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.

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.

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.

The Smiling Infidel Theater Proudly Presents........

A Reversal Of Fortune

Crikey! I wrote the script for this little beauty mahself. It's based on a gripping true story, and takes inspiration from Meryl Streep's classic, over the top, gnashing of teeth/ rendering of garments performance in the 1980's weepfest, "A Cry In The Dark".
*All the dialogue is spoken in a cornball Australian accent that only classically trained actors possess*

Here is our brightly colored protagonist, Dingo. So fresh. So munchy. So youthful and pink with a seemingly bright future ahead until tragedy strikes.....



MY BABY ATE

THE DINGO!!!!!

Well, to be more precise my baby ate a whole Dingo pack. Look at his face, you can see that alpha canine, Reagan, feels deeply ashamed at decimating an entire pack of Dingoes. Or maybe his countenance reflects remorse due to the churning blur of "real chicken bits" combined with pig lips and monkey hips, swirling around in his paunched belly.

I don't know mate, but I better win a "Best Accent" blogger award for my stunning narration skills. I also had to sacrifice and eat ten pounds of chocolate glazed donuts everyday to gain weight and dye my hair "Jethro's Black Gold" color, just for this role. Now, go throw another shrimp on the barbie and fetch me a medium rare Skippy burger, and bring me that Crocodile Hunter guy so I can poke him with a stick while saying, "OOOOHHH. He doesn't like it when I do this." Now, that I've mastered the same foreign tongue and mannerisms as Greg Wiggle, he'll beg me to give him a starring role in my next production. Then, he'll be mine! All mine.......

Let Me Hear You Say This......

Sock Is Bananas
B-A-N-A-N-A-S
BANANAS
This Sock Is Bananas!
B-A-N-A-N-A-S
Envy is one of the Seven Deadly Sins written about by everybody from Chaucer to Pope Gregory XIII to the screenwriters of the gruesome crime film, "Seven". I couldn't eat spaghetti for months after watching this movie. Do you hear me? Months! Envy corrupts your mortal soul and affects not only your salvation but also how you live your life and deal with your fellow man on a daily basis.

As such, I'm calling out my blogger feiend, Radioactive Jam, as a sinner, because he will soon feel the pain of extreme sock envy. RAJ thinks he's cornered the market on goofy monkey socks. Au contraire, mon frere! Monkey see, monkey do. My Monkey socks are better. WOO HOO!

I have a matched set that not only features an amusing monkey face but also has a cascading series of appealing, golden-ripe bananas, and profound life altering words printed along the bottom. I envision it as advice Gwen Stefani herself would issue if she ever became a self-help guru. "Just GO BANANAS, my child, and set yourself free".

Notice, that unlike Radioactive Jam who refused to allow his foot to be photographed for our entertainment purposes, I, The Smiling Infidel, have no such qualms. In fact, I once enjoyed a lucrative career as a monkey sock supermodel until a tragic mishap with some confused simians at the King Kong disco afterparty cut my promising future short. We all know very well how revolting GORILLA FINGERS can be.

So, how bout them nanas, Raj? Think you can outmonkey a monkey? Think we can literally go toe to toe in monkey sock competition? I bet you don't have the bananas to even try. I have three words for you.......BRING IT ON!

I Believe In Miracles!

Hallelujah and praise be! Generally, I'm not the holy roller type at all. However, amazing grace entered into my life today and I can only interpret it as a sign from above that somebody up there likes me. I mean, really, really likes me. (Channeling Sally Field always lightens my mood)

No, I didn't find an inspirational image of the Virgin Mary delicately etched into my Pop Tart this morning. Nor did I convert to the revolutionary Church Of The Farting Preacher. Instead, I've fretted countless hours this week about the Sharing Time assignment given to my Primary class at Church. It involves props, 7-8 year olds, and horror of horrors, public speaking. Whenever public speaking is required, I nearly hyperventilate, and I start praying like a school child for a Snow Day to cancel the event. Given that I live in Houston, my Snow Day prayers have never been answered. Thankfully, the Lord does work in mysterious ways.

Last night, I opened up my e-mail to find a glorious message declaring all Church meetings canceled today due to the heavy fumes permeating the Chapel because of recent renovations. It's a freakin miracle! The heavens doth opened up, and poured me a blessing, the likes of which my heart could not contain it all.

This means, of course, that I now have a whole other week to squander and procrastinate. HE knows me so very well. Amen.

Do Loose Lips Really Sink Ships?

Mine don't!

As you all well know, I lead a double life. I am also known as, Infidel:Mistress Of The Night, due to my occupation as an "Independent Contractor".

Daytime proves difficult for me to stay awake and alert. Often, I blog while my kids practice reading out loud, just to keep my borderline attention deficit mind focused. The more gregarious side of me emerges in the wee hours of the night.

So, I've forged friendships with many like minded people toiling during the graveyard shift too. I have Barbara at Exxon, Matzo Man and June at Krogers, Gus the overnight delivery guy, and my bald little Police Officer friend, I'll call, "Bubba".

I keep Bubba plied with a complimentary newspaper every day, and extra coupons on Sunday for his wife. In turn, he looks the other way as I careen around corners, run stop signs, and terrorize the neighborhood animals. Actually, I just stop to converse with the animals in the street using my annoying, high pitched faux British accent, and they usually scamper away frightened beyond belief. Dr. Dolittle, I ain't. Bubba and I laugh, we talk, we gossip, and I pinpoint him to neighborhood trouble. I'll tell him where I see raucous parties, and he keeps the drunken, pain in the ass teenagers out of my way. It's a beautiful symbiotic relationship.

Papi's always telling me that I need to stop lingering to talk so much. He says, "Just get your work done, girlie, and come home". Well, today, he had to eat his words because sweet vindication is mine.

Running late for work, Papi hurriedly flew out of the house this morning, forgetting to take even his wallet with him. Twenty minutes later, he called me all sheepish and embarrassed. He had been stopped for speeding and needed me to give him his license information. A few more minutes passed, and then Papi called me back. Turns out the officer who pulled him over was none other than my Bubba. After figuring out that Papi is indeed the husband of the chatty newspaper lady in the red truck, Bubba didn't write him a citation, telling him, "I'm only letting you go because I'm friends with your wife". SCORE!

My incessant middle of the night banter has led to the generous offer of seedy buns by Matzo Man, free hot chocolate from Barbara, and now curried favor with one of Houston Police Dept.'s Finest. HA! My blah blah saved Papi's butt. I kept him afloat. Maybe, I'm actually living up to my reputation as a "dinghy" wife, and it's not such a bad thing after all!

Skye Edwards - What's Wrong With Me

Oh Skye, Morcheeba just isn't the same without you.

However, her new solo effort is the official INFIDEL flavor of the week. Amazing song. LOVE IT! Albeit the video is also amazingly disturbing. The lovely Skye Edwards apparently is not a product of nature after all, but instead cobbled together from bits and pieces like a Nubian Princess version of Frankenstein. So, that's the real secret to her beauty, hmmmm?

Where's Igor when I really need him?

Shaking The Family Tree

While I'm on the subject of my little Stinkbug, Melody, I asked her today what color my shirt is (lime green), and she told me, "You give me chocolate and then me tell you". We've literally created a monster, but then given her genetic pedigree, I'm not all that surprised.

My Grandma Dee is a fiery red headed force to be reckoned with. Back in the days where no woman ventured into upper management she braved the uncharted frontier and found herself as the head of computer security for Miles Laboratories. Yep, that's where they make "PLOP PLOP FIZZ FIZZ Oh, what a relief it is", Alka-Seltzer. I had lots of those T-shirts as a kid and a lifetime supply of Flintstones chewable vitamins too. Point is, my Grandma is a hard line, domineering woman, that had solely men in her employ, and they trembled in fear before her.

From birth, our Melody has exhibited a lot of these finer qualities, including a fierce independent spirit. Melody also overcame the dominant Mayan Indian genetics to closely resemble my German/Irish Grandma Dee, right down to the squinty green eyes. As such, Papi has taken to calling her, "MINI DEE", instead of Melody.

We must train her to use her powers for good instead of evil.......

A Deeper Shade Of Soul

We live in a multi-cultural and diverse world. As such, we have felt parental compulsion to teach our children that judging others by the color of their skin is inherently wrong and displeasing to their Heavenly Father who regards us all as his spiritual sons and daughters. We've emphasized the philosophy of embracing color blindness so tenaciously that we are now reaping the fruits of our labors.

Our 3 1/2 year old daughter, Melody, cannot and will not distinguish colors at all.

In an effort to persuade her to learn them, I use the one technique she always responds positively to.......CHOCOLATE. So, last week I purchased the huge 2 pound bag of brightly hued, candy coated goodness that is M&M chocolate candies with the intention of teaching colors using a reward system. Whenever she correctly identifies the candy color, she's earned the right to claim it as her own. Man cannot live on the knowledge of M&M colors alone, so I change up the routine every few days. Yesterday, I asked Melody, "What color is my shirt"? (It was purple) Puzzled, she stared long and hard at my shirt before furrowing her brow and declaring, "Me not know". After a week of working on color concepts with her, I lost my patience and rudely sighed while brusquely telling her, "Fine then Melody. What color is my butt"? To which she smiled and yelled out, "WHITE"!

That earned her a whole sandwich bag full of M&M's.

The Smiling Infidel Theater Presents........

The movie extravaganza known as , "Snakes On A Plane", opens in theaters today!

I'd like to think of myself as a sort of well rounded Renaissance type of woman, (emphasis on the well rounded part), who enjoys acquiring new talents and skills. So, now I'm going to try my hand at screenwriting. Today, will see the advanced blog screening of my film project proposals bound for Hollywood executives.

You know how movies go in spurts? One genre or plot will find wild success, and other film projects will typically scramble to follow suit and capitalize on the trend. Remember all those body switching movies of the 80's, kicked off by Tom Hank's flick, "BIG", only to find a resurgence now in a new millennium with the remake of "Freaky Friday", and "13 Going On 30"? I think "Snakes On A Plane" will kick off a new era of a different kind of action movie combined with upfront honest titles.

Without further ado, allow The Smiling Infidel Theater Productions to lull you into a euphoric mood with a perusal of our exciting film offerings below. Possibly, coming to a cinema near you in the future.

Now, START scrolling downwards to gawk at the proposed setups that I'm just waiting to be greenlighted.............

CAKES On a Plane!

A group of ecstatic Weight Watcher members, returning from their complimentary trip won for most pounds lost, find themselves a victim of the ultimate sabotage. Jealous Jenny Craig conventioneers willfully distribute cakes and assorted calorie dense, sugary sweet, completely irresistible treats throughout the cabin and overhead compartments. Facing the moderation fears they have worked so diligently to overcome, the trapped bevy of newly svelte Weight Watchers silently pledge to stay calm and not touch the offending pastries, but one lick of delectable cream cheese icing off the tip of a finger instigates a manic feeding frenzy. Chaos and havoc ensues as the flight attendants lock themselves in the galley out of sheer terror. By the time the plane lands, half have eaten their way into a sugar comatose state, while the other half have emergency personnel slicking them up with Vaseline for easier removal from the aircraft.

Atkins Diet Products have offered to bankroll this one for me. Body By Jake Inc. wanted in too, but when I nixed the title, "JAKES On A Plane", they rescinded their offer.

RAKES On A Plane!

A seemingly uneventful flight from Salt Lake City to Palmyra, New York turns ugly when a gaggle of rogue Three Stooges impersonators start performing their routine on the plane. Hijinks abound when they pull the old upside down rake trick in the aisles and people inadvertently walk into them, thus smacking themselves silly upside the head. The action heats up as a group of Jerry Lewis impersonators on their way to to perform at the MDA telethon, take them on in a midair rumble. Chaos and havoc ensues as more than a few innocent bystanders are poked in the eye, bopped on the head, and told some really corny jokes that only the French could appreciate.

FLAKES On A Plane!

Or is it??!!!???

This screenplay is largely inspired by the "What's grosser than gross?" jokes that I grew up with.

The action takes place as the unsuspecting passengers on an extended flight to the Capital city of Djibouti which is also, head smackingly enough, Djibouti. There's no finer vacation destination than Djibouti in the summertime. Personally, I love any country that sounds like 'yo booty' when pronounced. Eventually, they give in to their ravenous hunger, and thanks to scaled back airline amenities, are only served a cereal breakfast as opposed to a hot meal.

Happily, they crunch away, enjoying every moment of the scenic flight while eating their Bran Flakes. Only, unbeknownst to them, a cargo of biomedical waste has found itself stored on board rather than the cargo hold, and has been unwittingly unleashed in the galley. It's an entire wooden crate full of crusty scabs, and now the box has turned up mysteriously empty. Chaos and havoc ensues, as well as a shortage of airline passenger barf bags.

The next scene finds them making an inexplicable detour to New York City and discovering that grosser than gross is exemplified by a man they witness jumping off the Empire State building and landing on a bicycle with no seat.

The Edited Children's Version Of "Snakes On A Plane"

Featuring everyone's favorite plastic celebrities outside of Hollywood, The Little People!

Here's the script outline:

The ill fated journey of the Little People begins as they board the special Little People "short" plane bound for the World renowned Chicago Zoo for a special seminar on, "Differentiating Feces In The Animal World". While en route, a cargo of dangerous plastic snakes wiggle out of their crates and havoc and chaos ensues.

True to action/horror movie stereotypes, we implausibly find our little friend, Omar, taking the helm of the plane instead of the Captain seated behind him. Why, you may ask? Because everyone knows that regardless the situation, minorities get axed first in these films. People engaging in any sort of amorous tryst are usually next up on the chopping block. We had to delete those steamy "Mile High Club" scenes between the two clowns to qualify as child friendly. We're still cleaning up the walls from smeared white face paint and vacuuming up little curly orange hairs (hopefully from their clown wigs. EEEK!) out of the plane's lavatory.

Every child's movie has to include a moral of the story. The Little People learn that while real, live, cold-blooded reptiles, pose an imminent threat to real, live, warm-blooded people, plastic persons are the preferred prey of plastic snakes. Thus, teaching the kids that everything on Earth likely has a predator looking to destroy them. So, might as well face adversity with a maddening plastered on smile that never fades, just like the characters in our little tale. Life simply isn't all sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows everything children. Let's just say that there's going to be some vacancies in Little People Town. Immediate occupancy available.

The Five People You Meet On Your Way To.......

Hometown Buffet!

Why is this man smiling? Because he had a brush with Smiling Infidel greatness five years ago, that's why.

That's right, I've actually met Mr. Samuel L. "Snakes On A Plane" Jackson. As customary in our quest to sate our refined culinary palate, the family and I chose to dine at one of the more upper crust establishments that North Houston has to offer, Hometown Buffet. Fine, it's not exactly champagne gourmet fare, but they do serve a mighty delicious prime rib. The silvery buffet steam table ambiance is also superb.

There we sat at our table for 7, gorging ourselves silly on fried shrimp because it happened to be Seafood Night, when suddenly I noticed a distinctly familiar man sitting at a table directly next to us, on the other side of the white beadboard partition. He sat there in his trademark red Kangol cap focusing on his plate while quietly eating. Well, after a few more trips to the buffet bar to soothe my nerves, I worked up the courage to approach him. Shakily, I asked, "Hey, has anyone ever told you that you look exactly like Samuel L. Jackson"? Startled, he looked up from his plate of chicken fried steak smothered in cream gravy, and with a mysterious grin, accompanied by a deliberate shake of his Kangoled head, said, "No. Nobody has ever told me that before". Well, by the time I scampered around the partition, leaving a treasure trail of breaded shrimp in my wake, to tell Papi that I just talked to a mega star, he abruptly disappeared, leaving nothing behind except a half finished plate of chicken fried steak. I've eaten the chicken fried steak there before. I did him a favor.

Okay, boys and girls, Mormons and Wiccans, leftists and right wingers, taste great and less filling, boxer and brief, paper and plastic, sinner and saints alike. Share with the masses your very best celebrity encounter. Of course, I also actually shook hands with Greg from The Wiggles. Jealous much?

The Death March.....Now With Conga Line Dance Steps Added To It!

The passing of one life into another is never an easy transition for those of us left behind. Here at the home of The Smiling Infidel, we feel and understand this sense of tragic loss, and we'd like to offer our unique services to bring enlightenment and mirth to you in your time of profound need.

My daughter, Sunbum, and I are always completely somber and reverent whenever we pass a cemetery......... with the exception of last Tuesday. As we drove past the lushly green graveyard around 9:00 A.M., a funeral service had already begun. Just so you know, we are complete Broadway Musical freaks. I've lost count how many times we've sat and watched "My Fair Lady", both at home and on stage. So, as we silently grappled with our inner morbid curiosity that usually coincides with such an event, we asked ourselves "I wonder who died?", "I wonder how old they were, and how they passed from this mortal realm?" When, all of a sudden, Sunbum and I simultaneously burst into song. A rendition of the classic My Fair Lady tune, "I'm Getting Married In The Morning", revised to "I'm Getting Buried In The Morning. Ding Dong The Bells Are Gonna Ring"!

Epiphany! I think we have a bright future as funeral entertainers. Forget Oliver Twist and the paid mourners of the past. Parodied show tunes is the newest innovation for a good time to be had by all at your next graveside family gathering. I'm going to start printing up business cards right away, but I think handling advance reservations will be tricky and possibly incriminating.

Stop The Insanity!

"WTH? Mr. Xavier gave you a better name than my Mommy and Daddy gave me. Do you wanna trade birth certificates"?

I don't usually blog on Sunday because I believe in keeping the Sabbath day holy, but I just couldn't resist expounding on my prior rant about atrocious names foisted on living, breathing human beings instead of on a potted Fern or pet tarantula where they belong.

1. There's a local lady who's extremely active in the community. I see her name printed all the time in our regional newspaper, volunteering with a senior citizen center and various Church fundraisers. Turns out she's also a woman of fine Republican distinction. Her name? PERKY SAVAGE! I linked her name because I didn't think anyone would believe me. Perky Savage is my arch nemesis. Between a Smiling Infidel and a Perky Savage, we cancel each other out. In the end, there can be only one.....

2. My deceased stepfather had parents born in rural, 1920's era Mississippi, which likely explains their odd names. ORA LEE (yes, that is pronounced like orally. Sick freak.) and RUFUS CLAUDE. They used both first and middle names at all times too. My stepdad had the honor of being born last into the family during a time of Elvis and Western movie madness, hence his name, DON WAYNE. I kid you not. So, while pregnant with my brother, Rufus Claude, offered to pay my Mom $10,000 cash if she would consent to naming my brother after him. As greedy as my Mother is, she just couldn't do it. I mean, look, I love Rufus Wainwright as much as the next gal, and I still shake my rump to Rufus and Chaka Khan, but there are limits.

3. Charity Coffin. This is the special pine box option for the more destitute of clients down at Budget Mortuary.

4. A customer on my route has an obviously Swedish name, Benny Klingenporn. Every time I see that name though, I think of "Klingon Porn". Nasty. Now, we know what Lieutenant Commander Worf was really doing in his offhours on the Starship Enterprise.

5. An American toddler named Somerset, and a blog that I ran across where the husband wants to name the kid Adenine. Yes, Adenine, like the nucleobase in forming nucleotides. The Mom wants to name the kid, Abilene, which isn't much better. Has she actually been to Abilene, Texas before? It's a dusty, redneck infested pit. Hardly child naming inspiration there.

6. Dear Mr.Ron Howard: Place of conception names are gross for children to be forced to ponder your coital exploits every time they say or write their monikers. Yet, you saddled each and every one of your offspring with a conception name. Oh, and "The Grinch That Stole Christmas" was a really sucky movie.

Thanks a lot, Posh Spice and David Beckham for infecting the World with your tacky pop culture, oddly named children, and death knell anorexia look. Anyone seen a picture of David Beckham's hefty sister, Joanne? Looks like Posh is a skeleton now because Joanne refuses to pass the casserole dish during family dinner.

Guess Who's Coming To Town!

I'll give you a clue, it ain't Santa Claus.

This exciting announcement lied in wait for me to open yesterday in my e-mail inbox, and the entrepreneurial side of me started to ponder the many clownarific possibilities.

Do you have a special coulrophobe in your life? Sure! Don't we all? Exciting news then boys and girls, The Insane Clown Posse concert tour is finally coming to an arena near you.

Buy a ticket for you and your coulrophobic friend. Make it an evening they'll never forget with a gift package of the newly released DVD, "Killer Clowns From Outer Space", 2 Insane Clown Posse backstage passes, and one of these sweet little clown phobia T-shirts, all tucked inside a dual use hyperventilation friendly paper bag that boasts a super smiley BOZO face upon it. If you call and order right now, we'll even throw in a set of these superb "Evil Clown Nesting Dolls", guaranteed to bring hours of enjoyment.

This WOO-WOO moment of the day brought to you by Lianne's Maternal Alchemy wisdom: I've heard tale that retaining a deeply seeded fear of clowns results from repressed memories of alien abduction. It seems that the aliens take on a clown appearance to calm frightened children abductees. This apparently dispels the myth of aliens having superior intellect. The guy who wrote "COMMUNION", Whitley Strieber, documented these things and says that it happened to him while residing in a Northwest suburb of Houston. Ummmm, I passionately HATE clowns and I've lived in a Northwestern suburb of Houston since childhood. Definitely WOO-WOO feelings here!

The Delays - Valentine

Our musical obsession of the last few months revolve around all things, The Delays.

This psychedelic video is a visual masterpiece and the peppy song makes me want to don some leg warmers and do aerobics. There's just something so oddly feminine and sweet about the lead singer too. It's a classic that I guarantee won't garner much deserved American airplay. Valentine also became the official World Cup Soccer theme this summer for the BBC.

I know who you are and I know that you don't click on you tube links posted on blogs. You'll regret not listening to this at least once though. Do you really want to chance living with a lifetime of regret? I didn't think so. Push the play button already.

To Know Me Is To Love Me

My Kroger Love Nest

After years of waiting and wondering, it's finally happened. I've been hit on by an old man. In the interest of political correctness, I've earnestly campaigned to diversify my fan club for quite some time to include people of all races, ideologies, nerd level, and watermelon seed spitting abilities. Alas, the interest of a white man from the baby boomer generation eluded me.........until now.

Frequent Kroger shoppers that we are, the employees mostly know me and my Infidel spawn by name. My newest admirer works the graveyard shift because he's a teacher by day. Due to my glamorous occupation as a newspaper slinging "Lady Of The Night", I visit him frequently in the quiet pre-dawn hours. We've all come to know him as "Matzo Man". Whenever I park next to his car, it's usually filled with cases of matzo crackers, so I assumed that he must be Jewish. That is, until I noticed the huge Bible in the back window with the giant cross on the front. Turns out, he's on a low sodium diet and he picked up the unsold matzos at the end of Passover for a bargain basement price.

I've known him for years. He has a daughter older than me. I've met his wife. He knows my Papi and kids too. Okay, so it started with him sneaking up behind me in the store two weeks ago and he started rubbing my shoulders. I nearly pulled an Angela Merkel Chancellor defensive death move on him. Then, early Saturday morning, he strategically cornered me into a vulnerable position along the desolate Goldfish aisle and impishly said, "Hey, do you want my buns"? Ummm, what? Matzo Man repeated his line and then brought forth a plastic bag containing two sandwich buns left over from a package of 8. I rejected his buns because they looked pasty white and seedy. My Papi understands and appreciates the fact that I don't care for white buns! Then he proceeded to follow me through the store and placed his hand over mine while I pushed the shopping cart. Personal space intruder alert, personal space intruder alert!

What in the World has possessed my Matzo Man? Could it be the seductive way I sashay through the clearance section in my dollar store flip flops picking up dented boxes of Pop Tarts and nearly expired pickles? Is it the concentrated discernment I use to pick out only the fluffiest brands of toilet paper? Is it the allure of the ultra sexy polo shirts and khaki shorts that I always wear? Could I have unwittingly enticed him by my clandestine wedgie pulls that I thought nobody else could see? Perhaps, it's the way I shamelessly croon off key to the delights of Kroger Radio? Especially when they're playing "Everything I Own", by Bread, and "The Pina Colada Song". Maybe the mesmerizing jiggle of my enormous azz is the culprit? Could he have mistook my heavy breathing from loading newspapers as a veiled ploy? Could it be that he just likes fat, filthy, sweaty women covered in newspaper ink?

Why, oh why, have I been cursed with such irresistibly vixenish ways?

I'M ALL SMILES!!!

Why am I all smiles? Well, mainly because I have a gigantic pimple on my right cheek. Yes, that's correct, an oozing blight overshadowing my otherwise ravishing beauty. It's a cruel..... cruel summer.

Luckily for me, the pimple of doom is strategically centered on my crater deep right cheek dimple. Yeah, I have a pimple on my dimple. I've always enjoyed my dimple because I only have one, and that's relatively unique. My oldest son, Buster, is the sole winner of the genetic dimple lottery, and he sports his, smack dab in the middle of his right cheek too. Buster also has a Luke Skywalker butt chin that makes all the 8 year old girls swoon.

Since gaining weight, this means that I'm a true dimpled darling. You get to see a dimple from the front and dimples from the back too, but only when I'm wearing shorts.

I discovered that by smiling really wide, the pimple disappears into the vast nothingness of my dimple, leaving me looking like my usual unblemished plus-sized supermodel self. After parading around all smiley at Church yesterday, my cheeks ache, the facial muscles are screaming for mercy, and I think I made more than a few people nervous with my newly adopted Cheshire cat look. Seeing as how I'm The Smiling Infidel and all, I would have thought that my usual malevolent grin had conditioned the facial tissue. Tis not so. I suppose, there's a price to pay for beauty. I hearken back to the prophetic words of Fernando, who said "Remember darling, it's not how you feel, it's how you look; and you look mahvelous, simply mahvelous". Oh Fernando, ABBA was right to sing a song in tribute of your greatness. Can you hear the drums?

As a side note, did you know that Dimples is a fairly common name in India? Undoubtedly, a side effect of the over consumption of curry. So eat moderately when you go to the Indian Buffet, because America has enough problems without kids named Dimples running around.

Five Years Ago Today

Today is my Boo Boo's 5th birthday! He alternates between the boot scootin Texas cowboy look, super ninja, and Batman(minus the weird cod piece). Such a multi-faceted personality even at a young age.

A few things I've learned. Boo is Japanese slang for "fart", so essentially, if calling for my child by his nickname, it translates into, "Fart Fart". We must never relocate to Japan.

Everytime he hears the song, "Nephi's Courage", he gets all excited because his middle name is Nephi. Boo Boo always exclaims, "NEE PIE! That's ME"! That's the point where I fill in, "That's right. Now go and do the things the Lord commands, and quit terrorizing your sisters".

Boo Boo was born in our less than sterilized home, right in our very own bed. Sometimes, it feels a little weird to think about the fact that I'm sleeping on the exact spot where a new human being emerged into the World. He's the only one of our three homebirths the midwives actually got here in time to help with. Hooray for long drawn out excruciating labors!

I'm making him a cake shaped like a Lego block today. That's mainly because I'm pastry impaired and cake decorating with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Batman, or Scooby Doo seems way out of my league. Do you see that list of characters? Whoa, deja vu! It really is yesterday once more. As my girls clamor for Hello Kitty, Strawberry Shortcake, Cabbage Patch Kids, and My Little Pony merchandise, I feel like we're redoing the 80's all over again. Just with a much higher cost of living index, a very different Michael Jackson/Miami Vice/Dukes Of Hazard, and no parachute pants and Members Only jackets anywhere in sight.

Happy Birthday Boo!

Moths To The Left Of Me, Moths To The Right......

Here I am. Stuck in the middle with you.

Moth Update!

We've doubled up the armory placing not only the cloved orange in the pantry, but also positioning bay leaves on every shelf too. Yep, they're the moths on the run...... moths on the run. Sorry, sometimes my inner self switches over into Paul McCartney/Wings mode. So, while they're flying around all helter-skelter, we've ambushed them with fly swatter action. We're armed and dangerous, sucka!

My second oldest daughter, Monkey, noticed the growing accumulation of squished moths on the wall that we have to clean and remarked on the surprisingly pretty, shimmery irredescent silver mark that their flattened corpses leave behind. Then, Monkey turned to me all wide eyed and asked, "Mom, do you think that's where the ink in silver gel pens come from"?

If that were true, we could open our own silver gel pen factory. Heck, why stop there? We'll add a line of shimmery metallic eyeshadows, and maybe some body glitter too. A new hue of car paint. Irridescent Silver Moth Metallic. Beautiful and all natural. Making lemonade from lemons is my life philosophy! Are you inspired?

Edited To Add: This just in!!! Blogger Buddy, Wendela was inspired enough to make mention of me in her latest post. Thus feeding both the ego monster that lives in me, and the humble servant of gratitude that comes with someone appreciating my quirkiness.

The Battle Begins

I'm a war mongering woman, and this time I'm taking no prisoners. Our house has been invaded by an enemy so wretched, that even if you kill them they leave behind their larvae spawn that will eventually rise up and attack all over again. The cycle must be broken or they'll continually infest their chosen prey.........your pantry contents. Yes, this is an Indian Cornmeal Moth purported to be an irritating succubus creature, robbing hapless victims of their stored foods and squashing grocery budgets everywhere. I had to throw out almost all our boxed products thanks to them and it cost me a fortune to replace. Apparently, they particularly thrive on cornmeal thus giving them the name Indian Corn Meal Moth, and they enter one's home surreptitiously by hiding in store bought packages. They used my box of Cocoa Crispies as a makeshift Trojan Horse to gain entry into my pantry. Sneaky. Once in, they proliferate wildly (nasty horny moths), and eat everything in sight before pupating, and morphing once again into voracious mooches. Houston is ground zero for insects of all sizes, colors, creeds, ethnicities. We're so very diverse! The Indian Cornmeal moth has been the scourge of many a Houston family, but I'm determined to tenaciously fight their hostile takeover with all my magnificent weaponry.


This is my battle instrument of choice against these insidious vermin. Supposedly, a cloved orange is like Kryptonite to them, weakening, and driving them away to bug other people. Personally, I don't really have a problem at all with evicting them to go infest my neighbors house. So, I methodically studded the orange with a surge of hope in my heart for an end to all the madness. We try to avoid chemical sprays at all costs and we look to natural remedies first. Yeah, I DO own a pair of Birkenstocks and several tie-dyed shirts. What's it to you?

It was then that I realized that we had all the makings of an epic struggle going on right in our very own home. The studded orange looks an awful lot like the hellraisin Pinhead, am I right? So, essentially I'm sending in an effigy of him to fight my moth infestation battles.

Mothman, the fearsome winged creature that's incited many a nightmare and even inspired a movie, "based on a true story", no less. That's what I equivocate this skirmish to be. Pinhead vs. Mothman. Who will reign victorious? Who will go home with the consolation prize of one year free Bubbles car washes? Who will win the skanky groupie still hanging around from the Freddy vs. Jason fight? I'm putting my money on Pinhead. If he fails though, I have a back up super secret weapon to implement for round 2...............bay leaves.

Sharpe and Numan - Change your Mind

Feast your eyes upon this boys and girls! One of my favorite songs from a time when I had feathered hair, jelly shoes, banana clips, a neon T-shirt that proclaimed "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go", and thought that one day I would elope with my one true love, Simon LeBon.

I've never seen the video prior to yesterday but it features Gary Numan(yeah, the "Cars" guy!) vamping it up in black lipstick. The whole video resembles an alternate universe version of The Late Show. Look at the guy who's a ringer for a a young David Letterman, playing the keyboards while his very special psycho mime guest star glowers and boogies down simultaneously. Yeah, in YOUR French face, Marcel Marceau!

Now, THAT'S entertainment!

Something Wicked This Way Comes

My profound love of all things Febreze is no secret. This is truly a miracle product designed to whisk away the pungent sins that assault the olfactory glands. The many blessings that Febreze have brought into my home would boggle your mind.

Wal Mart has them on sale, so I stocked up. You can never have too many air freshener supplies on hand in case of a malodorous emergency. This seemed to prove fortuitous as there was an "incident" in our household yesterday.

I'm under a lot of pressure to finalize and perfect a skit and dialogue I wrote for the opening of our homeschool conference this weekend. When I'm under pressure, I tend to procrastinate and the stress manifests itself as "stomach problems". Ahem. So, yesterday, I'm traipsing backwards out of the restroom while simultaneously spraying copious amounts of Febreze in an obvious and discernible pattern. My daughter, Sunbum was sitting in my room and asked, "MOM? What the heck are you doing"? I told her in a very serious tone that I had taken it upon myself to perform an exorcism on the evil that resided within the walls of my bathroom. Sunbum perked up and said, "Yeah, um, okay. But why are you moving the Febreze can back and forth and up and down"? I didn't want to come across as sarcastic during such a somber moment but I responded as piously as possible, "Dur! I'm making the sign of the cross with the Febreze spray. How else can I ward off the evil spirits"?


I included this picture because it reminded me of the old Reese's peanut butter cup commercial where they talk about what a great combination peanut butter and chocolate is. "Febreze and BEANS. Some things were just meant to go together". You really shouldn't have one without the other. Amen!

Giving Credit Where Credits Due

Some people cite advanced college degrees as the source of their infinite wisdom, while others attribute their know-how to just attending "The School Of Life". Me? Well, apparently, I've garnered lots of information from decidedly less noteworthy places.

Last year, my friend, Miss Biotech Goddess, and I went to the Houston International Festival featuring India. As a cavalcade of costumed Indian Gods came strolling through the congested streets, posing for photo ops, and shaking hands, I realized that I knew who most of them were. Miss Biotech isn't ordinarily impressed with mundane me, as her pedigree and career have allowed her to travel the World. However, she was amazed that I rattled off the names of the elephant trunked God, Ganesh, and continued on with the others. Kali, Shiva, Krishna, Vishnu, and Brahma. Miss Biotech pointedly asked with a surprised tinged voice, "How did you know all that"? It was then that it dawned on me that I had absorbed that pertinent information on an episode of The Simpsons. I think the one where Apu gets married. D'OH!

So, I'm talking with Barbara at Exxon last week about music when she brings up a song that she didn't know the title of but has always loathed. Barbara starts singing, "I left my cake out in the rain, and I shall never have that recipe again......". Immediately, I blurted out, "That's MacArthur Park"! She looked shocked that I knew such an old song, but said, "Yeah, I think that's right. Where did you learn that"? Again, I allayed to the poignant very special episode of The Simpsons featuring Paul and Linda McCartney as guests.

When I first heard the song, "Sugar, We're Goin Down", by Fall Out Boy, I knew they had named themselves after a comic book character on The Simpsons. I regularly use these Simpsonisms for a quick laugh. "Hey is there a Butz here? Seymour Butz? Hey everybody, I wanna Seymour Butz"! Since we curtailed television two years ago, and I haven't watched The Simpsons, will it cause me to lose valuable I.Q. points? Will I lack the ability to impress family and friends with my tremendous wealth of knowledge? Will I ever again win a pop culture round of Trivial Pursuit in my lifetime? I wonder if I could earn an honorary degree from Simpson University?

It's A Small World After All

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Here at the House of The Smiling Infidel, we embrace a profound love of learning. We also hold steadfast to and liberally apply the wisdom of Aristotle's guidance to our everyday lives. "We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence then, is not an act, but a habit".

So, in the spirit of gaining knowledge through repetition and learning new things wherever one may happen to find themselves, we elected to purchase and hoist up a new shower curtain in the kid's bathroom featuring a detailed map of the World. I mean, what better place to increase your geography skills than when you're toilet bound? Based on the amount of time our kids spend using the restroom facilities, I'd say that we could potentially be churning out young National Geography Bee champions as soon as next year.

Battle Of The Sexes In Texas

As most of you know, we are the proud parents of FOUR daughters, and two sons. We've noticed a few glaringly obvious gender differences right from the beginning. Our boys will get mad and fight, but then it's all over and an hour later, they're back playing as though nothing ever happened. The girls, though, oh man, they will carry a grudge forever. They live and breathe for the drama and theatrics. As they teeter perilously close to fullblown puberty, the gender divide is widening.

Now, that our eldest daughter has reached the ripe old age of 11, Papi has made a few wry observations about parenting FOUR girls. First of all, Papi says that we should start buying Kotex feminine napkin stock, since in just a few scant years, we'll practically be the backbone of the company. As a sidenote, I laugh every time I read the term, "feminine napkin". Makes me think of tiny lace squares with embroidered flowers upon them, not products that you use to catch..............never mind.

The other stroke of parenting genius to emerge from Papi's mind came after planting a Vitex tree in our front yard last year. Pictured above is very similar to how our tree looks right now, but I was just too lazy to go out and take a picture. They're gorgeous and hardy in drought weather. They also go by the name Chasteberry, and the purple blooms were once used by ancient Grecians, who ground them up for use as PMS remedies. Upon learning of the beauty and practical application purposes of our Vitex tree, Papi said, "Crap, with four girls, and one hormonal woman, we might as well just plant our whole yard full of Vitex trees to offset the PMS symptoms. It'll make life easier for the rest of us that have to live in this house." That's the point where I always remind Papi that the lion's share of gender deciding chromosomes comes from the man, not the woman. Not to play the "blame game", but Papi largely contributed to the fact that we'll have four teenage girls in our house at one time all on himself!

The Wiggles Pump It

This video proves once and for all that Greg, not Anthony, is the hottest Wiggle.

A Rose By Any Other Name

Is there something about having the name, Sharon, that makes people a little off? I'm starting to see a disturbing pattern emerge here.

As a child, I had the most nightmarish baby sitter ever, named Sharon. My stepdad, already married to my Mother, was pursued relentlessly at work by an obese woman named Sharon, who was also married. Her grand pick up line? "Hey baby, do you wanna see my Rose Of Sharon"? My poor stepdad finally gave in, thinking that she would show him a vase with actual Rose Of Sharons(pictured above) in it, or a picture, but NO, she instead pulled out one of her saggy, floppy breasts to show off the giant red rose tattoo inked upon it. Flabbergasted, and possibly temporarily blinded, my stepdad said, "Oh good Lord, put that away"! Sharon smiled boldly and asked what he thought of her "Rose Of Sharon", to which my stepdad took an oath of silence. He ended up transferring out of there a few weeks later, mainly to get away from psycho Sharon.

Today, my Mom calls me with some disturbing news; her favorite bra was grievously stolen from her locker at the YMCA, while she exercised. No, she didn't lock it up like she should have. My Mom had her wallet, a gift bag for a friend and her lovely checkered ladybug pants (I have the matching pair!), all nestled together in the confines of the locker. Nothing else turned up missing but the brassiere. The lady who has a locker next to my Mom is named, surprise, surprise, SHARON, and the two of them have been feuding for the past several months. Nobody else was around at the time but Sharon. Usually, Sharon takes an inordinate amount of time primping and preening in the mirrors before she leaves. Well, today she left in a big hurry, still clad in her dripping wet bathing suit. So, my Mom is highly suspicious that she is indeed the unscrupulous bra thief. Irritated, my Mom had to meet her lunch date at a nice steakhouse; braless.

I told my Mom that I'd make her some giant posters featuring a replicated picture of the purloined brassiere this weekend to tape up in the YMCA dressing room.

REWARD
Missing Bra. White, stretchy, has extreme sentimental and uplifting value.
Answers to the name White Wonder.
Reward for any information leading to the recovery of the bra or apprehension of the wily bra thief who must be brought to justice.

Jonatha Brooke- Steady Pull

Dedicated to Patrick Henry who's trying to fight the internal love welling up everytime he hears Jonatha's stunning voice. Just because it's more sensitive music than you're used to, and you secretly enjoy it Patrick, doesn't make you a homo. Or does it?

You know that tingly feeling you get when you hear something really good? That's how I felt the first time I heard Steady Pull. Prepare to feel tingly!

By the way, this is probably the most Mormon Mom friendly music that I listen to. We can't all be hard core all the time. I own Air Supply's Greatest Hits and I know all the words by heart too, and I'm not ashamed.

Jonatha Brooke's video for "Better After All"

I LOVE Jonatha Brooke! We listen to her CD's repeatedly and never get tired of them. What an amazing talent she is, I only wish I could find more video footage for some of our other favorite songs from her. Most notably West Point, Linger, It Matters Now, and Steady Pull.

www.jonathabrooke.com streams all of her music on the website.

Age Before Beauty

I'm not sure how widespread these new self-checkout DVD rental kiosks are, but in Houston, we have McDonald's Red Box, and Kroger's now has a similar version of it too. Considering that Blockbuster Video charges $3.99 for new releases, while Red Box is only $1.00 a day, it's a rare bargain indeed. To every pro there has to be a con though. That's just how the universe works. Murphy always gets his cut of the action.

My eldest daughter, Sunbum and I, only went to Kroger's to pick up a few items for dinner, and to return a DVD. An elderly couple beat us there, and I could tell that they intended to take their own sweet time. So, I left Sunbum there in line and set out to buy our groceries. When I walked back up to the front, ten minutes later, she was still waiting. I forgot the refried beans, so I again strolled to the other side of the store, and came back another five minutes later, she was still waiting. Irritated, I asked her, "Sunbum, you're still here"? To which, the guy shot me a mean faced glance. Sunbum started to whistle to pass the time and he narrowed his eyes at us. Finally, I figured that our impeccable manners and patience wasn't working for us, so I might as well be as bitchy as possible. The old man asked a teenage sacker what movie he recommended, as the wife, hooked up to a nostril tube oxygen apparatus, scrolled through the computer menu for the umpteenth time. I dialogued with Sunbum in my most snooty British accent, "Yes Niles, what do you suggest off the menu for our evening jollies? Which flick possesses the robust bouquet to compliment a fine meal of steak tartar? Perhaps, we'd like to try the house special after all, because I don't care for the flavor of foreign productions". The man narrowed his eyes even further and threw in a snarly lip curl.

Finally, we hit comedy gold when the man turns to the young clerk and queries, "My wife really wants The 40 Year Old Virgin, but there aren't any more". That's it. Sunbum and I lost it, and started laughing like hyenas. The old farts and teenage boy, though, did not seem to catch the humor in it. Later, while at the checkout stand, I relayed the tale to the 60-ish cashier, and she started laughing too, as she told us in her southern accent, "OOH-WHEE! Let me know when they do find The 40 Year Old Virgin, and send him MY way"!

Dirty swingin seniors!

If Car Interiors Could Talk, What Would They Say?

Nothing follows up an entry on Islam better than a post with a little Jewish flavor to it. Yep, this blog absolutely meets stringent Kosher standards. Ahhh, but at least the two sides can co-exist peacefully here, at the home of The Smiling Infidel. Are you feeling the love, people?

Yesterday, we were in hot pursuit of an affordable bowling alley. Since when did the favorite sport of American white trash become so frickin expensive? So, we passed a building under construction with a lot of workers on top of the roof. My 8 year old son, excitedly called out, "Look at those guys on the roof Mom; but how come none of them have a fiddle in their hands"? Maybe this is a sign that we should lay off musicals for awhile or my son is going to catch the flaming gay virus, for sure. We watched the teen girly movie, Aquamarine, yesterday, and he proclaimed it his favorite movie of all time. I'm locking up my Streisand, Cher, and Erasure CD's, post haste!

I took my oldest daughter to work with me on Wednesday, and about a mile from our house, drove by a lady dizzily walking along the side of the road. From the look of the garish makeup deep in her wrinkles, and frizzy, bleached blonde hair, I'd put her age at a very minimum of a haggard 50. This woman had on denim shorts so teensy, her butt cheeks drooped out of both sides, and she wore a rainbowed tie dye T-shirt.........knotted in the front, thus exposing her pierced and stretch marked belly. She also had a lit cigarette dangling out of her mouth, and little red leather stiletto boots on. Quite a vision of demure loveliness. My daughter turned to me, aghast, and asked, "Mom, don't they have age limits in prostitution"?

Lastly, while driving and listening to the talk radio recap of the NASA space shuttle LIFTOFF last week, I felt that rumbly, tumbly feeling start. What could I do? I leaned over gently to the side and released my inner fart. Wow, that like, totally rhymes! My poor children were laughing and gagging simultaneously when I announced, "Houston, we have LIFTUP"!

The Smiling Infidel Goes Muslim

Well, for a few hours, anyway.

Our local mosque sent out a letter of invitation to Churches in the community, for the opportunity to experience and tour their newly built mosque, and also participate in a short presentation about Islam. Judging by their delighted reaction at our presence, I don't think there was exactly a thunderous Christian stampede, beating a path to their door. A representative of our Ward contacted them, and organized a meeting mainly for the youth of our Church, along with whoever else wanted to play voyeur too. I wonder if the nearby synagogue got an invitation extended to them also? I wanted to ask during the Q&A session, but decided that might be just a tad incendiary. I grew up in a semi-Jewish household. The animosity? I get it.

If you all receive a similar opportunity, make sure you upgrade to the V.I.P package. I hear that entitles you to a sneak peek at pictures of the 72 virgins, and all you can eat falafel patties. MMMM! So, the guy who did the talking is the superintendent of Iman Schools. No, you silly people, that is NOT where you learn to be a Somalian supermodel, and strut your burqua clad self all over the catwalk. He found lots of time to admonish America for injustices against black people and to liken the L.A. riots to the "fringe radical" Muslim skirmishes happening all over the World today. Hee-Hee, whooooo, I guess he kind of forgot that the riots didn't happen to involve suicide bombers or killing and detonating innocents in the name of their religion. Whoops, maybe he just had a momentary brain freeze? Interestingly enough, when asked about the true meaning of jihad, and a Quran perspective on Christianity, the guy all but looked at his watch and sheepishly said, "Whoa, look at the time". Yeah.

We then watched as everyone prepared for the prayer at sundown. As guests, we were allowed to stay and observe. Women and men are separated by a partition due to complete prostration on the prayer mats. Sheikh ALLAWI (wonder if he's related to Iraq's new P.M.?), commenced to singing amazingly long, drawn out prayers with nary a stop for breath, and selections from the Quran, while everybody faced Mecca. My oldest daughter leaned over and whispered, "Mom, that guy is kind of scary". I said, "Yeah, but I bet he'd kick American butt in a yodeling contest". We laughed quietly. Afterwards, they presented a lovely little buffet with my favorite treats like hummus with pita chips, baklava, fresh fruit. Alas, no pork rinds. We ate daintily as making a pig out of yourself in a Halal environment would most certainly be frowned upon. We also got gift bags with our very own English Quran in it. I promise we won't pull a "Gitmo". Both of our neighbors attend services there, and we got to socialize with some of the other members. The women, in particular, proved exceedingly friendly and easy to talk to. As luck would have it, I started a conversation with the only lady there who homeschools her kids. Her fellow Muslims disapprove of that , just like so many people I know at Church. We got along very well. Social pariahs always find each other. :) One thing I noticed; not everybody speaks Arabic. That essentially means that they can't possibly understand what the Sheikh is saying and that their responses, in turn, are largely just rote. Interesting.

Even though we got to wander around a place of worship in our bare feet, and that does really appeal to me, I think that my belief and testimony of the Christian faith remains safe and sound.

I'm Hopelessly In Love

It wasn't supposed to be this way. Once, I took my marriage vows, I promised that I would never pledge my love to anyone else. However, the past year has found me completely enamored with somebody I met on the Internet. He keeps me amused, raises my intellect, and most of all looks super sexy in nothing but feathers and a slinky garter. He does everything I ask of him too. That feels particularly empowering after living in such a patriarchal society. Upon demand, he'll pray, dance the funky chicken, poop, throw down his sofa pillows and clean them back up again, read a book, squat, crawl, moonwalk, sniff his armpits, jump on the couch, do the Y.M.C.A. and the Hokey Pokey, blow kisses, and most importantly, pledge his undying love to me. Don't ask him to do a naughty strip tease though. I guess some bestiality boundaries shouldn't be crossed. I LOVE you, subservient chicken, and I don't care who knows about it either! Finally, a worthy chicken dancing partner for me. With him by my side, maybe I'll make the Chicken Dance Competition Finals this year. Oh, to dream.

While I hate to share the love of my life, stop by, and give him some commands. He lives to abide by the rules of rapt obedience. Papi could learn a thing or two about how to treat a woman from him. Just shut up, and do as I say!
Subservient Chicken.

Nom De Doom

The day of reckoning has arrived, I'm finally admitting to my other Internet obsession aside from blogging. It's a crazy little forum where they passionately discuss entymology and onomastics; the study of naming origins. The opening page of Baby's Named A Bad, Bad Thing, features some priceless gems and snarky commentary on baby naming atrocities from the website's wily proprietor. Guaranteed for a hearty, trickle inducing laugh. Hope you're wearing your Depends!

So, here in the real world, I've noticed my fair share of craptastical names lately. As a paper carrier, I'm privy to not only addresses and phone numbers, but also customer names. Let me tell you, some of them have actually made me laugh out loud. Yes, the dreaded and reviled LOL! I do feel a twinge of pity for them occasionally. Only occasionally though.

My 17 year old high school Senior brother has a classmate named, Matt Pratt. Yes, I know he's really a Matthew, but didn't his folks think of the possible nickname beforehand? I always think, "Matt Pratt could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean".

A former commenter here and my ex-warehouse manager, Major, is actually Richard Payne. The man is only 25, therefore the nickname for Richard; Dick, had long since been established as a phallic euphemism. Think of being a young virile guy and introducing yourself as Dick Payne. He'll never be chosen as the cover model for Men's Health magazine with that name!

A boy in my son's class at Church has the misfortune of bearing the name, Russell "Rusty" Cox. I'm picturing it now. "Whoa there girls! Don't date Rusty, unless you've gotten yourself a tetanus shot"!

The esteemed, J.P. Fagg is one of my Chronicle customers. I'd like to suggest a few naming ideas to stay away from while choosing a moniker for his offspring. Absolutely, positively, NO Mia Fagg, Ima Fagg, Darrin Fagg (gay stuntman!), Tristan Fagg (I don't wanna know), Christian Fagg (Doesn't God hate atheist faggs?) or Gaylord Fagg. Similarly, other names should be avoided because of the many roll call lists that place last name first. Imagine it. Fagg, Hunter, or
Fagg, Gayla (A gala Pride parade?) or Fagg, Piper (Scottish musician run amok).

Another customer, who happens to tip very generously at Christmastime, is Dick Rentz. Now, I can see renting a tuxedo because you'll only need one a few times in your life, but some things need to be bought outright and not leased. A Dick may be one of them. If you don't purchase it, it'll always have a "mind of it's own". I really do like Dick Rentz, he's extraordinarily friendly but I do hope that he's at least on a rent to own option plan.

Our Church has possibly the worst sibling name set ever; Sampson and Lilah. EWWWW! What's next, a Romeo and Juliet, or a Tristan and Isolde sibling set? Someone should name their kids Al and Tipper as a tribute to the greatest couple of all time, seen immortalized in the sappy movie, "Love Story".

My brother's fiancee who's named April Lovely, had to endure school roll calls of Lovely, April and inevitably some redneck wise azz always shouted out, "NO, SHE AIN'T"!

Honorable Mentions go to: Candy Ball (melts in your mouth!), Crystal and Candy Cane(white-trash twins I went to school with), Liberty Bell(*sigh* At least she went by Libby), Dustin "Dusty" Rhodes(yeah, Mom and Dad, you're so very clever), and Heidi Hyde (Hyde is her married name;still funny though), and Tristine Chapell (again, marriage name).

Everybody should read Freakonomics and the chapter detailing the correlation between oddball names and sociopathic behaviors. Very Interesting. You guys should post some of the "unique" names that you've encountered throughout your life, here. Especially you Mormons. I ran across the Utah Baby Namer, and, oh my heck, retreated to wince and shudder in a dark corner. Proof that there truly is evil in this World.

Home Grown Patriotism

Here we are, waiting with baited (hot dog) breath and joyous hearts for the 4th of July festivities to begin.


Despite repeated warnings, Melody still picked up a hitchhiker in her wagon. It's okay, Alyssa didn't seem to have any hook hands or deadly intentions.

Melody's Sunbeam teacher, Brother Zentz, deemed her fabulously bedecked chariot as worthy of being pulled by his American Bulldog, Bruiser. Melody perched there like regal Cleopatra herself-blowing kisses and waving to the crowd. They were selected to lead the parade.

Here is the elusive Papi in all his glittery, patriotic glory! We called him, 'Tio Samuel' (Uncle Sam) most of the day. He's set to graduate soon and join the ranks of the nerdy accountants, so I usually call him, 'Senor Senior.' Although born in Mexico, Papi had the opportunity to take four semesters of American Government and American History. He found such respect and admiration for our Founding Fathers, that he's insistent that our kids make learning about them top priority. Hooray for pro-American Professors! Those two men must be the very last of a dying breed.

Despite our rampant frivolity, the meaning of the importance of the day wasn't lost. Thank God, we live in a country of opportunity, freedom, and unfettered potential for greatness. No country can claim themselves corruption free or perfect, but America feels as though it's the closest thing to perfection on this Earth. People risk life and limb to get here to our shores. While in other places, people risk life and limb to get out of their country. To all resident America haters who celebrated the day by burning American flags and defecating on your homeland- Go ahead, pick a better country, and move there. The rest of us don't want you here. Let's see how much freedom of speech you're allowed to criticize the government in other parts of the World.

God Bless America
(Does saying that make me unabashedly patriotic? Good!)

As Crafty As I Wanna Be

The suburban Mom take on an "old classic".


I've been busy, busy, busy making festive patriotic apparel for my four girls to wear to our Church's annual Fourth Of July party and parade. They usually give out prizes and my competitive spirit always gets the best of me when I hear the word, "contest".

Nearly everything you see here was purchased from the jeweled treasure of the South known as King Dollar. Oh, how I love King Dollar stores. So much so, that Papi calls me, "Queen Dollar", and says that when they see me coming, they roll out the red carpet in my honor. Well, I did buy my sparkling tiara and scepter there, and I AM keeping the King in his luxurious lifestyle thanks to my constant patronage..

If they ever hold an Extreme Makeover:Dollar Store Edition, I'll be the first one they call. My custom transformation of boring T-shirts, visor hats, and flip flops, is nothing short of miraculous. Watch your back, Martha beyotch! Lest anyone think I'm betraying my roots, no, I still hate scrapbooking. There's a limit to my craftiness guru side.

Just A Doin' What Comes Natur'lly.........

After a delightful fajita dinner, Papi and I laid down last night to catch a few hours of sleep before beginning a whole new week of tedious work. The glorious silence and darkness of our room was instantaneously shattered by a low rumbling noise followed by an intensely rotten egg smell that made my toes curl. Bleah, us carnivores emit extra stinkiness. Disgusted, but not about to be outdone by an amateur tooter like Papi, I unleashed my most furious, extended version helicopter fart. It echoed and ricocheted throughout the room for a solid 10 seconds. I rolled into a fetal position and shook the bed with hysterical laughter.

Papi took offense at my individual gaseous expression. Gaw, he's such a sore loser, I can't help it that I'm naturally gifted in the fart arts. So, remembering the song from one of my favorite musicals, "Annie Get Your Gun", I mockingly sang the classic, "Anything you can do, I can do better. I can do anything better than you". I wager Annie Oakley could outshoot and outfart her man too.

I may have stumbled upon the real reason that Papi passionately hates musical theater.