi- I think they suck. Even in their heyday I didn't get what all the hoopla was about. When my XM radio displays the name 'Bon Jovi', I will risk certain death while driving to change it immediately.

4. Green Day- See Aerosmith above. They are crappy and inescapable, not a pleasant combination. I also detest the smirkiness and lame political opinions of Billy Joe whatever. I have to admit though that DOOKIE is my all time favorite title for a CD.

5. Five For Fighting- Someone needs to give this man a testicle transplant and testosterone therapy, STAT. John Ondrasik's high pitched falsetto is jarring and his lyrics unintelligible. His voice literally creeps me out and reminds me of the teacher on Charlie Brown. Oh yeah, and all the songs sound identical to each other.

6. Gwen Stefani- Okay, I did like Hellagood with her band, No Doubt, but as a soloist she's managed to bastardize a selection from my favorite musical, exploit Japanese culture, and cavort around shamelessly like a teenager. (Gwen is 37) I loathe her music and her fashion monstrosities equally, now that s**t really is bananas.

Honorable Mention:Jack Johnson, The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, Coldplay, and John Mayer (there should be a maximum quota placed on mealy-mouthed male singers. If I never hear his wretched song, "Daughters", again for the rest of my life, it will be too soon)

More than likely there are still a few acts that I've neglected to mention, but this is the list that I feel white hot loathing towards. Anybody care to add to my list or defend one of the above mentioned artists?

I wanted to add a few more:
Melissa Etheridge- No, it has nothing to do with her sexuality, I just hate her music.

Sheryl Crow- 10 years and still waiting for at least one song that I can tolerate. What made her a star? Kevin Gilbert, that's who. After making it big off his back and the backs of the Tuesday Night Music Club, she cast them off and refused to give them any credit and reneged on her promises to take them on tour with her. That's gratitude for you.

Foo Fighters- I liked Dave Grohl in his Nirvana days, Foo Fighters are lackluster, bland, and overplayed.

CREED- How did I forget to add CREED? Upon first listening to them I regarded them as a minor annoyance but then thanks to media hype they became huge and unavoidable. You practically need a linguistics expert to decipher what mumbly, bad boy alcoholic Scott Stapp is singing. He needs radical treatment at the Eliza Doolittle School Of Enunciation A.S.A.P. Anyone notice that their songs are overly repetitious?

Operation Mindcrime

How old am I? Old enough that the 15th anniversary of my very first parent-free concert just passed. Having been a long admiring fan of the group, Queensryche, I was thrilled when they came to town with their Empire Tour. From the very first announcement I knew that I would agree to a butt load of promises, and contend with parental threatening, whatever it took to convince my notoriously passive/aggressive Mom to allow me to go. To this day, I still can't believe that my barely 16 year old dorky self persuaded her to let me go alone, at night, to a rock concert, downtown, with only my goofiest friend Melanie at my side. Especially since the opening act was a charming little band named, 'Suicidal Tendencies'.

Melanie and I stood out like the proverbial sore thumb that night at The Summit. Quite possibly we were the only two nerds in attendance coupled with the fact that we weren't clad with the requisite head to toe black nor did we even own any leather garments or chains to loop across our jeans. True to cliche form, we had crappy second tier seats, but we spotted a couple of girls from our high school close to the front row, sidestage, who definitely were dressed for the occasion. Both of them had black leather miniskirts on, halter tops, biker boots, and more black eyeliner than you could shake a stick at. We watched them intently in their awesome first tier seats as they sidled up seductively to the roadies during the intermission. We knew we had a chance, and sure enough the two disappeared backstage hand in hand with the band entourage undoubtedly to discuss English Literature and The Fall Of The Roman Empire. Never did I think that the phrase carpe diem could actually apply to me, but we did just that and took full advantage of the newly vacated seats. What an incredible show. It far surpassed my expectations and greatly surpassed the quality of my second concert experience featuring M.C. Hammer and Vanilla Ice. No, I wasn't high, just a sadly misguided teen giving in to oppressive peer pressure.

Out of curiosity, what was YOUR first unchaperoned concert event? Leave nothing back, even if it's embarrassing, because we here at The House Of The Smiling Infidel enjoy good gossip.

Trophy Wife

A vision of loveliness

With assistance from a trusty pack of 83 cent iron-on letters, I made this little beauty of a T-shirt proclaming to the World that my husband is older than me and that I'm truly smoking hot. The Trophy in my hand was a little something given to me by the Soccer Mom Association in recognition of my 'Sparkly Princess' skills. Of course, what suburban cutie pie like myself would be complete without a marabou tiara and scepter? I wear this ensemble often just in case my Papi forgets how lucky he is to be married to a Trophy Wife.

Sadly, I did NOT win any prizes with my custom designed shirt at our Church Halloween Party. Obviously the result of being blackballed by a panel of women jealous of my unspeakable beauty. You see, being a fabulous Trophy Wife isn't always as easy as it looks, but it's a cross that I must bear. Please look beyond my supermodel exterior and see what an amazing person I am on the inside as well. I beg of you, don't hate me because I'm beautiful. Oh yeah, I'm working on World Peace and I love puppy dogs too.

My Mom Regards Me As A Female Dog

HA, MADE YOU LOOK!

*The above title is for comedic purposes only and does not actually reflect or insinuate profanity usage in today's blog entry. Sorry for any confusion or disappointment that this may cause*

Anyways, a lingering nickname since my long gone days of youth was given to me by my precious Mommy Dearest. As was all the fashion rage back in 1986, she decided to transform my thick, stick straight hair into a moppet of lustrous curls via a box of Ogilvie Home Hair Perm Kit. The results? I had to suffer 6 months of nappy, kinky hair before it finally grew out. My Mom was aghast at first when gazing at the tightly wound monstrosity that she created. Then she tried to convince me of the humorous aspect of it as the girls at school with professionally done salon perms ridiculed me and asked if I had a pubic hair wig on my head. My fabulously creative Mother took to calling me FIFI, in reference to my new poodle style hairdo, and it stuck. Even to this day my Mom still addresses birthday cards to me as FIFI, and uses FIFI in place of my given name. I'm just grateful that she didn't try to color my hair too, or I really would have resembled one of my French Poodle comrades in the picture above. So, NOT OOH LALA!

Chronicles of Appalling Parenting: Chapter 1

While traveling to the grocery store the other day, the digital display on my XM radio read, 'BOOGIE FEVER'. My 6 year old daughter, Caterpillar, furrowed her brow, and asked me, "Mommy, what's BOOGIE FEVER"? I used this moment as a golden opportunity to try and quell the insidiously grotesque habit of my toddlers and I replied to her, "BOOGIE FEVER comes from picking and eating your own boogers, and it makes you really sick. So you really shouldn't do that or you'll contract a severe case of BOOGIE FEVER for sure". My 4 year old had huge eyes at this information. Poor thing, now he thinks he's going to die from BOOGIE FEVER.

Anyways, kids grow up so fast, make sure to include lots of teachable moments with them every chance you get. One day my older children just might discover the cure to BOOGIE FEVER, and we will rejoice with gladness in our hearts. My ample bosom swells with pride thinking of their future potential.

BEWARE THE IDES OF MARCH

Finally, I thought I was going to break into the popular inner circle of middle school because my Mom bought me the perfect dress that the 'cool' girls had. A red safari style belted dress with a short, pleated poufy look on the bottom. After a day of gushing compliments, I felt like I was shiznit personified. However, it all came to a screeching halt when running to catch my bus in the afternoon. The notoriously gusty March winds took over and to my complete horror blew my dress straight up over my head, in front of the majority of the school. Crap. People called me The Lady In Red after the lame movie where the female character's red dress keeps billowing around her in the wind. Or it might have been a reference to that awful Lady In Red song by Chris DeBurgh. "The lady in red, is dancing with me, cheek to cheek". Whenever my friends and I sang the cheek part we had to do the obligatory butt slap for emphasis. The Moral Of The Story Is: When Walking Around In A Dress In March, Do NOT Wear Garfield Zebra Print Underwear.

THE LEGEND HAS DIED

While laughing at my classmates in P.E., I also garnered my own mean nickname courtesy of a girl named Brandy. After a disastrous dental accident at YMCA camp when I was 10, my front tooth turned a lovely shade of gray. Root canals, bleaching treatments, nothing seemed to help, so I just lived with it. In reference to the 80's version Tarzan movie, I was now christened, Melissa:The Legend Of GrayTooth.

The Lesson Learned Here Is: Do not trust your camp friends to guide you around safely while you're pretending to be blind, because they will allow you to crash into a tetherball pole, thus breaking and damaging your tooth until you turn 23 and have to pay for a majorly expensive dental bridge. *Teach your children to overcome their adolescent urge to be stupid*

SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES

While in English class, we had the assignment of writing a short story to share with the class. Mine featured a nurse who used the phrase, "You are the instigator of all evil", to another character. Oddly enough, all the sleepy eyes in the class suddenly sharpened, people goofing off turned their undivided attention towards me for the remainder of the story. Very weird and very surreal feeling. The rowdier boys took a shine to me and started referring to me as the Instigator Of Evil everywhere I went. Eventually, it naturally evolved and shortened itself down to just Instigator. An average white, mild-mannered conservative girl being called Instigator always turned heads, especially when they saw me outside of school and yelled it at me. Aesop Would Say: She Who Uses Words That Titillate Stoner Boys Must Accept Weird NickName Given To Her.

Hope you enjoyed this very special NICKNAME EXTRAVAGANZA edition.

Who Put The B.O. in Bodacious?

Miss Tumbleweed's husband. I wonder what their kids will look like?

I see a theme emerging here, so I propose that we celebrate a week of nicknames! If you have a nickname that doesn't inspire trauma and weeping in you, please share with the eager masses.

Meanwhile, here's another wretched tale of cruelty reminiscent of the characters in the movie, 'Mean Girls'. Since intricate daily hair and makeup routines were de rigeur amongst my fellow high school girls and a few goth boys, that made me oddball out. To compensate for my lack of glamour I went overboard in the hygiene department. While other girls were hoarding around the bathroom mirror with their arsenal of makeup and hairspray, I was re-applying my deodorant. I popped so many breath mints during the day that I practically had to pawn my stereo to support my Tic Tac habit.

Some girls weren't as conscientious. A perfectly lovely student in my P.E. class named Stacy had it all. Good grades, nice family, tall and thin, sunshiney personality. Sadly she also had something else that was immediately noticeable to all those around her. My friend Melanie nicknamed her BO, and it caught on quickly with the whole P.E. class, then later the whole school. Stacy asked, "Why do you guys call me BO?" Melanie told her it was because she looked like Bo Derek, but the truth is she earned the name BO because of her overwhelmingly powerful body stench. Luckily, only a few of us knew the real significance of the name, so at least her feelings weren't crushed. Makes me wonder about Bo Bice.

We didn't care about stomping on the feelings of another classmate, Amy, the surly drill team princess who fell from grace. Amy loved to ridicule us less coordinated, less sparkly girls. She refused to participate most of the time because she didn't want to crack her layers of makeup or break a nail. Amy took great pride in poofing and teasing her thin blonde hair with hair spray until it took on amazing heights surrounding her thin, pale face. Bon Jovi himself would have given her the big hair seal of approval. I adopted the name 'Miss Tumbleweed' just for her. Lacking any shame or manners though, we called her that right to her face.

Just never you mind what they called me.

Seeing Spots

OFFICIAL SPRING FASHION EDITION

Ahhhhh yes, the signs are all around us. Flowers starting to bud and bloom. The sun keeping us company for a little longer day by day. The birds and butterflies returning after their mass exodus to the South. It's unmistakable, the time of seasonal rebirth has arrived and Spring is upon us.

The fashion gods will be signaling the start of the Spring season in just a few scant weeks by announcing that you little fashionistas can once again don white apparel without fear of ridicule.

I'd just like to share a cautionary tale though that will potentially save you much embarrassment in the future. When I was a radiantly youthful middle schooler, I lacked a handy fashion guide such as this, advising me about the proper techniques of wearing white. As a consequence I had to learn one of life's cruel lessons completely on my own. My Mom purchased an amazing pair of snowy white Outback Red brand cargo shorts. I excitedly wore them to school the very next day to show off. However, ignorant of the centuries old rule of never wearing dark fabric under light fabric , I put on rainbow hued polka dotted underwear. Apparently, my vibrantly colored panty selection was on display for the amusement of the entire school. Due to my grievous error, the nickname, "DOTTY", was bestowed upon me for the rest of the year. Oh, sweet humility for the braggart soul. Heed the fashion wisdom of The Smiling Infidel to save yourself massive pain and suffering.

Showing Off My Bear Butt

I would like to promulgate some exciting news: The Smiling Infidel has purchased a bicycle. This picture is of me and my new bike, aren't we stunning? I did tweeze this morning and I ceremoniously shaved my furry legs, so there's slightly less hair than when this picture was originally taken.

My first foray with the kids to the park on Friday went smoothly. Although, after 10 years of bicycle absenteeism I was neither graceful nor coordinated, just exactly the kind of bike riding skills you would come to expect from a common bear. My fat legs failed me and were begging for mercy after only 15 minutes. The bicycle seat made me so freakin sore in my nether regions, that I had butt cheek spasms all day yesterday. Maybe my arse needs a bicycle built for two. However, I did experience glowing triumph from staying erect and not toppling over once. Can I get a WHOOP WHOOP?

I'm strangely encouraged by the punishing pain I felt, that must signify that this is a great form of cardiovascular exercise. I'm completely ready to start a new bicycle workout regimen and maybe even train for the prestigious Tour De Doughnut! To realize that dream I need to buy the finest in Spandex that money can buy. Something that would make Milli Vanilli weep with envy. I desperately want to own the entire Lance Armstrong Cheek Squeezer bicycle short collection and matching Second Skin tops, because I know how much the public enjoys seeing rotund, hairy women in tight clothes, and I AM a people pleaser after all.

If you can find it in your generous hearts to support a worthy cause to bring sunshine and happiness into the life of a pathetic soul, please donate large sums of unmarked bills to The Smiling Infidel Spandex/Lycra Sausage Casing Fund. Thank you and God Bless.

*If you don't respond or forward this message to 7 friends in 7 minutes, you will suffer the wrath of an anonymous stranger*

What Would Jiminy Cricket Do?

I am a very conflicted person at the moment. The thought of supporting leftist musicians and entertainers bothers me tremendously but yet as of late I can't get enough of what they're churning out.

Death Cab For Cutie is notorious for their irrational anti-war, anti-Bush diatribes and their support for the pro-choice agenda. However, I keep replaying, 'When Soul Meets Body', over and over. Ben Gibbard's voice is so amazing. He's also very nerdy looking which I find smoking hot.

Dave Matthews Band features a SOUTH AFRICAN who can't chastise America enough. Yet, he has chosen to live here and his bandmates are American citizens. Annoying? Yes, but still I just can't get enough of, 'American Baby'.

Morrissey has made his contempt for America glaringly clear but I continue playing his music ad nauseum.

Ditto for Grant Lee Phillips, Matt Nathanson, Pearl Jam, Shakira, Coldplay and Don Henley.

I feel guilty and hypocritical for my actions. Why can't stars keep their ideology to themselves? Why do they have to use their fame as entertainers to take on serious issues when the general public just wants them to shut up entertain us? Maybe it's their moral conscience nagging at them, I don't know. All I know is that they're ruining the experience for me because I don't relish the thought of my money funding their nutty causes. This goes both ways, I'm not partisan, but come on, how many conservative celebrities outside of country music are there? The World is full of enough turmoil and strife, I just want a little mindless escapism through music. Is that too much to ask for?

There Must Have Been Something In The Salsa

Saturday evening started out innocently enough. Just me and Papi against the World. Temporarily child free and headed to a nice Mexican restaurant to celebrate his boss's birthday. I know prior to attending any social events that I will say at least one stupid thing before it ends. Perhaps it's some uncharted gene hidden in my DNA strand to make me behave like such a dork around other people.

The party included the entire office staff along with their dates and spouses. Papi's boss is named Lupe, short for Guadalupe. We sat near her at the head of the table. Lupe ordered herself a virgin Pina Colada to drink, and when the waiter sat the glass down on the table, I piped up and exclaimed, "OOOHH, Look! It's the Virgin Of Guadalupe". Nobody laughed. Nobody. They just looked at me, and I half expected to hear a choir of chirping crickets. I was pissed at Papi. I mean the least he could have done is muster up a courtesy laugh at my stupid joke. Not wanting to risk another awkward moment, I spent the rest of the meal stifling potential outbursts by stuffing tortilla chips in my mouth.

So, what say you? Amusing, or am I the inspiration for Beck's song 'Loser'? "Soy perdedor, I'm a loser baby".

What Goes Around.....

I'm a Christian but I also believe strongly in Karma, as well as Karma Chameleon. Boy George is such an inspiration to the human race. As a wee child, I ran my poor Mother ragged and was the epitome of the word, 'HELLION'. The woman could scarcely venture out into public without me facilitating at least one embarrassing incident.

So, stuck without a babysitter, she took my 6 year old rowdy self to a formal dinner party at the home of some acquaintances. First thing I did when we arrived was to throw all the winter coats piled up on the guest room bed, onto the floor. Then I proceeded to criticize the too pink chicken, and the other dinner fare being served. The moment that mortified my Mom and severed the friendly relationship with these people came right after the meal when I informed the hostess that she had a lot of black hair sticking out of her face, and that she looked like a giant catfish.

Well 25 years later, I'm the one struggling. Plucking and tweezing out unsightly hairs on a daily basis. DAMN YOU CRUEL IRONY!!!

Between Heaven And Hell

Recently, a few people have been asking me what it's like to live in Houston in the winter. We don't usually get more than one or two days of freezing weather the entire season, which means lots of beautiful blooming flowers. All of these pictures were taken in January in our front yard. If you look closely, you can even see some of the fat, striped caterpillars that gorged themselves on butterfly weed.

It would seem as though we live in wondrous beauty all winter, right? Like a tropical utopia where you don't have to pay squat to the oppressive megalomaniacs at the gas company for heat in frigid weather. We don't have to buy snowsuits, put chains on our tires, shovel our driveway, or worry about our kids eating yellow snow. So, what could the drawbacks of such a luxurious climate be?


I didn't want to offend anyone and post actual pictures, but for one thing warm temperatures year round means that the hootchie women amongst us, never have to shelve the clothes they bought at the 'Pole Dancer Clearance Sale'. That's correct, irregardless of weight, certain women around here continue to wear their booty shorts and handkerchief tops everywhere they go. A scant few have the actual bodies to pull off such a look. Just remember that Men's Health magazine declared Houston the fattest city in the nation two years in a row. Mostly all of these ho-bags have multiple tattoos and piercings too as if the unsightly fat rolls sticking out of their clothes wasn't enough.

Shopping at Wal-Mart, even in the wintertime, is like being present at the 'entertainer' auditions for The Lusty Lady gentlemen's club. These trashy chicks like to congregate there and do their grocery shopping, children in tow, while exposing themselves for all to see. A fellow shopper just last week was as heavy as me wearing a zebra print camisole and low rise denim shorts. I kid you not, we wanted to claw out our own eyes at such an appalling sight. I knew the Wal-Mart fashion situation had reached disaster of epic proportions status when my 6 year old daughter asked me, "Mommy, why does that lady's boobies say Ricky on them"?

I propose that we offer a legislative bill under the Environmental Protection Act to ban Wal-Mart and others from selling such atrocious apparel in such large sizes. They are propagating eye pollution and they need to be stopped. Really, the World would be a much better place without size 4X thong panties and sequined tube tops.

The Smiling Infidel, your crusader for maximum ocular health!!!

True Love And Taco Dip

Here's a picture of my miniature 'Infidels In Training', at the grand Valentine's gala hosted by my Mom. We contributed a delectable 10 layer taco dip to the festivities. A word of advice, if you want snuggling and cuddling from your sweetheart on Valentine's Day, it's probably best to skip the layered taco dip. Although, true love should always overlook minor imperfections. That's what I told Papi anyway, after devouring a heaping plate of bean and onion laden taco dip.

My 10 year old, Sunbum, has a new favorite joke that she's not shy about sharing with friends, neighbors, people unfortunate enough to be behind us at the grocery store, the guy at Jiffy Lube, missionaries.......

A preacher was giving his Sunday sermon and said, "Oh Lord, without you, we are but dust".
A little girl sitting on a pew in the front turned to her Mom and asked, "Mommy, what's BUTT DUST?"

Angels Watching Over Us

I work during the nights, that means copious amounts of talk radio geared towards the politically minded. Sometimes I get sick of all that partisan crap and change it to the Coast to Coast Radio Program. This is an open forum where you'll hear anything from the most irrational conspiracy theories to U.F.O's. From ancient archaeology to modern day astronomy, you never know what they'll feature. About a month ago the guest was a fascinating lady, Joan Anderson, who started writing books about people's experiences with Angels. Initially, she just interviewed them for the Catholic Church, but then started noticing distinct similarities in all the stories, so she's parlayed that into a long, storied career and several best selling novels.

Anyway, the most interesting aspect was her discussions with children about Angels who helped them. Many times, the parents regarded these beings as 'imaginary friends' of their child, and mostly the appearances of these friends dwindle and finally disappear around the age of 6. There seemed to be a lot of irrefutable evidence of children seeing unexplainable things that adults couldn't.

I told my Mom about this program and she asked me, "Don't you remember when you were a child and had an imaginary friend named Rebecca"? Of course I didn't remember that, so my Mom told me that between the ages of 3 and 6, I used to scare her to death because every time she went into my room she found me talking earnestly with Rebecca. My Mom said I would look into the mirror to talk with Rebecca. She became absolutely perturbed with my behavior and threw away the mirror, but it didn't prevent me from continuing to see and converse with Rebecca. We moved out of that townhouse when I turned 6 and my Mother said that I never discussed Rebecca again.

I didn't have the rosiest of childhoods, in fact it was mostly unstable and tumultuous. Thinking of the possibility that Heavenly Father loves us enough to provide not only the Holy Ghost as our constant companion but also Angels to help us through trying times, comforts me immensely.

Finger Lickin Good!

This is a decidedly vulgar and crass story, but amusing nonetheless.

My husband, Papi, is a most refined individual who prides himself on his cultural acumen, and manners. However, one evening while lying in bed reading, he rolled over me to switch off the bedside lamp. Unfortunately, my mouth was open and his finger brushed across my lips. Upon closing my mouth, my senses detected the most abominable taste ever. I gagged and yelled at Papi, "EWWWW GROSS, your finger tastes really bad". To which, Papi smiled and inquired, "Really? What does it taste like?". Of course being the honest, virtuous woman that I am, I didn't want to lie just to spare his feelings so I told him, "It tastes like you've just been scratching your butt". Papi started making all these siren noises and screaming, WHOOP, WHOOP!, like I had just won the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes. Then he laughed and admitted, "Yep, girlie, you got it EXACTLY right, congratulations"!

Will somebody please remind me why eternal marriages are so important?

The Feminine Mystique Revisited And Revised

You know how women are assigned this urban myth sort of generalizing about their personalities, as though we can all be pigeon-holed and categorized easily? I resent it. Yes, it's true, I do like chocolate, so all of you who relish stereotyping women, win handily on that point. Other than that though, I don't have a designer shoe fetish, I hate 'chick-flick' type drama movies, the same goes for 'chick-lit' romance novels, I'm not obsessed with my weight and makeup either and how people perceive me (physically, anyway). I'm also not in any way, shape or form delicate and petite.

That being said, I'm not keen on romantic music either. There are scant few slow songs that I can enjoy without feeling like the songwriter is manipulating my emotions. So, naturally when it comes to serenading my husband you will never hear me belt out, 'My Heart Will Go On', or 'I Will Always Love You'. BLEAH! No, instead the selection I choose to sing to him just turned ten years old. It's 'Freak Like Me', by Adina Howard. My husband, Papi's so stodgy and conservative, he considers the smooth jazz radio station to be too wild. I guess that's what makes it all the more fun for me, especially when the lyrics drop about needing a roughneck brother to satisfy my needs. My Papi is the ultimate Mexican nerd, glasses and all, calling him a roughneck brother just cracks me up. Admittedly, I'm not the Rumpshaker Queen I was in my youth, but I still love to sing this song to him, even after 11 years of marriage. Mostly just for the reward of hearing Papi laugh and tell me, "You're so crazy, girlie".

Also, Frederick's of Hollywood keeps sending me catalogs, and I have NEVER even ordered from them. I wonder what the mail lady thinks? A skanky lingerie magazine nestled together in the mailbox with my LDS Ensign periodical. Anyway, the sticker on the back warned me that if I don't purchase from them, this will be my LAST catalog. Okay, I'll concede that they do offer an exciting line of plus size apparel, even naugahyde chaps with butt cut outs, but we just committed to a stringent financial budget for the New Year that doesn't leave any room for kinky frivolity. Besides, I don't like their threatening attitude about it. I'm just going to have to go elsewhere for all my pasties and crotchless panty needs.