A movie or T.V. show features an amorous couple who inevitably enjoy a big gratuitous love scene, and then when it's all over, they either sickeningly canoodle (that's THE worst word ever created), or they just lay there under the covers smirking and carrying on a conversation. I don't struggle with Obsessive/Compulsive Disorder by any means, but I find this to be completely unrealistic behavior, and it tops the "Things That Make My Lip Curl" list.
The unfailingly practical part of me wants to scream out, "Ewwwww! What are you thinking, lady? You already have a buttload of laundry stacked up next to the washing machine, do you really want to add a bunch of squishy bed sheets to the pile?" Another voice in my head reasons, "Don't you want to get up and take a shower to wash away that 'not fresh' feeling? You're really going to sleep all night in a puddle? How come you're still talking and giggling? Aren't you tired yet? Don't you have to get up for work in the morning or for a big PTO meeting, or something?"
Okay, tell the truth, am I the only neurotically plagued blogger here or does this bother ya'all too?
Friday, September 29, 2006
Monday, September 25, 2006
From The Infidel WTH? Files.......
Do you remember the story in which I regaled you of the trials and travails of having the most sought after crusty van in all of suburbia? Okay, it happened again today thus obliterating our old record of one inquiry a month to two just for September. So, I'm out doing some Fall gardening and I was bent all the way over with my enormous bum up in the air pulling weeds when a black Chevy pickup truck came cruising by real slowly. I straightened up to see two young guys in the cab with the driver leaning out the window, mouth agape. I wanted to tell him that we're poor folks and I know seeing my huge arse up close like that probably temporarily affected his vision but we don't carry "Butt Blindness Insurance."
My son, Buster said, "You know what Mom? I think they're going to ask if they can buy our van." I scoffed at him, I mean we already met our crazy people wanting to take ownership of a crappy green van quota for the month. Well, they passed my driveway, backed up, and called out to me, "Hey lady! Is that green van for sale?" Total surprise gripped us, and my girls fell over laughing while Buster kept pumping his fist in the air gloatingly screaming, "I knew it! I knew it!"
I do hate being such a wily little vixen playing with the van lusting hearts of men. Well, sometimes. Maybe I really should start charging admission and taking people on a crusty van tour right in my own driveway.
SEE the tattered remains of my Bush/Cheney 2000 sticker. (Man, that really was soooo yesterday)
FEEL the awesome power that is 2 working speakers out of 8.
EXPERIENCE the fun of the "Guess That Smell" game being played right on the van's first bench seat where baby car seats have sat for 8 years plus.
LIVE like you're a bonafide member of a lower middle class family for 30 exhilarating minutes. All yours for a small one time fee!
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Chronicles Of Appalling Parenting: Chapter Six
Click On The Title For An Amusing Surprise.
In yet another thrill-a-minute installation from the continuing journal of poor parenting practices implemented at the house of The Smiling Infidel, we bring you episode number 6 entitled, "You Don't Know SQUAT."
Delivering 6 babies in 7 years, and changing diapers nonstop for a decade, permanently alters brain function and capability. I'm holding constant exposure to overpowering toxic fumes culpable for my mind warp. Back then my days were nothing but crap. Literally. Cleaning crap from babies, dog, lovebirds, myself. If only we knew how to harness the power of methane gas at home...............
What does it mean when a child suddenly stops, drops, and grunts? I think we all know the answer to that question. Countless times I felt dread welling up in my heart as I recognized the straining sounds coupled with the loathed squat position. It could only bring poopy diaper changing sorrow for me and monetary happiness for the Diaper Genie company and Huggies. My once sound mind is defiled with the imprinted connection between squatting and cleaning feces out of the every dimpled crevice of a squirming toddler. Not pleasant.
It all started out on a whim; whenever one of my kids would stoop down and close their eyes, I'd rush over and playfully topple them while yelling out, "No squatting allowed!" This patented caca warfare tactic usually surprised them enough that I could then proceed to scoop them up to make an emergency toilet run, thereby avoiding unnecessary butt scrub duty.
My poor example has irrevocably tarnished the otherwise genteel nature of my impressionable children. They're scarred to the point that they cannot tolerate seeing anybody squat down without having to suppress the urge to push them over, and triumphantly declare, "Hey! No squatting!" Every single one of my children has guiltily engaged in this unbecoming behavior. They terrorized their peer group at camp two years ago. Nobody felt safe to crouch in the presence of my two older girls. Nobody. Sunbum acted as a one woman S.Q.U.A.T team as she ambushed a whole group of squatting boys; knocking them over like bowling pins. So far, my spawn have managed to control their "push and run" impulses. Only kids their age and fellow siblings are likely to fall prey to the oppressive "No Squat" regimist task force. I sincerely hope that they can continue to contain the squatting fury that roils inside of them.
Perhaps, this is the year that our homeschool studies should include a few lessons on "Squatter's Rights." Unless a territory is labeled, "A No Squat Zone", then legally they don't have the right to prevent others from enjoying a good squat in public. I'm hoping to at least get them to a mental place where they can watch, "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon", without telling the characters, "Get up! No squatting!" Such lofty goals, have I.
In yet another thrill-a-minute installation from the continuing journal of poor parenting practices implemented at the house of The Smiling Infidel, we bring you episode number 6 entitled, "You Don't Know SQUAT."
Delivering 6 babies in 7 years, and changing diapers nonstop for a decade, permanently alters brain function and capability. I'm holding constant exposure to overpowering toxic fumes culpable for my mind warp. Back then my days were nothing but crap. Literally. Cleaning crap from babies, dog, lovebirds, myself. If only we knew how to harness the power of methane gas at home...............
What does it mean when a child suddenly stops, drops, and grunts? I think we all know the answer to that question. Countless times I felt dread welling up in my heart as I recognized the straining sounds coupled with the loathed squat position. It could only bring poopy diaper changing sorrow for me and monetary happiness for the Diaper Genie company and Huggies. My once sound mind is defiled with the imprinted connection between squatting and cleaning feces out of the every dimpled crevice of a squirming toddler. Not pleasant.
It all started out on a whim; whenever one of my kids would stoop down and close their eyes, I'd rush over and playfully topple them while yelling out, "No squatting allowed!" This patented caca warfare tactic usually surprised them enough that I could then proceed to scoop them up to make an emergency toilet run, thereby avoiding unnecessary butt scrub duty.
My poor example has irrevocably tarnished the otherwise genteel nature of my impressionable children. They're scarred to the point that they cannot tolerate seeing anybody squat down without having to suppress the urge to push them over, and triumphantly declare, "Hey! No squatting!" Every single one of my children has guiltily engaged in this unbecoming behavior. They terrorized their peer group at camp two years ago. Nobody felt safe to crouch in the presence of my two older girls. Nobody. Sunbum acted as a one woman S.Q.U.A.T team as she ambushed a whole group of squatting boys; knocking them over like bowling pins. So far, my spawn have managed to control their "push and run" impulses. Only kids their age and fellow siblings are likely to fall prey to the oppressive "No Squat" regimist task force. I sincerely hope that they can continue to contain the squatting fury that roils inside of them.
Perhaps, this is the year that our homeschool studies should include a few lessons on "Squatter's Rights." Unless a territory is labeled, "A No Squat Zone", then legally they don't have the right to prevent others from enjoying a good squat in public. I'm hoping to at least get them to a mental place where they can watch, "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon", without telling the characters, "Get up! No squatting!" Such lofty goals, have I.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Run For Your Lives!!!!
I'm gonna blow. Caution! The forecast calls for a torrential salty typhoon of self pity ahead followed by large nasal drips. Moderate to severe bellyaching also sweeping across the blogger horizon today.
It's not like me to lose my sunny outlook on life, but the past few days have really worn me down. Why can't maladies show up one at a time instead of waiting for me to pass that dimly lit back alley where they're all hanging out, just waiting to gang up on me? Who taught them how to Kung Fu fight? Hey, I guess by this point, everybody really is Kung Fu fighting.
Here's my list. It's a malady cavalcade!
1. I'm sick. I already know that I'm a sick freak. No, not that kind of sick. The coughing, aching, sneezing, shaking, boogers out of the wazoo kind of sick. I'm not pointing a finger of blame at anyone.......oh what the heck, yes I am! I want to point a particular middle finger towards the guilty party. Do not attend homeschooling activities or any other event where there are lots of people and lots of babies if you know that you have a cold. I've been in agony since Saturday night, and can barely breathe or swallow because my throat is so inflamed. Luckily, the germs stopped with me so I don't have to contend with whiny, sick children rubbing their slimy noses on everything in the house. The sofa has seen enough mucous crust for one lifetime. See? I am still able to point out the bright side of things. Good. Although, from my current vantage point, the bright side is located somewhere at the end of the dark tunnel that faceless voices keep calling me to come towards. "Walk towards the light, walk towards the light." It might be a trap.
2. I have two hideous pimples on my cheek that not even my famously deep dimples can camouflage.
3. We switched shampoos because I can only tolerate those with a mild fruity scent. I guess that's because I, myself, am also mild and fruity. Just so you know, Garnier Fructis shampoo/conditioner combo gave me raging dandruff. I have a massively huge bottle of it left to finish. I'm trying not to be wasteful. Looks like Houston's gonna have that improbable White Christmas after all.
4. The glamorous life of a newspaper carrier means that you have to work even when you feel like crap. I've gone to work while in early labor, delivered a baby, and then returned the next day. Beat that! Somehow, this doesn't feel like what Helen Reddy had in mind while belting out, "I am woman, hear me roar." Although, I really am "too big to ignore." Too loud, too. Sometimes, I feel really bitter when I hear women complaining about vacations they've been privileged to take. Then complaining about their husbands who are never home. Ummmm, that's because they're out supporting YOU, so that you may have the time to complain about them.(military wives excluded) Then moving on to complain about how much they struggle to be perfect. Where is the perspective? Yes, I DO get the irony that I'm complaining about people complaining.
5. We have a leaky roof and an exorbitantly high insurance deductible. It won't be long before I can teach my children all about Toxic Mold and maybe delve into a little Mycological endeavor, because we'll have mushrooms growing right in our very own living room. Educational opportunities abound!
There's more, lots more, but I'm all out of energy. Even my fingers ache. Yes, I have a tremendous amount of blessings in my life too, but for just one teensy tiny moment I'm feeling pity for myself and annoyance at feeling that pity. It's MY pity party, and I'll whine if I want to, whine if I want to, whiiiiiine if I want to. Oh, how the internal struggle battles on.......
It's not like me to lose my sunny outlook on life, but the past few days have really worn me down. Why can't maladies show up one at a time instead of waiting for me to pass that dimly lit back alley where they're all hanging out, just waiting to gang up on me? Who taught them how to Kung Fu fight? Hey, I guess by this point, everybody really is Kung Fu fighting.
Here's my list. It's a malady cavalcade!
1. I'm sick. I already know that I'm a sick freak. No, not that kind of sick. The coughing, aching, sneezing, shaking, boogers out of the wazoo kind of sick. I'm not pointing a finger of blame at anyone.......oh what the heck, yes I am! I want to point a particular middle finger towards the guilty party. Do not attend homeschooling activities or any other event where there are lots of people and lots of babies if you know that you have a cold. I've been in agony since Saturday night, and can barely breathe or swallow because my throat is so inflamed. Luckily, the germs stopped with me so I don't have to contend with whiny, sick children rubbing their slimy noses on everything in the house. The sofa has seen enough mucous crust for one lifetime. See? I am still able to point out the bright side of things. Good. Although, from my current vantage point, the bright side is located somewhere at the end of the dark tunnel that faceless voices keep calling me to come towards. "Walk towards the light, walk towards the light." It might be a trap.
2. I have two hideous pimples on my cheek that not even my famously deep dimples can camouflage.
3. We switched shampoos because I can only tolerate those with a mild fruity scent. I guess that's because I, myself, am also mild and fruity. Just so you know, Garnier Fructis shampoo/conditioner combo gave me raging dandruff. I have a massively huge bottle of it left to finish. I'm trying not to be wasteful. Looks like Houston's gonna have that improbable White Christmas after all.
4. The glamorous life of a newspaper carrier means that you have to work even when you feel like crap. I've gone to work while in early labor, delivered a baby, and then returned the next day. Beat that! Somehow, this doesn't feel like what Helen Reddy had in mind while belting out, "I am woman, hear me roar." Although, I really am "too big to ignore." Too loud, too. Sometimes, I feel really bitter when I hear women complaining about vacations they've been privileged to take. Then complaining about their husbands who are never home. Ummmm, that's because they're out supporting YOU, so that you may have the time to complain about them.(military wives excluded) Then moving on to complain about how much they struggle to be perfect. Where is the perspective? Yes, I DO get the irony that I'm complaining about people complaining.
5. We have a leaky roof and an exorbitantly high insurance deductible. It won't be long before I can teach my children all about Toxic Mold and maybe delve into a little Mycological endeavor, because we'll have mushrooms growing right in our very own living room. Educational opportunities abound!
There's more, lots more, but I'm all out of energy. Even my fingers ache. Yes, I have a tremendous amount of blessings in my life too, but for just one teensy tiny moment I'm feeling pity for myself and annoyance at feeling that pity. It's MY pity party, and I'll whine if I want to, whine if I want to, whiiiiiine if I want to. Oh, how the internal struggle battles on.......
Sunday, September 17, 2006
I Know What Boys Like
I Know What Guys Want. I Know What Boys Like. Boys Like....
My crusty 8 year old Chevrolet Astro Van!
Something strange is afoot in the suburbs of Houston. Something that men seem completely powerless to resist. Something so alluring, they feel inexplicably drawn to my front door. What forces of nature are at work to render men so hypnotized by a dented, ugly, pukealicious, forest green, metal mass? Not even the famed Inspector Clousseau can solve this one.
The first inquiry came about six months ago with a middle aged Hispanic man rapping on my door wanting to pay me cash on the spot for my van. Laughingly, I told him that it wasn't for sale. Internally, I thought, "Holy crap! You can't perpetrate April Fool's Day jokes in March. What's wrong with you?"
Another month passed, and again a man knocked on my door with a hopeful, pleading look in his eyes wanting to purchase the van. Okay, that's just weird. I kindly explained that this is our paid off, trusty work vehicle. For the right price, we would sell, but not for the pittance people have offered. Disappointed, he trudged back down the driveway to his BRAND NEW BLACK HONDA SPORTS CAR! What?!!!!???
This was no fluke. No less than six men in six months have come a knocking, seeking possession of this by now, exalted, sacred cow like vehicle. I looked online and discovered that Chevrolet stopped production of their Astro model back in 2005, thus making my van a highly sought after prized jewel. It's built on a truck chassis, making it sturdier for work purposes than other mini vans that are constructed on a car frame. That means it's strong enough for your friendly neighborhood amateur Sumo Wrestling Team (don't forget to put towels on the seats. Ewww!), but made for a typical suburban soccer mom.
Should I inform the next potential bidder about the fossilized French Fries in every compartment? Or that you can decipher the age of the vehicle by counting up the crusted milk rings left on the upholstery? Maybe the surefire selling points would include the lack of air conditioning, and crayon graffiti scribbled across the back of the seats? It also holds that delightful scent of butt sweat odor that permeates when you don't have the luxury of air conditioning in a climate of 100% humidity. My daughter, Sunbum, once asked what the purpose was for all the little pull out trays with cigarette symbols printed on them. I told her that it meant that our van was chock full of ash holes.
Don't go ogling my van unless you got the money, honey. It may become so rare, that I can start charging admission to my driveway just to look at the Dodo bird of cars. I'll start opening up online bidding soon. Who wants a near extinct van loaded with top of the line A.M/F.M radio, sticky cup holders, and lots of big ash holes?
Saturday, September 16, 2006
And All Shall Know The Name Sunbum
and shall tremble in mortal fear before her!
This is my eldest daughter, Sunbum, in whom I am well pleased. Today marked the beginning of flag football season and Sunbum's debut as the only girl on her team. Don't let that congenial smile fool you, she's a defensive force to be reckoned with.
The Coach psyched out her team at practice last week with tales of how skilled and cohesive the opposing team had grown since the same kids played summer league together. The Coach held out little hope of victory but encouraged the kids to try their best. My heart sank when I saw that the players were issued team shirts with "Texans" emblazoned across them. Bad omen. Undeterred, the kids went ahead and confidently named their team, "Invincible." Good omen.
Sadly, her very first chance to run with the ball, Sunbum found herself taken down by the only girl playing for the other team. She rebounded though, and made two huge interceptions, a couple successful passes, and proved instrumental in some good old fashioned flag pulling. One boy fell prey to Sunbum and not only lost his crimson red flag in the ensuing struggle, but also his entire belt. Yep, she's definitely defense material.
Final Touchdown Score: 4 to 1. "Invincible" certainly lived up to their team name! I pinned all my early retirement hopes on the athletic prowess and buttloads of money earning potential of my two sons. Maybe it's time to redirect that goal onto my daughter. NFL...... here she comes!
Friday, September 15, 2006
Whatever Shall I Do???!!!??
The scrapbooking event of the year happens this evening at another Church member's home. One night only! Space is limited, so reserve your spot at the crafting table now!!!!.
I naturally assumed that after my uncouth exploits at the last get-together, I would not be extended a welcoming hand to further scrappy galas. However, one sweet Sister told me that she hopes I can be there tonight because I make her laugh.
I made somebody laugh. That frightens me.
Here's the problem; everybody has a project to work on except me. You know, I don't want to go all scriptural on you but "Idle hands are indeed the devil's tools." Why do you think I blog so much? Gotta keep my spirit fingers busy. I have a lot of interests, just nothing that will conveniently pack up into a traveling case that I can later spread out on a table to work with side by side with other people.
For instance, I am one of the World's foremost shower hair artists. I bet you didn't know that! I expertly re-create anything from Picasso to Vermeer using nothing but the discarded hair strands wadded up in the shower drain. Making beauty out of the unexpected is what I live for. Sadly, I can't take my shower with me to show off my handiwork to fellow crafters, so I've started brainstorming some crafty alternatives using the assistance of the Internet.
This is pure genius and something within my realm of artistic capabilities! A highly renowned New York artist uses his own pubic hair as an art medium. Go on, admit it, I bet that's the most gorgeous soap masterpiece you've ever been privy to feast your eyes upon! As a bonus, I happen to have lots of that kind of art medium to work with too. Meaning, I won't drop a fortune at the local craft supplies store. The only thing I need to complete a project like this is a hair straightener.
I still have my unfinished Smurf latchhook kit from 1984 that I could bring along. It's never too late to liven up a room with handmade Smurfy goodness. Or, I could just sit around and make people gasp in utter surprise again.
Decisions, decisions.
I naturally assumed that after my uncouth exploits at the last get-together, I would not be extended a welcoming hand to further scrappy galas. However, one sweet Sister told me that she hopes I can be there tonight because I make her laugh.
I made somebody laugh. That frightens me.
Here's the problem; everybody has a project to work on except me. You know, I don't want to go all scriptural on you but "Idle hands are indeed the devil's tools." Why do you think I blog so much? Gotta keep my spirit fingers busy. I have a lot of interests, just nothing that will conveniently pack up into a traveling case that I can later spread out on a table to work with side by side with other people.
For instance, I am one of the World's foremost shower hair artists. I bet you didn't know that! I expertly re-create anything from Picasso to Vermeer using nothing but the discarded hair strands wadded up in the shower drain. Making beauty out of the unexpected is what I live for. Sadly, I can't take my shower with me to show off my handiwork to fellow crafters, so I've started brainstorming some crafty alternatives using the assistance of the Internet.
This is pure genius and something within my realm of artistic capabilities! A highly renowned New York artist uses his own pubic hair as an art medium. Go on, admit it, I bet that's the most gorgeous soap masterpiece you've ever been privy to feast your eyes upon! As a bonus, I happen to have lots of that kind of art medium to work with too. Meaning, I won't drop a fortune at the local craft supplies store. The only thing I need to complete a project like this is a hair straightener.
I still have my unfinished Smurf latchhook kit from 1984 that I could bring along. It's never too late to liven up a room with handmade Smurfy goodness. Or, I could just sit around and make people gasp in utter surprise again.
Decisions, decisions.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Pieces Of Me
No, not "Pieces Of Me" like the execrable Ashlee Simpson song. Strictly for your blogging entertainment pleasure, I shall attempt to dissect myself for all the World to see. Please no snap photography or plaintive cries of, "AAARRRRGGGHHH! She blinded me with science!" Thank you for your cooperation. Bring on the formaldehyde! I desperately need self preservation.
Ones choice in jewelry represents a visible outward expression of our personality and style. Many delineating factors can be taken away simply from eyeing what other people have draped themselves in. Chunky necklace "BLING" is synonymous with a certain cultural aspect just like James Avery charm rings meant you must have attended high school in the suburbs circa 1991. Strands of pearls enjoy an iconic First Lady connotation while many religions have their symbology represented through various pendants. Jewelry is often totally reflective of our lifestyle. Given that knowledge, this past weekend proved a perplexing and worrisome experience for me.
I'm just like that Adam Ant song, "Goody Two Shoes." I don't drink, don't smoke, none of your business what do I do. I'm also not tattooed nor do I sport a shiny pair of nipple rings. However, I used to be a bit wild before turning subservient (HA!) Mormon wife and Mother. President Hinckley admonished Church women for adorning themselves with more than one pair of earrings, but part of me feels like this is the last hellion bastion I have left. As such, I refuse to take out that second piercing. It reminds me of that small rebellious spark I once embraced before acquiescing to the mundane.
Mostly, I have a modestly conservative slant on fashion and jewelry, so absolute surprise overtook me when I walked into Blockbuster video and saw that the diminutive and obviously gay man working behind the counter had the exact same two earrings as me worn in the exact same way. I'm the Queen around here, how dare he show up in public wearing the same thing. I would have pulled the hair of that beyotch, but alas he's balding.
Irritated, I picked out a video and my family and I proceeded to Pancho's Mexican Buffet for dinner where a mammoth guy stood in line in front of us wearing boxer exposing saggy shorts, a Texans football jersey (loser), and lots of gold chains gangster style. Ummm, he also bore the same two earrings as me. My kids kindly noticed that too and pointed it out. "Hey Mom, that big dude is wearing your earrings!", at which point, big dude turned around and smiled at me. The humiliation came full circle while eating. From our viewpoint it looked like a tall cowgirl dressed in a lilac colored Western shirt festooned with swaying white fringe. We only caught a glimpse from behind as this person made their way down the fresh condiment bar. We marveled at the gorgeous purple cowboy hat and embroidered teal boots. Then, we noticed the earrings. Yep, the same two as mine. My son exclaimed, "Wow, look at that! A real live cowgirl." Slowly, the "cowgirl" turned around to glare at us where it was revealed that this was no cowgirl but instead a COWBOY. Well, at least a cowboy of The Village People persuasion. Oh, SNAP!
So, drawing a connection between jewelry exhibiting the truthfulness of our inner selves, does that mean I'm secretly harboring the internal feelings of a lisping homosexual man, a ghetto superstar wanna be poser, or a flaming cowboy getting ready to lasso him up something with his velvet rope to hog tie for the night? Hmmmmm.
As a sidenote, I did try to minimize my Elvis like sideburns when snapping this photo. Thank you, thank you very much. You've been a great audience.
Ones choice in jewelry represents a visible outward expression of our personality and style. Many delineating factors can be taken away simply from eyeing what other people have draped themselves in. Chunky necklace "BLING" is synonymous with a certain cultural aspect just like James Avery charm rings meant you must have attended high school in the suburbs circa 1991. Strands of pearls enjoy an iconic First Lady connotation while many religions have their symbology represented through various pendants. Jewelry is often totally reflective of our lifestyle. Given that knowledge, this past weekend proved a perplexing and worrisome experience for me.I'm just like that Adam Ant song, "Goody Two Shoes." I don't drink, don't smoke, none of your business what do I do. I'm also not tattooed nor do I sport a shiny pair of nipple rings. However, I used to be a bit wild before turning subservient (HA!) Mormon wife and Mother. President Hinckley admonished Church women for adorning themselves with more than one pair of earrings, but part of me feels like this is the last hellion bastion I have left. As such, I refuse to take out that second piercing. It reminds me of that small rebellious spark I once embraced before acquiescing to the mundane.
Mostly, I have a modestly conservative slant on fashion and jewelry, so absolute surprise overtook me when I walked into Blockbuster video and saw that the diminutive and obviously gay man working behind the counter had the exact same two earrings as me worn in the exact same way. I'm the Queen around here, how dare he show up in public wearing the same thing. I would have pulled the hair of that beyotch, but alas he's balding.
Irritated, I picked out a video and my family and I proceeded to Pancho's Mexican Buffet for dinner where a mammoth guy stood in line in front of us wearing boxer exposing saggy shorts, a Texans football jersey (loser), and lots of gold chains gangster style. Ummm, he also bore the same two earrings as me. My kids kindly noticed that too and pointed it out. "Hey Mom, that big dude is wearing your earrings!", at which point, big dude turned around and smiled at me. The humiliation came full circle while eating. From our viewpoint it looked like a tall cowgirl dressed in a lilac colored Western shirt festooned with swaying white fringe. We only caught a glimpse from behind as this person made their way down the fresh condiment bar. We marveled at the gorgeous purple cowboy hat and embroidered teal boots. Then, we noticed the earrings. Yep, the same two as mine. My son exclaimed, "Wow, look at that! A real live cowgirl." Slowly, the "cowgirl" turned around to glare at us where it was revealed that this was no cowgirl but instead a COWBOY. Well, at least a cowboy of The Village People persuasion. Oh, SNAP!
So, drawing a connection between jewelry exhibiting the truthfulness of our inner selves, does that mean I'm secretly harboring the internal feelings of a lisping homosexual man, a ghetto superstar wanna be poser, or a flaming cowboy getting ready to lasso him up something with his velvet rope to hog tie for the night? Hmmmmm.
As a sidenote, I did try to minimize my Elvis like sideburns when snapping this photo. Thank you, thank you very much. You've been a great audience.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
There Must Be Fifty Ways To Leave Your Blogger
Did anyone miss me? Anyone at all????!!!!?? I'm not going to break it down Paul Simon style and bore you with the actual list of fifty things that kept me away from all of you, my favorite bloggy friends, mostly because I can't make my list rhyme like the more talented Mr.Simon can. So, without further ado......
3. Homeschool Book Club is back in session. Customary to our "wait til the very last minute and then suffer major FREAK OUT!" bad habit, we spent a large portion of the past few days finishing this book. It's a sequel to the popular movie/book, "HOLES." We gave it a "MEH" rating. Not too bad, but not too good either. "HOLES" was definitely a better read.
4. Caterpillar resumed her dancing classes last month along with her siblings Buster and Monkey who have decided to try their hand at Tae Kwon Do. My oldest daughter, Sunbum, is playing football this season. Yes. Football. Flag football to be more specific. Sunbum is the only girl, but she's damn good! At her practices nobody gets by her without suffering at least one flag being ripped away. NOBODY! I think the boys are a bit intimidated by her if not downright scared. Awesome. Her first game is on Saturday, pictures to follow.
5. My class had the dreaded Sharing Time presentation in Junior Primary on Sunday. I loathe speaking in front of people, even little kids, but thanks to Papi this lesson was a rousing success. Well, at least more successful than the other Sharing Times I've had to do. He made this magical little oven as seen here, complete with a trick compartment in it. Papi lined everything with metallic silver so that it actually looked like the inside of an oven. So, when I put the pan of gloppy mess into it from our "recipe for faith" lesson, I then magically drew out a tray of perfectly shaped cookies(thanks Kroger's!) from the secret panel. David Copperfield has nothing on my Papi. Well, except for maybe the love of a hot German supermodel, adoring fans around the world, and millions of dollars, but whatever. I also made cute little chef hats out of cardboard and plastic grocery bags. Mine said Chef Infidel, of course! If any of you ever need, want, or desire a magical cardboard oven, I got your hook up right here.
6. There ain't nothin going on but the rent, baby! I still have to work everyday of my young life. I've only had 4 days off in over two years. *sigh* Where's Ed McMahon when I really need him?
7. The goofball dancing practice for the Homeschool Talent Show continues! I wanted to add flaming hula hoops to it to ensure victory, but the kids refused to jump through them. Wussy children!
8. I bathed our noble beast, Reagan, over the weekend.
9. Went swimming. Burned my boobs again.
10. Got into a fight with an unreasonable co-worker who thinks the whole world is persecuting him because of the color of his skin. Name calling and threats ensued. Wheeee!
11. Spent time pining over the loss of Internet communication with all of you, because my name is Elastic, and I'm a bloggeraholic!
1. Our Internet connection has been all wonky since we have new construction going on all around our house.
3. Homeschool Book Club is back in session. Customary to our "wait til the very last minute and then suffer major FREAK OUT!" bad habit, we spent a large portion of the past few days finishing this book. It's a sequel to the popular movie/book, "HOLES." We gave it a "MEH" rating. Not too bad, but not too good either. "HOLES" was definitely a better read.
4. Caterpillar resumed her dancing classes last month along with her siblings Buster and Monkey who have decided to try their hand at Tae Kwon Do. My oldest daughter, Sunbum, is playing football this season. Yes. Football. Flag football to be more specific. Sunbum is the only girl, but she's damn good! At her practices nobody gets by her without suffering at least one flag being ripped away. NOBODY! I think the boys are a bit intimidated by her if not downright scared. Awesome. Her first game is on Saturday, pictures to follow.
5. My class had the dreaded Sharing Time presentation in Junior Primary on Sunday. I loathe speaking in front of people, even little kids, but thanks to Papi this lesson was a rousing success. Well, at least more successful than the other Sharing Times I've had to do. He made this magical little oven as seen here, complete with a trick compartment in it. Papi lined everything with metallic silver so that it actually looked like the inside of an oven. So, when I put the pan of gloppy mess into it from our "recipe for faith" lesson, I then magically drew out a tray of perfectly shaped cookies(thanks Kroger's!) from the secret panel. David Copperfield has nothing on my Papi. Well, except for maybe the love of a hot German supermodel, adoring fans around the world, and millions of dollars, but whatever. I also made cute little chef hats out of cardboard and plastic grocery bags. Mine said Chef Infidel, of course! If any of you ever need, want, or desire a magical cardboard oven, I got your hook up right here.
6. There ain't nothin going on but the rent, baby! I still have to work everyday of my young life. I've only had 4 days off in over two years. *sigh* Where's Ed McMahon when I really need him?
7. The goofball dancing practice for the Homeschool Talent Show continues! I wanted to add flaming hula hoops to it to ensure victory, but the kids refused to jump through them. Wussy children!
8. I bathed our noble beast, Reagan, over the weekend.
9. Went swimming. Burned my boobs again.
10. Got into a fight with an unreasonable co-worker who thinks the whole world is persecuting him because of the color of his skin. Name calling and threats ensued. Wheeee!
11. Spent time pining over the loss of Internet communication with all of you, because my name is Elastic, and I'm a bloggeraholic!
Friday, September 08, 2006
The World May Not Be Ready For This!
OK GO- A Million Ways
I've been shirking some of my blogging duties lately, but it's all for a good cause.
There's a homeschool talent show looming on the horizon in approximately one month. I'm doggedly preparing my kids for it because I want to bedazzle the homeschooling masses with our bombastic style.
There are those among our homeschool elite who have shown off Ancient Egyptian projects complete with a mummified chicken they made. We also have one "so talented it hurts" family that can play Rachmaninoff on the bagpipes, and they raise exotic animals on their farm. Then there's the usual assortment of kids that can juggle, karate kick, play the Harry Potter theme on the piano, and sing. So, where does that leave my merry band of goofball homeschooled kids in this competition?
Our one and only true talent lies in bizarro dancing. My Sunbum broke it down Macarena style to a mariachi accompaniment in the middle of a Mexican restaurant. She earned a smattering of applause among the gaping mouths and raised eyebrows. Point is, we show no fear in looking ridiculous while shaking our groove thangs in public.
I've loved this song by OK GO, for some time now, and when I spied the goofy dance steps in this video, I just knew that we had to emulate it for the Talent Show. I mean, anything that has the Sprinkler move alongside The Charlies Angels, has to be good, right? So, the intense training continues on. I've started noticing an itching desire to wear black turtlenecks with a black sweater tied around my shoulders. I've also started speaking with a lisp and I snap my fingers limp-wristedly while simultaneouly screaming, "Okay people, take it from the top one more time. 2......3........4! Let me see more spirit fingers!" I'm furtively fighting the inclination to chain smoke and wear lycra pants too. Is this cause for concern?
I've been shirking some of my blogging duties lately, but it's all for a good cause.
There's a homeschool talent show looming on the horizon in approximately one month. I'm doggedly preparing my kids for it because I want to bedazzle the homeschooling masses with our bombastic style.
There are those among our homeschool elite who have shown off Ancient Egyptian projects complete with a mummified chicken they made. We also have one "so talented it hurts" family that can play Rachmaninoff on the bagpipes, and they raise exotic animals on their farm. Then there's the usual assortment of kids that can juggle, karate kick, play the Harry Potter theme on the piano, and sing. So, where does that leave my merry band of goofball homeschooled kids in this competition?
Our one and only true talent lies in bizarro dancing. My Sunbum broke it down Macarena style to a mariachi accompaniment in the middle of a Mexican restaurant. She earned a smattering of applause among the gaping mouths and raised eyebrows. Point is, we show no fear in looking ridiculous while shaking our groove thangs in public.
I've loved this song by OK GO, for some time now, and when I spied the goofy dance steps in this video, I just knew that we had to emulate it for the Talent Show. I mean, anything that has the Sprinkler move alongside The Charlies Angels, has to be good, right? So, the intense training continues on. I've started noticing an itching desire to wear black turtlenecks with a black sweater tied around my shoulders. I've also started speaking with a lisp and I snap my fingers limp-wristedly while simultaneouly screaming, "Okay people, take it from the top one more time. 2......3........4! Let me see more spirit fingers!" I'm furtively fighting the inclination to chain smoke and wear lycra pants too. Is this cause for concern?
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
What Goes On At The Scrapbooking Party Stays At The Scrapbooking Party
I'm known by many titles in this mortal coil. Mother of the Year, Trophy Wife, Sauerkraut Taste Tester, Monkey Sock Supermodel, Champion Chicken Dancer, just to name a few. As of last Friday, I can finally add a new dimension to my list of distinguished accomplishments.......as a Scrapbooking Queen.I know what you're thinking, "Isn't this the same woman who openly mocks scrapbooking, scrapbookers, and everything that they stand for?" Yes, that would be me. I even wanted to create a blog header declaring this blog a "Scrapbook Free Zone". So, why the sudden change of heart? Well, we ridicule and fear the things we don't understand. I've never attended a Scrapbooking Party in my entire life until last week's scrappy soiree at a Church members home, and I must admit, it gave me some newfound perspectives.
At first, I hung back, reluctant to say or do anything because I felt like a filthy scrapbook voyeur, silently watching the every snip and paste hand movement in the room. After a few Oreo's in me though, I loosened up considerably, and this is the final condensed document of all that transpired.
1. I casually dropped in a "camel toe" joke while talking about how Rocky Mountain jeans fit, causing tittered laughter, gasps, and a few of the more pious Sisters to actually cover their gaping mouths with their hands. WHAT???!!!?? I guess I need a list of Scrapbooking Conversational Etiquette Rules, because I don't think camel toe is anything shocking. My daughters and I even have a special covert hand symbol we utilize while wearing our bathing suits that lets the recipient know that they need to attempt a delicate frontal extraction. Hey! Maybe I should scrapbook that. Lesson Learned: I'm too potty mouthed for prime time socialization with church folk.
2. While feigning interest in one of the Scrapbook lay outs, I innocently remarked on the spelling of the word splayed all over the page. I noticed that the word had been spelled with an "I" instead of the appropriate "A". I honestly thought that the "I" had been supplanted for the "A", because there's no way that the meager amount of space would have accommodated any letter wider than an "I". I remarked on how clever the alternative spelling was which set off a shockwave of incredulous disbelief. Apparently, the lady didn't actually know that the word was indeed misspelled. A flurry of women scattered to console her because she seemed visibly upset. *sigh* Lesson Learned: Scrapbooking women must be ardent perfectionists.
3. After talking for a brief time with a new lady from England, I commented on all the BBC shows the kids and I check out from the library, our favorite being, "Keeping Up Appearances". Then, I dazzled her with my best Hyacinth impersonation. Things were going swimmingly, until I said the word, "Wanker." I had only commented that I see that word bandied about quite often on a website I visit with numerous British members. Apparently, that word is much worse than I once imagined. So, now I learned a lesson in offending people from England. I can now say something vulgar in nearly 6 languages. I have harnessed the power to offend on an international scale. Go ME!
4. A homeschooling acquaintance and I couldn't stop laughing about cliche Mormon stories. I contributed a platter of brownies to the party, which immediately sprung this story to mind. The conversation progressed, and we compared how many times we've had to sit through the same stories at Church, and how Mormonism needs a few fresh writers. Chief among them has to be the allegory about the train engineer who sacrifices his son to save the train of people crossing a bridge, the analogy of one skinny boy who steals lunches and he cries when the bigger boy in his class voluntarily takes the whipping punishment for it, and everyone's favorite about picking up dying starfish and throwing them back into the ocean. When, one of the ladies interrupted and looked absolutely crestfallen. It seems her husband had used the brownie/dog poop story just the week before with his Church class, and she wanted to know how we could have possibly heard the same tale. Lady, are you serious? We've all been subjected to that lame story at least two to three times per year. I'm a convert, and I've heard it so often, I can actually mouth the dialogue right along with the presenter. Lesson learned: I hold the power to crush people's feeling that they are somehow original.
5. Lastly, when discussing music, one Sister lowered her voice to a whisper and peered around the room all shifty-eyed like she felt guilt ridden, and told us, "I have a wild side too, you know. Sometimes, I listen to matchbox 20." That did it. I started laughing, thinking that she employed the art of sarcasm quite well for a cute little scrapbooking person. Nobody else even cracked a smile. It wasn't a joke. I have a playlist that includes Korn, Rammstein, NIN, and Ministry. Ummm yeeeeaaah, my kids have listened to wilder music than matchbox 20 on Radio Disney. Lesson Learned: I'm musically incompatible with scrapbookers.
I didn't intend to be so uncouth. Good gracious, I didn't even fart. Not even one time. I promise. I'm just honestly looking for a few good, like-minded friends to goof off with. Oh well, I have another chance at scrapbooking bliss next week. That is, if I haven't been banned by the Scrapping Cabal for my insolence. If I have, then I'm like soooooo gonna take pictures of them and scrapbook the moment using a horned devil themed background.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
When Life Hands You Scraps....
Make a funny T-shirt about it.
Thanks to my friend, Mormon Family Man, I now have the most fashion forward ensemble to wear to the next Scrapbooking meeting. He used his unfettered genius to create this stunning apex of T-shirt perfection. I'm predicting that I will be the belle of the scrapbook ball, sure to win hordes of new friends and banish my pariah reputation among the glittery, coordinated, and cute.
Act now, and for the low, low price of $15.99, this T-shirt can be all yours. Or you can buy the thong version of it for that special scrapbooker in your life. Hey, Omar, wouldn't the wife look stunning in one of these? Great Christmas gifts! They're also "Made In The U.S.A". Thank goodness, because I know that personally, I only want good, old-fashioned, American know-how going into my thongs. I shudder to think of our lucrative thong market here outsourced to foreigners, don't you? We must rally together, and only buy American made thongs or the terrorists win!
Thanks to my friend, Mormon Family Man, I now have the most fashion forward ensemble to wear to the next Scrapbooking meeting. He used his unfettered genius to create this stunning apex of T-shirt perfection. I'm predicting that I will be the belle of the scrapbook ball, sure to win hordes of new friends and banish my pariah reputation among the glittery, coordinated, and cute.Act now, and for the low, low price of $15.99, this T-shirt can be all yours. Or you can buy the thong version of it for that special scrapbooker in your life. Hey, Omar, wouldn't the wife look stunning in one of these? Great Christmas gifts! They're also "Made In The U.S.A". Thank goodness, because I know that personally, I only want good, old-fashioned, American know-how going into my thongs. I shudder to think of our lucrative thong market here outsourced to foreigners, don't you? We must rally together, and only buy American made thongs or the terrorists win!
Monday, September 04, 2006
Don't Mess With Mother Nature
When Man And Beast Collide
(SHUT UP! This is so NOT an ode to bestiality. Sicko!)
My beloved Infidel Mobile suffered a few minor wounds last week after a freakish accident. I throw a rural paper route out in the boondocks on Mondays. Buttloads of lovely scenery, minimal traffic flow, cool country breezes, and wildlife galore. However, as Crocodile Hunter learned today, even a friend of nature can be struck down in a heartbeat.
A month ago, Sunbum and I encountered the mythical "wasp of the undead." This annoying thing just adamantly refused to go away or die. Not unlike Paris Hilton, except she's a W.A.S.P, not a wasp. This creature flew into our truck causing Sunbum to hurdle from the back seat to the front with amazing agility. I slammed on the brakes, turned around, and then squashed it with a rolled up paper. This thing laid in scattered pieces against the back window. Yet, a mile further down the road, Sunbum again scaled the seat shrieking, "It's ALIVE! It's ALIVE!" I openly mocked her, but then, out of the corner of my eye, I witnessed the tiny wings flapping and the antennae moving around. Horrified, we both jumped out of the car screaming. Wielding my newspaper instrument of death, I began smacking the wasp again. A concerned resident came outside to check on all the commotion. Sunbum had fits of hysterical tears streaming down her face, while I couldn't stop laughing. I assured her that everything was fine, and I picked up the wasp particles in a plastic bag to dispose of it. I couldn't resist shaking the bag at Sunbum one last time and telling her, "Look! It's still moving". Yes, she started screaming again. Obviously, I'm an unfit Mother.
Last week, we lived through another live edition of "When Animals Attack". Summer sees explosive deer population growth, and they meander around foraging for food and trying out for Bambi:The Musical! God graced them with incomparable beauty to compensate for their incomparable stupidity. The deer hordes often run out in front of my truck at the very last possible minute, forcing me to swerve. Playing a game of "chicken" with deers really sucks. I always lose. I spied the two does at the side of the road from a fair distance and prepared to step on the brake. Sure enough, they dashed across the road, causing me to come to an abrupt squealing halt, and sending Sunbum and I violently lurching forward, rendering our neck and shoulder instantly sore. Luckily, I did miss colliding with those two deers, only to have a stray buck dart out of nowhere and crash headfirst into my truck, both denting it, and damaging the bumper. Startled, the deer got up and ran off into the woods. Happy ending for deer lovers, sad ending for Ford truck lovers, and venison eating people.
And All My Hope Is Gone.......
(Morrissey understands completely)
Featured in the top frame, is the remaining figment of what was once a majestic flowering Esparanza bush filled with sunny yellow blooms. The bottom photo, illustrates how it looked in all its former glory, before the hot Texas sun laid waste to it. Esparanza means "Hope" in Spanish, therefore, I am now completely hopeless.
Well Done Boobs
(But I ordered medium rare)
And finally, I took the kids out to the pool a few days ago sans sunscreen; for ME, not for them. Let's just say that I'm glad my name isn't Robin, because I would henceforth be referred to as "Robin Red Breast". I'll have to curtail wearing V-Neck shirts until the sunburn subsides, lest someone assumes that I am indeed the infamous "Scarlet Infidel", with a scathing mark branded across my chest to prove it. Notice the lack of corroborating photos on this one? Nature has proven itself cruel and vengeful enough without me temporarily blinding you with my natural assets too.
Friday, September 01, 2006
I'll One Up Your One-Upper
Because I'm the undisputed Queen of One-Upmanship. Yeah!
Not to be outdone by blogger feiend Radioactive Jam's latest pathetic attempt to make a monkey out of me, I just upped the monkey ante in our high stakes monkey showdown. This time, it's personal.........
This is Infidel daughter number #2, nicknamed, "Monkey" at one year of age due to her goofy personality, incredibly long ape-like limbs, and a frustrating penchant for fearlessly scaling the kitchen counters and then jumping off them. No, you animal, we don't call her Monkey because of her flea pickin grooming habits, nor does she engage in throwing her poop at anyone. She's a perfectly lovely and civilized Monkey, she is, whose main diet staples consist of bananas, banana pudding, and banana bread.
So, what you see here is a living, breathing "googly-eyed" Monkey wrapped inside another monkey while holding a miniature pet monkey and thinking about monkeys as she stands there in her monkey socks. Hah! Beat that! You can't, because I'm the Queen of this here Banana Republic. (20% off all khakis. This week only.) Just crown me with the Bubbles approved hairball tiara already.
Not to be outdone by blogger feiend Radioactive Jam's latest pathetic attempt to make a monkey out of me, I just upped the monkey ante in our high stakes monkey showdown. This time, it's personal.........This is Infidel daughter number #2, nicknamed, "Monkey" at one year of age due to her goofy personality, incredibly long ape-like limbs, and a frustrating penchant for fearlessly scaling the kitchen counters and then jumping off them. No, you animal, we don't call her Monkey because of her flea pickin grooming habits, nor does she engage in throwing her poop at anyone. She's a perfectly lovely and civilized Monkey, she is, whose main diet staples consist of bananas, banana pudding, and banana bread.
So, what you see here is a living, breathing "googly-eyed" Monkey wrapped inside another monkey while holding a miniature pet monkey and thinking about monkeys as she stands there in her monkey socks. Hah! Beat that! You can't, because I'm the Queen of this here Banana Republic. (20% off all khakis. This week only.) Just crown me with the Bubbles approved hairball tiara already.
Don't Let Them Shoot Your Kite Down
What sage philosophical advice that is!
Nick Heyward-Kite
My daughter, Monkey, is completely enthralled with this song as well as the most delicious Englishman in a tweed blazer to ever live, Nick Heyward. I suspect it's because they both have cute little matching overbites and earnest puppy dog eyes.
This song is so infectiously perky, you'll lose all bodily control and will find yourself powerless to resist tapping your foot, nodding your head, humming along, and lusting after cute geek Nick Heyward. Powerless, I tell you!
This video looks like it was filmed using the exact same location and extras from the "She Blinded Me With Science" set, minus a few wild haired Einstein look alikes.
Nick Heyward-Kite
My daughter, Monkey, is completely enthralled with this song as well as the most delicious Englishman in a tweed blazer to ever live, Nick Heyward. I suspect it's because they both have cute little matching overbites and earnest puppy dog eyes.
This song is so infectiously perky, you'll lose all bodily control and will find yourself powerless to resist tapping your foot, nodding your head, humming along, and lusting after cute geek Nick Heyward. Powerless, I tell you!
This video looks like it was filmed using the exact same location and extras from the "She Blinded Me With Science" set, minus a few wild haired Einstein look alikes.
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