All I Need Is A (MATH) Miracle!

A isn't just for Algebra. It also stands for Agonzing, Annoying, Apocalyptic, and Aggravating. It's doubtful that there will be any A for Awesome showing up on my transcript this semester.
Have mercy, 18 years has served to completely obliterate the miniscule amount of equation-solving knowledge left in my brain.
Mathmagician, Mathologist, Mathlete......these are all words that will never be used to describe me.

My English Professor Has Banished Me To The Land Of B-List Misfits......

I'm currently under attack from an onslaught of Killer B's.
Does it sting?
Oh yes, does it ever.
Sadly, I don't think there's any sort of exterminating spray on the market to make it go away either.
My Professor, Professor Meso Smart, may not have ever listed the position of "Professional Head Shrinker" on his resume, but he does indeed possess an amazing knack for shrinking a Jolly Green Giant-sized ego down to miniature pea status using nothing more than a scribbly wave of his red pen.
You know, I didn't even get the benefit of receiving a nifty little dangling shrunken ego keychain to carry around with me afterwards. Is it too much to expect that Professor Meso Smart at least enshrine my deflated little speck of ego into a glass display box so I can pimp it out like a freaky side show spectacle and maybe make a little ka-ching?
I ran a little experiment to test the boundaries of Professor Meso Smart's sinister grading pen.
The rought draft for my assigned opinion essay consisted of nothing more than the blandest of facts and statistics. I then proceeded to sprinkle it with some milquetoast regurgitations of wholly uninspired data to support my opinion. Pure, unadulterated drudgery.
That effort won an emphatic "A+" from Professor Meso Smart.
I labored and agonized over the final copy of the essay for a week. I passionately employed brilliant personification and mixed it with sharply pointed verbage designed to evoke an unforgettable landscape of mental imagery in the reader's head. If you can't unleash the searing fire burning in your soul within the confines of an opinion paper, then where can you?
Professor Meso Smart read my final copy and chose to sting me with yet another Killer B.
While he declared my paper to have achieved "the highest plane of critical thinking as evidenced by my argumentation and reasoning" he also said that my "exceedingly excellent paper was marred by the usage of turgid wording."
Yes, "TURGID" as in wildly exaggerated or embellished.
Other words used to describe my masterpiece: "bombastic" and "florid."
I may have tumbled off the A-list bar stool like the uncoordinated Shirley Temple-drinking lush that I am, but last week's class set the scene for my ultimate vindication.
While reading aloud to the class from a featured article in The Houston Chronicle, Professor Meso Smart stopped to slobber and praise the writer's stuffed-full-of-adjectives style as "magnificent!" He then inquired of the class: "Who in here can write like this?"
Without hesitation, my hand rocketed straight into the air as I blurted out "ME! I write exactly like that."
Stunned, Professor Meso Smart paused, momentarily closed his eyes, and then, after a brief interlude of reflection, quietly admitted "Yes, Elastic, it's true. You DO write like this."
Victory is mine!
It's not as sweet as a warrior team of A's bursting into the classroom to vanquish the Killer B's back into the realm of scholastic injustice from whence they sprang, but just instigating a moment of stark epiphany in Professor Meso Smart made the moment so very worthwhile.

Special thanks to my flappy friend, clean counter confidant, and Vicodin muse, Carrot Jello who assures me that Professor Meso Smart refuses to award me an "A" because he's so insanely jealous of my genius. I'm convinced that's the real reason.

It's Sasquatch Day Down At The Salon!

After 33 years of waiting, I finally got to experience the thrills of my 'first time.'

I've listened to many a people talking excitedly about their blissfully fantastic first time, but I chose to abstain from such things and hold out because I didn't want an impugned reputation as a 'painted lady.' Well, on Friday I finally did the deed.....

.......and got a pedicure!

My mom treated us both to a nice hour at the spa because she didn't want me going to Colorado with ugly feet. Yeah, what people think of my feet are the least of my worries when I'm about to meet a veritable buttload of dazzlingly gorgeous and witty bloggy women this weekend.

So, our spa venture just wouldn't seem complete without a nice waxing. I've never waxed anything, unless you count waxing nostalgic or waxing poetic. Or the time I kissed the Turtle Wax boy from the car wash in my wild youth..... Anyway, the very petite Vietnamese lady had me plop my hulking frame down in one of the salon chairs that backs up to a sink so I could lay down and get slathered up in hot wax on my upper lip. The warmth of the honey-like amber wax made me feel all comfortable and cozy until......she let it RIIIIIIIP! Without warning, the lady yanked the gauze off the left side of my mustache. Reacting to the immense pain, I slid down the vinyl chair, all the way to the floor. Did I get any compassion or caring? No. The lady called out in her sing-songey language to all her salon co-horts so they could enjoy the show too. And then she smiled big, and patted the seat as she instructed, "You get back in chair now. Me have one more side to do....."

And now you know why Bertha The Bearded Lady down at the circus was that way- Obviously she had a deep-seated phobia of hair removal products. I'm so never getting waxed again. Do you think Melissa The Mustachioed sounds nice? What about Melissa And Her Malevolent Man Whiskers Of Mayhem?

I Wish I Had A Moose. I'd Name Him Dr. Seuss. And Turn Him Loose With My Goose To Cause Terror On A Caboose.

I'd like to welcome you to a very special edition of The Smiling Infidel! It's tailor-made to cater to the easy-reading needs of your inner pre-schooler. I've got rhymes! No big words! And pictures! Lots of pretty pictures! In color!

On Saturday, as my truck got severely hit and folded like a MAP, I felt my tender red neck SNAP and I still sort of feel like......

Says I, this is teh SUCK! Only 18 more payments until I own my beloved Infidel TRUCK! Those dreams vanished with the WTF? hit-and-run chick gone AMOK. (It does rhyme. Quit picking on me)
Wow, what LUCK, Progressive insurance paid off my old TRUCK and I still managed to make a decent BUCK! So, I immediately set forth to buy a new.....(Oddly enough, both these pictures detail the same color and style as my before and after Infidel trucks)
Did I take my new truck to go SHIRK and LURK with Captain KIRK while eating Jamaican JERK? No! I went immediately to WORK! (I have never in my life sung and danced while throwing papers. I do have a Cabbie Cap like the Newsies boys do, though.)
Sometimes I just want to POUT as I throw my paper ROUTE (II need my truck to work. I need to work to pay for my truck.*sigh*) I'm dorky like URKEL and hopelessly trapped in a.........
Like a Donut that needs DUNKIN and a Bronco that's BUCKIN, still I continue to....


Well, I do keep on truckin, except on that fateful day that was CRUMMY, when a girl who's downright SCUMMY made me into a real live .......
I'm going to break in my new truck just like a Smiling Infidel SHOULD- by only putting on high heels and my State Farting Champion T-shirt and rolling around on the HOOD. Be cool like me? Coked-up, man-beating, OJ-dating Tawny, only wishes she COULD!

Hey, Who Put The 'Hit Me!' Sign On The Back Of My Truck?

NOT The Official Truck Of The Smiling Infidel--------> My F-150 is crumpled and slated to be picked up by a salvage crew tomorrow.
This morning I proved how 'HARDCORE' and 'BAD ASH'(badder ash than jean knee, anyway) I really am because a random stranger wanted to hit it with me. And they did too, taking me by surprise from the rear. Yeah, I'm a big hit. A really big hit.

While blithely driving down the road this morning, a full sized GMC truck slammed into me going between 50-60 miles per hour. We weren't at a red light. I didn't have my brakes on. There wasn't any other traffic at 5:15 A.M. except us. The force of the impact knocked the sandals right off my feet. She hit me so hard that:
1. The XM Satellite Radio display dislodged from the dashboard.
2. The tailgate of my truck got pushed all the way up into the rear tires.
3. The front bench seat of the truck completely broke and flopped backwards.
And then, as I lost control of my truck on the rain-slicked road, and finally managed to stomp on the brake, the little beyotch who hit me jumped out of her completely demolished truck, apologized, blamed the accident on her brakes failing, and then ran off. Yes, she freakin ran off under the pretense of searching for a pay phone and never came back to the scene of the accident.

So, what does that mean for me and my Infidel truck? It means that:
1. I assume she doesn't have any insurance and my insurance will have to absorb the cost.
2. I refused medical treatment because I don't have health insurance and I'm scared to death of how much ambulance and medical bills could amount to.
3. I have a huge bump on the back of my head and bruises running the entire length of my left leg along with a stiff neck.
4.My boss came over with his truck and I had to go and throw the rest of my route with a splitting headache because I criss-cross back and forth and nobody could finish it but me.
5. My beloved truck, so very close to being paid off in 18 months, is likely totalled and I'll have to start all over again. (I got the call this afternoon. It IS totalled.)
Luckily, my officer friend who looks the other way when I run stop signs on my route, came within 3 minutes of me calling him and worked the accident scene, saving me from having to pay a tow truck fee by telling the guy to charge it as a county tow.

I walked away from a really bad accident relatively unscathed even though I wasn't wearing a seatbelt. The wrecker guy told me the newspaper bundles absorbed a lot of the force, thus saving me from further damage. I didn't have any of my mini-Infidels with me. I didn't injure my golden, money-making, paper-throwing arm. I have really good insurance with Progressive who got me a rental vehicle and claims adjuster within a couple hours. I was able to save my cherished butt towel before it got towed away. Yep, I be one blessed Bad Ash Infidel, alright.

The Agony Of Defeet!

As of this evening, I, The Smiling Infidel, will henceforth assume the titles of, The Limping Infidel, The Hobbling Infidel, or Walking Like I Have A Stick Up My Butt Infidel.

I'm such an uncoordinated dork. Do you ever see people working in an industrial warehouse setting wearing open toed sandals? Well do you??!!? We won't even discuss Bruce the J.Lo impersonator who wore his clear plastic high heels one night to his extra job down at the loading docks. He's an exception to the rule. No, anyone with an ounce of common sense should know better and put on steel toe boots or sneakers accordingly. My feet get so nasty sweaty in the Houston heat, I practically make Odor Eater shoe inserts feel like everyday is stinky feet buffet day! In an effort to get some ventilation cooling action, I unwisely chose to don the sandals. Any Podiatrists out there should look away now so that you won't be exposed to the shocking pedi horror that follows next. The sandal decision cost me dearly as I rolled a palette jack weighted down with several hundred pounds of newspapers across my left foot. Excruciating doesn't even begin to cover it. See that gnarly black stuff on my toes? That's where all the skin peeled backwards, leaving my little toe broken, and the rest of them bruised and swollen. Yes, my little piggy did indeed cry "Wee, Wee, Wee, Wee," all the way home. Not even the obscenely long hairs cascading down from the tops of my toes could form some sort of hair bubble shield to protect them from the crushing weight of the palette jack. I hope showing some closeup skin pics on my blog won't attract any unsavory types or foot fetish weirdos.

To sum it up: I drive a truck with a standard transmission. My injured foot controls the clutch. I have to work every day. I'm currently hopped up on Excedrin to dull the aching sensation before I toddle off to my job in a few scant hours. And now, with the blemished and unsightly condition of my feet, I have no hope of winning the Footsies International Competition for 2007. :( No Footsies for you! This Is What It Sounds Like When Dr.Scholls Cries.......

Oh, Poor Pitiful Me

After you get done clicking the title, you can sing it with me y'all......."I've Had A CRAP Day, The Ulcer Don't Lie, I'm Being Stomped Down, And I Really DO Mind. I Had A CRAP Day, Yeah, I Had A CRAP Day."
I'll spare you the series of unfortunate events in all their misery inducing detail and instead use a speedy list form lest you get pulled down into the depths of despair with one non-Smiling Infidel:
1. I've toiled endlessly for the past two days straight with only a couple hours sleep wedged in between. During my scant few hours of slumber last night, Papi woke me up to tell me that I was farting and giggling in my sleep. Hmmmm, it reminds me of that song, "I hear the secrets that you keep when you're farting in your sleep." Kind of dispels the myth of the paradisaical dream world, doesn't it?
2. Papi's 5 day a week summer school schedule means that I have to haul the mini-Infidels to their activities and arrange working around taking care of them without any help. I've also had to take on some of Papi's part time jobs because he's at school. See? I'm proving that we don't need to flood our country with illegal labor when we have sucker white chicks who'll work hard for next to nothing.
3. Hot time, summer in the city, back of my neck getting dirty and gritty. Yeah, the scorching sun makes my job and the job of my cherished Butt Towel, just that much more difficult. As an added bonus, I twisted my back and have taken to walking stooped over since Monday night since I can't straighten up without searing pain shooting down my spine. Combine that with my super hairy arms and I look like Cro-Magnon man, not even evolved enough to appear on a Geico commercial.
4. I took the kids to the pool around 7:00 tonight, and then my truck wouldn't start when it came time to go home. Papi's at the pool right now trying to get a new battery into it. Have you ever seen a fat woman in a clingy wet bathing suit pushing a full size truck to try and get it started? It ain't a pretty sight people.
5. We've lived with our 11 year old dryer making unnerving screechy noises like the big shower scene in Psycho for the past few months. Sadly, it progressed to a point of shaking and heating up to near explosive temperatures before finally going to the big dryer heaven in the sky. We're now the proud owners of a brand new dryer..........and a 250.00 bill that has to be paid in a month to avoid finance and interest charges.
6. I already told you about my practically new truck tire getting punctured at Boy Scout Camp. Farewell 100.00 dollars, it was so nice getting to know you for the brief amount of time we had together.
7. I'm neglecting all of the glorious blogger comments you guys have left. THANK YOU, that's the one bright spot in this otherwise sucky week. Things will settle down by tomorrow afternoon, and I'll make my triumphant return to comment with a vengeance. No good comment goes unpunished or unreturned around here.

Because I'm in a state of suffering, so shall you suffer too. I'm going to play some P. Diddy until I return tomorrow. Have fun reading while plugging your ears!

Colour My World.........With Love

Pervasive messages of tolerance and diversity have surrounded me my entire life. How many times I've spied billboards, commercials, and T-shirts espousing the phrase, "True love sees no color." The Infidel household strictly adheres to an eternal gospel perspective of loving and respecting our neighbors regardless of color, race, or creed. On the surface, it may seem as though I've achieved the highest echelon of color blindness, but it's not true. I'm a giant hypocrite.

I constantly engage in the shameful practice of dividing and segregating just solely based on color and hue. I even have a special place in the house reserved for whites only. Non-whites have a place too, but I adamantly refuse for them to ever co-mingle or get too closely acquainted with the whites. It may sound ignorant, but I worry about their color rubbing off on my close little circle of pristine whites. I explained my conscientious inner conflict to Papi. He's a lovely shade of caramel himself, so I assumed he would hold a greater understanding towards my moral dilemma. I began telling Papi how judging and separating according to color runs afoul of all my standards and values and that I just couldn't stand to go on this way any more. Unsympathetically, Papi dryly told me, "Tough, girlie. You still have to do the laundry."

I've acquired a lot of cuts and scrapes from getting knocked down off my pulpit.

This Is Dedicated To The Skipping Impaired Among Us

I allowed my sweet daughters to watch the new video for the song "Be Good To Me" from the Disney manufactured star du jour, Ashley Tisdale. I realized instantly what a grievous error in judgment I made, for not only did Ashley cavort around in front of thousands of screaming and impressionable pre-teen girls wearing nothing but skimpy booty shorts and a corset style bustier, but she also opened up her dance routine with herself and a bevy of backup dancers skipping to the beat. Yes, skipping. It dredged up scarring memories of my less than idyllic childhood and the shame bestowed upon me because I lacked the ability to skip. My pre-school teacher pointed an accusatory finger at my mom and told her that something must be gravely amiss with me because a normal child should possess an infinite amount of skipping prowess by the age of 4. The other children sensed and vulturously sniffed out my weakness forcing me to lose every round of 'Simon Says' we ever played. They'd laughingly cast a skewed glance at me and command, "Simon says to.......SKIP!" The abject humiliation felt unbearable.

I tried to remedy the skipping ailment on my own by begging my mom to buy Skippy brand peanut butter instead of her usual cost cutting generic brand. Contrary to my childish belief system, however, Skippy does not, in fact, hold magical skipping powers.

All these years later and I still can't skip. I've tried. I've failed. I've endured teasing from my own children as they flaunt their Skip-It toy in my face. The ramifications of non-skipping are clear. I'll never find myself with the prestigious 'Skipper' title. Never. Not even for a 3-hour cruise.

And thank goodness I've never made any friends with people named Lou, because I'd never be able to skip to them.

I can't possibly be the only one in the world with this crippling limitation. I wonder if I can check myself into a prestigious Skipping Academy where the finest Skipping Professors in the business will teach me to skip like one of the impish VonTrapp children, frolicking and singing on the scenic mountainsides. I'd never skip class, well, because, I can't. Oh, to dream of a day where nobody will cast dispersions upon a non-skipping individual. A time where skippers and non-skippers alike will join hands and live in peaceful joy and harmony.