The Infidel Family Actually Leaves The House To Go Somewhere: A Pictorial

Yes, the Infidel World Tour rolled through town last Friday. We made sure to hit all our favorite stops because I wouldn't want any of the cashiers at the fantastical 99 Cents Only Store to think that we've fallen out of love with them. Never take your 99 Cents Only store for granted, people.

Our first tour destination landed us smack in the middle of the Public Library where we observed the most unholiest of unholy children's section decorations. Minnie Mouse is either angling for a role in a Disney remake of King Kong or she's interested in getting this big fella back to her place so she can finally procure that luxurious gorilla fur coat she's always dreamed about.

I'm not sure what rigorous event they put these prunes through to call them "Champion" but I do know that according to the box you are forbidden from eating them anytime other than breakfast. Oh, and the prunes also have pits. I'm praying that doesn't mean armpits.

Spanish Telenovela-styled drama at the 99 Cents Only Store! We love our hot and spicy Abuelita mucho mucho-and so naturally we were greatly distressed to find that Abuelita's new boyfriend, Don Gustavo has taken over her company. Oh sure, he may look like the epitome of elderly sweetness behind his adorable little spectacles, but inside brews a company-stealing monster who wooed Abuelita and then snatched her business out right from under her. Poor Abuelita.

(Yes, I make up melodramatic back stories for my Mexican cinnamon chocolate beverage products, don't you?)

The 99 Cents Only store envisions a brave new world where all fast food is made out of marshmallows.........

and people will drink their juice out of grotesque bug carcasses.

Here's comes Peter Cottontail....hopping down the bunny trail......well, the "bunny trail" is actually code for Aisle 8 at the 99 Cents Only Store. Yes, now you too can celebrate a one-of-a-kind Easter in July with these delicious treats.....because food poisoning is timeless.

Sunbum's Addiction.

These almond cookies are seriously delicious.

Beware the zombie starfish tub toy!!!! Any film called Starfish Zombies would spawn a zillion sequels due to the starfishes unique ability to regenerate itself.

Racially insensitive socks. Seriously, these win the prize for the most WTF? socks ever in recorded history. And what is the significance of the little For Sale sign? Is this unwrinkled Raisinette/Milk Dud/prune with legs a real estate agent? Maybe he's pimping himself out and he's actually the one for sale? So many questions that only a professional sock interpreter can answer.

Pirate's Booty Potato Chips: The Best Kind Of Booty Call! Yeah, I groped me some Pirate Booty at World Market!

Kung-Fu Fido Fortune Cookies For Dogs, as seen on the shelves of World Market. Our resident crotch-sniffing wonder dog, Reagan doesn't need a cookie apprising him of his fortune because I tell him every day, "I See A Sausage Factory Looming In Your Future If You Don't Stop Scratching Up My Windows." See? I could totally be a canine fortune cookie writer.

I have an unhealthy obsession with edible drinking cups. It began somewhere in my childhood when I saw Willy Wonka crunch into this tulip-shaped teacup he plucked from a bush. Anyway, Willy Wonka had to contend with a crispy cup that sounded like it was made from a stale rice wafer. I'm opting for these made out of Belgian chocolate.

The stockers at World Market must have a lot of fun when they decide where to shelve merchandise. What else can explain the cans of Spotted Dick juxtaposed next to the Wing Nut containers? If you combine a Spotted Dick with a pair of Winged Nuts you'll get the oddest dragon-ish mythological creature ever created.....probably the blindest and the dumbest, too.

I scoped out these Poker Pretzels for bloggy friend and Mistress Of The Poker Table, Alice. Pretzel diamonds can also be a girl's best friend.

And finally I'd like to conclude the Infidel World Tour by showing the "obvious much?" label on this nutty bag of Naked Nuts. Okay, it's a sack of peanuts manufactured by a company called Naked Nuts and yet they still had to post a disclaimer on the back stating: Manufactured in a facility that uses Peanuts and other nuts.

You know what I loved the most? The very stoic cashier-who's checked us out nearly every time we venture to the 99 Cents Only store-never cracks so much as a smile at us. Well, while he was ringing us out I was busy taking pictures of the Naked Nuts on the conveyor belt. Suddenly my mini-Infidels started whining, "Mooooom, he's done. You need to come pay now." And so naturally I told them, "Not now. I'm busy playing with these here Naked Nuts."

We actually scored an LOL-moment from the Cashier. Yesssssss!

My Son, The Rocket Man (And Elton John Has Nothing To Do With Any Of It)

My 10 year old son, Buster has finally moved out of the destructive frame of mind-so typical of male adolescence-and into the constructive zone.
Buster's been busying himself this summer with drawing up rocket designs and then devising ways to build it and launch them.
Here's a sampling of some of his handiwork:





Many a paper towel tube and plastic bottle valiantly gave its life so that Buster could pursue the art of the perfect rocket technology.
And now? To infinity and beyond!........................

My Neighbors Are Dirty Swingers

Don't believe me? Just look at this filthy display they've plopped right in the front yard for all the world to see.
Have they no decency? Whatever happened to shame? Did they leave this out in the open as a sort-of invitation for any and all passerbys to join in with them and their dirty swinger lifestyle?

Well, dangit, I want to be a dirty swinger, too! We have more trees than these people do-and I can surely rustle up some sofa cushions, rope, and white duct tape to make my own set of impoverished Third World Neighborhood swings. I may even add some festive ribbons and a cowbell so that mine's fancier than theirs.

Once I get these marvels of the swinging industry up and running, I'll invite you all to my Welcome To Swingtown! party. I hope you don't mind dropping your keys into a giant empty pickle jar so that we can play a little swap game called Swinger Switcheroo. I'd like to keep my naughty swinger freak side, satisfied.

Hey, I Don't Mean To Alarm You But There Appears To Be An Alligator On Your Breast!

Yeah, my mom bought into the all the preppy reptilian hype back in the 80's. I had quite a few toothy alligators dancing across my chestage as an adolescent.....and then as a teen the man-eating alligator emblem was displaced by a fearsome band of snobby Polo ponies. Nowadays the only thing hovering over the breast area of my shirts are the stains from the meatball sandwich I ate for lunch.
Honestly, I can't really fault my mother for choosing the trendy look for my wardrobe. As I recall, the only other fashion options in 1984 involved Valley Girl mini-skirts, parachute pants, checkered Vans, zippered leather jackets, fugly stirrup leggings, OP beach wear, and Garanimals. None of the above options would ever look normal on the pudgy, white bread-suburbanite me .

After an extended hibernation, Lacoste is back on the scene.
Look at how excited one Houston neighborhood is to welcome in a new era of all things Lacoste. They LOVE Lacoste and they're not afraid to show it. They even named their street Lacoste Love Ct.
You too can be a resident of Lacoste Love Ct. but only if you solemnly swear to uphold the strict tenets of their Home Owner's Association Policy. The H.O.A. states that all residents must wear Izod Lacoste apparel at all times. Residents must also decorate their yard space with alligator fountains and all topiary bushes must be cut into the shape of alligators. I think they're working on a fundraiser to isolate their street from the rest of the neighborhood by building a moat and stocking it with real alligators.
I hope they realize that they'll never be able to get another pizza delivered to their home again.

I really like the NO OUTLET notice situated above the street sign.
It's as though the occupants of Lacoste Love Ct. are saying LACOSTE LOVE OR DIE, BABY. THERE'S NO WAY OUT!

I Perish The Thought Of Ever Hearing My Papi Whistling, "Man! I Feel Like A Woman!"

I've known my sexy-Mexi husband, Papi, since I was still a bright-eyed teenager brimming with equal parts vim, vigor, and stupidity. Fine, it wasn't really equal parts. The stupidity/naivete portion comprised at least half of my teen-aged being on any given day. Occasionally, I'd hit that full 100 percent stupidity mark.

Yay for being 100 percent perfect at something!

Papi-a recently-immigrated Mexican National and recent return missionary-decided that he wanted to find that special someone who believed in the idea that marriage should comprise teamwork and partnership. (Apparently his dating history involved a lot of spoiled Mexican-American Princesses)

Not to worry, this story isn't going to turn into a third-rate romance novel cover that reads something like....."He was a bronzed, uptight immigrant-with a chest like a hairless chihuahua-out looking for love, adventure, and authentic chimichangas in a foreign land. She was a flaxen-haired Goofball Goddess in overalls whose proudest moment in life was finally realized when she mastered the hand motions to M.C. Hammer's, '2 Legit To 2 Quit.' Through a series of hilarity and hijinks plus one positive pregnancy test, fate will conspire to bond them through the eternities....."

Basically, Papi confided that he chose me as his betrothed because I was the only white chick he had ever met who didn't mind working 2 manual labor jobs while attending school at the same time. He also said something about me being a hard worker "just like a burro." I've tried to make his sweet words sweeter by blocking out that uncalled for donkey comparison.

To that point I hadn't found anyone willing to laugh at the myriad of weird things I frequently blurted out. When Papi acted as my own personal Comedy Club audience, I knew he was the one for me. Nevermind the fact that while Papi did speak perfect English, he didn't quite understand the nuances of American humor- he was only chuckling because he reasoned it was the polite thing to do instead of saying, "Huh? I don't get it. Are you on crack or something?" I really thought that "Pull My Finger!" transcended all languages and cultures. Sad.

It turns out that no matter how hard-working or astoundingly fertile or personable I am, I'm still lacking in the domestic skills category. If Papi had made a Perfect Wife Checklist prior to getting married, I wouldn't have fared too well:
Cook- Ummm, well, that is my mom's maiden name...soooooo....I guess, technically, yes?
Clean- I mastered the art of wiping and that's about it.
Iron- Heck Yes! I take 2 tablets every day!
Vacuum- Only for emergency liposuction, roach carcass disposal, and finding lost earrings.
Sew- A needle-pulling thread? La....a note to follow sew?
Knit- No, I'm lice-free and nit-free, thanks.
Scrapbooking- Well, I once did that Slam Book thing in Junior High. It made a girl cry inconsolably. Does that count?

Luckily, Papi excels in all the areas where I'm deficient. He's my personal Iron Man. For reals, y'all. He's as delicate with my silks as he is steamy with my cotton-blends.

Sometimes, Papi's long-hidden talents rises to the surface after lying dormant for so many years.

Our daughter, Caterpillar, recently attended a Church Activity with other girls and they learned how to knit. Yeah, they be turning my daughter into a knitta. Maybe she can one day join Knittas, Please!, H-Town's premiere knitting gang.

Anyway, I didn't have a clue as to how to help Caterpillar finish her knitting project at home. I suffer from acute Yarnophobia- so I have a legitimate excuse. Naturally, Papi stepped in and wowed us all with his nimble fingers and knitty know-how. *le sigh* Is there nothing that man of mine can't do?

Whenever I think about our future together I get this vision in my mind of a stark role reversal. In it, I'm sitting around on our front porch swing in my dungarees, smoking a (bubble) pipe and scratching at the wiry old people-hairs on my chin. My grand-children will all congregate at my feet, begging for me to tell them another story about when I was a young whippersnapper. I'll instead take out my false teeth and wave them about as an instrument of terror while chasing my screaming progeny. Papi will look resplendent in his calico apron. He'll content himself with silently watching us from his rocking chair-a bemused smile etched upon his weathered face as he lovingly knits me a pair of legwarmers so I can show our grand-kids how to shake it like that chick in Flashdance.

I have seen the future. And it is good.

Oh For The Love Of All Things Holy And Decent.....Are You Wearing That Shirt Again?

I'm practicing repeating the title line to this post because I can see that it's going to be the most oft-used phrase in the Infidel house for awhile. I know the truth of all things without even resorting to using my special all-knowing, all-seeing Magic 8 Ball.

The oldest Infidel daughter, Sunbum makes no secret about her love of Edward Cullen and now thanks to blog friend ALICE of the Honey Pie Manor she can proudly display her love wherever she goes! Yes, Edward is not only in Sunbum's heart but he's also now emblazoned across her heart (and chi-chi's) too.

I'm kind of a genealogy slacker- but to the best of my knowledge, we don't have even a drop of Cullen blood in our ancestry. However, yesterday, when the package bearing the name of Sunbum arrived at our house, and she tore into it and lifted out the T-shirt destined to become her main wardrobe staple- I could swear that she was sparkling just like a bonafide member of the Cullen Clan. It was a beautiful sight.

Pictures....BEHOLD!

THANKS ALICE!!!!! May you only encounter vegetarian vampires and horny-but-harmless werewolves all the years of your life.......

*Now to figure out a covert and secrety hiding place for the shirt on Sundays so Sunbum won't try to wear it to Church!*

(And as a sidenote......THIS IS THE WORST EDWARD PICTURE EVER!!! The FUG......it burrrnnnsss. Picture courtesy of gofugyourself.com)

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.

My House Is More Ghetto Than Your House: Home Bra Repair Clinic

All teenage girls have to suffer through bouts of unimaginable humiliation in public at the hands of their mother. I'm not generalizing here. I wrote ALL TEENAGE GIRLS and I most certainly do mean ALL TEENAGE GIRLS.
Admittedly, I registered pretty high on the Dork-O-Meter as a teenage girl. However, not even my super geekiness could spin a magic bubble to insulate me from the embarrassing things my mom did.
Really, there's just so many stories to choose from regarding my mother but the one incident that stands out at the forefront of my cerebellum involves the time my mom put her intimate apparel on display for the whole world to see.
Okay, maybe that's a bit melodramatic. I mean, my mom wasn't writhing about in a bullet bra and garters like Madonna while moaning the words to 'Like A Virgin' or anything like that but she did decide to liquidate her entire outgrown bra and lingerie collection at our neighborhood garage sale one balmy Texas Saturday.
I helped my mom lug the endless boxes of crap out of our house and then I arranged it all on tables for strangers to pick through. I always enjoyed watching bargain hunters show up to haggle with my mom because she expertly disguised her true nature as a Master of the Wheel And Deal behind her blond suburban mom coif and big smile. Her years growing up in farm country and going to auctions served her well.
Anyway, through the hodgepodge of mislabeled boxes that were souvenirs of our last move my internal alarm barely registered a blip when I spied the gigantic cardboard container with the word BRAS written in wide-tip black Sharpie marker across it.
And then my mom affixed a sign to the front of the box that read 'ALL BRAS-$1.00.'
Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo........................
I got all disgusted with my mom and I kept shouting at her "What if the neighbors see this? What will they think? What about my friends? What if they show up and they go and tell everyone that my mom is a second-hand booby holder dealer? And furthermore, who the freak even buys used bras at a garage sale?"

My mom assured me that people would buy the bras......and buy the bras they did!

Big bras, little bras, bras to match your crocs, ugly bras, pretty bras, and even bras with red dots like chicken pox!

Hordes of bra hungry women excitedly rummaged through the Big Box Of Bras. Some of them even slipped the bras on over their shirts while they exaggeratedly puffed out their chests and paraded them around our driveway like it was some sort of Goodwill brassiere fashion show. (It's significantly less popular than the Victoria's Secret one.)

I looked at the scattered menagerie of bras that fell to the ground during the height of the bra stampede and I said a silent prayer of thanks that at such a brisk sales pace the bras should be gone before anyone we knew could see what nefarious offerings my mother was peddling at her garage sale of iniquity.

Granted, now that I'm an adult I fully understand what kind of ka-ching a good bra costs-- but I still can't imagine purchasing undergarments at a garage sale unless it's sponsored by a Maidenform sales rep.
Shamefully, I also have a whole drawer full of non-operational bras. It is really hard to find a comfortable titty restrainer.....it really is. You know, the friendly clerk inside the Kohl's Intimates Department is nice enough but she's not going to let me test-drive a new bra off the showroom floor--and really that's what I need. I need to test a bra out in all conditions to see how they adapt to my lifestyle. Can I work comfortably without it riding up on me? Does it make me have the dreaded Third-Boob Syndrome after a few hours of use? Are the hook enclosures easy to manage?
These are all important factors to consider. When I find a bra that I like I'll go back and stock up on that one bra model. Sadly, most of them fail the Infidel Boob Test so they get retired to the bottom of the drawer in my 'Emergency Bra Use Only' pile.
Here at La Casa De Smiling Infidel, we are on a very tight budget. There's no wiggle room for frivolous expenditures like frilly lace ta-ta torture chambers or brand new bazonga binder cups. No, I must make do with the crusty but reliable bras I already have.
In the spirit of resourcefulness unbounded I've started my own at-home bra rehabilitation clinic to extend the life of my bra favorites just a little bit longer...... Every day I fend off the deadly clutches of the Brassiere Grim Reaper.

Observe the stretched-out condition of this bra and how all the elastic strands have started showing through.

This is an easy Bra Doctor remedy that only requires the surgical precision of a good pair of sewing scissors.

See, a few snip-snips here and a few snip-snips there and it's like new once more!(Make note of the elastic amputees cast off to the side. It was quite a successful operation!)
I'm also skilled at bending the bra hooks back into shape with a pair of pliers. I'm an expert at severing the silly rose thing manufacturers stick in the middle of the bra giving you the appearance of having three nipples. I've sewn straps down that were trying to make a clean break away from the life and times of being an Elasticwaistbandlady bra. I've wielded a Super-Glue tube like nobody's business and permanently glued the adjuster clip thingies to ensure they don't slip down suddenly and leave me "hanging."

They tried to send me back to bra rehab. and I said YES! YES! YES! There's no shame in admitting you need bra help. Let me, your amateur Bra Doctor, assist you in your journey along the brassiere restoration path.

Wow, My Dreams Are Bigger Than Even My Gargantuan Rear End.....

This morning, as I arrived at the warehouse where I work during the blackness of the eerily quiet predawn hours, I couldn't help but glance around and notice several teen boys milling about, helping their fathers.
Yes, I mentally noted each of the teens' youthful bronzed skin and lustrous black curly hair owed to their Spanish ancestry-- and then a lofty and unexpected idea formed in my mind........with portly Lou Pearlman out of the way and in jail I could totally become the next boy band creator/guru this world so desperately needs.

Holy wow, I'm going to be RICH!
I'm envisioning kind of a Menudo boy band of old paired with a Jonas Brother sound of today. I want to overhaul these mop-topped teens and turn them into a kind of Mexican Jonas Brothers trio! First, I need to know if the sons of my co-workers are willing and able to learn to perform the Jonas Brother song catalogue in Spanish.
In my mind, my little imaginary Telemundo announcer is going crazy and screaming out in his deeply exaggerated voice, "Los Hermanos Jonas(Ho-Nas) en vivo a todos Fiesta supermercados!!!!Yaaaa!" (My Spanish sucks. Forgive me.)
Today I'm going to see if I can take out a small business loan. I hope they'll give me the money even when I tell them that I need it to buy tight and shiny metallic pants and matching leather shirts for my new boy band.
The next order of business is to draw up documents giving me 50 percent of all the boy band's future earnings.....and then getting the boys to sign it without reading it.
My 10 year old son, Buster practices his rap skills daily courtesy of Christian Rock hip-hop guy, Toby Mac. Buster has expressed interest in being that token rap guy who always jumps into the middle of a pop song with no warning and breaks it down. He already has a BLING chain that I bought him from the vending machine at Kroger's. I also have 4 daughters that with a nice pair of vinyl go-go boots would make great back-up singers.
The Mexican Jonas Brothers........I don't know. My sleep-starved brain works in very mysterious and devious ways. This all seemed like such a plausible and fantastic idea before I took a nap.

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.*

My Mini-Infidels Found My Secrety Time Capsule Buried Inside A Rubbermaid Container....

Irritatingly enough, the discovery made them undergo a metamorphosis process from a handsome bunch of Infidel spawn into a braying, cackling herd of donkey escapees from Pinocchio's Pleasure Island.

I'm not all that sentimental but I have held on to a few of the last cornball vestiges from my childhood. The hand corsage from the 8th grade dance is long gone but the cruel things my peers wrote in my middle school yearbook lives on.

The two oldest Infidel daughters (12&13) almost suffocated themselves from laughing so hard while they read through the flimsy "yearbook" my middle school provided. It's really just a bunch of blank pages stapled together with the school name and mascot printed on the front. I knew I was opening myself up to a world of ridicule when the Infidel daughters noticed the not-so-prestigious name of the academic institution in which I attended.......Wunderlich. (WONDER LICK) There seems to be a recurring theme throughout the bright, marker-festooned yearbook pages--mostly that theme involves "friends" writing out every synonym that they could conjure up for the words "gullible and slow." Observe a few sample pages below where I'm referred to as dense and dingy. A quick flip through the book will reveal other such descriptive joys like goob, airhead, and nerd. I'm really not sure how this book has survived for so long without me chucking it into a giant S'More-making campfire.

The Incredible Disintegrating Swatch Watch Collection!
I loved, loved, loved Swatch watches back in the day. I could pretty much count on getting a new watch to add to my awesome Swatch hoard every Christmas. So if you calculate the roughly 8 Swatch watches in my possession and all of them going through a rotation of use that brings along the expected wear and tear......then these things are really just pieces of prettily colored plastic crap! I haven't worn any of them for close to 15 years-- and yet their sedentary life just lying around in a box was too much for them to withstand so they had to start peeling and breaking off big chunks of the wristbands.

When I was a little young (I was never little) girl...........I spent my free time writing to TV shows and getting autographed pictures. And now I look back and think, "Wow, that's so weird. I really was a dingy air-headed goob after all." I did manage to score a picture of the uber hot MacGyver among a few others but they're stored in a separate (but equal!) Rubbermaid container somewhere in my closet. My only claim to fame arose when the TV game show, Double Dare actually used one of the Obstacle Course ideas that I sent to them. You know the one where the contestants have to search through a rancid cheese filling lining the holes on a gigantic plastic Swiss Cheese to find the flag? Yep, that was mine! What did I get in return? A Double Dare T-shirt and an autographed picture of the host, Marc Summers. Wow.

This is a shameful part of me that I tried desperately to hide from you. It's true, I succumbed to peer pressure and wore these mega-ugly painted wood necklaces that never should have see the light of day outside of a nursing home Bingo Hall.

Here's a closeup of the Country Scene necklace. Quite inexplicably, the farm girl is sporting a ravishing femullet. Look at her.....she's all serious brunette business from the front but when you turn her over it's 100 percent sassy blond party action! Well, that's only if you're having a Little House On The Prairie party, but still.

I hate to sully my reputation like this-- but as a teen, I really got around. I worked at all three of these places before I ever hit my 20's. For some unknown reason, the capable name tag maker person at Randall's did not spell my name right. Having an extra consonant thrown into my name may have made me look more special than the scads of plain Melissa's running around there at the time but it didn't go too far towards helping me with my cashier career......Randall's made it into my personal Record Book under 'Shortest Working Stint Ever.' I preferred my Kroger name tag. I liked to wander the store and steal goofy stickers off different products to add to my tag. Sometimes I was Juicy, sometimes I was 100% Lean and on certain days I was 'Crusty On The Inside.' (stolen from a French Baguette loaf). I can honestly say that this was the only time in my life that other people would stare directly at me before saying "Hey, look at Melissa, she's Fat Free today!"
Yeah, my very first job was at Captain D's seafood when I was only 15. Got a dirty fish joke? Save it because I've already heard them all.

And now I know the real reason why they bury Time Capsules deep into the ground. I should've taken a life lesson from History and done the same thing!

There Always Has To Be At Least One In Every Family.....

I'm talking about camera hogs.......shameless, ruthless picture stealers who will stop at absolutely nothing to ensure ingratiating themselves into a photo frame a split second before the camera button clicks--thus immortalizing their photowhoring visage for many generations to come.
Meet my 6 year-old son, Logan. All I wanted to do was document my Melody's blissful joy as she realized her life's dream of winning the Sam's Cup Tournament. (That would be the Sam's SODA Cup) We rarely drink soda at home so when Melody slurped her first sip of Sprite mixed with Fruit Punch through the straw, her little face just lit up. (It was probably just gas) Of course Logan also wanted a piece of the Sam's Cup bounty hence his fierce expression and oddly arched Jack Nicholson eyebrows.

The only possible way to defeat a camera hog on the prowl is to use stealth and cunning. Apparently I lack both because my next picture attempt screamed out ABJECT FAILURE just like the first one.
Here we see Logan demonstrating his 'Give-Me-Prune-Juice-NOW' look.

I had to call in backup assistance to handle Logan. My enforcement team lured him away with the promise of cheese pizza leaving me just enough time to snap this lurvely portrait of Melody sharing her Sam's Cup Styrofoam Trophy with big sister Sunbum.

This picture is dedicated to Sunbum's online twin, Lauren Face who's visiting the not-fictional town of Forks, Washington (you know, where Bella and Edward live) even as I type this. See Lauren? You're not the only one who got to visit Forks this weekend!

We Saw The Incredible Hulk At The Dollar Store....And Boy, Did He Look Cheesed Off!

I always heard it speculated that the number one rule for managing The Incredible Hulk was: "DON'T MAKE HIM ANGRY." So why then would they cross-promotion this rippling green mass of fury with foofy bows meant to adorn presents?
If you notice, the corkscrew strands of ribbon identically match The Hulk's own skin and hair color. Hey, maybe that's not even ribbon after all! I mean, think about it, it is curly and it is green- that could very well be Hulk pubes out on display. No wonder the guy is so irritable- you would be too if someone was harvesting your curly dainties to make into bows.

We found Hulk hanging out in an undignified locale next to the likes of Dora La Pedora and frilly pink Pretty Princess bows. My son Buster used to be a huge Hulk fan but even he couldn't hide his disappointment and rage at Hulk's sellout. Buster has green eyes too, you know, and you don't want to make him angry, either!

Luckily for us, we were within arm's reach of an emergency Beef Jerky bag. That's the secret weapon to quelling the furious storm that occasionally brews up within Buster.

Back in my day we didn't have this wussified superhero product endorsement. Nope. Our superheroes championed awesome stuff designed to make us stronger like non-flame retardant pajamas and toys held together with nothing but poisonous lead paint.......and gosh darnit, we LIKED it! With the Hulkster now brazenly hawking resplendent gift-wrapping bows, I'm sure that a line of Incredible Hulk skin cream and lacy lingerie can't be too far behind.....

It's So Quiet You Can Hear An Egg Drop.....

Steel Yourself: I'm about to allow my unabashedly disgusting self run free and wild. If you venture further into this post you run the risk of never being able to accept a dinner invitation to a Chinese buffet again. And really, wouldn't that be tragic?
Okay, I've noticed that most public restrooms insist on stocking the frustratingly useless phenomena that is 1-ply toilet paper. I guess they haven't figured out the financial truth yet that the money saved by purchasing inferior TP will only end up being spent on a bigger supply of anti-bacterial soap. Why? Well, because in test study after test study in my very own home, I've discovered that your digits will inevitably tear through the toilet paper at the most critical moment leaving you with the nastiest of gorilla fingers. (Buy the quilted toilet paper- for the bum you save just may be your own!)

How dastardly is this stuff? Secret agents should use it to pass along confidential information because it practically dissolves on contact.

Anyway, I'm utilizing the facilities at McDonald's and as per natural for me I turn around to have a gander at the bounteous waste swimming around in the bowl before I flush. I rationalize that it's a medical necessity to take notice of any and all things shooting out of your body. I mean, I don't obsess over it....it's not like I drag out my little magnifying glass during Potty Time to correctly identify everything I ate for dinner embedded in the solid chunks. I'm just a strong proponent for staying cognizant of your physical being because detecting a change early-on can prevent serious repercussions from potential illness. Aside from all that, bodily expulsions are just plain interesting. Why else would the 'Milk, Milk, Lemonade' song still make me have to entreaty the assistance of Kegelling to keep from peeing myself? So, upon my quick pre-flush examination, I noticed that the coarse 1-ply toilet paper had predictably disintegrated immediately and transformed into a mushy glob of swirling, white comma-shaped pieces ebbing and flowing against a pale yellow backdrop.

It looked exactly like a toilet bowl full of egg drop soup.

Fortune Cookie Of The Day: Confucius Say Tis Better Not To Ask The Origin Of Egg Drop Soup And Try Sweet-And-Sour Soup Instead.

Elastic And The Hellacious Case Of The Heat-Rashed Rack.....

Alternately Titled:
Elastic And The Sun-Baked Boobs Of Doom

I'm usually loathe to admit this.......buuuuut, I am a woman chock-full of B.S.
Some days I'm so overflowing with B.S. that it's actually quite painful. The B.S. also seeps out onto my clothing in public which is a grossly mortifying experience.

Oh, don't you even try to sit there all smug while you self-righteously judge me and my glut of B.S. Scientifically speaking, you too have suffered from acute B.S. affliction at least once in your life. Yes, the heartbreak of Boob Sweat knows no gender or species barrier. It can adversely affect man, woman, and chicken alike. I know, because I've seen those sweaty chicken breasts under the heat lights at KFC.

Sadly, if left untreated, B.S. (Boob Sweat) will continue to progress and morph into full-blown Rack Rash. Just last week I fell victim to the most agonizing onset of Rack Rash while out working in the hellishly humid tropical clime that defines Houston during the summertime. I could scarcely breathe because the slightest chest movement triggered a new round of stinging pain and me squealing "Ow Ow Ow Ow Ow Ow Ow." There's no governmental discrimination protection for Rack Rash sufferers' either. All my dreams of one day waitressing at Hooter's have been dashed.

And then, just when I'd tearfully resigned myself to a life of itchy, sweaty, burning bazongas, bloggy friend Alice "If There Was A Problem, Yo I'd Solve It" Honey Pie rode to my rescue and sent me this fine product in the mail.

Skeptically, I broke my conservative nature by liberally applying a heaping helping of Anti Monkey Butt Powder straight to the stricken Ta-Ta Territory.

What happened in the next 24 hour period can only be aptly described by the cast of Fiddler On The Roof: "Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles!"

This BEFORE picture allows you to clearly observe my depiction of the epidemic boob outbreak without me showing you my actual boobs. Look at them, pity them...... it's as though someone messed up a line of Shakespeare and demanded that "a pox be upon you and your bosom!" A chicken pox.

And now here's the dramatic artistic rendition of the events that unfolded after the use of Anti Monkey Butt Powder. Do you see what I see? The proof has manifested right before your very eyes that Anti Monkey Butt Powder really does perform the stupefying feats that the label claims.....BEHOLD! Just a sprinkle a day helps keep boob sweat away......

(Don't be alarmed. Only the irritating rash vacated my mountainous premises when I used the powder. My boobs didn't really disappear.)

I've been converted to the House Of The Anti Monkey Butt True Believers. That talc powder miraculously eradicated the angry spotty-dots. It took me from Reddish Rack Rash to Calm And Collected Calamine Cleavage in less time than it takes for Fergie to choke out the words to her 'My Humps' song.

Ahhhh yes, sweet relief. Thanks to Alice and the Anti Monkey Butt Powder, my delicate alabaster boobage has been restored. I got my humps, my humps, my lovely lady lumps.....Now, NEW AND IMPROVED WITHOUT ANY BUMPS!

Christian Rock Totally Inspires ME! (To Have Weird Thoughts)

We're currently slobbering all over this boss song by Houston Hometown Boy, Jimmy Needham. As me and my mini-Infidels sat in my truck this afternoon totally soaking up his Jason Mraz meets Jesus Freak guitar-drenched sound, I couldn't help but think that with a last name like NEEDHAM it's probably a good thing that he's Christian and not say, an observant Jew or a Muslim.

Yeah, calling out "NEED HAM" during a mosque or synagogue activity might be rather awkward for the cleric/rabbi involved.

*Squeeeeeeeee.....Jimmy Needham is playing a concert not too far from our house next week and tickets are only 2 dollars. Now if I could just figure out a way to wiggle out of work for the evening.*

JIMMY NEEDHAM- LOST AT SEA

And in further happy, happy Infidel news somewhat related to the influence of Christian Rock.....remember Mr. Ash Hole? Well he had the unmitigated gall to call in to the office and report that I purposely swerved my truck to the side so I could hit him! Okay, if someone almost mows you down with their vehicle, wouldn't you call 911? If it was such a matter of urgency, why did he wait 2 weeks to call the office? I told my boss that I wrote about Ash Hole and I have it documented on my blog that it happened 2 weeks ago. Hey, truth is Senior Girly-Man wanted to play the part of an elderly Bad Azz by standing in the middle of the street. At the last minute he thought better of going up against a 1/2 ton pickup and moved his butt to the safety of the curb when I revved the engine and jammed on the gas. I won this round of Chicken and Mr. Ash Hole is just a sore loser!

My House Is More Ghetto Than Your House: Our Misfit Microwave

It's a heartbreaking fact of life- our deformed microwave will never be able to send out communicative signals across the ether to CB Radio users.
If the microwave suddenly did develop that power ala some bizarre twist of fate that only a complicated sci-fi movie plot can explain, I imagine the conversation would likely go as follows:
CB Radio Operator: "10-4 Little Buddy. What's your handle?"
Misfit Microwave: *sniff* "But, I don't have a handle.....why, oh why must the world discriminate against the hapless handle-less?"

Handle With Care

When the handle unexpectedly snapped off into my hands I vowed to take what was broken and make it whole again. So I did what all mothers with huge herds of destructive children do........I threw it into the pile of broken crap that gets lovingly pieced back together with Superglue or Duck Tape at the end of the week.

Shockingly, not even Gorilla Glue contained enough brute strength to get a handle on this no handle situation.

"I Can't Handle It Anymore!!!" Yeah, literally.

So what does one slightly impoverished Infidel woman do when replacing an expensive kitchen appliance is out of the question and out of the budget? Well, she consults her handy book, Secret Confessions Of A Compulsive Jerry-Rigger for an easy-fix solution.

Epiphany! I can knife the microwave to get it to open up and give me what I want.

It's not what you think......we began implementing the use of our butter knives- sticking the ends of the knife into the microwave door crevice while we pull and tug and pry the door open.

You see, all those crowbar techniques learned out on the mean streets can be modified into some mighty practical domestic skills!



*Yeah, that's our 5 year old, Melody cheerfully knifing the microwave. Our kids learn early on that it's every man for himself around here. If you want your instant oatmeal cooked in the morning you better learn how to manipulate the intricacies of the handle-less microwave. Survival Training!*