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

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!*