Remember when there was a carefree girl called Sparklebumps who had time to write on her blog every day about whatever was on her mind? (Mostly sex.) I think she got lost somewhere between “Welcome to Pizza Hut” and “Shut up and do what I say dammit!” She even fell asleep before her Rockstar got a chance to use his boner on her last night…What the hell?!
Monthly Archives: June 2012
I have long admired you; ever since the fourth grade when I was forced to recite your Gettysburg Address in front of an entire class of 10 year olds. Thank you ever so much for instilling in me the knowledge that “four score and seven years” is 87 years. That is about all the mathematical intelligence my brain has retained from my days of youth.
I wished as I got older that I had lived in a different time- a time of hooped skirts and slavery, not because I am for slavery, no- I abhor it immensely- but because I would have loved to meet your statuesque self and perhaps had the opportunity to see if the Honest Abe I learned about in school books was , in fact, a myth or a reality. I’m quite certain if I had met you after your marriage happened, there would have been some lying going on to your wife, Mary Todd. (Which I would have felt somewhat bad about.) I’ve always been curious what a man of your stature would do with a woman of menial height.
I remember how thrilled I was on my visit to Frank Lloyd Wright’s House on the Rock when I saw that they had re-created your childhood home, complete with log cabin and a studly mannequin that resembled you. The ax he held was a fine weapon indeed.
I must admit, Abe, after I became aware of Chris Meloni, my feelings for you ebbed away slightly. I admire the great thing you did when you signed the Emancipation Proclamation, because yes, all men (and women) should be free from slavery. (Unless they enter into it freely with a Sexual Deviance Contract.) I remember the school trip we took to Washington D.C., where I burst into tears when we toured the theatre where your plain but beautiful head was blown off. I realize now that I was suffering from teenage hormones, but fear not. The sadness I felt over your death was true.
It has come to light in more recent years that you were a vampire hunter before you became the leader of our great nation. I must admit this knowledge has rekindled the fire I have for you in my heart. How I wish we could have vanquished the undead together- you with your silver-plated ax and I with…. well, um.. my boobs seem to have a distracting effect; however, I’m not quite certain how they would hold up against Dracula’s descendants. It would have been quite lovely to find out.
In closing, I would like to state that, while I cannot lust for you at this time (because you are dead and necrophilia has never been something I’ve been curious about) if you feel the need to haunt me in the late hours of the night, I shall be waiting naked in my bed.
P.S. I do wonder how my Rockstar would feel if I asked him to grow chin-strap whiskers and don a top hat….
One of the distinct “joys” that come from being able to do your job well is that you end up doing everyone else’s jobs. This is how I ended up being the open to close manager on Saturday at work. Let me just say, I wish the muscle relaxant my driver had given me at 11 at night would have been offered a little bit closer to 2 AM; do you know how hard it is to finish up a seventeen hour day when your body is whispering loudly “Just sleep. Fuck all this and just go lie down. None of it matters. SLEEP.”
I cannot really complain about my long day, (too much.) I worked with all awesome people who adore working for me, (or so they say, I’m sure there’s at least one ass kisser in there somewhere) and everyone was great about helping everyone else out. The only hiccup in the day is when my day driver got rear-ended; having never dealt with an accident yet while managing, let me assure you- many calls were made to ensure proper steps were followed. I guess if I am the active boss for now, things should be done correctly, eh?
A little before 11 at night, I was silently pitying myself because of the endless amount of work I still had yet to do before going home. A woman and her three boys came in to order carryout, and I’m sure that I didn’t quite keep my look of irritation from my face. However, upon taking the woman’s order, I realized what a friendly and wonderful individual she was, and so my bad attitude quickly dispersed. After slipping her order in the oven, I went back to wiping all the dining room tables down. The woman stood near the door and tried to keep her younglings from running rampant.
Being the friendly customer-friendly person that I usually am not, I asked the woman where she was from and what she was doing. She stated that she was from South Dakote, and since my Rockstar is, too, a native of that state, our conversation flowed freely. I found out she had worked as a Pizza Slut for 9 years, (poor woman), and we discussed the ups and downs of having to do more than our fair share of work.
As I went from table to table, the woman was trying to keep her rambunctious childern occupied, so she told them to pick up all the large garbage that was littering the floor so that I didn’t have to do it before I vacuumed. My heart was warmed when a chubby little boy of 8 came over by the table I was wiping and boasted, “I’m 8, and I’m better at this than my brothers!” I wasn’t exactly sure how to respond without offending the mentioned siblings, so I just grinned at him and winked, and was rewarded with a dazzling cherubic smile.
As I boxed up the woman’s order, I was amazed and astounded to see her pick up a cloth from my sanitizer bucket and proceed to wiped down the remaining tables and chairs that needed it. Because I was so over-worked and exhausted, there was nothing right then that I would have appreciated more at that point. It was then I realized who this family truly was.
There is a story in the Bible of Abraham. In it, three travellers appear and Abraham and his wife Sarah are kind enough to offer them food and drink. Because of their kindness, one of the men tells the couple that they will become parents, and the up-to-that-point barren Sarah laughs with joy. It is then revealed that the three men are ,in fact, angels The story is later mentioned again in Hebrews, and we are reminded not to forget to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. While they were no doubt real people, I believe that woman and her three little cherubs were sent to remind me that not everyone who orders pizza is a complete asshole, and that there is still some good in the world.
So the next time you aren’t feeling customer-friendly, be so anyway, because you may come to find out you’re talking to one of those angels unawares. XOXO
I started writing a short story, but I didn’t get to the part I wanted to write yet. You men must tell me if my Man point of view is completely bogus….
Greg had never met anyone like her. True, his age may have a had a little to do with that. But the fact that he was only two months from turning the big 5-0 didn’t stop him from feeling like a ridiculous horny high-school kid every time he saw her.
She’d moved into the apartment upstairs only a few weeks ago, and the constant stress of wondering what she was up to all the time was exhausting him.
The first time Greg saw her, she’d been sitting on the landing in front of her door, drumming her hands on the floor to the beat of whatever song only she could hear playing on her Ipod headphones. She looked like she was about sixteen, mostly because of the way she had her legs stuck through the spindles of the railing that ran across the landing. Her legs hung down and he noticed how tiny her bare feet were as soon as he walked through the main door. He thought she was cutesy, at first glance; she had a bubblegum pink T-shirt on and a sucker stuck in her mouth to complete her youngish look. But when he looked close, he noticed the short ruffled skirt she was wearing perfectly showcased a curvy pair of legs that no way in hell belonged to a teen.
Her eyes were closed as she pounded away on the floor, so he didn’t acknowledge her, but when he stuck the key in his lock in the door directly below and across the hall from her, she spoke.
“Hey! Are you him that lives in 1A?”
He jumped at the sound of her voice, because he hadn’t thought she’d noticed him come in. He turned and looked up at her, and almost shit when he realized he had a perfect view of her crotch. She was wearing panties, of course, but they were sheer enough that his mouth went dry when he realized what he was seeing.
“Uh, what? Oh… yeah, I live here.”
“Good fucking first impression, Rain Man.” he thought acidly to himself. He tried to recover from his lameness. “You just move in?”
She slipped the sucker out of her mouth, and he couldn’t help wondering how her perfectly luscious lips would look wrapped around his cock.
“Yeah, I’m in 2A.” She gestured to the door behind her. “The UPS guy was here for you. He wasn’t going to leave your delivery, but I signed for it. Hang on a sec.” She unplugged the headphones from her ears and scrambled smoothly up from her child-like position. As she stood, Greg got a glimpse of those silky drawers again, this time from the back. She disappeared through her door before he even had a chance to respond.
He ran a hand through his hair. “Holy fuck” he thought, and adjusted his growing erection just as she returned, package in hand.
“Here ya go.” She leaned over the railing to toss the tiny package down to him gently. He scrambled to catch it because he was momentarily distracted by the cleavage she’d inadvertantly flashed. He noticed as she straighted up that the shirt she was wearing wouldn’t be lowcut on a flat-chested girl.
“Hey, um, thanks.” Instead of sounding more intelligent like he wanted, he seemed incapable of forming a coherent sentence.
She smiled. “Sure. If you get packages alot, you can just have them sent here if you want. I’m home all day.” Her innocent demeanor clashed wildly with the body she possessed. All curves and sensual lines. Greg shook his head because he hadn’t heard a word she’d said.
“What was that?”
Her brow furrowed, and she looked at him as if he was a complete ass. He certainly felt like one.
“UPS. Send your shit here. I work nights, so I can just give it to you when I see you.” Her last sentence wasn’t meant to sound dirty, but Greg found himself wishing she had meant it to. She’d resumed her position between the railings; once again giving Greg a view of her underwear. He thought to himself that he’d never set eyes on such a beautiful lavender color.
“Oh, yeah. That’s be great. They usually end up sending it back be because I can never catch them when they’re here.” He mentally patted himself on the back for forming a complete sentence. He held up the package. “Thanks. What was your name?”
She kicked her feet childishly as she replaced her earphones. “I’m Casey.”
Greg waved to her, but she’d already resumed her frantic drumming on the tile floor. He opened his door and went inside, closing it quickly before leaning against it. He felt as if all the air had just been sucked out of him. Bruiser, his Newfoundland, ambled up to him and nudged his hand with a wet nose. Greg scratched behind the dog’s ear absentmindedly.
“Did you see the tits on her, Bruiser? Fuckin’ A.”
Tonight, my Rockstar celebrated his birthday. I have, on occassion, mentioned the near- generational gap that seperates us. While not quite old enough to be my father, the age difference would be the equivilant of his ten year old daughter dating someone of legal American drinking age . When put that way, the word “ewww” comes to mind.
It is true that certain downfalls accompany being in a relationship with a time-worn individual. Namely,the absurdly early bedtimes of 8:30 they have, and a somewhat less-than-satisfying sexdrive of only four times a week. However, I have devised a list of advantages that come from dating a geriatric:
1. They know what they want. My Rockstar knows he wants to retire.
I believe his exact words when asked who he admired were, “Anyone who doesn’t have to work for a living.” I must admit, he hasn’t exactly figured out how to achieve this dream yet.
2. They are generally monetarily settled.
I say generally, because this is not yet something that completely applies to my Rockstar; however, he IS very good about paying the cable and rent on time.
3.They know better than to argue with a woman.
Perhaps women are not always right, (HEEHEE! Just kidding!!!!!) but men of a certain age know better than to try and dispute what a woman says. (Or in my Rockstar’s case, receive a face-smashing once or twice to help them realize when they’ve come up with erronous ideas.)
4. They are better in bed.
Instead of enduring the thiry-second jack-rabbit drilling of the inexperienced, I get to enjoy the prolonged sensual humpings of a man who’s made love with someone other than his right hand and the Jergen’s bottle. Too, he is considerate enough to pull my head away before his man-juices shoot down my throat when I’m administering a blow job. Unfortunately, last night, he didn’t pull it quite far enough out of the way… Let me just point out- that shit stings when it hits you in the eye.
Now is the designated moment when you are to think to yourself, “Ooh! I loooove those books!” or “What a waste of time.”
As I have not yet completed the series, I cannot say that I have formed a complete opinion on that subject, but it is safe to say that my preferance is leaning toward the “waste of time” choice.
I’ve been trying my darndest to forget the fact that these books were originally Twilight fan fiction. Sadly, if you take away the vampire/werewolf angle, all the reminders are there. The lead character is named Anastasia Steele (it seems E.L. has a hint of Danielle Steel’s imagination) who is a self-described plain jane. She is reminiscent of Bella Swan in the fact that she falls down alot, though she has slightly more personality- or should I say personalitieS, as she refers often to her inner goddess and subconscious as seperate entities within herself?
The question is, what makes a write like this try to make us believe that EVERY male mentioned in these books is unfailingly attracted to our main character? I understand that many men can be attracted to a somewhat normal looking gal, (as this seems to happen to me quite frequently) but really?! Not every sequal in my life is filled with another incident of would-be rape by my boss or my best male friend. And I will fully admit that not EVERY guy I come in contact with is attracted to me. There was that one guy that one time…
The biggest flaw I’ve noticed thusfar in these books is the repetitive mentioning of Anastasia’s love interest’s beauty. E.L. has surely gotten this idea from Stephanie Meyer. Christian Grey is described as beautiful, adonis-like, and HOT. Don’t get me wrong, but why the fuck does every main character in a book need to be so fucking perfect? Can’t they have a perfect face with an acne problem? Or maybe just a hint of a pot-belly going on? I have been in love a few times, and none of those people were exceedingly perfect to look at. Of course, if Christian Grey wasn’t so beautiful, Ana would never even look twice at him, because he is a controlling, stalkerish asshole. Do you think she would have let him spank her mercilessly if he looked like John Malkovich? I think not.
Let us not forget how “mercurial” he is. This is not in the god-like sense. It is in the “I’m bi-polar” sense. But let me just ask- what 22 year old woman describes ANYONE as mercurial? I love descriptive words, but even I would never use this one. And most definitely not repeatedly. I would instead have worded such sentences this way- “The dude once again forgot to take his meds, which caused him to be entirely too moody, and made me want to punch him.”
The thing is, I really want to like these books. The S&M factor is quite intriguing. Or at least it WOULD be, if Ana hadn’t ruined the only attribute of interest that Christian possessed. It’s not fair that because virginal Ana isn’t into caning, Christian has to put aside his darker desires. E.L. could have at least made it believable. I do not think a man who is used to beating women mercilessly is really going to be satisfied with a little spanking here and there. He sounds hardly more adventurous than my Rockstar after he’s gotten into the Jim Beam. I think a prequal based on Christian’s Red Room of Pain BEFORE he met Ana would be much more interesting.
Also, I would like to point out that a woman does NOT come every time a guy says, “Come for me, baby.” And a man does not always come at the exact moment that the woman he’s fucking comes. It would be more believable if he came right in the middle of her orgasm and pulled out, leaving her to finish up her orgasm manually while yelling, “You fucker! You never wait for me!”
That’s all I have to say about that.
So HR Nightmare gave me a blog post idea because he didn’t think I’d be able to do anything with it. The idea was to write about music in relation to moods and the way it changes a person’s moods. This may veer a little off course, but here you go.
I love music. I could spend all day singing along to songs I know, and trying to emulate the people that sing them. I attempt with all that is in me to hit the perfect pitch of squealing when singing “Hee-Hoo!” like Michael Jackson. Celtic Woman is a bit harder, but I straighten my back and stick out my boobies to maintain perfect singing posture when belting out, She Moved Through the Fair. I grow increasingly irritated when, after repeated attempts, I fail to reach the notes sung by Martina Mcbride in A Broken Wing.
The reaction my father has to music that cannot be played in churches is quite humorous and ridiculous. I seem to recall at my wedding to my ex, the strains of Alan Jackson’s “It Must Be” love filtered out of the DJ’s speakers and into my father’s ears. His reaction was to cover his ears and shake uncontrollably as though the devil had possessed him. Incidentally, I used to have the same reaction when I was younger and forced to listen to the shrieking operatic voices of church ladies who THOUGHT they could sing.
80’s Heavy Metal seems to get the biggest reaction out of my Rockstar. Play a little Black-N-Blue or Ratt, and he immediately starts banging out a drum rythym on whatever hard surface is available. (Please note: He has had no formal drum training) We like to crank the tunes when downing brandy and playing darts, (which I usually win) and it seems that this causes a general horniness to come over us, as we have on various occassions bumped uglies to the musical interluding of Lita Ford and Motley Crue. Good times.
At work, I have found that my co-workers’ tastes are very ecclectic.
My fellow co-manager, while choosing tiresome elevator music for our customers, can, during closing hours, be heard emitting an other-worldly growl while listening to death metal on his Ipod. Luckily, this music gets his butt moving, so we don’t have to be at work til 2 AM.
One of my drivers, despite being 38 and 320 lbs, twitters prettily to the young people music of the day. He is especially loud when it comes to any Adele song, or that song with the girl who squeaks her voice in the very beginning of the song. It matters not that the radio we have at work is old and static-y- he continues to crank it loudly enough that a messy, staic-y sound reached my poor ears. This makes me quite perturbed.
There are too, those songs that bring tears to my eyes. Most of them have to do with my ex-husband, such as Tesla’s We’re No Good Together. Still others make me cry simply because of their lack of musical inclination. Case in point, any Taylor Swift or Miley Cyrus song. Miley Cyrus, to you I have one thing to say- “sometimes you gotta climb that mountain”, just so I can push you off that cliff.
I just got one thing to say, since I guess I say it alot.
I’ve got boobs.
Have a nice day.
This post may just prove how truly random my thoughts are.
I had an interview yesterday. While I most definitely should be looking for a new job that I don’t hate, this interview was completely unsought. (Well, almost.) The day I got fired, I filled out and application at a chain restaurant that rhymes with Gherkins. Sadly, I never heard back from them. That is, until last week. While I am not exactly thrilled about staying in the restaurant business, the allure of possible mega-tips from working at a place that rhymes with Gherkins was enough to have me agree to an interview.
So there I was, an exceptional candidate for employment, a half hour early to my interview. The nice woman in the front offered me a seat and said it would be an expected few moments before my interviewer could get to me. I would like to mention here that customers eating their breakfasts were treated to a lovely viewing of my favored fuschia stillettos, which they showed their appreciation for by actually turning around in their chairs to watch the clicking of them on the newly-remodeled ceramic tiles. Anyhoo, my interview went as well as could be expected, considering that the man doing the hiring didn’t have a clue what hours or how many shifts he was hiring for. Stay tuned for the results…
There are many disgusting things in this world. Paying taxes, silent-but-deadly farts, and Taylor Swift are just a few things that come to mind. However, there is one thing that truly makes the bile rise in my throat.
This may seem a bit dramatic, but let me explain.
I do not, in general, have an issue with eyebrow hairs that are connected to their designated facial spaces, unless they wander noticeably across the top of someone’s nose. But an eyebrow hair that has detatched itself and floated randomly to a non-above-the-eyes place? PUTRID! To find a lone eyebrow hair on my face or some other assorted spot is comparable to watching Marilyn Manson hump an unsuspecting fan’s head. The very thought brings goosebumps to my skin, and makes me nauseated enough that I must cease writing on the subject.
On to Harry Potter.
It is safe to say that most Americans and all English-born peeps have heard of and witnessed the phenomenon that is Harry Potter. The only ones that probably haven’t are those overly-religious zealots that believe magic is of the devil and perhaps non-TV-viewing hippies who are creating their own magic.
I admit that it took me until the fifth book in the series was out before I jumped onto the Harry Potter Bandwagon. But once I did, I was just as engrossed as all those people who throw Harry potter-themed costume parties. I went to midnight showings of the movies, and read the books in their entirety. There’s just one little problem, now.
Somewhere between Harry’s twelvth birthday and the murder of Sirius Black, I developed a disturbing crush on Harry Potter.
Or, more accurately, the boy who plays Harry Potter.
I know I’m not the only one, but it caught me a bit off-guard when, while watching Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, I found myself lusting after a teenaged Daniel Radcliffe.
This is not an unhealthy obsession like the one some of you may say I have on Chris Meloni. (Which reminds me, does anyone else think Chris could play Daniel’s father in a future unwritten movie by moi? They have the same eyes, I think.) All I can say is- damn! I wanna kiss a dorky-looking teenager. Luckily, he is of legal age, so if ever we two meet, my almost-pedophiliac ass will not be spending 7-10 years in the clink for statutory rape.
Have a nice day.