Monthly Archives: October 2011
A month or so ago, I was checking out my Facebook when I came upon a friend request from a Mnde Mdba. Now this was not exactly her name, ( it was something very similiar) but she was from Turkey or some other country I have never visited, which confused me a bit as to why she would have requested my very important Facebook friendship. I do not have any privacy settings on my life (obviously), so I am assuming she was just cruising around looking for fabulous glittery friends and decided to pick me, so I thought “What the hell?” and approved her friend request.
A few days after that, I was on Facebook again, (promoting my blog shamelessly) when a chat box popped up from my new friend Mnde. Now I must tell you, chat boxes are a source of irritation for me, because I am usually the one causing them to pop up on OTHER people’s Facebooks, which in turn causes said people to quickly log off and pretend they didn’t see that I was trying to talk to them. If they didn’t want to talk to me, WHY the hell would they add me as a friend?! As I have said, I have no privacy settings, so any photo stalking or general cyber creeping is possible WITHOUT adding me as a friend. Anyhoo, that is for another post.
So the fact that anyone desired to actually chat to me was a thrill I rarely experience. This is how our little chat went:
Me: Hi, not that I mind, but why did you add me to your friends? (I can be very blunt sometimes)
Mnde: Because you sexy.
Me: (oh geez) Well, yes I know. So where are you from?
Mnde: Italy. I love sex.
Me: I HAVE heard that italians do. I do too. How very fun.
Mnde: You have webcam?
Me: No, why would I need a webcam?
Mnde: I want to do you. On webcam. You have pictures for me?
I must break here to tell you a bit about Mnde. It was quite obvious that her English was not highly fluent. Yes, I said HER, because when I checked out her profile during this little convo, I found out that according to Facebook she is a 15 year old cute girl from Italy who is a widow. Now, I am not so simple-minded to think all of this may be true, but I wasn’t feeling like flirting with a 15 year old anything.
Me: Aren’t you a little young? (testing)
Mnde: Yes, I am young. I LOVE sex, Sexy.
This reminded me of this little game a local radio station used to play, called Scared Straight. They would go into a chatroom and pose as a young girl and try to bait pedophiles into calling them, which they would then ream out on the air. I will state that I am NOT a pedophile, but how would this Mnde know this? I felt baited and deceived.
Me: That’s very nice that you love sex so much, but you should really wait until you hit puberty before you start having it all the time. I am going to delete you now, because I don’t need a horny little girl chatting at me all the time asking for pictures. Goodbye.
Mnde: You have pictures for me?
Obviously, Mnde doesn’t get it.
P.S. A few days later, I had another friend request from a person with a foreign name. I think they are out to get me.
One of the things I am proud of in my life is that I have always made my own money, and I have never been unemployed. I suppose technically, since I am a Pizza Slut, I’m not unemployed, but until Frenchy Christophe gives me more hours, I am stuck with much more time on my hands. This in a way is a good thing, because I have more time to write, which was always my excuse for NOT doing so before, but at the same time, I must point out that I have a very short attention span, so I tend to bound from one activity to the next, as evidenced by my recently watched list on Netflix Live. (I started watching 5 movies yesterday and didn’t finish one of them). Also, my need to feel useful and not like a slacker has found me this day in the kitchen, attempting to bake bread.
I have mentioned my lack of expertise in the kitchen on several occassions, however, it has seemed that my baking skills have been improving, albeit at quite an unhurried pace. I no longer find myself crouching in front of a heated oven wondering if I should stick my head in it when my caramel rolls resemble something leaking from a head gash in the latest John Carpenter movie, nor recently have I cracked up into an explosive spasm of tears when my Rockstar tells me my breadsticks would taste better sans the blackened crust. (It’s happened) That being said, my cooking still in no way brings to mind that bitch Betty Crocker, unless one refers to how very UN-LIKE her cooking my sustenence is.
I am stubborn, and I will not be shown up by a boodle of dough, even though I would be quite embarrassed if someone were to walk in right now and witness me screaming into a bowl, “Rise! You Son of a Bitch! Rise!” I will NOT be undone.
Inspired by John’s post about funeral music, I thought it would be a good idea to write a eulogy for myself, on the off-chance that I decide to take a dirt nap. I have no plans of expiring any time soon, however, I am already past my Use By Date, so you never know. And as I know myself better than anyone else (because I have almost no friends and my parents are still convinced that I am not a bad seed) and as I wish to be conveyed in a proper and truthful light, it is up to me to write a eulogy that does this. I could leave it up to my Rockstar, but he is not quite as eloquent as I, and anyway, he has the spelling credentials of a 2nd grader, so no-one would even be able to read it. So here we go:
Sparklebumps was a girl who loved happiness, and felt it was her duty to bring it to others. Her ruffly skirts and glittery shirts made her feel like a movie star, and she wore her make-up as an accessory. claiming, “Look! Look at my sparkly purply eyeshadow!”, while batting her eyes at anyone who would pay attention. Her exctasy over little things like that kept her from being sent to the loony bin, I think.
As much as Sparkle enjoyed material things, (shoes, french fries, castles) she knew there was more to life than that. The best times were spent in the company of her Beloveds, even if they were just bummin’ around. To steal a line from her favorite movie, Moulin Rouge, “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn, is just to love, and be loved in return.” *sigh*
Yes, Sparkle was living in her own little musical. She would sporadically burst into song, just because it made her feel better. She knew the musical was all about her, (while some people claimed that was just her histrionic personality disorder) and every day she tried to be worthy of that honor. It did really upset her though, when other people refused to burst into song at their allotted times.
Sparkle loved books. She always said she would have a library, and she did. She just didn’t have a place to put it. Her love of books held no boundaries- she had fiction, how-to books, art books, self-help, bios, poetry, etc. Her thesaurus was her favorite, but sadly she misplaced it. She would leave all of these to her Rockstar and his Daughter, however- they don’t appreciate books because they are silly, so the only ones she will leave to her Rockstar is the Motley Crue trilogy.
Sparkle wanted to be an FBI agent, a writer,a mechanic, an artist, a hairdresser, a surgeon, a lawyer, and a plethora of other things. This is the reason why she never went to school; the Libra in her was very bad at making decisions, and she would have wasted millions when she changed her mind every semester. She settled instead for the unstable life of getting whatever job would hire her. Perhaps not ideal, at the same time she met alot of people she wouldn’t have otherwise, and learned alot of stuff school never would have taught her.
Do not be sad for Sparklebumps, for she is now living in a hut in heaven. A hut? you ask? Yes, when she was younger, her father told her if she did no good deeds on earth , the only thing she will have earned when she got to Heaven was a hut. To which she replied, “Well, maybe I will only have a hut, but God taught me to be content with what I have, and anyway, everyone will want to come on over to my house, and you will be sitting in your heavenly mansion all alone, so there.”
I guess there is not much else to say, except that Sparkle was thankful for all her bloggy pals, that made her feel like her writing was worth reading. And she just wanted to love everyone in the whole world, but that would have made her a little slut. So she settled for flirting. Peace.
P.S. By the way, you are all invited to my funeral, (whenever it may be) but you must all wear something sparkly or bright, or they won’t let you in. Don’t worry, it will be an awesome party, with much candy. XOXO
Apparently getting fired is very entertaining. I got 320 views yesterday. At least my blog isn’t dead, even though my bookstore career is. XOXO
I have long been a lover of video games. My fondest memories of my cousins are the ones that include hours upon hours of playing Nintendo in their basement shouting “Push the button really fast so it doesn’t go back to the beginning!” (A well-known trick that any Mario Bros addict knows.) My parents firmly believed that Nintendo was the devil, so despite begging for a Nintendo EVERY YEAR for Christmas, I had to resign myself to playing at my friend’s houses.
In my pre-teen years, my attention was drawn more toward Sega, since my best friend and her brother had one. I am sure she got annoyed with me when I was SUPPOSED to come to her house to play with her, and ended up playing Sonic with her brother instead. Oops.
The first gift I bought my ex-husband when we started dating was a Playstation 2, which had just come out at the time. In retrospect, probably NOT the best gift to bestow upon the boyfriend of someone who basks in attention. We ended up accruing what I believe was almost every single game they made for that console. Twisted Metal Black was AWESOME, man!
Several years ago when I was still with my ex, I told him I wanted an XBOX for Christmas. I was thrilled when he gave me one, complete with the 2009 edition of WWE Smackdown, (YES!) I didn’t get to play it much because I was working alot at the time.
When I moved in with my Rockstar, my XBOX promptly died. (sad day!) We went and bought a new one, because he had just bought a new game. I will admit, perhaps the allure of video games has lessened for me slightly, but then my Rockstar bought Call of Duty 4 last week.
I have never been one of those game console freaks that waits camped out for the newest Halo or Gears of War game. (I’m a dork but not that much of one!) So that explains why we are behind the times with the whole Call of Duty thing.
Monday nights have become our designated Drinking Night. (mainly because we don’t have the Daughter that night) so when I got home Monday, I poured us both a yum-yum Bicardi Diet with the Bicardi to the line (we make our drinks in these classic Coke glasses and I use the ridges as a measuring tool for alcohol- the line makes our drinks to be 2/3’s alcohol and 1/3 mixer- it doesn’t always taste great, but it’s very effective) My Rockstar then told me we should play against each other on Call of Duty.
I must be clear- I am a very non-violent person- but if I’m playing a game that requires me to shoot someone, you’d better be sure they will be dead. I can see where many couples could fall deeply in love while playing Call of Duty. Just check out the romantic things we spouted to each other:
Me: (in a sing-song drunken voice) Where are you? I’m gonna find you and shoot you in the head!
Me: You fucker! You stole my flag!
Him: You shot me in the ass!
Him: Bitch! Come back here!
Me: HAHAHA! I shot you in the head!
Me: EEEEIIIII! You shot me in the head!
Him: Fuck, you killed me when I shot you!
Me: Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Why won’t you die?! I shot you like, 40 times!
Him: HAHA! I sliced your head off or something. I don’t know how I did that.
I will admit, it got a little morbid, which was partly due to the alcohol, but how can you not love someone who is so thrilled to shoot you in the ass?
P.S. I was also greatly amused that one of the options you have is to be a Snetzsnatch. That’s not the way you spell it, but it’s humorous to say. 🙂
Yes, my lovely bloggy people, I have just been fired this morning from my dream job, at the bookstore. The reason for this tragedy rests solely on this blog, and the fact that people have no sense of humor.
I got to work this morning to find The Boss, and The Bigger Boss, or the Owner of the store, both there. This was a strange thing to see, as the owner has much more important things to do at his other store that to screw around with us little people at the mall store.
“First of all, ” he began, “tell me about your blog.”
Aww, shit. Now I will readily admit that I have done nothing to hide the fact that I have a blog- in fact, I do believe my witty posts would BRING IN customers if they were to read them, just so they would have a chance to interact with Sparklebumps. I, however, didn’t really want The Boss to know of it, since I have spent some time on the subject of his utter idiocy. I didn’t quite know exactly what it was the Owner was looking for in response, so I decided it wise to remain silent.
“I’m fine with you having a blog, but yesterday I had a handi-capped customer come in and tell me about it, and I’m not going to say that they were freaking out, but yeah, pretty much. They mentioned something about you complaining about customers, and they were very offended because they thought you were speaking about them. Now I don’t know if you were, but i can’t have you work here anymore because there’s a possibility that you and or I could get sued if this continues. It would have been different if it was anonymous, but when you start posting pictures, then it becomes a problem.”
Well, I didn’t even get a chance to say “Take this job and shove it.” Piss me off.
I would like to take this chance to thank those who attributed to my termination.
To that handi-capped customer: You know who you are. I do not know which offense it was that so disturbed you, (as I have offended MANY MANY people, I’m sure) and I apologize for any distress I may have caused. Now that that’s done, I will give offense to you ON PURPOSE. Screw you, you selfish bastard- my blog isn’t all about you, it’s about me, and nobody tunes in so they can read about you. So there.
Boss: I know you will be waiting with baited breath to read what I have to say about this whole thing. so here you go- I feel sorry for your hermit-like existance. You have no friends because you lack a personality, and you feel the need to judge people who have different beliefs than you, even though they are the ones who put up with all your bullshit and are willing to ignore it. Your wife is in-attentive because of this, and you will find out that it’s not going to get any better. Get a frickin’ life.
BrainRants: I loves ya, dude. Thank you for inspiring me to post of picture of myself, which is what probably got me fired. I’m not pissed, because it’s my own dumb fault. Your freshly pressed fame has led to my own fame, which I do not regret.
Owner of my Bookstore: Thank you for the lovely years I was allowed to work in the paradise of books. I hope you realize how many customers you will lose because I’m not there, and how many more employees you will lose because of The Boss and his inability to edit his sexual thoughts. I hope the Soup Girl works out for you- though you will have your hands full.
Tra-la-la. That’s all I have to say about that. My biggest sadness is that I will not get a discount for the $600 worth of books I had stashed away at the store. XOXO
My Rockstar blow-dries his ass. (Technically, I guess you could say he blow-dries his entire nether-region.)
I will tell you how I came to figure this out.
My Rockstar gets up at the God-awful hour of 5:00 AM every morning. As I am one of those individuals who sleeps like the dead, I am unaware of his getting up, even when the alarm clock goes off. There have been rare occassions when his easing out of bed has awoken me. During these times, in my sleep-induced haze, I imagine what he does to get ready for the day. This is how I discovered the truth about the blow-dryer.
I hear him go into the bathroom and flip the light on, which includes a completely obnoxious fan that is reminiscent of blustering hurricane. (I DESPISE it.) He then turns the shower on to let it warm up, (because we live in an older than dirt apartment building with timeworn pipes.) He then takes his morning dump, (which I am glad does not include reading material.) and flushes before he gets in the shower.
In the shower, I imagine he uses only shampoo (as men are wont to do,) even though I have supplied minty scalp-tingling conditioner for him, he uses the razor I used on my bikini area on his face (which he has readily admitted) and then he jacks off . (while thinking of me, of course) I do not know that last part for a fact, but I have been told that ALL men masturbate, and the ones that deny it are lying, and unless he is doing it in the middle of the night while I am in my mummy-like state, this seems to be the probable time when he would do it. (As far as thinking of me- this is MY story, so if Megan Fox and her weird thumbs make any appearances, I will be very upset.)
After getting out of the shower, my Rockstar grabs a towel while his teeth chatter with cold and his balls shrink to the size of raisins. (I have seen him get out of the shower after we have….tussled, and he is always shivering with cold.)
After he dries off, he brushes his teeth with his turbo-charged toothbrush (which I suggested he buy) and then he uses the blow-dryer.
The blow-dryer has been a source of confusion for me since we began dating (and tussling) 2 years ago. It seemed odd to me that a single 39 yr old dad came complete with a blow-dryer. I wondered if this was God’s version of a Howard Johnson’s. (free sex and blow-dryer included!) Of course, I suppose it makes sense that a man having shoulder length amber tresses would have a blow-dryer, but when I asked him about it, he claimed he had one because it warmed him up when he got out of the shower. I did not think about it again, but then my imagination and the clues got the better of me.
Every morning, the blow dryer wakes me up. Not enough to merit getting out of bed, but enough for me to wonder why the hell he has it on for so long.
Clue #1 He has the blow-dryer running for so long, yet when he hugs me goodbye, his hair is still wet when it falls into my face.
Clue #2 He is thin, so unless he takes extra care in drying only his private areas, it shouldn’t take him THAT long to blow dry his self.
Clue # 3 He is incredibly fresh-smelling down there. This is the biggest clue that tipped me off. Not that I go around sniffing other people’s privates (because that’s just weird) but I have , on occasion, found my skullage in a few men’s privatal areas. (Stop your wild thinking- one at a time) My Rockstar happens to have no smell in his boxers that is reminiscent of sweat, un-dried or un-washed junk, etc.
THEREFORE, it is my suspicion that my Rockstar blow-dries his pudenda and other assorted lower areas, including his ass.
Yeah, there are days when I just want to say “Fuck it” and permanently wear only yoga pants to work…. like the days I’m cursing myself for wearing a fun flarey jean skirt that leaves welt marks on my belly, and a sequin cami that rakes across my armpit fat, EVEN THOUGH I’m having a skinny day. Fuckin’ A.
You have no idea how I have come to dread these words.
No, it is not because I despise his child, or because I have a crippling phobia of school grounds (although groups of kids scare the BeJesus out of me). No, it is for the simple reason that the last 3 or 4 times I’ve taken his daughter to school, I’ve had to hear this repeated in various and still-hurtful ways- “Everything was better BEFORE you were around. Why don’t you go live somewhere ELSE!” Yes, a 9 year old can hurt my feelings.
My Rockstar’s Daughter does not despise me either, but I’m beginning to wonder if she suffers from bi-polar disorder. This morning was a prime example of why I suspect so.
I am NOT a morning person. Honestly, I could probably say I am not even a PERSON in the morning. I more closely resemble that scary Excorcist chic (when she was possessed) or any other frightening monster you only wish to meet never. So getting a kid up and ready for school in the morning is decidedly not my favorite thing to do. Luckily, I got laid last night, so I wasn’t in quite as terrible of a mood. Normally it takes every fiber of my being to retain my morning angst to narrowing my eyes at any unfortunate soul who happens to pass by. This morning, the Daughter woke up, got ready, and proceeded to ogle me as I slapped on my normal poundage of make-up. (I wear make-up as an accessory only- there’s no reason to cover up my face). Traditionally, being so inspected irks me, but this morning I simply asked the Daughter if she wanted her hair done. She requested curls, so off I went, posing as a hairdresser.
On the way to school, she rambled on about age, and how funny it was that I am now 30, my Rockstar is 40, and she shall be 10. She asked when her dad’s birthday was, and informed me that she was thinking of saving her money to buy him a black-and-white guitar for his 41st. The following is the conversation we had after that statement.
Me: That’s very fun. Maybe I can throw in some money for that if you let me put the name on the card?
Me: I was actually thinking of buying him a gold guitar for Christmas; you could help me buy that instead if you want, and we could give it to him together.
(I do not really know what possessed me to tell her the following- the only thing I can think is that I was so thrilled to be NOT hearing how I should move to another continent.)
Me: Do you want to know a secret?
Her: (perking up) YES! Tell me!
Me: I will, but you must promise NOT to tell ANYONE. I mean, ANYONE.
Her: Ok, I won’t.
Me: Pinky swear? (as any smart person knows, this is the most important binding oath)
Her: Pinky swear. (we actually shook on it.)
Me: So I’ve been thinking, if I give Daddy a guitar for Christmas, that I might ask him to marry me. (To be clear, the guitar is supposed to replace an engagement ring, and if I am to do the proposing, I will do it in style.)
Her: (eyes widening) ( and silence- but a smile working it’s way to her face)
Me: DON’T tell ANYONE!
Her: I’m going to tell Daddy! (I was afraid of this)
Me: NO! YOU CANNOT! You pinky swore!
Her: Ok, I won’t.
Me: But you never know, he might say no. So maybe I won’t ask.
Her: Well, I should tell him he should ask YOU.
Me: That would be preferred. But you can’t tell him I had anything to do with it.
Her: I could just ask him if he likes LIKES you, and then he could say yes or no. And then if he says yes, I would say, “Well, you should marry Sparklebumps, because she is a very nice woman. And she is poor.” (True, but I’m not exactly sure why this should matter, as we are not living in the 18th century.)
Me: (laughing) Yes, I suppose you could say that.
Her: I asked someone to marry me once.
Me: Oh? And what did he say?
Her: He didn’t say anything, because he was a gingerbread man. Will you make me a gingerbread man someday?
Me: Yes, of course.
Her: I have a secret. But you can’t tell ANYBODY.
Me: Ok, I won’t unless you tell my secret. Then I’m allowed to tell yours.
Her: Ok. (leaning in to whisper) I’m half human and half werewolf.
All I can say is this ride to school was infinitely better than the last few. Even if I DID have to share secrets with a werewolf girl.
P.S. XOXO to everyone who read my blog this weekend! I was more popular than ever!