Booby Trap Brings Certain Death

No, not the game Booby Trap, actual, well you know, BOOBY TRAPS. Always ahead of the curve I got to bypass training bras altogether and went right to the real thing at the tender age of 10. I've been 5'6 since middle school. Sadly, I think that's referred to as "peaking early", so it must be all downhill from here. Anyway, while out on the playground for recess I bent over to pick up a dodgeball (we were once so young and so barbaric) and suddenly felt a flutter of movement on my chest. Not wanting to go ballistic, I calmly thumped my chest a few times but the motion didn't stop. I had a complete Tarzan moment going ape****, beating my chest while running and hollering until whatever entity had invaded my shirt ceased and desisted. After building up immunity to constant craziness, none of my peers showed much reaction. We had recess just prior to boarding the home bound bus and I wasn't about to peek down my shirt and start digging around in front of fellow students to see what life and death drama had transpired in my bra. So I waited until I was in the serenity of my own bathroom to look. That's when I discovered a full sized dragonfly dead and dismembered in my cleavage. The crushed shimmery irredescent blue wings made me feel despondent and nauseous simultaneously. Apparently the poor creature couldn't resist the allure of my stinky boob sweat and died because of giving in to malodorous temptation. I discarded the bra into the trash and immediately took a shower. I even composed a short poem and wished the dragonfly remains lying in the trash a peaceful afterlife.

I gazed down into my brassiere and felt depressed
For there lied a dragonfly, smashed to oblivion upon my breast

When I told Papi this tragic tale he just laughed and said that at least the dragonfly died happy. Pervert.

When The Four Horsemen Of The Apocalypse Are Saddling Up....

Better make sure your Anti-Cannibalism Pledge with your neighbors and friends is firmly in place.


Life as a newspaper carrier doesn't always bring heartbreak and misery. In fact, I've met some very interesting people over the years and forged a few friendships. Mrs. Sam brings her whole family out for quality bonding over rolling papers. That includes her husband, Sam (duh), and two adult kids almost my age. Oddly, even though her daughter and I are chronologically close we rarely speak to one another. Instead I laugh and joke with Mrs. Sam so much that she's offered to adopt me. She explained that she always wanted more kids. I'm not sure if that includes adding a dorky white daughter to her clan but she seems sincere. Sincere enough that my kids refer to her as "Gramma Sam", and she's given me some great Christmas and Valentine's gifts. Secretly I think she just wants to adopt me to utilize my incredible lightning fast paper rolling skills for her own benefit.

So anyway we all listen to the Coast to Coast radio program that discusses anything from U.F.O's to vampires and government conspiracies. One night they had a guest on that earned the telltale nickname of Dr.Doom due to his depressingly bleak predictions for the future of the World. Mrs. Sam and I started talking about what course of action we would take if ever there's a food shortage. I offered the suggestion of our respective dogs Reagan and Diva as possible dining alternatives. That's when the conversation turned really bizarre as we delved into ideas of cannibalism. We mock argued back and forth about why our families wouldn't be well suited for eating. I pointed out that my kids were little and less meaty than her full grown hefty adults. Mrs. Sam said that I had a lot of fat to tenderize my flesh though. Eventually the squickiness factor elevated to preposterous proportions as we pondered the grill time necessary to smoke a whole person and we elected to call a truce that our families would protect one another and that we would never turn Donner Party with zesty human marinade and barbecue skewers in the event of calamitous times.

It's comforting to know that in this crazy mixed-up World there's at least one family who's pledged to not cannibalize me and my kin no matter how dire the circumstances. It makes me rest a little easier at night.

*My 10 year old, Monkey drew the above picture since Mrs. Sam refused to pose for my camera. Perhaps she's a closeted vampire? Anyway, I love the way she drew us both skinny. Monkey may have just earned herself favorite child status*

The Smiling Infidel Presents.....

An All Infidel Male Edition

My 8 year old son, Buster, went on an excursion to the local Arboretum with his Boy Scout Troop yesterday. The rest of us tagged along too. While walking on one of the many lush trails through the center we saw a huge green plant tagged with a sign that identified it as a 'Dancing Lady'. Buster pointed it out first, exclaiming, "Look Mom, that plants called a Dancing Lady"! To which I replied, "Of course it is son. That plant is easily identifiable by all the dollar bills around it".

The Arboretum volunteers refurbishing the gardens and planting Summer foliage are none other than the fine inmates from the Harris County Jail. Buster saw them and then read the lettering on the back of their orange jumpsuits before turning wide eyed to his Boy Scout companion and commenting, "That's the reason why we use the Buddy System".

For some unexplained reason Raven Symone was a featured entertainer at this year's Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo. Buster saw her on a rodeo ad and got all excited when telling us about it. Buster said, "It's that girl from that show. You know, "FATSO RAVEN". That cracked us all up.

My toddler son, Boo Boo, likes to curl up in my lap but only if I've just shaved my legs. Otherwise he tells me, "EWWW Mommy, you have spider legs".

Finally, my Mom has always liked Papi even when we were just friends mainly due to an incident that transpired in front of her where Papi and I had a discussion about names. I asked him what kind of name Papi is and he told me that it was in the Bible. Stunned, but Biblically ignorant, I believed him and asked, "Really??!!!?? Where in the Bible"? Papi laughed and told me, "I don't know about your Bible but mine has Papi printed right on the first page........where I wrote it".

Tools Of The Trade

Part Of A Well Balanced Meal!

Everyone needs a structured hobby to mold themselves into complete and well rounded individuals. Lately it seems that I'm lacking the ambition and hours necessary for many of my former interests so I've adopted a less taxing and time consuming hobby; hair removal.

Gaze in stunned amazement upon the tri-sectioned plate and all the astounding 'Hair Be Gone' accoutrements located therein. Yes, I do own three pairs of tweezers. One for every occasion and need. When I settle myself in for a nice long afternoon of tweezing, my mind wanders back to the days of childhood growing up in a one movie theater town in northern Indiana. All the community groups like 4-H, Lion's Club, F.O.P, and Jaycees, etc. held fundraisers featuring skeet shooting for rewards. My Grandpa was a police officer which curries celebrity and favor in a small burg like ours and I accompanied him to many of these events. When I capture a really big hair in my fancy tweezers I liken it to skeet shooting and mentally think, "PULL". Then I do with all my might, and I occasionally win the prize of which I seeketh. A long, curly black neck hair.

All my life people have told me that I'm "plucky". That term used to befuddle me, but not anymore. In fact, yes, I DO have a lot of pluck. I'm contemplating installing a PLUCKOMETER on my tweezers so that I may gauge exactly how much pluck I actually do have. My theme song to life is Paul McCartney's, 'A Little Luck', only I sing it, "With a little PLUCK, we can pull it out".

I used to wish upon a shooting star that one day I could afford a really good electrolysis session but now I fear that if all my fondest dreams come true, I may lose my PLUCK and PLUCKINESS forever. Maybe I should just revert back to my old shooting star wish of winning a lifetime supply of Pop Tarts.

Mom Always Did Tell Me To Eat My Veggies

My Mom graciously invited us to partake of the Veggie Tales Live stage show event today. Not nearly exciting as when we went to see the Wiggles concert and I got to actually physically touch hands with both Jeff and Greg, but still thoughtful. Closeness with super hottie Greg Wiggle, now that was the highlight of my life. Yes, my older girls are both the ripe age of 10, and yes, I should be a mature adult woman but that didn't prevent us from whooping it up. We clapped, stomped, "danced", and shouted every word to every song, because after all singing out praises to the Lord is what Infidels like to do. That is, even when the spiritual message is masked inside a tender ode of one lonely squash pining away for his lovely cheeseburger, and a rousing chorus about not having belly buttons. I seriously couldn't eat vegetables again if they did have belly buttons. EWWWW! Lest we forget 'The Pirates Who Don't Do Anything', and the timeless 'Where Is My Hairbrush?', as sung by a cucumber.

Oh, we were late arriving home because we hit the big Veggie Tales after party extravaganza where we dined on fried cucumber slices dipped in a savory tomato marinara sauce. Fabulous, absolutely fabulous, except for the repeated interruptions of people calling out, "Bob and Larry, where are you"?

Our DSL Line Is Gone With The Wind

As God As My Witness I Will Return To BLOG Again!

If any of you respond by saying, "Frankly, my dear Infidel, I don't give a damn", I shall curl into a tiny fetal positioned ball and sob.


The Time Warner guys PROMISED to come to our house yesterday and make everything all better. They're big poopy headed liars. So now they tell us that they'll definitely make it out today to fix our Internet line. They obviously don't understand the extent of my addiction and the severe blogging withdrawal I'm currently experiencing including double vision, anxious typing fingers, and explosive diarrhea. Okay, so maybe not everything is caused by lack of Internet. A woman of my stature and affluence shouldn't have to use germy public Library computers. Don't they know who I am? I'm the fourth best newspaper carrier out of the entire Northwest Houston District. I also won the school Spelling Bee two years in a row. Add to that my Chicken Dancing Championship ring, and you can see that heads are going to roll over this inconvenience. I'm not afraid to wield my power and position around to get results.

Anyway, meet me here tomorrow. Same Infidel time, same Infidel place.

For All You Dieters: Vomit Inducing Music

I've been slowly compiling a mental list of the creme de la creme of the worst songs ever. Which is the most deserving of the honorary "Your Song Makes Me Want To Perforate My Ear Drums With A Spork" trophy? I'll let YOU be the judge of that by making your voices heard.

1. Christmas Shoes by New Song: An upbeat little ditty about a young lad trying to buy some shoes for his dying Mom on Christmas Eve. The key line in the song is, "Wouldn't it be beautiful if Mama met Jesus tonight"? This is corny, cheesy schlock at its very worst, and I resent songs that take a dull plastic knife and make a cheap stab at your emotions. I had to laugh when I read about a person who wrote that what if this boy and his Mom are grifters scamming every two bit, podunk town the week before Christmas with the 'My Mom is Dying' line. Ahhh, how I love cynicism.
2. Butterfly Kisses by Bob Carlisle: Please join me in the movement to prevent couples from playing this wretchedly creepy song at their wedding. Thanks for your support.
3. Hmm, Hmm, Hmm by Crash Test Dummies: Inane and repetitious lyrics, froggy voiced lead singer, and song title that can only be pronounced when you're congestion free, all clash to make this one of the stupidest songs ever. Though it is set to a beautiful classically inspired melody, nothing can save the awfulness of it.
4. All I Wanna Do by Heart: Let me state for the record that there is absolutely nothing more romantic than a musical ode to a married woman who picks up a greasy hitchhiker on the side of the road and takes him to a seedy motel in the secret hopes of being impregnated. Then several years later while out and about with her sterile husband and love child encounters the greasy hitch hiker sperm donor. The worst, the absolute worst overplayed song ever.
5. Last Kiss by Pearl Jam: I used to be all about the grunge in my younger years and had Eddie Vedder approved flannel shirts to prove it, but dog in nevaeh what a horrible song this is. Funny thing happened last week when it came on XM Radio and I asked Sunbum to listen to the lyrics and tell me what she thought of it. Her deadpan reply was, "I'm sorry Mom, but I don't speak mumble". That summed the whole thing up and made me laugh really hard.
6. One Thing by Finger 11: Too painful to even try to remember the crappiness of it. I'm trying to let go of negativity and only embrace positive enlightened thoughts. Don't ruin it by playing this hideous song.
7. Lullaby by Shawn Mullins: What exactly is the appeal of gravelly voiced singers crooning off key to lame lyrics? No Shawn, everything is NOT going to be alright until someone puts a piece of freakin duct tape over your mouth.
8. My Humps by Black Eyed Peas: I told my kids that the song was written for some beloved camels in Fergie's youth.
9. Love Shack by B-52's: Everything has to die a natural death, why hasn't this song? I've been waiting 17 years. Please, for the love of all that is pure and holy, pull this song from your rotation, radio stations. I've officially declared our house a "Love Shack Free" Zone. A place of serenity where you'll never again be startled by gay people screeching 'Tin Roof Rusted'. Yeah, as if.
10. Sex And Candy by Marcy Playground: I still don't know what the heck sex and candy means. Even George Michael didn't beat around the bush (yes, and we now know why, don't we?) and just came out singing, 'I Want Your Sex'. Dispense of all your cryptic, encoded messages and just tell me how sex relates to candy and why in the World the Universe knows the most inappropriate time for this song to play and then plays it. Yes, that would be the time the missionaries were at my house. Blushing, blushing everywhere!

Okay people, what say you????

The Smiling Infidel Goes Hip Hop!

My Namesake. A lovely toilet paper holder.

There's something about me that I haven't revealed to anyone outside of my immediate family. Last week whilst walking stark naked to the shower Papi spotted a long piece of toilet paper lodged firmly into my butt crevice and trailing behind me. He doubled over in laughter and christened me with a new nickname just in time for the Easter holiday, 'Cottontail'.

I guess having an improvised cottontail does correlate to my phenomenal talent as the local champion Bunny Hop dancer. My prancing and hopping makes even Arthur Murray instructors weep with envy! Due to unforeseen visual impairments and being taunted with unflattering comparisons to FLOPSY RABBIT, I've learned to wear a snug fitting sports bra while performing my dazzling bunny maneuvers. Yes, even in a sunshine filled life like mine some rain must fall occasionally. Prior to this unfortunate toilet paper incident I had always pictured myself as a vision of rock n roll coolness like Jefferson Starship's White Rabbit when I danced. I guess embodying the spirit and fluffiness of Peter Cottontail hopping down the bunny trail will just have to suffice. *sigh*

Wishing everybody a Happy Easter full of solid chocolate bunnies not cheap hollow ones!!!

Meanwhile, Emily Post Gently Weeps

Wild indiscretions of youth can return to haunt you in so many forms. I was one of many to own a shiny black Yamaha keyboard as a teenager. Fancying myself 'avant garde', my repertoire consisted of odd commercial jingles, Muppet Movie soundtrack songs, and a superb little book that featured the sheet music for some of the 1960's era greatest hits. Yeah, well at least I wasn't pretending to be a missing member of Erasure or New Order like my friends were, okay? So, I played the best selection from the 60's book, 'The House Of The Rising Sun' more often than the others. Naturally I set my keyboard's tone on ORGAN mode to try and replicate more closely the dramatic, whorehouse themed sounds of the Animal's recorded version. The best place for acoustics in our house was the very spacious hallway bathroom and that's where I liked to take the keyboard and hang out. One day I received a phone call while sitting in there and my stepfather bellowed for me to come and get the phone, to which I replied loudly, "I can't. I'm in the bathroom playing with my organ". Oh, good gracious, as soon as the words escaped my mouth and I heard my stepfather laughing uncontrollably, I knew what a truly hideous exchange had just transpired.

That man never let me live it down either and he tormented me practically until the day he died four years ago. We had invited him and my Mother over to dine with the missionaries at our home in hopes of saving their heathen souls. Yes, the evening's dinner conversation revolved around how many things my Mom can cook with beer and other assorted alcohol products, foods that make us experience explosive diarrhea, and of course, regaling our bemused missionary dinner guests with the classic "I'm playing with my organ" story. I couldn't look them in the eye afterwards and felt secretly glad that they transferred out a short time later. Apparently, the art of proper mealtime conversation is dead, well, at least in my family.

Undergoing MyBlogLog Verification

The Secret Life Of Paper Carriers

I know that every last single one of you have been dying to know what it's like to rise up in the middle of the night to work a thankless job. Seven days a week, no holidays, no sick days, no insurance, and no raises even when the cost of gas skyrockets. Honestly, it's pretty sucky. However, thanks to the pre-dawn work hours we haven't ever had to place our kids in day care. It pays for my husband's college tuition and keeps us in the luxurious lifestyle to which we've become accustomed. That's right, clothes from Wal-Mart and marked down meat for dinner. Hold back your envy people, it's a very unbecoming trait on you. As a single destitute woman finishing up her second divorce, my Mom started throwing newspapers to make ends meet, and apparently I'm keeping the tradition alive. I wanted to chronicle (Get it? Like the Houston Chronicle) some of our mutual experiences and then some exclusively of just my Mother because she's the cheekiest, pissiest woman sometimes, and you dare not cross her or prepare to suffer the consequences.

When I was a teenager, my Mom threw our own neighborhood. By that time she had remarried again, and we had reached the pinnacle of middle class success in this area because as you well know society judges your lifestyle status based on houses and cars and we did live in a nice, tree-lined subdivision. Definitely nice enough that you wouldn't expect people to steal newspapers. However, my Mom had a persistent complainer a few streets behind our house. This guy called in constantly to the Chronicle demanding a paper and bitterly complaining about his 'incompetent' carrier who couldn't manage to deliver a freakin newspaper. This continued on for a few weeks before my Mom became obsessively insane about it and decided to play detective and stage an old fashioned stake-out to solve the mystery of the missing paper. Stealthily she pulled her Chevy Blazer into the cul-de-sac across the street from the complainers house, dimmed her lights, and sat there patiently, watching and waiting. Since there wasn't anyone else in the vehicle she had to forgo witty banter with a zany mismatched detective partner or the ever popular K-9 theme. Finally, her tenacity paid off as she spied the neighbor of the complainer in his white dress shirt and tie walk nonchalantly out of his house to the rolled up newspaper lying in the neighbor's grass before looking around, snatching it up and then walking back to his vehicle and driving away. My Mother is a woman of ACTION and she hatched a plan immediately. The next day she wore her black sweatpants and sweatshirt commando gear to her route and she again parked in the cul-de-sac and turned off the lights but this time she came armed with a can of ebony black shoe polish. With her black gloved finger she wrote 'PAPER THIEF' and 'LOSER' in shoe polish all over the car windows of the jerky neighbor.

She never, ever received a No Paper complaint again from that particular customer again.

A Memorable First Date

kurt cobain

Today is the day. Twelve years have passed since my Papi and I went out on our very first date together. Since we both worked at night and went to school Papi told me not to worry about how I was dressed and said just COME AS YOU ARE. We planned to dine at the local Chinese buffet. Isn't that romantic? Houston traffic made me a few minutes late and I found myself to be ALL APOLOGIES with Papi. He said that he hadn't been waiting for long and that considerateness was a quality that he really liked ABOUT A GIRL. I wouldn't say that love was IN BLOOM, but we were definitely off to a good start, even though he had neglected to bring me any chocolates in a HEART SHAPED BOX. Much to our chagrin we found that the Chinese buffet had closed at 2 o'clock which really was a DOWNER. SOMETHING IN THE WAY Papi suggested my second favorite establishment in the whole wide World, Pancho's Mexican Buffet, made me say, YOU KNOW YOU'RE RIGHT, that sounds fantastic. On our way there, the radio reported the discovery of Kurt Cobain's decomposing body in his home. That made me feel a twinge of sadness that only LITHIUM could cure, but I didn't let that stand in the way of scarfing down a big meal topped with BIG CHEESE. Even though Papi is a refined and genteel individual we washed down our taquitos with lemonade, not PENNROYAL TEA. After the meal we just enjoyed each others company and talked. Admittedly, after a big Mexican meal some flatulence transpired and it most assuredly did NOT SMELL LIKE TEEN SPIRIT.

Ahhh memories. Our first kid was IN UTERO one year later and our second daughter, Monkey, was born on this very date two years later. HAPPY FIRST DATE ANNIVERSARY PAPI AND HAPPY BIRTHDAY MONKEY!!!!!

There Really Is Safety In Numbers

My daughter Sunbum and I are carrying on a sacred familial tradition. You see, her birthright as the eldest daughter has earned Sunbum the coveted position of my most trusted Fart Buddy. I'm hesitant to travel anywhere without her because I know if a gassy moment suddenly occurs, she's got my back. Well, not literally because she's a clever girl who learned early not to stand behind her Mother. Sunbum's methodology ranges from blaming creaky floor tiles or shoes to casting dispersion on a hapless passer by for the crime, or just laughing with me which greatly lessens the public humiliation

than just being a lone farter in this World. My other wretched kids have breached my homestead flatulence policy by ratting me out, telling anyone and everyone what I've done. Even my toddlers withdraw their loyalty from me during farting spells and say, "EWWW Mommy, dat's scusting".

I'm also the eldest daughter of my Mother and I was once her Fart Buddy too. Never will I forget the day that my Mom and me, aged 14, went into the neighborhood Pay Less shoe store. Since we wore close to the same shoe size we remained browsing together on the same aisle at different sections. My Mom reached up for a box situated on a high shelf and it triggered an unspeakable evil within her. She unleashed the most ferocious sounding internal fart/growl the World has ever heard. All sound and movement ceased in that little shoe store while I slowly pivoted frontwards, and then I saw it. A horrified little girl of about 5 with her mouth in the formation of a perfect O, her eyebrows raised all the way up, and her eyes absolutely huge. This girl had wandered away from her Mother and was sitting on the little mirrored bench that lie in the middle of the aisles directly behind my Mom and exactly in the line of fire at her BUTT LEVEL. This girl had taken the brunt of the fart impact and she looked positively shell shocked as she remained rooted firmly in place on that bench. Obviously paralyzed with fear until she opened her mouth even wider and started screaming in a panicky voice, "Mommy, Help Me"! With that, my Mom threw down the box of shoes and I ran to her side. Together we maneuvered ourselves swiftly around merchandise displays and nosy people and got the Hell out of there. Remembering Lot's wife, we never looked back either as we made it to the relative safety of our van.

The Fart Buddy system is in place to keep you from dying of embarrassment and to provide someone to create a revisionist history for you as they assure you that the flatulence incidence wasn't all that horrible. They keep your rumbly secrets safe until 17 years later when they get a chance to blog about it. Fart Buddies, don't leave home without them.

My Kind Of Church

My boss Glenda and her family typically leave greasy boxes and soda cups from Church's Chicken all over the warehouse office.

While wading through the sea of discarded chicken bones and gristle I commented to my daughter Sunbum, "Ordinarily Glenda and her kinfolk aren't very religious people, but they do attend Church's several times a week". I laughed thinking that I'd said something clever when Sunbum piped up and said, "Well, they have to go to several Church's so that they can know which one is true".

We have never spent 3 consecutive hours at this particular Church but occasionally it feels more satisfying. In the short term anyway. AMEN

Your Blogging Type is Kind and Harmonious

You're an approachable blogger who tends to have many online friends.People new to your blogging circle know they can count on you for support.You tend to mediate fighting and drama. You set a cooperative tone.You have a great eye for design - and your blog tends to be the best looking on the block!

What's" Your Blogging Personality?

There it is. All bow before me, Queen Of The Kind And Harmonious. (Oh Gag, more proof that my wild days of snark are well behind me).

Chronicles Of Appalling Parenting:Chapter 3

When you spawn a lot of kids in a short amount of time, it's inevitable that some long standing familial traditions will become lost along the way due to sheer parental exhaustion. We decided to follow through with the timeless charade of 'The Tooth Fairy'. You know, the benevolent winged being that appears out of the ether and descends towards a child's pillow during the nocturnal hours. They deftly maneuver around the streams of kiddie drool to swap out lost and bloodied teeth for money.

After awhile, the fallen teeth really started to pile up around here. So much so, that I freakin could have gone into a denture making business. Occasionally, I found myself without the proper coinage to make the sneaky switch. One morning we woke up to two sounds. The first belonged to our oldest daughter, Sunbum, who was sobbing inconsolably that the Tooth Fairy had forgotten her. Sunbum followed that mournful observance by announcing that she had wet her bed........ again. Any sort of sympathy or parental guilt over the forgotten tooth/money exchange dissolved immediately when looking at her sodden, wet sheets. The overpowering stench rivaled a men's urinal down at the decrepit neighborhood sports bar. (Don't ask me how I know that)I turned to her whimpering 5 year old self and told her in my best super sacharrine mommy voice, "Oh, this is really awful, baby. You peed your bed again and drowned the poor Tooth Fairy in a big, nasty pee puddle". Even worse, I informed Sunbum that the Tooth Fairy received a swishy toilet funeral and farewell because the weather outside proved too cold to dig a hole and carry forth with proper Tooth Fairy burial rights.

Thus far we've blissfully escaped giving out lost tooth money for the past 5 years. However, the other children continue to glare menacingly at Sunbum and point the finger of blame towards her for their missed financial opportunities. BAD, BAD PARENTING SKILLS! But then, is it really right to propogate lies and pretend that we're tooth obsessed fairies, giant chocolate egg bearing bunny rabbits, and a fat man with a milk and cookie fetish?

A Celebration Of Mediocrity

I had every intention of doing something spectacular for my son's Boy Scout Blue and Gold Banquet Dinner but as usual everything went wrong on Friday. Upon arrival to the event, it was glaringly clear that our cake entry was not the best one on the table but nor was it the worst one either. Our cake was average and placed in the middle. My standards of perfection and reaching the ultimate goal of 'domestic goddess' have slipped away a bit more but my heart still did a little dance to know that ours was better than others. Sad.