The Smiling Infidel Word Of The Day: Learning New Vocab The Infidel Way!

My Sexy-Mexi husband Papi has recently embarked on a triumphant weight loss regimen in which he's dropped a staggering 30 pounds in less than six weeks time.
He wants to lose another 10 so that he fits the average weight-height chart specifications of 150 pounds.
The problem with that is that the creators of these charts have a one-size-fits-all mentality and they don't take important things into account like abnormal head sizes, or extreme body hair, or gold teeth because I'm sure all that adds extra weight to a person.
Anyway, my Papi has a gargantuan head atop his very petite 5'6 body.
The more weight he loses the more prominent the disparity.
I told him that with his light brown skin he's starting to resemble a caramel candied apple on a stick.
My very righteous and spiritual Papi shot me his dainty middle finger in response.
I'm not scared of him because I now outweigh him. I can wrap my arms around him and pick him up.
Yesterday I swung Papi around the kitchen....much to his displeasure.
I told him that's part of the trials and tribulations he must suffer as punishment for marrying a woman who's bigger than him.
Before work today Papi continued lamenting that he hasn't lost any weight in 2 days when my fat self finally snapped and informed him that he's dangerously close to becoming an anorexican.
Yeah, an ANOREXICAN......a Mexican who's consumed with an unhealthy/unflattering weight loss obsession.
And that is your Infidel Word Of The Day. Go forth my peeps and try to use ANOREXICAN at least once in a sentence.
Then, when you've exhausted the possibilities to throw in a random ANOREXICAN or two, look into joining my new 80's Lingo Resurrection Society.
I'm doing my part. I introduced the kids at church to the lost word "boss." Now they use it instead of the more popular "beast." Dude, that's so BOSS!
My amazing dentist, Dr. Thomas Hernandez is trying his hardest to bring "NO DOY!" back from the edge of expression extinction. It's kind of like that song "He's Bringing No Doy Back......Hey!"
I firmly believe that with a few word nerds on our side that together we can reinstitute the lost glory of choice 80's grammar for a whole new generation.
Awesome? Yeah, like NO DOY!

My Daughter: Future Creator Of The Council For Stink Prevention

I work out in the pseudo-country on Mondays/Tuesdays

I usually drag along the least resistant mini-Infidel to work slave labor for slave wages enjoy the fresh country air and scenic beauty.

I refer to it as the pseudo-country because while many of the farmhouse-styled homes have lots of acreage with big red barns and painted ponies dotting their sprawling fields, they still live in a deed restriction-controlled neighborhood surrounded by modern conveniences.

It's not country living if you can walk to the grocery store for a gallon of milk instead of being forced to massage Ol' Bessie to give up her last lactating drop.

So, the pseudo-country--they're city enough to have their very own Chik-Fil-A drive-thru but too rural to enjoy the privilege of the city sewer system.

I feel bad for pseudo-country kids. They don't even have a conveniently located curbside hole to toss their bleeding-with-red-ink schoolwork failures into like us city folk.

So, in case you haven't had the odorific pleasures of touring an area that's relying on septic tanks during a muggy day or in the aftermath of torrential rains, let me just sum up the experience for you: It stinks. It stinks real bad.

We had a high of 80 degrees on Tuesday. Crazy, I know. Why don't you and Mr. Global Warming go to the Conspiracy Corner to discuss it at length?

Anyway, it was pretty stenchy.

And then my brilliant second-oldest mini-Infidel burst forth with the most ingenious piece of stank combativeness: Utilize the city mosquito control trucks to spray heavy doses of Febreze air sanitizing mist into the feces-fragranced countryside.

Yeah, she superseded my own brilliant stench-fighting plan.

I guess she's right. It really would be impractical to try to plug in a million and a half vanilla-scented Renuzit Plug-In room deodorizers down at the Power Plant.

As If There Was Any Doubt.........

Introducing November's Super Hot Saveboy Savemate Of The Month

Like HI and stuff!
I'm Elastic but all my close personal foodie friends call me Clearance Closeout Queen.
You know like that Billy Ocean song, Caribbean Queen but I'm much better because unlike her I never get sand in my pageant bathing suit-only marked down candy bars that taste like sunscreen.
"Oh, Clearance Closeout Queen.....now we're sharing the same dream..."

My Turn-Ons Include: That Frugal Gourmet Guy, Orange And Red Price Stickers, Special Managers And Their Big, Sexy 'Manager's Special' Pricing Guns, Long Walks Down The Dollar Store Aisles, And Getting Lucky On The Scratch&Dent Tables.

My Turn-Offs Are: Paying Retail, Mean Old Bargain Meat Bin Hags In Flowered House Dresses, Expired Coupons, And The Devastating Heartbreak Of (Package) Shrinkage.

Now HERE'S Where I Show Off My Tantalizing Assortment Of Goodies:

Yes, we've enjoyed an exceptionally good grocery store week. Thanks to coupons, sales, and clearance items I fed my entire Infidel family of 8 for 9 days on $120.00.
That doesn't mean that we strictly dined on Ramen Noodle Surprise or SPAM Casserole either.
Nope. It's been a regular whirlwind of churning out culinary delights from the Infidel kitchen, same as always.
I cooked up something so delectable a few days ago that it made us all drool droplets of spittle into an endless pool of saliva.
Google DONUT MUFFINS, people. Do it now. And then go make some. (PSSSSST.....I used THIS recipe)

Being the Clearance Closeout Queen has its perks!
One of the first entries I wrote here on The Smiling Infidel was about our friendly grocery store SUSHI MAN.
Yesterday Mr. Sushi Man bequeathed an entire bucketful of primo brown rice to me for the sum total of ZERO dollars!
When it comes to free food, I see no color.
I live in a world where brown rice and white rice can live together as one in peace and harmony.
I may not be too expedient in commenting for the next few days as I immerse myself in the wonderful world of rice recipes.
And no, Mr. Sushi Man is not my secret love.
My passion can't be bought for a mere bucket of rice because I'm worth at least a Sushi Sampler Platter or two.

They're Trying To Tell Us Something.....If Only We'd Listen!

Did you know that I'm a mover and a shaker? Yes, it's true. To be more specific, it's actually my tremendous derriere-resembling a hot air balloon with a giant seam running up the middle- that's attained the official mover and shaker status. The Cheek Family-residing somewhere on the Infidel Southside Backside- are proud to announce that they're not only mover/shakers but they're also esteemed gold members of the Wiggly-Jiggly Club, too.

Lately, though, I'm starting to think that my right butt cheek is desperately trying to send me a message through a fat tissue Morse Code system that goes like this:
Twitch-Sag-Twitch-Twitch-Spasm-Still-Pulsate-Twitch
Can anybody translate that for me?
My left butt cheek remains wholly silent. It very well could be mute but I don't know since I haven't had my butt cheeks tested for disabilities.

The oldest Infidel daughter, Sunbum, confided in me this weekend that she too felt weird involuntary movements in her right butt cheek. Naturally this led to a lengthy discussion delving into the deeper meaning of it all:
Sunbum: "My right butt cheek feels weird whenever you play your loud cantina music.....almost like it has a pulse.....pulsating to the rhythm of the beat."

Me: "Ewww, a pulse? That's one place you don't want your heart located- just think of the nasty stuff it'll pump through your body."

Sunbum: "True dat!"

Me: " My right butt cheek feels a lot like when I was pregnant with all you mini-Infidels. It's almost as if something is on the inside kicking and pushing and trying to get out. That's all I need is for my butt cheek to suddenly birth yet another butt cheek. I don't want another mouth to feed or another butt crack to wipe."

Sunbum :(Laughing Irreverently At My Butt Cheek Pains And Concerns)

If I ever somehow decipher the mysterious Butt Cheek Morse Code I'll post the key here. Maybe all of our individual butt cheeks are working as a collective with bits and pieces of a bigger apocalyptic message and we must work together to solve the mystery before it's too late!

I am so sending this post to M. Night Shyamalan for screenplay consideration.

I Have A Very Exciting Announcement.....I'm Finally Ready To Write My First Novel!

As you know I've been seriously mulling over the prospect of penning a book for quite some time. I've spent many a night tossing and turning while visions of a glossy book jacket bearing an author line that reads: By Elasticwaistbandlady, danced in my head.

I could feel the distinct presence of the muse of inspiration visiting me this morning as she flitted about, enlightening me with a brilliant story idea. Yes, I could literally feel this presence way down deep into the darkened recesses of my bowels.......literally.

What kind of book am I planning to write? Well, technically there's no specific categorical label for my kind of stuff just yet but I'm working on it. I think you could accurately describe this piece as being in the newly created (by me) 'Gastrointestinal Horror' genre. Barnes and Noble will likely shelve my novel somewhere in between Stephen King and Paula Deen. Maybe they'll let my book get all close and comfy on the same shelf as Morgan Spurlock and his revolutionary 'Supersize Me' documentary.

So, the basic premise involves international intrigue and high stakes drama that all takes place within the confines of my body.

I work non-stop to bring home the bacon between Tuesday and Thursday every week-- as a result I'm working so hard I don't even have time to fry up the bacon that I'm bringing home. We rely fairly heavily on frozen foods and leftovers for family sustenance on these two days. Well, as you know the Infidel family is ALL about diversity......so much so that we ate burritos for lunch yesterday, leftover sauerkraut and sausage for dinner, and I polished off 8 piping hot potstickers fresh from the skillet for breakfast this morning.

See, I bet you didn't even know that Mexico, Germany, and greater Asia were embroiled in a war, did you? But they are. Right inside the battlefield of my stomach. I'm a sort of pacifist and I can't tell you how much all this strife has made my heart burn. I may need to enlist the assistance of Major Maalox to come up with some battle strategies.

Anyway, my book will be comprised of 3 short stories entitled:
The Sauerkraut Always Rings Twice
Little Shop Of Burrito Horrors
The Potsticker Strikes At Midnight

I need to work out some pertinent details with my publisher-- especially my plan to have this novel printed on comfy 2-ply paper in case my tales of gastrointestinal horrors scares the everliving sheet out of the reader.

*My oldest daughter, Sunbum has been experiencing "difficulties" since yesterday, too. Sunbum's war only involves Mexican and German in-fighting, though which is kind of ironic because Mexico and Germany comprise Sunbum's ethnic background. She's at war with herself. Read all about it on her blog HERE.*

A Surfer Suffering From The Stomach Flu Will Never Describe It As Being "Totally TUBULAR!"

The entire Infidel family suffered from a particularly distressing case of the stomach flu last week. It was horrible. It was revolting. It was gastrointestinal drama at its peak as 8 people jockeyed for position to score seating on the 2 commodes in the Infidel household.

So, statistically, the odds of winning the toilet-line lottery in enough time without resorting to doing the demoralizing Cheek Clench-Abdominal Squeeze dance combo were not looking too good.
Along with an intimate knowledge of Montezuma's Revenge, Papi also brings a poignant wisdom; ingrained during his days as a young boy growing up in the mountainous suburbs of Mexico City. The wisest of his platitudinal phrases was oft-repeated last week: "My Churro machine is broken.....it's only making pancakes now."
Isn't my Papi like, so totally tubular? Well, I guess he had a few days last week that he wasn't quite totally tubular, but he's definitely back on his tubular game this week. We all are!

*I'm working on putting together a Bloggy Sox Exchange. Let me know if you're interested and I'll type up some details and post it this weekend*

I Wonder If The Christian Rock Group P.O.D Was Actually Named After Passive Odor Dispensers? (Their Music Does Stink, After All)

While roosting on the potty at Kroger's grocery store last week I noticed these air-freshener devices strategically placed throughout the bathroom.

I think it's most unfortunate that Kroger's resorted to using such cut-rate sanitizing tools. Why would they assume that something labeled as "passive" would put up a valiant deodorizing effort in fighting the evil armies of malodorous poopy particles?

Now, I've been characterized as demonstrating extreme passive/aggressive behavior on occasion- but never just solely passive. Basically, I'm a hardcore Aggressive Odor Dispenser. I laugh haughtily in the face of the feeble stink combat skills that a simple Passive Odor Dispenser brings to the Stankfest Games.

Yes, I entered into fierce one-on-one competition with the Passive Odor Dispenser, determined to prevail. I'm proud to say that through diligent straining and struggling I was declared the definite victor in our intense match.

My win proved to be a loss for the other restroom patrons, though.

*The Passive Odor Dispenser at humor-blogs.com only works when you pull their finger*

Behold--The Magical Cleansing Powers Of The Dollar General Store!

Me and my marshmallow moon pie-eating hordes of Infidel kinfolk are unabashed Dollar Store snobs. So, based on a selective match of 29 points of Dollar Store compatibility Dollar General sinks right to the lowest rank amongst our special little Dollar Store caste system. Why? Well mainly because Dollar General loosely translates into "In General, Nothing Is Priced At A Dollar."

Aside from their somewhat insidious misnomer of a store name they do possess a most amazing main attraction that I'm a trifle reticent to share with the world at large. See, one small step inside their linoleum-floored store and you'll immediately sense that it acts as some sort of cosmic Ex-Lax pulling and tugging at your innards and manipulating the forces of nature until you end up frantically doing the crab walk/butt clench combo down the seemingly endless ceramics kitsch aisle to find the bathroom and avoid the shame of having to purchase an emergency pack of Dollar General cotton panties stamped with a giant red 'IRREGULAR' mark.

I harbor an irrational phobia of public restrooms and yet even I'm powerless to resist the magnetic pull of the Dollar General toilets. Inexplicably, even when completely devoid of "poop feeling" I know that I'll soon be visiting their bathrooms before paying for my lava lamp keychain and Goo Goo Cluster candy. I should write a book about my Dollar General bathroom experiences. I'd call it 'An Inconvenient Poop.'

Anyway, I would so rock the casbah as their ad campaign manager by playing up this unique angle of their business. In such a crowded Dollar Store market its very important to focus attention on your niche.

Infertile women all over the world have scurried to Naples, Italy just to sit in a miracle chair that entices with a promise of delivering babies. People always flock to sites that they believe will miraculoulsy cure their medical ailments. So, Dollar General can advertise how they benevolently lend a hand to the constipated public with a slogan like, "Give us your plugged-up, your bloated, and your intestinally-challenged masses." I envision entire pilgrimage tours to the Dollar General store organized by the Irritable Bowel Syndrome Association of America.

Oh Dollar General, you may never have served in an official military capacity but I salute you and your position as a General of Poop Authority and I award you the special Infidel Brown Medal Of Honor.

The Ties That Bind.......Are Made Out Of Toilet Paper!

It's a Smiling Infidel Theme Day! Yay! See if you can guess the cleverly hidden main idea that runs through each short paragraph.

My boss had the nerve to give me my paycheck in this pissy little envelope. Third best? Third best??!!!!? Who is he kidding? None of his other employees would have gotten their bruised and battered body out of their completely demolished truck to go finish their route. None of them have gone to work the day before delivering a baby. I'm a distinct cut above the rest of his stable warehouse of manual labor donkeys. So, I waved the envelope in his face while haughtily demanding to know, 'What's The Deal, Yo?' My boss just laughed, until I told him, 'If you don't make me number #1, I'm going to throw my number #2 at you.'
I watched with eyebrow-raised interest as Mini-Infidel Daughter The Second, ironically enough, nicknamed, Monkey, crawled stealthily across the living room carpet on her belly like a jungle predator waiting to pounce. I wondered aloud if she was preparing for a home turf war by practicing some form of 'Guerilla Warfare Technique.' Monkey simply looked at me and grunted. So then, I lept off the sofa and went running all crazy towards her with my fingers extended and wiggling, while frothily yelling, 'Oh yeah? I'm declaring Gorilla Finger (thanks Urban Dictionary!) Warfare on you!' Monkey started screaming and frantically trying to retreat before finally surrendering to me and my imitation Gorilla Fingers. Sweet Gorilla Finger Victory! Perhaps I've stumbled upon a useful weapon to use on the battlefield.
(If I ever chance to meet Naomi Watts or Jessica Lange, I'm going to tell them they smell like Gorilla Fingers!) And finally, amid a chorus of vocal discontent emanating from my girls' room, I peeked in to find them walking in circles around the perimeter of their bedroom. Apparently, they feared that my son, Buster, had taken up permanent residence in the toilet, and they all got struck with poop feeling at the same exact time. Buster instructed the girls through the bathroom door, that the best way to stave off crap cramps is to walk around in circles.....and so they did. Hear the song playing? That's Soul Coughing's song 'Circles.' It goes: "I don't need to walk around in circles, walk around in circles, walk around in circles....." Well, how very nice for him. Apparently, he doesn't have to share his crapper with a gaggle of bloated siblings.

Even Sleeping Beauty Had A Special Shield To Keep Bird Poop Off Her

I didn't want to move in any closer to capture this Kodak moment and startle my droopy man boob prey. So, you'll have to put on your bifocals to examine the minute details of this picture......if you dare.

What is that white stuff caked all over him, you may ask? Is it tribal warrior markings? Is he a fallout victim from a Liquid Paper factory explosion? Did he get run over by a county truck painting median lines on the road? No. Why, it's nothing but 100% genuine bird crap! Yes, Rip Van Winkle awoke from his slumber with a long flowing beard and tattered clothes. But Houston's very own Tit Van Tinkle will arise from his stupor to find himself being used as a human Port-A-Potty for the entire avian population situated around his home. He had a lit cigarette smoldering in between his fingers too. I would expect nothing less from him.

I wonder what he's dreaming about while the birds line up on the tree branches above to take a dump on him? Maybe he always had aspirations of living life as an immobile park statue? Perhaps he's silently humming a little B.J. Thomas tune? "Bird Poop Keeps Falling On My Head.........."

You Can Take The Girl Outta The Beach, But You Can't Take The Beach Outta The Girl. True Dat, Beach!

Whatever happened to that perky little surfer girl we all grew to know and love? Did she suffer a horrible fate from a tragic hair dye overdose? Admit it, it's more than a little schizo to go from bubbly blond on the movie screen to bouncy brunette on your TV show. In my mind, I like to envision that one day Gidget happens upon a group of pre-EMO girls laying about all glazy-eyed on the beach, toking it up, and listening to the Rolling Stone's 'Sympathy For The Devil.' Annoyed by her endless sparkly chatter, and spontaneous singing of the Beach Boy's Greatest Hits, they punish Gidget with the worst bikini strap snapping Malibu has ever seen. It was the 'SNAP!' heard round the world. Huh, apparently, not everybody wishes they could be California Girls.

Nobody else could surf like the amazing Gidget. Where else can you freakin stand still on top of a surfboard while a sunny ocean backdrop scene plays behind you to give the appearance that you're actually in the water? Yeah, I could get my fat arse up surfing too with a few cinematic tricks and gravitational miracles. Ain't nobody going to mistake me for a Little Surfer Girl, though. Go on a Surfin Safari with Gidget? Sure, let me get my gun. So, Paula Cole wonders, 'Where Have All The Cowboys Gone?', but I'm insatiably curious as to 'Where Have All The Gidgets Gone?' Did she marry that lame duck, Moondoggie, and spawn a whole gaggle of preening and useless beach bums? Did she make a pact to sell her soul in exchange for becoming an immortal beach bunny? What? And then, while cruising through H-Town last week, all of my Gidget questions gained an immediate answer.

Gidget Goes Houstonian! Instead of 'Beach Blanket Gidget,' she now stars in 'Red Realtor Jacket Gidget,' along with it's sequel 'Straight Up 6% Gidget!' Yes, Gidgets alive and well! If you consider selling real estate in an over saturated housing market trapped in a downward spiral, alive and well.

I wonder if she shows houses in her old, termite-damaged Woody with surfer boy Jack Johnson cranked up on the antiquated stereo system? Listening to Jack Johnson loses you any coolness points you may have once had, Gidget. Does she still wear her teeny-weeny, ruffled bikini underneath her modest realtor uniform so that she can peel it off and go running to the beach at a moment's notice? Oh wait, we live an hour away from the oil contaminated, grungy waters of the Gulf Of Mexico. Maybe she doesn't mind swimming with the debris and brown submarines floating in Houston's famed bayou system? The only Surf that Gidget will find around Houston sits on a shelf at the local grocery store's cleaning aisle. Surf laundry detergent doesn't come with a surfing board. No. Instead, it's usually used in conjunction with an ironing board.

Oh Gidget, California Dreaming on such a Houston day.

The Manor Estate Known As 'Mellow Yellow'

Out of all the strikingly gorgeous color combinations in this world, why, oh why, would anyone choose to throw brown and yellow together? WHY?!!!??? The mini-infidels and I don't actually call this home, 'Mellow Yellow Manor,' because Donovan probably still has some sort of copyright law attached to his 60's classic. However, we do refer to it as 'The PooPee House.' See what I did there? I made my very own compound word! Poo aptly describes the skid mark brown trim circling around the eaves and splashed across the garage doors. I'm ever so glad they didn't go with a chunky texture paint. Yes, that definitely would have increased the 'EWWWWWW' factor to the infinite 'EWWWWW' power. The Pee part adequately covers the yellowish hue selected to adorn the rest of the homes exterior.

I sincerely hope that the house never falls under a demolition order because I can just imagine the confusion it could potentially cause among the workers. They'd argue bitterly, one saying "We can't tear it down. The house is yellow. Everyone knows if it's yellow, let it mellow." While some of the other guys will chime in with a vociferous, "Oh yeah? But it's also brown. Remember, if it's brown, flush it down!" I fear that it'll launch a spirited battle not seen since the stadium Tastes Great-Less Filling days. Things could get very ugly.

Do you really want to instigate another Civil War, people? Then you must choose your house colors wisely. The power rests in your capable paintbrushing hands.

How Do You Say 'Pull My Finger' in Spanish?

I think that as proud Americans we can all recognize the profound impact that the Mexican and Latino culture has had on our society. I mean, thanks to Ricky Martin livin la vida loca and breaking down long held bon-bon taboos, we can now endlessly shake our own bon-bons to our little heart's content without fear of reprisal or torch bearing mobs. Thanks to Mexico and their culinary specialties, we can experience Montezuma's Revenge in a whole new way. The searing pain of heartburn with a spicy international flair. Viva! Ole! Aye Carumba! Thanks to inventive Mexican styled luchador wrestling, we no longer automatically think of Zorro when one asks the age old question of , "Wow, who was that masked man??!!!??" Instead it conjures up mental images of lumbering wrestlers outfitted in butt hugging Lycra tights like some sort of sausage casing for men. Nice.

Yes, we should definitely celebrate diversity and the beneficial elements it's brought into our lives. However, I'm getting a little irritated about the flow of Spanish speaking foreigners taking American jobs and contributing to a lowering of an acceptable living wage while propagating an almost slave trade environment because they'll labor for a ridiculously low amount of money.

Just last week, this issue really hit home with me. My own beloved resident Mexican, Papi, sat typing away at the computer while I lay in bed trying to drift off to sleep. All of a sudden, a deafening noise shattered the silence of our boudoir and it immediately snapped me to attention. I bolted upright in the bed and furtively looked around the room to see where it came from. That's when I noticed Papi smiling devilishly while leaning to one side and again the same explosive sound echoed through the bedroom once more. I couldn't believe my ears. Here was Papi, a fart amateur, horning in on my territory. Irate, I started chastising Papi for his flagrant flatulent disregard for me. Who does he think he is???!!? I have 32 years experience in the field of farting, and here's this damn Mexican who thinks he can just waltz into this country and take over my job. Unskilled fart laborer. What's next? Will I lose my lead fart position because Papi will work for less? Will he take a second job and outsource me for nose picking too? Where does the madness end?

Remember how our parents generation received dire warnings about the future of America due to the nefarious 'Brown Wave?' I bet they never expected that the 'Brown Wave' would literally take over good old-fashioned American 'Brown Wave-Brown Panty' ingenuity. Times.....they are a-changing.

The music today reflects the fact that like Thalia, I too, 'Amor A La Mexicana!' We both look stupid in sombreros too. Arriba!