The Dogs Of Wrath!

Well, when I cross my legs and offer restricted access. Behold the wonderment of the official Infidel canine, Reagan! This picture was difficult to snap as he kept lunging for me to engage in a little butt fume inhaling. Yes, Reagan would boldly go where no man has gone before. Well, not a lot of men, anyway. I'm not that kind of gal. He would leap tall buildings and jump in front of a moving locomotive just to catch him a pungent whiff or two. He's Reagan the crotch sniffing super dog!
Reagan is a 3 year old, 85 pound Chocolate Labrador. He brushed past me once while I was sitting on the floor with my mouth open. Sadly, he definitely doesn't taste like delightful chocolate flavor. Those lousy breeders and their crappy truth in advertising policies.

Reagan's long lost twin lives across the street. The exception is that their Labrador isn't allowed inside the house......ever. He barks from sunup til sundown. He barks until the cows come home. He's barked longer than there's been stars up in the heaven and fishes in the ocean. (I love Dan Fogelberg) He'll probably bark until Hell freezes over too. First time I made formal acquaintance with said neighbor dog, their chirpy 5 year old son told me that they named him "BARKY." Well, Barky does indeed seem an appropriate name for such a vociferously annoying creature. At least, there aren't any illusions to what a dog named Barky is going to be like. No, apparently I misheard the boy. The dog's name is actually "Sparky." Sparky? Could it be due to the fact that he "sparks" anger in all of the neighboring families who have to listen to their flippin dog every day? Maybe its apropos after all.

It got me thinking about my own dog. Now, Reagan is named after the great President, but his conduct is certainly unbecoming of such a namesake. You see, Reagan is addicted to butt. I know, if Robert Palmer were alive today, God rest his soul, he'd have to sing to Reagan, "Might as well face it, you're addicted to BUTT." My sister-in-law, Coco, was over on Sunday, and we all stood in the living room talking. Reagan thought it was some sort of heavenly crotch sniffing buffet that floated down on the angelic like maxi wings of old panties. He scuttled to and fro excitedly snuffling his snout into our delicate maidenhood. Coco must be more fragrant than me, because Reagan seemed particularly interested in her, and kept going back for seconds and thirds and fourths, and so on. One day, Reagan will protect and shield us from would be home invaders as he distracts them with his genital sniffing prowess. They'll drop their weapons in stunned amazement just to cover their privates from such an unwelcome intrusion. I already bought a tag, bowl, and Christmas stocking with his name on it. Were it not for the financial investment already involved, that dog would henceforth be known by the name of "Sniffy."

What if all of us were so named in accordance to our personality and behaviors? What would it be? Easily, I'd pass as a "Twinkie," or a "Plucky." I've got some major facial hair issues that require a lot of tweezing, okay? So, how bout you??!??!??

Holding On To Yesterday

Ambrosia-You're The Biggest Part Of Me

When I saw this video on youtube it reminded me of hanging out with my best friend in high school, Melanie. Yeah, we thought we were pretty bad a** at the time. But the truth is, after we played our Ministry and Suicidal Tendencies CD's repeatedly, we'd get bored and listen to the "all your favorite classic songs by your favorite classic artists" mellow rock station. Whenever they'd play Ambrosia's "You're The Biggest Part Of Me," I'd turn and tell Melanie,"I hereby dedicate this song to my butt, because it truly is the biggest part of me." I repeated the same line verbatim everytime. It never got old. Much like Melanie's prank of getting people to roll down their car windows so she could ask them if they had any Grey Poupon mustard and then driving away laughing while the drivers just looked at us; puzzled. We'd always erupt into giggles as the tender love song by Ambrosia filled the room with early 80's cheese as I looked behind me and serenaded my own butt. This is besides the point, but not only do I love Ambrosia the group, but I also love Ambrosia Salad. Tastes best with bread while listening to Bread, though.

Warning: Gas Leaks Can Be Lethal

So, after another fine dining excursion to Dumass Taco on Monday, we wandered over to the Dollar General store next door. Dollar General is not your typical dollar store in that rarely does anything actually cost only a dollar. Sadly, this location is undergoing a massive storewide clearance sale since they're going out of business. Where will the people of Magnolia, Texas get their packages of cheap gray mystery meat hot dogs, discounted Meatloaf's Greatest Hits CD, and generic brand feminine hygiene products now? I didn't intend to buy anything until I reached the women's apparel aisle. Holy cheese on crackers did they have the kitschy sock motherlode in there! Cheap bras? Yep, they had those. Lots of size 3X T-shirts proclaiming the wearer as "Bootylicious?" Yep, they had those too. I held back the temptation to add a pair of David Bowie "Let's Dance," socks to my vast collection. It even had cute little footstep styled dance steps on the side. But, when my eyes caught sight of the gorgeous Bambi skunk socks, I knew that I could no longer suppress my inner sock fiend.

My daughter, Sunbum, stood there, mouth agape, eyebrows raised, watching me snuggle and fawn over my newfound sock joy. The skunky tail is extra fuzzy furry, okay, and who among us could resist such skunk butt charm? Sunbum sighed, and said the words no sock loving mama wants to hear, "Just what are you going to do with those ugly socks, Mom?" I sniffed and brushed off the crushing blow to my ego as I curtly responded to her cruel inquiry. I told Sunbum that I had to buy the skunk socks as it was a medical necessity. You see, just as many people stricken with debilitating sicknesses like diabetes wear medic alert bracelets to notify other people and medical respondents of their condition, I thought it only fair to similarly warn people of my own physical condition. I suffer from a genetic disease inherited from the paternal side of my family. Odious Flatulitis Maximus.

The socks bear the image of a skunk which is the universally accepted symbol for stinkiness. When you see an individual wearing such a symbol on his body then you automatically know that there are likely internal contents under extreme pressure that could burst forth at any given moment. Following safety instructions when you see the skunk symbol flashed is imperative for your own safety as well as the safety of those around you. First of all, you must never walk behind this person. If you're in a restaurant, and they order a bean filled dish, locate an emergency exit immediately. But most importantly, no matter how much he or she begs you too, you must never, ever, under any circumstances, pull their finger. I carry an emergency pair of skunk socks with me in the glove compartment at all times. Not to keep my toes toasty warm, mind you, but as an act of service and kindness towards my fellow man.

I'm always thinking of others. Perhaps, one day my efforts will be rewarded and I shall receive canonization for my efforts. Or I'll be placed at the top of the Febreze air freshener list of the Most Wanted Odor Offenders.

Dumass Taco Reloaded!

This is my very first time...........to play a food critic and write up a restaurant review! I hope that you'll be gentle and still respect me in the morning. I haven't been offered any compensatory "all the Dumass Tacos I can eat" lifetime package. No, I'm not receiving any payment at all for my shameless whoring and effusive praise of this fine little eatery. Hmmm, maybe I'm the Dumass?

Some of you may recall this post mocking Dumass Taco and all that it stood for. But, I was wrong. So very wrong. For the past two weeks, I've reached out and grabbed me some Dumass for myself, and now I'm a confirmed Dumass addict. Like any legitimate food critic, my familia and I have visited Dumass Taco on several occasions and ordered different menu items to test their consistency. I didn't wear any goofy disguises like Ruth Reichl of The New York Times though. I only possess one wig, and its a greasy black Elvis styled pompadour. Somehow I think that may draw the attention I'm trying to avoid. Everything and I do mean everything has tasted wonderful. It takes two days for food poisoning to manifest and exhibit full blown symptoms. So, I gave every visit to Dumass Taco the two day grace period to see if I would die. I'm proud to say that they passed the anti-explosive diarrhea and abdominal cramps test with flying colors! Don't you love this picture of their mascot burro? You can actually see him heaving a sigh of relief that Dumass taco meat is burro and Dumass free. I suggested that they use the burro on a clever T-shirt to promote the place. I think "Got Dumass?" would be funny, but some of you snarky little bloggers can probably come up with a better idea.

You've seen and heard about the true loves in my life like my children and beloved Papi with the sexiest Roman nose ever, it's time to introduce you to the magical world of Mexican sandwiches. This is a torta, so named for the turtle shell shaped bread. Dumass Taco puts a layer of homemade refried beans, your choice of meat (Papi likes alpastor. I like spicy beef.), and then they layer lettuce, tomatoes, avocados, and top it all with a toasted bun smeared in sour cream. Heaven on earth! They only charge 3 dollars for this delight. The sandwich filled my entire plate, filled my belly, and best of all, left my wallet still filled with my hardearned money. Their tacos are priced at a value phenomenon of $1.50. You can also purchase a dozen homemade tamales for 8 bucks. I'm hungry right now. I'm going to electrocute myself drooling all over the keyboard. They offer a take-out service too. Don't think we didn't grab us some Dumass to take home and enjoy, because we did.

The highlight of our lives came the moment that we got to meet the owner/proprietor Mr. Dumass himself! He hired away the cooking genius behind taco competitors, Lupe Tortilla, to come and work for him. The Dumass Taco chef is from Veracruz, just like the blog world's very own No Cool Story! I'm convinced. Good things come from Veracruz. This flag painted wall is dedicated to military members, and Mr. Dumass will post any picture of an armed service individual that you bring in to him. Located at the top in black and white is the original Mr. Dumas. On either side of him are his grandsons(Mr.Dumass' boys) currently stationed in Florida and Japan. Another wall features police officers with the opposing one covered in firefighters. I suggested that they pay tribute to newspaper carriers and I'll donate my own picture. Papi said that the Newspaper Carrier Wall Of Shame will be located in the bathroom behind the commode. When it came time for picture taking, a simple "CHEESE!" just wouldn't suffice. No, those big happy grins came from shouting out "DUMASS!" in unison.

Mr. Dumass and I talked a lot. We bonded over a plate of tamales and traded beauty secrets like old girlfriends. I told him that you can lessen the severity and butchness of wearing steel toe boots by softening it up with a pair of fuzzy hot pink socks. Mr. Dumass noticed my dry, cracked hands from the winter cold and offered me some of his Corn Huskers lotion to sample. We live in the fourth largest city in America. How likely is it to meet someone that knows your husband? Mr. Dumass knows my Papi from a company that they were both employed with a few years ago. You never know which one of your co-workers is a real life Dumass.

So, I've won a new blog fan in Mr. Dumass. He stumbled across The Smiling Infidel(I'm number one for all things Dumass. YESSSS!) while googling and was kind enough to not sue me. In turn, Mr. Dumass has won himself a new taco restaurant fan with me and my family. How cool is it that when I introduced myself he knew me immediately as The Smiling Infidel? Brand name recognition, baby! Mr. Dumass invites all of you to drop by and sample his Dumass goods for yourself. So, if you're ever in the Tomball, Texas area, you have a standing date with Mr. Dumass! Don't worry, he's a Dumass, but he's also a gentleman. Hmmm, "A Dumass And A Gentleman," might make a fun sequel to "An Officer And A Gentleman."

Dumass Tacos
25435 FM 2978 Suite 107
Tomball, Texas 77375
281 255-9444

My Abuelita Is HOTTER Than YOUR Abuelita!

This is a chocolate styled shoutout to No Cool Story and all those shivering in the frigid weather.

There's nothing I love more on a cold winter day than to stick my Abuelita into the crockpot accompanied by a few cups of milk, and then cook her to a rich, chocolatey brown perfection. I keep my Abuelita stored away in the cupboard but we do bring her out for special occasions. Our Abuelita is browner than most of the family, but thats okay, we're not racist. We adore her just the way she is. It doesn't offend her in the least when we mix in a little vanilla either. My kids love their Abuelita so much that they fight to be close to her and tell her all the time how very good and sweet she is.
Feareth not for the Infidel Grandmothers,I'm referring to this Abuelita. Made with all the things that are right with this world like cocoa, sugar, and a heavy dose of cinnamon; Abuelita really cheers us up on a dreary, drizzly day. We see more of her than our regular Mexi Grandma, and she's infinitely more comforting and warm too. No, Abuelita never disappoints and she's always there for us in our time of need. We're bonafide Abuelita lovers! However, given the majority of Spanish speakers in good old Houston, that is a phrase which I shall never scream out loud at the Fiesta grocery store. Especially because it makes the other love of our life, Milo, insanely jealous. We're not selfish. Come on down, and we'll share some of our Abuelita with you too. All of the pleasure, none of the "You didn't write me a thank you note because you don't care about me" guilt that your regular Grandma gives you!

Shock And Awe!

I've maintained a shocking secret for many years now. No more. I've grown weary of sitting upon this throne cobbled together from lies and dark deception. I'm simply not the self-sacrificing and kindly mother that I've passed myself off to be. Nay. The truth lay far more sinister.

Mothers are instinctually supposed to take the lead in the face of danger and possible injury. It's expected that we shield and savagely defend our offspring against any potential threats that we may saunter across. I have failed my children in this way. You see, my deeply seated fears have kept me from my important maternal duties.
Truth is, I'm terrified of touching the metal handles on the grocery store cooler cases because of the tremendous jolts of static electricity it gives me whenever I attempt the simplest of tasks. Winter time, summer time, doesn't matter, the doors still mockingly zap me with fervent aplomb. I actually clench my eyes tightly shut in fear and wrap my hands up in my shirt to avoid the inevitable, only to be thrust into a state of shock once again upon first contact with the handles of doom. No, not a state of shock, Jackson style. Now, that's truly terrifying. If I'm ever in the beginning throes of a heart attack, just plop me into a grocery cart and wheel me into the store next to all the metal coolers. It's sure to act as an impromptu defibrillator delivering life saving charges to my heart.

I have to actually psyche myself up for what seems like Mission Impossible 4: Got Milk? I'm not kidding about this at all. A few years ago I discovered how innocent and pure my trusting young flock of Infidels are, and how easily they could be manipulated into the sacrificial lamb role. I trained them from a young age to open the refrigerator case doors for me as I stood cowering at a safe distance. I'm so very ashamed of myself for using my children in this way. The older ones ridicule me because they liken the jolts to "getting energized," and they quite enjoy it. The younger ones worry about their otherwise brutish and fearless Mother anxiously fretting about and wringing her hands. I wonder if they realize that one day, they too, will grow up to do my dirty work?

I rue the day when my youngest child, Melody, turns 18. What will I do then? Will I have to recruit a crack team of tawdry milk and orange juice smugglers to get my daily fix? Maybe I'll have to start slipping some money to the dairy clerk to hand over the goods in small unmarked bottles so that nobody gets hurt? Perhaps, I'll just have another baby to postpone having to open the dreaded doors myself. What to do? What to do?

Let's Go NUTS!!!!

Admittedly, my Papi is a much purer soul than I, as he doesn't usually laugh at the crude vulgarities in life. But then, he didn't ace the Urban Slang Dictionary final exam like I did either. I warned him that he better step up and learn the street lingo as our oldest nears her teenage years, so that there isn't a gap in parent/child communication. Fo shizzle! Since English is Papi's second language, a lot of things strike me as funny while he just sits there, stone faced.

A few days ago, I decided to liven things up by bringing someone else into our bed. The smokin hot and occasionally honey roasted Mr. Peanut, that is. Papi sat working at the computer while I plopped in the center of the bed, rummaging around through the can of mixed nuts. Cashews are my favorite. Cashews are also Papi's favorite. He had already decimated the cashew population before I could take over canned nut possession. I mean, this can was literally a tough nut to crack. Just like the famed black bottomed lake in Utah that refuses to give up her dead, so this can refused to yield her cashews. That monocled menace peanut with his creepy little smile seemed to mock my very best cashew retrieval efforts. I started mournfully singing Paula Cole's "Where Have All The Cowboys Gone?," but I changed the lyrics to, "Where have all the cashews gooooonnnne?" Ummm, without all the weird yodeling "Yipee Yo's and Yipee Yay's" at the end though.

As I sat there noisily shaking the can around and nimbly using my fingers to dig out the sparse cashew fragments, Papi looked over at me with a disgusted expression and said, "Girlie, will you please get your hands out of my nuts?" Oh no, he didn't! I nearly choked to death on a Spanish peanut that very moment. The irony. I sat there laughing, but disregarded him as my quest for cashews continued. Finally, he chastised me in an irritated voice, "Listen, will you stop shaking my nuts around? It really bugs me when you do that."

I didn't want to drive the man I love nutty, so I obeyed, and left his nuts alone for the remainder of the evening. I didn't appreciate him calling the can his. We're married. Doesn't that make his nuts part of a community property arrangement? I can't understand why he's so territorial when it comes to protecting his nuts. Must be a guy thing.

The Road To Recovery

I'm finally feeling a little better today. Rarely, do I take medication of any kind but I resorted to slurping down some cough syrup yesterday so I could get some sleep. Big mistake. It was a pediatric formula and didn't have dosing guidelines for fat 32 year olds. So, I guesstimated. And then I got dizzy, loopy, sleepy, and still had to go to work. It stopped my hacking temporarily and my runny nose permanently though. Houston is batting down the hatches for our first official winter storm of the year. What did I do in preparation? What I always do. Cook. I made this split pea soup in the crockpot and added a side of more beer bread. The doomsday weather forecasters are running around inciting fear in people, but at La Casa De Infidel, we're chillin. (Our heater broke so I mean chillin quite literally) I restocked the pantry with assorted goodies. Things don't look nearly as bleak when you have Oreo cookie rations. Ahhhh, eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may die. At least we'll die happy and full!

That's What Friends Are For

In good times and bad times, I'll be by your side forever more. Well, maybe not. I'm not one of your Psychic Friends either. But I do qualify as your designated "Friend In Low Places." And I would never do to you what the "friends" in the video below do.
Justice vs. Simian - We Are Your Friends

This video weaves a cautionary tale against drinking yourself into a stupor. At least not in the company of your "friends." Wait for the video to hit 1:30, and look for the black cat flying through the air to cue the synchronized chaos that transpires with a funky club groove playing in the background. The worst inebriated mayhem I ever witnessed was the unfortunate passed out 19 year old who got his eyebrows shaved off. And a few slobbering drunk sleeping individuals that experienced a golden shower. No, in this video I came to the conclusion that using bookcases as dominoes makes alcoholism so much worse. It's my public service announcement for advocating the liberal usage of beer in my last post. No, this wasn't court ordered. Nor do I have to take on coaching duties for a rag tag group of misfit hockey players. :)

So, speaking of friends, Malaysian blogger friend, SYAR, is feeling utterly despondent over the damage done to her car in a parking lot.......again. I hereby award her the "Cap'n Crunch" box styled trophy for her driving skills. Like Cap'n Crunch, Syar also stays crunchy in milk, and features a prize inside too! Leave a few comforting words for Syar in her rare moment of melancholy and despair. Because, after all, isn't that what friends are for?

Don't Tell The Bishop!

Okay, the past few days I've been sick. What? You may be asking yourself. That Smiling Infidel chick is always sick......in the head, that is. No, this sickness has spread from being insane in my membrane to an actual cold. Gagging and magging relentlessly? Check. Coughing up lovely shades of green mucous? Check. Rubbing my nose raw with Kleenex? Check. Aches and pain and whining? Check. Starve a cold, feed a fever? Like heck, I will! Having a cold did not dampen my appetite in the least, and I made some comfort food last night.

This is 100 percent genuine beer bread using 100 percent genuine beer. You know how everyone keeps saying that they have no use for Bush anymore? Well, I happen to have many uses for Busch beer! I added some cheddar cheese, garlic, and chives to the recipe, and it was so very, very good.

My family is steeped in Germanic heritage and ancestry. We practically have sauerkraut juice and beer flowing through our veins. I took the excess cup of beer from my beer bread recipe and soaked the sauerkraut and sausage ingredients in it as they simmered over the stove. Pure Xanadu!

Just when the world seemed too dark and bleak to possibly go on yesterday, these videos finally arrived. I bought them on ebay for super cheap. Sledge Hammer! was one of my absolute favorite childhood shows, and I couldn't wait to share the craziness with my herd of kids. They weren't disappointed. We watched three episodes last night, and laughed ourselves sick. In my case I laughed myself sicker.

A gratuitous shot of my boogery Kleenex pile. Evidence of my sickness and a valid excuse to neglecting blogger duties this week. I guess that I could take a picture of an authorized doctors note and post it here. Likely, I'd probably clean my nose with it first. Fear me, and my mucosa, paper products!

Sock It To Me!

"It's the eye of the tiger. It's the thrill of the fight. Rising up to the challenge of the rival." Looking around at my vast and varied sock collection, the only one missing seems to be an eye of the tiger sock. Does anyone out there have the sock hookup for me? No Cool Story is looking for a few ugly socks, and I own the motherlode!
Animal Socks On Parade!

From left to right:
1&2- Because owning just one pair of skiing pink flamingo socks wasn't enough.
3.If you don't wear patriotic dog socks then the terrorists have won.
4.Part of the Dr.Seuss Footwear Collection. One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish.
5.These are scary zombie cow socks. Check out the X-shaped eyes. Dead Milkmen approved.
6.Convict Kitty. She used the purple striped prison outfit when her cat obedience school performed a production of "Jailhouse Rock."
7.The Cat In The Hat is back.....and this time it's personal! (against sockeye fish)
8.Save The Whales.......SOCKS! Maybe these should be part of a dying breed.
9.Prince once sang in his less well received follow up to "When Doves Cry," "This is what it looks like when PIGS FLY!"
10.Only wear these with plaid shorts and terry cloth visors on the back 9. The country club will have you forcibly removed if you wear these dork bird socks on the front 9.
11.My Mom's nickname for me is FIFI. She gave me these lovely FIFI poodle socks as a gift at the tender age of 16. Living proof that fugly socks never die.
12.Do you hear Gwen Stefani?? She's saying, "Those socks are bananas. B-A-N-A-N-A-S."

I don't gamble, but I bet you a dollar that you love my Jackpot and Royal Flush socks. Don't you? I'm all about Casino Royale player style. However, my yellow feathered showgirl outfit has gotten a bit snug, and my fat oozes out of the fishnet stocking holes. The glamorous sock sets will just have to suffice.

1. My "electric wire" socks. The coarse wayward threads all over it nicely disguises the coarse wayward hair all over my legs. I don't shave much in the winter.
2. These are genuine BOOHBAH socks made from 100 percent genuine BOOHBAH.
3. The requisite Disco Queen socks that I wear to Church. Yes, I'm serious.

This comprises a mere fraction of my festive socks. I'm feeling holiday cheer from the breast of my hideous holiday themed sweaters all the way down to my colorfully festooned toes. Yes. I have matching hats hidden away somewhere too.

Well, this concludes our Infidel Sock Tour. I hope you enjoyed your visit with us today as we wandered through the Hall Of Footwear Fugliness. Please feel free to leave a tip in the donation jar, and a comment in the box below. Thank you.

A Little Taste Of Benjamin Franklin

Today is the day that we stood next to greatness and reveled in the glory that defined the wondrous Benjamin Franklin. We're practically platinum members in The "I Love Ben Franklin" Fan Club, you know. The Houston Museum Of Natural History and Science has a new exhibit featuring our friend, Ben, and we traveled there with our homeschooling group thanks to mega, super-duper reduced price group discount tickets.

We waited until the unruly masses of public schoolers on their field trips evaporated around lunch time so that we could truly savor the many remarkable items and documents on display. Ben Franklin revolutionized the printing world, devised ways to thwart counterfeiters, started the idea of volunteer firefighters, devised the charitable contribution/corporation match program to build a hospital in Virginia, invented windsurfing(for real, ya'all!), harnessed the power of electricity, wooed French royalty to rally behind America, and that's just a pittance of his many storied accomplishments. We spent a couple hours mesmerized and immersed in all things Ben Franklin. At the exhibit exit, one of the teenagers wrote a short entry into the mounted comment book. We chuckled as we read the vernacular used but then realized it was a moving tribute to Ben in a fun way. It read: "Wat Up Ben??!? Thanks a lot for all your awesome inventions. Turns out they were really useful. Peace out, Ben Dawg! R.I.P" Sometimes teen boys really surprise me.

On the way back home we talked about the last time we went to the museum during their "History Of Chocolate" display, and how my kids Mayan ancestors worshipped chocolate and used it as offerings to the gods. We're totally keeping the chocolate worshipping tradition alive in our very own home. My oldest daughter, Sunbum, didn't recall the exhibit and commented that she would have only remembered it if they gave out free chocolate samples. To which, I lamented that she won't remember Ben Franklin's exhibit since they weren't giving out any free samples of him. I imagined a silver platter with little toothpicks on it. Ben Franklin.......the other white meat! We laughed stupidly all the way home. Probably due to reading tiny print display case label fatigue.

Lest anyone thinks I've gone all reverent, here is Ben Franklins actual privy pit courtesy of my friends at Toilets Around The World. All that genius and he couldn't channel it into creating a decent indoor crapper. Oh well, I guess he had leave something behind for others to discover.

We also learned that he was considered a hunky ladies man, making women swoon wherever he went. I'm thinking he told them, "Hey baby, this is the 1780's and B. Frank is down with the ladies!" Awesome.

I'm Having A Casey Kasem Moment....

And now it's time for our long distance dedication. Elastic says that No Cool Story has been a terrific blogger friend for only a few short months but she feels like they've known each other, for like, forever, and stuff. Elastic has endured life as a musical orphan for many years as her acquaintances curl up their lips and snidely ask, "Just what is that music that you're listening to now?" Now, finally she knows somebody that appreciates and shares her eclectic if not irreverent musical tastes. No Cool Story, this song is dedicated to you.
KWAN-Diamonds

KWAN hails from Finland and let me just say that there is nothing sweeter than Finnish fusion rock. This is the Infidel Jam Of The Week since I suffer from a woefully short attention span, and..........I like Twinkies on a moonlit night but sometimes I wear my plaid skirt with go-go boots just to mix it up.......wait, what were we talking about again? Oh yeah, I LOVE this band, KWAN, because they incorporate a little of everything into their music to create an atmospheric sound like no other I've heard stateside. Give it a least a minute to hear the main chorus and to snicker at the lead singers nose piercing. Apparently, looking like a raging bull is all the rage in Finland this year.

NCS, are you enjoying a moment of unbridled jubilation that UPOP is back on the air like I am? How ahead of the musical curve are we? Miss Biotech Goddess and I both love Royksopp too, and now they're using them for Geico commercials. My girls and I adore Goldfrapp and Target tapped their song, "Fly Me Away," for their ad. We knew about these acts eons ago, and I feel really smug about it too.

Oh, The Sweater Outside Is Frightful And The Sweater Inside Is Not Most Delightful

No Cool Story foolishly thinks that she's cornered the market on sweater ugliness, but, oh no, contraire mon fraire! No Cool Story wants a challenge? I got three words for her. BRING. IT. ON. My 55 year old Mom assumes that since we're both plus sized lovelies that we must share the same taste in clothing. She assumed wrong. All of these sweater tragedies were bequeathed to me when she cleaned out her closet last year, and I haven't the heart to mock her......to her face, anyway. Not many people can pull off the hideous sweater look, and I'm no exception.

This combined with a fright wig and rubbery old hag mask was all I needed to terrorize the young trick-or-treaters this year. I reminded them of their cackling and sinister elementary school Principal who has a fugly sweater vest to match every holiday. Good. That meant an overabundance of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups left over at the end of the night. I heard a chorus of BOOS the one and only Halloween I donned this sweater treasure and it wasn't coming from ghosts either. Sometimes, seeing dead people is preferable to seeing live people. Dead people are less cruel and less fashion savvy.

Santa Claus Is Comiiiiing To TOOOOOOWWWWNN........to ridicule my festive hand me down sweater, no doubt. Yes, he's knows when I've been sleeping, and he knows when I'm awake, and he told me to burn this crappy sweater by the time he comes round next year. For goodness sake!

I'm Lastic the sailor (wo)man, I've never used a bed pan. I'm snarky to the finish cuz I eats me biatch spinach. Yes, I'm Lastic the sailor (wo)man. Toot! Toot! Can you guess where that happy little Toot! sound effect emanates from? When I wear my nautical sweater, you should all address me as Admiral Infidel and refrain from telling any Captain's Log jokes. That would be one of my seafaring duties. ARRRR, matey!

Food! Glorious Food!

Enquiring minds want to know what everybody ate for their annual New Year's Eve Gala. Alright, no enquiring minds plural, just one enquiring mind- Mine! At La Casa De Infidel it's a long standing tradition to have a smorgasbord pigout. Every year we have our standard hor'deuvre fare spread out by 4 in the afternoon and then we gluttonously ravage the food stocks until midnight chimes. The real hypocrisy lies in our pledging to moderate how much we eat in the New Year but having to gorge ourselves one last time on New Years Day because we also pledged to stop being so wasteful and throwing out perfectly good leftovers is indeed wasteful. I make it a goal to try one new recipe every year to see if it meets our rigorous party appetizer criteria. The winning recipes get added to the buffet collection for the following year. Competition is intense when you have to please 8 different palates residing in the same house.

Ahhhhh, Little Smokies, loved and savored the world over by distinguished carnivore connoisseurs. I enhance the flavor by using a super secret sauce concoction handed down from many generations of daredevil chefs mixing odd ingredients together and declaring recipe success if they don't die immediately after consumption. Yes, I slowcook these little beauties in the crockpot with a jar of grape jam and a bottle of chili sauce. It renders them tangy and delicious. Serving this bonafide treat to your guests screams out, "I ain't first class, but I ain't white trash!"

This is my featured guinea pig recipe for New Year's 2006. No, it doesn't actually have guinea pig in it. Rest easy, my friends, rest easy. I did in fact get by with a little help from my friends while making this though. Pepperidge Farm friends, to be exact. These delectable delights feature a mixture I whipped up of smoked salmon, lump crab meat, red peppers, onions, fresh mushrooms, and various seasonings stuffed into puff pastry. Infidel toddlers and picky 10 year old gave it a thumbs down. The rest of us didn't care because that meant double servings for us! Papi says that in ancient Mexico they had a saying that went, "Less donkeys, more food." Wisdom through the ages.

I made mini pita pizzas with fresh tomatoes and a salami topper in place of my usual stuffed cream cheese jalapenos that I make every year. Succulent and between all of us we licked the platter clean. Literally.

I practiced my wrapping skills on Sunday by putting on a little old school M.C. Hammer while layering up tasty morsels on top of multi-flavored flat breads. They were a hit! Judging from my wrapper skills, I should be inking a deal very soon. Both Jason's Deli and Quiznos are trying to woo me into an exclusive wrap contract complete with some bling and my own sandwich entourage.

I don't own a beautiful mold to make an authentic Della Robbia fruit ring for my punch so my dollar store plastic storage container had to make do. Huey Lewis was wrong. It's not "Hip To Be Square", it's hip to be rectangular! This is my favorite punch of all time. It could kick the butts of both the Hawaiian Punch dude and the Kool Aid Man in a fruit drink death match. It has equal parts white grape juice, lemonade, and orange/pineapple juice frozen with fruit and then sparkling ginger ale poured over the top. We ladled it out into little plastic champagne glasses and toasted each other because that's how we roll, dawg!

Let's Start From The Very Beginning.....

A Very Good Place To Start!

On this date, one year ago, way back in 2006, a lonely Infidel started a blog with nothing more than a few fart jokes and a dream. True to a lifelong rebellious nature, she refused to start her very first blog entry with the typical,"Well, here I am entering the blogosphere," or the trite, "Welcome to my first blog. I don't know what to write about." No, she remained utterly unpredictable in her writings until one year later, on the very same day, in 2007, when she blogs about her own ONE YEAR BLOGIVERSARY!

Yeah, it's predictable and common but I couldn't let January 1st pass without a moment to commemorate the day that shall live in infamy- the birth of The Smiling Infidel. I only got two comments on my first blog entry, and one of the two was my own. Not exactly a rousing success but then I got a dig in at Hilary Clinton in a completely unoffensive way so that made it well worth my while. Do you wanna check it out? Sure you do! Here it is.........REAL MEN REALLY DO WEAR PINK!