My Stool Sample Is Better Than Yours

I'd like to introduce you to a valued member of the Smiling Infidel family never before pictured or profiled. We've lovingly dubbed him, "Tex", and he's the best "foot" stool to park a rump on ever made.

I inherited Tex back in my teenage years from a friend who got it from another friend that made it as an art project in school. All three of our Moms protested and declared, "EEEWWWW, what is that? Get that hideous thing out of here". Apparently suburban Mothers don't appreciate the fine artistic quality of a stool masterpiece crafted to look like disembodied legs and feet. I, however, coveted Tex, and refused to throw him out as my Mom demanded. My husband, Papi, hated Tex too, and also tried to evict him during the first year of our marriage. I think Papi felt insecure about me sitting on something named Tex.

We've weathered seventeen years together and his sturdy construction has never faltered in any way. My toddlers use it as a means of reaching the sink in our bathroom. Guests have been known to actually fight over who gets to perch regally atop Tex. This would include missionaries too. See, even God fearing men love Tex, and they're not ashamed to squabble over him. Just last week Papi performed a balancing act involving Tex rarely seen outside the circus. Too lazy to get the ladder from the garage to change the air filter in the ceiling, Papi balanced Tex on top of a chair, and then forced me to hold it steady. Good old Tex, he didn't waver for a moment and supported Papi's weight.

If any of you want to venture to Texas for an amazing photo opportunity with Tex, just let me know, and I'll schedule you in. Tex will even personally stamp the picture with his own foot. Act now, and you'll be granted five whole minutes to sit on Tex for free. How sweet is that?

A Perfect "10"!

This is my first time. Please be gentle.
I'm telling you the truth, I've never been tagged before, until yesterday.
My new jolly olde English chum, Jams O'Donnell, called me out to list 10 simple pleasures in my life. I could cheat and list my kids and husband individually thus taking up 7 of 10 spaces, but no, I'm going to exert some real effort here.

If you have been tagged for the first-time:
1) you must credit the person who tagged you
2) name ten of life’s simple pleasures that you like the most
3) you 'may' then choose other bloggers to tag.

1. Access to fine indoor plumbing facilities. If ever you've been forced to use a Port-A-Potty in the middle of a hot afternoon at an International Festival featuring spicy Indian food, then you too would appreciate a nice clean toilet in the sanctity of your own home. Amen.

2. Cheap All-You-Can-Eat Buffets. We skip lunch and hit the buffet with our mob of kids about 4:00 in the afternoon. That way we still pay the lunch price but fill up like there's no manana. Dinner and lunch all rolled into one tidy little price. Sweet.

3. Really good bras that lift and support without using evil underwire.

4. Torrential rainstorms. Then I don't have to set up our sprinklers. Man, sometimes I'm so lazy.

5. Tie-Dye clothing because it covers up most stains and errant food spills.

6. XM Satellite Radio for their amazing diversity.

7. The Internet and Blogging. This has become my diversion of choice since T.V. has gone down into the crapper of cultural decline.

8. A non demanding husband who says, "job well done", at the end of the day, as long as his kids are alive and in one piece. Even though the house is in total shambles sometimes. Added bonus that he likes hairy armpits on a woman. This shaves 11 minutes and 56 seconds per month off my shaving time.

9. Being surrounded by all night grocery and discount stores that satisfy my every midnight whim. Also, having a vehicle to take me there.

10. My children fostering their inherent auto-didactic nature and becoming so absorbed in a project that they stop fighting with each other, breaking the house, and leave me alone in peace and harmony. AHHHHH, glorious peace and harmony.

Your turn: elizabeth and lianne

Come Ebenezer, And Visit With The Ghost Of Blog Past

I've just accomplished the daunting task of publishing this blog's 100th post. For those of you new to the ways of The Smiling Infidel, congratulations, because your mind is likely still virginal and pure. For the rest of you heathens, let's take a little stroll down memory lane, shall we?

Who could possibly forget the wholesome goodness of CHEWY BALLS? Swallowing without chewing presents a real choking hazard.

The first riveting presentation of the World famous Smiling Infidel Theater.

We perused the realm of unconventional wedding gift ideas.

Musical memories and a tribute to American Idol greatness, bathroom style, of course.

My first, second, and third attempts at portraying political statements through the usage of food, and how we came to live in the fair land of Crackertopia.

A close friend of mine receives a surprise dual purpose Valentine's vase, because we care enough to give the very best.

We celebrated National Poop Week with reckless abandon, and have the stories and pictures to prove it. A surprise endorsement came my way while standing in the meet and greet line at a very elegant wedding reception. The completely refined Mother of the groom leaned over and told me, "By the way, I'm really enjoying Poop Week". Her husband is a Grand Poobah at Church and I didn't know that she read my blog. Luckily, I have thus far escaped excommunication. The look on the faces of the people behind us in line when she said that? Absolutely priceless.

Unleashed spork fighting Ninjas, the likes of which the World has never known. Be afraid, be very afraid.

Discovered a little known cure for the horrors of the Bird Flu. Also includes a valiant distribution effort to quell the spread that could lead to a pandemic.

Revealed my exalted alter ego as that of a Trophy Wife.

Showing off my impressive multi-cultural, diverse side , much to the chagrin of my husband.

FUNNY TMI moment.

Cruel and unusual demise for an unwitting dragonfly who wanders into the booby trap.

Chronicling the first date with my husband with a little help from Nirvana.

A Spanish culture and language lesson involving condoms and Mr.T. Yes, you did read that right.

I hate to go all Karen Carpenter on you (so I'll eat a sandwich), but truly, we've only just begun. Thank you for all your witty comments and spending a little bit of your time here. There's a lot of blog options out there to choose from these days and I thank you whole heartedly for choosing The Smiling Infidel.

*I earned a degree in professional butt kissing and stealing advertising ideas as my writing does indicate*

I'm Relinquishing My Children's Spiritual Guidance To Talking Vegetables

I may have irreparably damaged my children. Listening to the radio call in advice show of Dr. Laura Schlesinger has become a guilty pleasure that we all indulge in. Even my kids love listening, with a hand in occasional censorship from me, of course. Perhaps because it feeds into the,"HOT DOG! We're not as messed up as those poor unfortunate souls", syndrome. We curtailed TV time altogether, so we have to get our fix from something other than trashy daytime talk shows.

The above character depiction is that of Laura from our favorite cartoon series featuring Gospel oriented vegetables. Evil vegetarians, slaughtering and eating these helpful, preachy creatures en masse. And they say meat is murder? Anyway, we have a Laura doll which my kids call Dr. Laura. They sometimes pick up the doll to seek the answers to such thought provoking eternal questions as, "Is it wrong to sit on my sister and fart"? To which they pretend as though "Dr.Laura" is speaking to them. If they're dissatisfied with the response they shake the poor thing and tell it, "Bad. Bad Dr. Laura. It's the swirlie treatment for you". Then they dangle her precariously close to the toilet bowl. As their Mother, I should curb this deviant behavior immediately, and I would too, if only I wasn't laughing so hard.........

90% BLOG FILLER WITH 10% UNRECOGNIZABLE MEAT BY-PRODUCT ADDED FOR FLAVOR

I've been working doggedly the past few days, and as a result it's made me a sporadic blogger. Before I leave to toil in the merciless hot sun again, I wanted to add something new. Please with hold any high expectations.

While sitting in Church during the last session of the April General Conference, they featured a speaker discussing his days as a young physician in New Zealand. My mind wanders frequently, and after a very intriguing story involving the guidance of a brain surgeon in Christchurch and his role in saving the life of a little boy, I started thinking about this........

What if you lived in Christchurch, New Zealand?

1. Would you feel pious and holier than thou and emphasize your location when talking to people? "Well, you know darling that I'm right, because after all, I live in Christchurch, and I'm divinely inspired."

2. A local bulletin board might read as follows:

An annual meeting of New Zealand ATHEISTS in CHRISTCHURCH.

Come join us at Hippy Hollow NUDIST COLONY located in CHRISTCHURCH.

We're welcoming all LUCIFERIANS to CHRISTCHURCH for our International Convention.

3. I bet crime and health statistics are fun to read:

DRUG USE runs rampant in CHRISTCHURCH.

Corruption and crime reaches epic proportions in CHRISTCHURCH.

STD's and out of wedlock pregnancy on the increase in CHRISTCHURCH.

4. Do things get hopelessly redundant there?

Welcome to the Church of Christ of Christchurch.

Maybe, it's just me, but I found these thoughts amusing. That is until my husband elbowed me and I snapped back to attention to listen to the rest of the Conference.

In Times Of Poop Pileup Crises, Who Ya Gonna Call?

I found definitive proof last week that the entrepreneurial spirit is alive and well and profiting handsomely from the affluent in the region of Houston where I reside. My Mom raised me with a catchy little phrase designed to curtail frivolous spending. "More money than brains". This business is likely thriving due to people with indeed more money than brains.

It's a venture named appropriately enough, WHOLLY KRAP! They come out to your property and remove the canine fecal material. Their website points out that doggy manure is not suitable for use as yard fertilizer (there goes my dreams of a beautiful green lawn like Omar's) and that it harbors many dangerous parasites as well as posing a significant threat to our water supply. By those parameters my own backyard is more toxic and deadly than Chernobyl. I better suit my kids up in bio hazard gear for the annual Backyard BBQ. My favorite is how the company has a listing within the official "Pooper Scooper Directory"(who knew?), and that they're also proud members of aPAWS (Association of Professional Animal Waste Specialists). I don't know about you but only hiring the very best to clean up my dog's crap and looking for the reputable aPAWS Good Poop Cleaning Seal, is a must.

The discovery of such services took me by surprise. Now I know the bitter truth, I'm just a poor white sucka cleaning up after my own dog. So, while out working, a burgundy truck came zipping around me at a high rate of speed as if on it's way to put out a fire. It must have been a red hot "poop emergency". Perhaps they should consider adding sirens and lights to their "Poop Mobiles". The decals on the back and sides of the truck resembled the Marines insignia and when our paths crossed again a few streets later I saw a buff guy dressed in a nice khaki uniform shirt. He had in hand various supplies and professional looking equipment. Upon closer scrutiny, I noticed the WHOLLY KRAP lettering along with a lovely picture of a dog seated on the commode right in the middle. I'd rather own that masterpiece than "Dogs Playing Cards", anyday. Preferably painted on a classy velvet background to match my Velvet Elvis oil painting collection.

What would it be like to hand out your licensed pooper scooper business cards at social gatherings? When the fine employees of WHOLLY KRAP are making introductions with new contacts do you think the people exclaim, "What??!!?? You pick up feces? For a living?" Then follows a mass exodus of everyone they shook hands with to the bathroom for some serious hand scrubbing. Do they follow it on the Stock Exchange to gauge how much to set their company prices? "Well, in surprising news today, the cost of poop has unexpectedly soared right through the roof. Analysts at Goldman-Sachs, are predicting that unsecured poop commodities will be the new "Gold Rush" of the 2000's". What about the dry cleaners where they send in the company shirts? Do you think they work with a magical poop stain removal remedy? How much do they spend a month on air fresheners? Does it work as a pick up line in a bar? "Hey baby, I just had a big job today at a house with 5 Great Danes on a protein rich bean diet, and I made bundle of cash. Who's yo daddy?" Can you imagine the reaction of people when they go grocery shopping while still in uniform? The one thing that this business has going for them is the undeniable fact that poop is a constant, renewable resource and a way of earning crap loads of money from the pooper picker upper impaired among us.

We're Gonna Party Like It's My Birthday

We're gonna sip (virgin) Bacardi like it's my birthday.
Because it IS my birthday!

Yes, I'm absolutely one year older and wiser. Ahem. After much cogitation, I've settled on the one birthday gift I really want. Pool your resources if necessary, I don't mind a group effort present.

Forget About Ghosts In The Machine

I have one on the side of my dresser.

Omar impugned my good name on his blog by calling me out to provide photographic evidence of the scary chihuahua face embedded in the wood grain of my bureau. As if this ghostly little apparition isn't frightening enough, he has an upside down twin located a little further down the panel. I refuse to sleep on the side of the bed closest to the bureau. Papi just laughs at me.

It all started one day while perusing the bedroom sets at Houston's very own Gallery Furniture. Papi and I were making out on all the beds, trying to decide which one we should take home that would accommodate us the best. Kidding. We selected Hooker brand. That's right, we are the proud owners of Hooker Furniture. No, it didn't include a vibrating, rotating bed with mirrored panels nor a nice four poster design for tying something or someone to. However, I was a little surprised at the financing terms. We make payments by the hour instead of the traditional monthly terms.

You know how people purchase things and justify it by remarking, "I don't know. It just kind of spoke to me?" I fear that's what happened with this particular bedroom ensemble. Maybe, the chihuahua face raspily spoke to me on a subconscious level that persuaded me to choose this certain dresser. I am scary chihuahua face's, "Chosen One". Omar, do they offer special furniture exorcism instruction at your woodworking classes?

Phoning It In

Radioactive Jam's post the other day about inconsiderate cell phone owners reminded me of a little trick I played on my Papi a few years ago.

If we all had the opportunity to select a theme song to our lives, mine would be "Sour Girl", by The Stone Temple Pilots, and Papi is perfectly matched to Adam Ant's, "Goody Two Shoes". Yes, he don't drink, don't smoke, and never has. My kids and I like to play our music at deafening decibels. To which Papi vociferously objects and tells us, "This is a home, NOT a freakin Cantina. TURN IT DOWN". Papi's musical tastes runs the gamut from classical to big band to smooth jazz. Uh huh, all the same old man choices that my Grandpa picks out on his preset radio dials. When they had a Secret Santa gift exchange at his office a few years ago, Papi requested one of those "Sounds Of Nature" CD's. Do you personally know anybody that listens to those??!!?? The musical divide between us grows wider every year as Papi delights in telling me how uncultured I am because of my proclivity for techno and pop sounds. That made my revenge even sweeter.

Papi works in a nice office environment with predominately all women. Of course his cell phone was programmed to ring with some monotonous sonata that induces narcolepsy within the first few notes. I changed all that by downloading Snoop Dogg's classic, "Gin And Juice". The phone rang during a conference meeting thus allowing everyone in the room to hear the poetic stylings of Snoop. "Rolling down the street smoking indo, sipping on gin and juice. Laid back. With my mind on my money and my money on my mind". For a brief moment in time my conservative Papi was rollin wit da Dogg Pound! I struck again last year replacing the standard Nokia tone with the peppier "Get Right" by Jennifer Lopez. Between work and school he didn't have time to change it for several months, much to our delight. The kids and I danced with unbridled joy and laughed every time his phone started ringing. Papi shook his head, rolled his eyes, sighed, and complained a lot about it, but still didn't seem to have any sense of urgency to replace the tune for a long stretch of time. Me thinketh he doth protesteth too much and that he got a secret thrill from it too. Does that make him a phone-y?

Chronicles Of Appalling Parenting Chapter Four

KANDOO. The Official mascot of The Smiling Infidel.
I changed my avatar to feature the World's most beloved frog, KANDOO, because of the significant contribution he has made in my household. After great reluctance from our toddler son to potty train we started purchasing some of the hygiene products from this amazing line manufactured by Pampers. The flushable wipes are fantastic and has helped our son to master the art of arse wiping without all the yucky laundry that goes along with that sort of training. We convinced him to use the toilet by showing him the butt wiping frog and telling him that if a frog can use the commode, wipe his little froggy derriere, and wash his webbed fingers with foaming soap all by himself while bearing a large smile, than surely a smart 3 year old can do the same. Added bonus is the beguiling "Tropical Jungle Fruit" scent. My Papi likes to use them too and I can always tell what he's been up to when I whiff the unmistakable fruitiness as he saunters past me. Tropical Jungle Fruit scented butt is indeed a lovely fragrance to behold.

What, may you ask, does all this have to do with former 80's superstars Hall and Oates? Well, while driving around the other day their big hit, "I Can't Go For That", started playing on the radio. My kids and I listened intently and sang the lyrics that we knew when all of a sudden my toddler son, Boo Boo, noticed that Daryl Hall passionately belted out the words, "I can't go for that. No I, NO CAN DO". My Boo Boo got all excited and said, "Mom, do you hear that? He no have KANDOO"! We started laughing, but then I paused to think about what a thankless job that must be to wash out the skidmarked panties of a faded superstar who doesn't utilize the advantage of KANDOO. Maybe that's one of the jobs filled by an illegal worker just doing the job us Americans don't want to do. The upside of Hall And Oates and their "No KANDOO" status, is that crappy underwear is a sure deterrent for a "Man Eater". Maybe instead of adding your kiss to their list, they'll instead add a box of KANDOO to it. Somewhere, a Rich Girl and Sara is smiling.........

Yeah, This IS Your Mother's Day Gift

Hey, you know, I didn't ask to be born.

So, due to a lack of sufficient funds to purchase my Mother the extraordinary Mother's Day gift that she so richly deserves, I've opted instead to post a story culled from the annals of my Infidel memory(Notice the double NN's. Sicko. I know what you were thinking) to share with the World. This tale is in tribute to her and her profound cattiness. I love you Mom!

When we moved to Houston in the 1980's, my family purchased a new home in a tract subdivision. You know one of those places where you can give a physical description of your house to somebody and it matches identically about 100 others in the same neighborhood. Whoever said, "Building fences makes good neighbors", didn't live two houses away from "Gladys". I'm calling her Gladys because she makes the nosy neighbor on "Bewitched" look saintly by comparison.

Every locale that you take up residence in has to have a raging drunk built into it as well as the perpetual busybody. It's an unwritten law of nature. Gladys could multi task. She was both a drunk and a nosy old fart. Gladys belonged to the neighborhood home management association and elected herself Queen of deed restriction enforcement. All day long she'd wander the neighborhood with her pink hair curlers perched on top of her gray head and cut off, frayed denim short shorts, even though she had to be at least 60. The best was the ever present lit cigarette dangling out of her mouth and the way she'd talk to you really close in her gasping frog voice and blow the smoke in your face. Man, I LOVE people like that!

Gladys kept a little notebook. We came to know it as "The Big Book Of Deed Restriction Sins". Ever watchful with her beady little black eyes, poised to record and capture any violation she deemed unsightly or not in compliance with the commandments of the Home Owners Association. We constantly got pissy letters about trivial matters like our mailbox being open all day, or the trash can left at the curb for too long. As a collective, we the people were sick to death of her and her meddling.

Gladys had a penchant for writing up and reporting people for neglecting to have their animals on leashes or if they were loose in the yard. Typical of drunken asshats though she was hypocrisy personified. My Mom got so sick of her stupid black and white cat, Muffett, digging up our flowerbeds to take a dump. Even when she yelled at the cat and talked to Gladys she refused to keep her kitty on her own property or give Muffett a collar and registration as mandated by the HOA manifesto. The final straw came when Gladys drunkenly barged into our gated and fenced backyard. My Mom, brushing her teeth, felt the eerie sensation of being watched. As she turned around their was Gladys crouched and looking into the master bathroom. My Mother started screaming and Gladys hurriedly left. Her husband persuaded us not to call the Police and promised to keep an eye on his wife. I knew that wouldn't sate the devious streak in my Mom. Sure enough she turned to me and said through gritted teeth, "Tomorrow, we strike"!

The next day, my mission orders in hand, I set out in search of Muffett. I didn't have to look far as Muffett was enjoying a mid morning crap in our marigolds. Being a burly 10 year old, I single handedly captured my squirming, meowing prey and headed into the house to show off the fruits of the hunt. Mom sprung into action and penned a lovely little note bedecked with rainbow and flower stickers, which she attached to a flea collar and then while I was holding the by now panicked and yowling feline she slipped the collar around her neck. I was bleeding profusely from the deep scratches inflicted by Muffett on my arms and stomach but I still couldn't stop laughing. We then released the cat back into the wild and waited.

It didn't take long as Gladys came knocking the next day letter in hand and furious. She demanded to know if my Mom was the anonymous poet to which she looked Gladys straight into the eyes and innocently said, "Oh my, that's so cruel. I don't know what kind of sick person would do that to a poor animal". Satisfied, Gladys moved on to harass and interrogate everybody on our street. Given prior events, everybody knew it was us but didn't rat us out to the enemy because the rest of our neighbors thought it was funny. Especially when they read the note that Gladys waved around at them.

If You Loved Me, You'd Follow The Deed Restrictions And Keep Me Inside Where I Belong, You Selfish Harpie.

Classic. We never had trouble with Muffett in our yard again. Gladys continued being a nuisance though.

I'm sad to report that I saw the obituary for Gladys in the newspaper a few years ago. Somewhere that old bag is in a stupor writing in her little notebook. I have a pretty good idea where but my Christian faith precludes me from passing judgment.

Excerpts From The Upcoming Novel, "Interview With An Infidel"

7 Words To Live By:
1. A cat can have kittens in the oven but that don't make em biscuits.-Quanell X, local Nation of Islam activist
2. Stop jumping around like a fart in a skillet.-My wise, old, El Camino driving deceased Great-Grandpa, Edmund Cook.
3. The nine most terrifying words in the English language are, I'm from the government and I'm here to help.-Ronald Reagan
4. Laugh and the World laughs with you, fart, and you stand alone.-A Brilliant Anonymous Philosopher
5. Borders, Language, Culture.-Michael Savage of The Paul Revere Society
6. He who live in glass house must not walk around butt naked.-Ancient Chinese Proverb
7. If it's brown, flush it down. If it's yellow, let it mellow.-An Unknown Water and Environmental Conservationist. (rumored to be an alliance between the singer-songwriter of 'Mellow Yellow' and the 'Mello Yello' soda company to drum up sales).
Honorable Mention
Here I sit all broken hearted, tried to poop but only farted.-Bathroom Stall At Pizza Hut

7 Family Nicknames:
1. Sunbum (my hippy daughter who spouts love, peace, and happiness)
2. Monkey (second oldest daughter with the loooong skinny arms and legs)
3. Buster and Charlie Brown (son with the big head who likes to wear yellow shirts)
4. Caterpillar (daughter with furry little eyebrows)
5. Boo (I'm not entirely sure why. Pottymouth Mom has informed me that this is slang for "FART" in Japanese. Nice.)
6. Stinkbug (self-explanatory)
7. Beast (that would be our chocolate Labrador. Of course, I call myself Beauty)

7 Surprising Things About Me:
1. I auditioned to be on the children's game show, Double Dare.
2. I can drive a forklift better than any other alpha female around.
3. I birthed kid number 4 in the bathtub completely alone. Papi delivered kid number 6 in our bathtub too while the midwives were still en route.
4. I actually did win many spelling competitions in my youth and I have a near photographic memory for words and names. In English, that is.
5. I once drove with a friend of mine onto the high school football practice field and did figure eights all over it.
6. I won the watermelon seed spitting contest at the Church Fourth of July party.
7. I lived with two gay men for awhile. It wasn't anything like 'Will and Grace' though. Not even a lower middle class version of it.

7 Things I Love About My Husband, Papi:
1. Strong work ethic and ambition.
2. Tolerates my dysfunctional family.
3. His gorgeous Roman nose, thick black hair, and copper colored eyes.
4. He's a nerd. I LOVE nerds!
5. Strict, demanding, but also loving to his children.
6. Considers us a team working together to meet life goals.
7. We are exactly the same heighth and shoe size which makes shopping for him much more convenient.

7 Of What I Consider The Worst Movies Of The Past Decade:
1. The Master Of Disguise (I flush my toilet in tribute to you and your career, Dana Carvey)
2. Legally Blonde 2 (I want to sue the film makers for my hour and a half of wasted life back)
3. A History Of Violence (far-fetched, unrealistic character reaction, thumbs down on Aragorn's unsightly naked butt. Blah.)
4. Fat Albert (Can you say, "Hey, hey, hey. Bombs away"?)
5. SharkBoy And LavaGirl (We watched it at the dollar cinema. That was .99 cents too much. That money would have been better invested in an antenna ball from Jack In The Box or a package of rubber hillbilly teeth from The Dollar Store.)
6. The Dukes Of Hazard (The first half was funny, I turned off the DVD in the middle of the second half. I'm no prude but they exceeded my maximum limit of pointless naked booby shots in a PG-13 film).
7. War Of The Worlds (Shockingly bad for such a big budget film. I hate it when we're not supposed to feel any sympathy for the bloody deaths of cursory characters and random people, only the stars. Also, how probable is it that cities are annihilated, but lo and behold Tom Cruise's family and ex's family are all safe. Most annoying is that his pregnant ex-wife looks like a freakin maternity fashion ad, and all her kin are scrubbed clean and dressed nice with nary a rubble pile on their street. In BOSTON. Right. Let's just suspend all belief and common sense, Spielberg)
Honorable Mention
Most classic children's books made into movie adaptations. Disney is like poison to these films. Sickest among them, Ella Enchanted, Tuck Everlasting, and Summer Of The Monkeys.

7 Things Most Often Heard In The Infidel Household:
1. Will somebody pleeeeaaaasssseee bring me some more toilet paper!
2. Your ass is grass, and I'm the lawnmower. (I stole that one from my police officer Grandpa)
3. Yeah, that could be possible, but then it could also be possible for me to sprout giant butt wings and fly away.
4. Pull up your pants. Cover your belly. Your underwear is sticking out. Those shorts have a hole in it. Dang! That must have shrunk in the wash. No, you may NOT wear that to Church.
5. Are you ever going to get off the computer?
6. You kids are driving me CRAZY!
7. Who colored on the wall this time? Who broke that? Who dropped this crap all over the floor? Why is your room such a freakin mess? Did you feed the dog? Did you finish your chores? Did you hit your brother/sister? Did you call your brother/sister that? No work, no eat.

7 Of My Favorite Things:
1. My kids and my husband.
2. The Internet
3. Tuna salad sandwiches, lemon cream pie, Nutter Butter cookies, cherry limeade, tapioca pudding, caramel sundaes, chocolate/peanut butter ice cream, zucchini, taco salad, raspberries, green olives, pepperoni and mushroom pizza, and shrimp (but only when someone peels them for me).
4. The Restoration Of The Gospel.
5. Canceled T.V. shows that get released on DVD. Especially Wonderfalls, Sledge Hammer, American Gothic, and In Living Color. (Looking for Friday the 13th:The Series)
6. The color green. Not Army green or "I'm barfing up pea soup" green but I like shades of lime, citron, forest, and emerald(my favorite gemstone).
7. Cooking, crafting, dispensing unwanted advice, gossiping with my Mom, and blogging.

More Reasons To Hate The French

I deceived you all in my last post. I emphatically stated that I'm not a name caller. That is a blatant untruth.

While working at Kroger's as a checker they imported a front end supervisor from another store. Chantal, a married woman from France in her late 40's, came to reign supreme over all us lowly service employees. Decades of unfettered sunbathing and habitual chain smoking left her resembling apiece of wrinkly prune fruit leather stuffed into a black polyester vest with matching slacks. From the getgo she proved an unworthy leader drunk with power and matched with a pissy demeanor. I likened her to a mini-Napoleon replete with accent, ridiculous uniform, and short man syndrome.

Chantal's husband piloted planes for Continental and frequently traveled out of town for lengthy periods leaving Chantal all by her lonesome. The moment she started working at our store she set her sights on my boyfriend. Granted, he did look a lot older than his 22 years, and at the age of 17 I shouldn't have been dating a balding man 5 years older than me that my Mother openly despised and called, "The Troll", but that's how the situation was. Every time I turned around, I caught Chantal sidling up to Troll, telling him how lonely she felt in her big house with her husband gone and if he could come over and help her "fix things". She even seductively invited him to go out and eat ice cream with her as if they were 12. I half expected her to ask him to couple skate with her at the roller skating rink too. Troll kept turning her down but Chantal persisted. In hindsight I should have let her have Troll. He turned out to be a former altar boy gone bad. Very, very bad, but I'm a territorial creature who takes revenge instead of peeing on things.

I liked to put crazy stickers from the grocery products on my name tag. My favorites included: Special, Fat Free, %90 Lean, Rump Roast, Juicy, Buy One Get One Free, Cupcake. I liked a festive name tag, Okay? It inspired my plan of action against Chantal. I got the sticky label off a loaf of bread, cut the section I wanted, applied double sided tape and stuck it next to her name on the gigundo employee chart displayed next to the customer service booth.

Everybody noticed it immediately and started laughing and so it came to pass that the name posted there was how Chantal henceforth was known at Kroger's all the rest of her employed days there. Crusty French Baguette.

The Untold Story Behind The Creation Of Hand Sanitizers

My second place of employment during my teenage years was at the venerable grocery store, Kroger's, or K-Roger, like us "tragically hip"(cough) teens called it. I worked in the drug department as well as sacking and checking groceries during my stint across three different store locations. This is where the offspring of the middle class spectrum congregate in minimum waged toil because we know full well that there isn't a magical college fund waiting upon us completing high school. We're the group that's frequented many a greasy spoon but weren't lucky enough to be born with a silver one in our mouth. My Papi was a Kroger's produce guy when I met him but that's another story. I'm working on a theory of six degrees of Kroger separation because everybody I've ever met has been married to, friends with, related to, or dated a Kroger employee.

So, a fellow co-worker of about 19 or 20, named Jennifer, was assigned to sacking duties. While she looked perfectly normal on the outside, Jennifer occasionally acted slow, and lacked socially acceptable manners. You see she had a proclivity for feminine itching. Disgustingly, right there at the end of the checkstand while touching people's food items with the same fingers that moments prior had been scratching at her hoo-hoo. This store, located smack in the middle of country club suburbia enjoyed a very upscale clientele. The horrified look on customer faces as Jennifer nonchalantly scratched herself was absolutely priceless. I'm not a name caller but I found it amusing when other checkers and sackers started referring to her as "Scratch n Sniff". As a collective they gifted her with a box of Vagisil anti-itch cream wrapped in festive paper at Christmas. Mean but funny.

Jennifer's favorite tag line to every single solitary customer that came through my lane was, "OH! Is that watchoo havin fo dinna"? Even when obvious that the person was just picking up a few odds and ends. The worst happened as a stony faced lady of about 30 came through with only a case of beer and a box of tampons. I waited for it, and sure enough Jennifer rewarded me with a greeting to the lady followed by the, "Is that what you're having for dinner"? question. I couldn't contain myself any longer and I altered the newly minted Beef ad council slogan by saying, "Ummm yeah. BEER, it's what's for dinner with tampons as the appetizer".

The next time terror struck an unwitting Kroger's customer was the unfortunate lady who purchased a box of doughnuts. As I scanned the code on the bottom and placed it on the conveyor belt, the carton broke open and glazed doughnuts scattered everywhere. Jennifer pulled her fingers from the front of her pants long enough to come to the rescue. She authoritatively grabbed ahold of the box and delicately picked up each and every doughnut one by one and placed them back into the container. After they had been helter-skelter all over a filthy black rubbery conveyor belt. Yes, and after she licked her fingers clean between each doughnut retrieval. The lady's eyes just kept getting wider, and then Jennifer handed her the box and smiled cheerfully saying, "Here you go". I laughingly told the lady to just go get another dozen doughnuts and I'd throw this particular one away. To which I could see the immense relief in her changed facial expressions. I had earned her undying gratitude because she didn't know how to handle such a situation. I wonder if she wrote to Miss Manners to find out the proper etiquette when responding to a hoo-hoo scratching grocery store employee who licks her fingers, touches the food, and then gives it back. That would definitely spice up Miss Manners column.

People like Jennifer are more than likely the inspiration behind such marvelous products as Purell hand sanitizer and other personal anti-bacterial products developed over the past few years. We owe a lot to disgusting, uncouth members of our society because you see necessity truly is the mother of invention.

VIVA LOS INFIDELES!

Bienvenidos a mi blog! Today is Cinco De Mayo or as us antiquated Americans who haven't quite accepted the illegal invasion yet like to call it, THE FIFTH OF MAY. Listen up all you little gringos and gringas the time has come to assimilate to the Spanish culture because heaven forbid we require them to make any sort of sacrifice or learn English when they come to our great country. No, we must acquiesce to them instead. So, without further ado I, The Smiling Infidel, will be your Latino cultural/language instructor today. Don't worry if you don't pass my class maybe the wave of illegals will permit you to stay in their Estados Unidos anyway.

First lesson is that there are many different ways to say butt in Spanish. My favorite is cola because it gives asking for some cola as in soda a whole new meaning. Some dialects use the word culo instead though. Another is nalgas. Repitan clase, por favor, naaaaalllllgaaasss. Muy bien mis estudiantes! Trasero is the more refined term for the posterior area, useful knowledge if ever you are at a fine dining establishment and you need to tell the Spanish speaking lady next to you that her dress is tucked into her pantyhose thus exposing her bare nalgas or trasera.

Ya'all are doing great. Now it's time for our culture lesson of the day. While at the grocery store a few years ago my husband innocently asked me if he should purchase some sombreritos. Naturally, I didn't have a clue what that meant so I asked him. Apparently that was his veiled way of inquiring if we should buy a box of prophylactics. I started laughing and asked him why he disguised the name of it to sombreritos. Papi told me that it means "little hat" in Spanish and after all where do you put a little hat? Why, on your head of course! That's become a long running gag (literally) between us.

Mr.T pities the fool who doesn't use a sombrerito for maximum protection. As the National Sombrerito Spokesman Mr.T says, "Don't leave yourself exposed to the elements. Buy yourself a sombrerito, sucka"!

If you're going to imbibe, do it responsibly. Choose American brand cerveza and tequilas. Do you know how many American worms had their jobs wrested away by Mexican gusanos last year? The figures are heart wrenching.

The lecion manana will include learning your new National anthem, Nuestro Himno. Remember to bring your book, 'The Oppression Of Stupid Gringos', to class with you.

Happy Birthday Sunbum!!!

For many of you party revelers today is only significant as an opportunity to drink beer and eat enchiladas as you celebrate Cinco De Mayo but add another momentous occasion to your calendar. On this very day, my oldest daughter Sunbum officially turns 11.

Sunbum enjoys the esteemed honor of being the only member of the Infidel household who gets her birth date remembered by Papi. When asked the other kids birthdays, Papi hem-haws around and never gets it right. So lucky for Sunbum to be born on a day like Cinco De Mayo that Papi can easily add to his diverse and eclectic memory. Not only that, she was born on 05-05-95 which is pretty neat to say out loud. Last year on her tenth birthday it fell on 05-05-05. God willing, when she turns 60, the date will read 05-05-55. Ahhh, something to look forward to. Too bad we don't play the lottery because five is her lucky number for sure.

Infidels Win In "The Great Fruit Fly Infestation" Of 2006

The unwelcome swarm of scarlet eyed little devils visited us last year too, thus making us veterans of the neverending quest to eradicate their pesky bug selves. Then, I was but a mere naive fledgling warrior untrained and unproven on the winged insect battleground. However, after choosing a bottle of Heinz Apple Cider Vinegar as my trusty lethal combat weapon the war that had been waged by an intrusive force surrendered in shamed defeat. That's how after 15 years since the show "In Living Color" went off the air, I finally earned the right to call myself a "Fly Girl".

Battle Strategy Number One: We took one Rubbermaid plastic dish, poured in apple cider vinegar, placed plastic wrap on the top, secured plastic with a rubber band, and then finally perforated the plastic with a few small holes at the top. It's a Roach Motel simulator. The vinegar attracts the flies, so they fly into the hole but can't fly back out. Then we donned our ceremonial gear and circled the dish while chanting "Shoo Fly Don't Bother Me". As attested by the numerous carcasses, the insects dropped like, well you know. This is one use for Rubbermaid products you will probably never see advertised.


Battle Strategy Two: This is a simple rinsed out Kroger yogurt cup. We mixed and poured a concoction of apple cider vinegar, a dash of liquid dish soap, and a small teaspoon of sugar together into the cup. The soap is supposedly toxic to the fruit fly and they drown. This battlefield has seen much less casualties but ultimately, I, The Smiling Infidel reigned victorious in the siege.

Usually I'm characterized as a child of nature, friend to man, but we all harbor a potential killing machine within ourselves.

I'm Throwing My Hat Into The Ring

and it's my favorite orange furry shag beret so I better get it back!

The day has finally dawned where women in politics are amassing widespread adoration and support. Consequently, my co-worker Mrs. Sam and I would like to take this opportunity to officially announce our intentions to win a place on the coveted list of potential Presidential Candidates for the 2008 election.

After the mess of our current administration and the morally defunct shenanigans of President Clinton and his crew, we've decided that we can't possibly do any worse. Mrs. Sam and I are diametrically opposed on most issues. She's an old school liberal while I'm an idealist constitutional conservative. No matter since we agree on the big issues like declaring Bic the official hair removal tool of America and outlawing scrapbooking socials. That's right scrapbooking prohibition where you'll have to set up illegal "speak-easy" craft dens to engage in illicit paper cutting activities. We've found moderate ground on other less important National items.

As of yet we haven't decided on our campaign slogan but we've narrowed it down to "Two Bushes Are Better Than One", or "Isn't It About Time To Have A REAL Bush As President"? Classy, I know. The best part is that we don't have to use precious fundraising money to create a campaign song. I've found the perfect ditty that contains both of our names in it. How unusual is that? Like it was pre-ordained for our personal exploitive use. It's "Doin Da Butt" by E.U. The beauty of it is that it's already passed Presidential muster because George Bush's wayward daughter, Jenna, has been seen dancing around on all fours, shaking her booty to this raucous song at a club. I included the lyrics so you can guess what our names are when E.U. starts shouting out such brilliance as,"Sonja got a big ole butt. Oh Yeah.".

This is a pivotal time in history. A time when every decision is crucial to the sovereignty and ultimately the survival of our great country. Can Mrs. Sam and I count on your support to make our dreams of leadership and serving you, the U.S citizen, (or possibly a wealthy Middle Eastern oil tycoon family), a reality? Just write to us with the things you want promised to you if we're elected and include a crisp twenty dollar bill with all correspondence to: The Smiling Infidel P.O. Box 911 Crackertopia, U.S.A

God Bless America!