Victory of the “Evil” Almost Stepmother

I have mentioned on several occassions the existance of my Rockstar’s Daughter. In the mentionings therein, you may or may not have noticed underlying tones of irritation, aggravation, or exasperation. (These due to the fact that after almost three years, I still on occassion will hear, “He’s MY dad; this is OUR house; why don’t you go live somewhere else.”)

No, it is not all bad, this parenting of a child not of my loins. For example, she had begun to word things as I do, which is in a manner not of this world, and she carries within her the same fondness for princess movies and high heels as I. So, if we sat around all day watching The Princess Bride and Princess Cariboo while alternately sauntering around in stillettos and fancy dresses, the relationship between us would be one that would create awe in those who observed it. However, though I am not a parent myself, I am aware that at times, princesses must be put away and rules must abound; mainly the finishing of one’s homework before bedtime. This has always made me worried that I am seen as the Evil Stepmother that you hear about in those fairy tales in the Daughter’s eyes. (They always have fabulous makeup, but it’s not exactly what I aspire to.)

A week or so ago, I went to purchase groceries and was immediately distracted upon arrival at the store by the giant bins that held massive and slightly deformed pumpkins. It is my belief that in going through life, in order to be happy, one must revert to the acts of their childhood, and not always take things so seriously. While thinking so, I picked out the most round and only barely-marred pumpkin with the intent of making it a date with the Daughter and carving it on my next day off. This may seem like an overtly obvious act one might perform with a child, but being not a parent myself, I do not always think that way. I arrived home with Stan in my arms, (so I had named my round orangy friend) quite proud of myself that I had so unselfishly thought to include the Daughter in Stan’s facial formation.

My Rockstar thought it a grand idea. In fact, so grand an idea he thought it that when he went to pick up his daughter the next day, he stopped and bought each of them another pumpkin, so that I could have Stan all to myself. The carving of pumpkin flesh commenced on the next day, upon the floor of the living room.

At first, I was thinking that perhaps my idea for child/ almost stepmother bonding time was a bad one, when the Daughter immediately began crying and whining because she didn’t know how to carve her pumpkin and was too impatient to let me show her. I diffused the situation by releasing the Tickle Monster on her, and soon her tear-stained face was aglow with delight. My Rockstar soon joined us, and then we were a family stabbing our unassuming jack-o-lanterns on a Sunday afternoon.

My Rockstar’s Dad called at one point, and he left the room so as to give himself privacy. The Daughter and I carried on a conversation, about school, and boys, and then it somehow turned to the subject of her mother.

Now I am selfish and histrionic enough that every fiber in my body wishes to point out the flaws of she who birthed the Daughter any time her name comes up. Luckily, I have just enough common sense to NOT do that exact thing, but instead just nod and listen when the Daughter drones on about her less-than-ideal mother. In the end, this has served me well, because nearing the end of the conversational subject, the Daughter, of her own volition and without any coaching from me, said something I would never have expected to hear from her lips.

“I wish YOU were my mom, and not my mom.”

Upon hearing those words, I immediately had the urge to jump up and issue a warrior’s victory cry, but thought better of it when I realized I was weilding a non-sharp pumpkin-carving instrument. Instead, I chose my responding words carefully.

“Well, you already have a mom, so maybe I can just be your second mom, and then you’ll have twice as many people to love you.”

This solution seemed satisfactory to the Daughter, and we continued to create pumpkin art in an amiable silence. But I will tell you the victorious warrior in my head was making a pretty big racket.

Romantic Monday: A Good Memory

Once upon a time there was a girl named Sparklebumps who was young and dating her future husband. She had a best friend at the time who we shall call Carebear who had just had a baby and was depressed because she was alone and very horny. Sparklebumps, being the good friend that she was, tried to  do what she could to help Carebear by introducing Carebear to an aquaintance of the future husband’s, who was called the Redhead. Sparklebumps had always thought the Redhead was a nice guy, and thought her best friend deserved to have a nice guy for a change. Upon the introduction, Carebear and the Redhead proceeded to get drunk and fucked each other in a drunken stupor, therefore destroying any possible deeper feelings that could have possibly arisen in the future. In the morning, the Redhead snuck off before dawn without even saying goodbye to Carebear.

Because Carebear had the belief that fucking a drunk person meant true love was in the air, a couple of weeks later she suggested to Sparklebumps that they invite the Redhead out for drinks. (with the intention of trying to win his heart by once again offering her pussy to him.) So off the two girls went, to hang out in a crowded bar with the Redhead who had no feelings of affection for Carebear, but was too bored to refuse the offer of free drinks.

The night wore on, each of the three growing increasingly innebriated off of Goldschlagger and whiskey shots. Carebear kept trying to have meaningful conversation with the Redhead, who was distracted by a drunken Sparklebumps who was just entertaining herself by people watching and hanging over the bar flirting with the female bartenders. Soon enough, the bar closed down and the three were kicked out.

The plan was for the girls to stay at the Redhead’s house for the night, so they hopped in a cab and on the way, Sparklebumps shrieked at the taxi driver to “STOP! OOH! Stop here! We must go to the sex toy store!” because she was a horny little devil and wanted to buy a vibrator for those times when her future husband didn’t want to do her. (Which were much too often.) They were disappointed to find the sex store was closed for the night, and so continued on to their designated destination.

When they arrived at the Redhead’s dumpy apartment, Sparklebumps busied herself by washing the mountain of dirty dishes that resided in the Bachelor Redhead’s sink. She grinned drunkenly and agreed when the Redhead responded to the act with a “You’re so sweet. You would make a good wife to somebody some day.” She then went into the only bedroom and semi-passed out, not wishing to hear the sexual noises that were soon to come from her friend and the Redhead. She was awakened when Carebear came in and told her to “Get up off the floor and go out into the living room so we can fuck on the bed.” Sparklebumps stumbled into the living room, irritated at her friend’s bitchiness.

Not five minutes passed before the Redhead came out of the bedroom and nearly picked Sparklebumps up in a passionate embrace and started kissing her deeply. Sparkle was surprised, and pleased, because she found the Redhead to be sexy for a reason that she never understood. The makeout session continued on for a good 15 minutes before the Redhead tried to slip his hand down her pants. Sparkle stopped him and said, “No, I don’t want it now; not like this,” and rolled her eyes in the direction of the bedroom where Carebear sat listening and feeling rejected.

No sooner did the words come from Sparkle’s mouth than Carebear burst from the room and screamed, “You bitch! You knew I wanted him! What the fuck is the matter with you? You have a boyfriend.” She then turned her fury on the Redhead. “She has a boyfriend, you asshole!” She then retreated back into the bedroom, fuming drunkenly.

Sparkle was very upset; she had pissed off her friend and nearly cheated on her boyfriend, and yet, her heart and her body were telling her the makeout session was not to be regretted. She urged the Redhead to reconcile with Carebear, or at least to go fuck her, to get her mind off of the whole situation. The Redhead obliged, and Sparkle passed out listening to the ridiculous fucking noises of a pissed off girl and a drunken Redhead.

The following morning, the two girls left without saying a word to each other or the Redhead. On the drive home, they reconciled, and vowed that a boy would never again come between them and their friendship.

Ten years later, Sparklebumps left the man who had become her husband, and was re-aquainted with the Redhead. He became her Fuck Buddy, which she enjoyed immensely, but realized it would become more when he presented her with a butterfly mood ring she had forgotten at his house that fateful night of the makeout session. She wondered aloud at the idea that he had kept such an insignificant trinket all these years, through two moves.

He looked at her and shrugged. Then he said, “You were a good memory, so I held on to it.”

P.S. The Redhead became a Rockstar after that.

30 Day Challenge- Day 2

On day two of the 30 day Challenge I am supposed to write about something I feel very strongly about.

I’m surely going to lose a few readers over this one.

Abortion = Bad

It’s true, my Baptist roots are still attached, at least by a few fibers, because this is the only issue I still feel as strongly about as I did when I was a naive virginal Church Girl.

I cannot help but feel that abortion clinics should just put up a flourescent banner that reads:

“BABY KILLING AVAILABLE HERE!!!”

There are people who do not believe a fetus is a person. But let me ask you this: Can you find me one pregnant woman who intended to be in that condition who does NOT consider her fetus a baby? Just because a woman doesn’t desire the baby in her belly doesn’t make it less than one.

The reason I am so against abortion is the simple fact that there are more than enough alternatives. If a woman is raped, there are morning after pills. If a woman does not wish to get pregnant, there are condoms, diaphragms, cervical caps, spermicides, and many other forms of birth control. If all of these are abominable options for such women, be a saint and give the baby you don’t want to somebody who does.

I’ve not yet decided my final stand on women who get abortions for medical reasons. All I can say is, if I were the one with child, I would not be killing it to save my own skin. Or if it were a baby with birth defects, if I could not handle the situation myself, I know that there are people out there who would give their left nut to have a less-than-perfect child.

As for the women who get multiple abortions, I most certainly believe that they should be sterilized after the second one, no matter the reasoning for it. If we allow women to have an easy way out because they are to lazy to get a shot or take a pill, the senselessness will continue.

I know that if abortion wasn’t legal, they would still be happening. I’m not saying it should be illegal. I believe in a woman’s right to choose. I choose to point out the fact that if you choose death for your baby, I cannot be your friend. Because I would take your baby if you didn’t want it.

A Regular Whore

It should be well-known by now that money matters not to me one iota.

I know that it cannot buy happiness.

Or love.

It cannot give you a hug, or get you to work, or give you super powers. (Although it can most certainly make you powerful.)

On the other hand:

I believe the lack of money is the root of all evil.

If you lack it, you cannot pay your bills, and then the Demon Bill Collectors start calling.

If you lack it, you cannot buy fabulous shoes that set you apart from all the other bums also trolling the aisles at Walmart.

It was said once in a Book I read one time that “the love of money is the root of all evil.”

I know I shall not be going to Hell for loving the money, because I surely don’t.

So someone PLEASE please PLEASE tell me why when my pretty boss where I’m a Pizza Slut offered me $2 more dollars an hour not to take the fabulous job at Crafts Direct and to stay miserable where I am, I took it. I am certainly a whore now, because I feel as if I just got paid to be fucked in the ass.

 

“Look What I Bought For Us.”

In the past history of this blog, there have been many confused and irrational ramblings by some girl closely resembling me. If you recall, she wanted her Rockstar to propose; but wait! She wanted to have babies and was quite certain she was willing to give up her Rockstar if he didn’t give up his sperm. For the record, you are now entering the life of a Libra. Please keep your hands inside the cart for the duration of the ride, and hang on for dear life.

It’s funny to think how different things were even a year ago. I was happily employed at a bookstore where every day was like Christmas, and would nightly go home to my Rockstar who would or would not greet me with a bear hug and a boner, depending on his mood. I spent a good deal of time waiting for him to say those three little words (I love you), or even four little words (Will you marry me?), growing increasingly preturbed by his refusal to verbally commit to me. After this weekend, I realized that all that time, I should have been dreaming bigger, and expecting even MORE words. Maybe even six whole ones. I didn’t even know I wanted to hear them until after they were said:

“Look what I bought for us.”

For those who may not have known, (or may have forgotten), it was my birthday last Friday. I cannot say I celebrated it, as I spent the entire day in a hellacious prison acting as a Pizza Slut. Luckily, my Rockstar missed me enough this week that he brought me to work at 9 AM, and came back to pick me up at 1:30 AM just so he could see me for a few extra minutes.

While I have never expected birthday presents from the man I’m in a relationship with (other than birthday sex), I cannot say that I would refuse or deny any gifts that were purchased with my day of birth in mind. My Rockstar in the last weeks purchased yellow shocks to replace the ones in my very yellow truck, and while not necessarily meant as a birthday gift, I appreciate the gesture greatly. That being said, the fact that my Rockstar took me out for breakfast at Perkins on Saturday so I could eat lunch food was more than enough of a birthday present.

When I arrived home Saturday night, my Rockstar’s Daughter wished to show me the new fuzzy blanky her daddy had bought her. After tucking her in and raining kisses upon her, I went into my own bedroom intent on plastering myself to my mattress for the next 5-7 hours. My Rockstar rudely (or so I thought at first) turned the bedroom light on and said those few words I’ve waited to hear all my life.

“Look what I bought for us.”

Without knowing my Rockstar, it may be hard for you to understand the great depth of his meaning in these words. He is forever talking about going to this race, or taking this weekend to go dirt-biking, or looking online to purchase guitar gear instead of a house. While it is unspoken yet known that I am invited to participate in these activities, there has been few or no times when he has referred in conversations (at least with me) to he and I as “us”. Him being a man of few words, (unless it has to do with Mitt Romney) I could not have been more shocked or delighted if he had said, “Here’s a castle for you and a pair of swarovski-encrusted stillettos for you to marry me in.”

If he would have put a pile of cow shit on the floor and said, “Look what I bought for us”, I would have thrown my arms around him and covered him in kisses for saying it in such a way, nevermind the dung. Luckily, he bought for us sheets, which perhaps seems quite insignificant to an outsider, except for one little detail- they were purple. Which means he bought them specifically with me in mind. Who needs a ring and a proposal when there are purple sheets to dirty? 😉

 

30 Days- Day 1

I see what you people are doing! I see it! A 30 day challenge! I can do it too! It just might be a 60 day challenge. But that would be very good of me to actually finish something. So here we go.

Question 1. Five things to win my heart.

Ooh, boy. This is a toughy. Not because I have a heart of stone, but because there are many more than five things that would make someone win my heart. It may actually be easier to pick five things that WOULDN’T win my heart.

1. Money.

I don’t give a shit about money. And I won’t love you ’cause you buy me a castle. But I will sleep with you.

2. Assholery.

If you are nice to me, and are a giant buttface to the girl who brings us french fries, I’m not sorry to say that I won’t love you.

3. Giant penises.

From my experience, the mens with smaller Junk are better in bed and try harder. Giant penises are just bigger funky looking things. If I had a third boob, would you want it to be big? Ok, nevermind.

4. Obssession with something other than me.

I’m aright with you playing Resident Evil 7 for 13 hours straight if you fuck my brains out with just as much energy afterward. I also don’t have a problem with you watching the Vikings game if I’m sitting on your naked lap for most of it. I! ME! I’m more interesting that Adrien Petersen, although he does look very fun in his shiny pantalone’s.

5. Lazy Bum Syndrome.

I’m all about coming home from work and vegging out in front of Sex and the City with a drink in my hand (I LOOOVE that song!) , but really, you should go to work in the first place.

Ok, I think that’s about it for now, but don’t worry. I’ll finish the challenge.

P.S. I was completely drunk on 99 Grapes when I wrote this post, so shut up. But I love you!

 

Quandry

I am proud to announce, my Lovelys, that I have a new job!

I also have one tiny huge problem.

A few weeks ago, I ventured into the happiest place on earth. No, not Disneyland, but a place filled with glitter, and paint, and feathers, and everything beautiful- Crafts Direct. For those of you not from frozen Minnesota, think of Hobby Lobby, or Michaels, or Joann Fabrics on steroids. While I am not the craftiest person in the world, (as I am able only to re-sew buttons onto shirts that have popped because of my magnificent busooms) I have dabbled in oil painting (and pissed off the person I did a portrait of), and jewelry making, and in the buying of peacock feathers for various projects. Of course, upon seeing the many signs posted : Now Hiring!, my imagination went wild at the thought of spending my paid days amongst sparkly and seasonal decorations. (and using my employee discount on these very things.) I filled out an application, feeling a bit disheartened as I observed the many other individuals doing the exact thing as I. I left not fully expecting to be called; for what would make the hiring gods of Crafts Direct pick my app out of the many that were surely piled upon their desks?

Needless to say, my Sparkle somehow managed to catch their eye, and I was hired upon my impressive interview.(where I wore everything crafty and bright.) While I truly detest being a pizza slut, I must stay working as one, and I will explain why.

It seems in my short year (or longest year of my life) as a pizza slut, I have become superior at my job. It also happens that there is no one there that is even semi-ready to take my place. There is also one other thing I may have forgotten to mention.

My boss is very pretty.

Let me point out- I love my Rockstar and he is my Beloved. That being said, I am a sucker for a pretty face. I have failed to mention the little fact that my boss is highly attractive because there is a small chance that I could be fired for saying so so blatantly on my blog. However, given my quandry, being fired would solve my dilemma.

You see, because my boss is pretty, and is not an assface, I feel terrible for leaving him without a sufficient replacement for me. Sadly, he knows that I find him to be easy on the eyes, and has surely used this to his advantage by giving me sad dejected puppy eyes when I told him I got a new job. Fuckin’ A.

“Can you not stay until January, so I have time to find a new you?” He pleaded with me. My heart broke.

While I have told him I will stay as full time as I can until he doesn’t need me anymore, (and that he will surely never find another me) I  explained how I have never dreamed of being a Pizza Slut, and am not fulfilling my destiny doing so. Unfortunateley, I suspect he knows of my histrionic personality, and has since assured me of my general awesomeness as a runner of my store. Such excessive attentions have always been my downfall.

I am also concerned that when I do eventually leave, all my employees shall follow me in the quitting.

Ask me why I care so about a job I don’t give a shit about. The only answer I can come up with is, “I have a pretty boss.” Damn me and my attraction to everything beautiful.

 

Who Says You Can’t Be Something You’re Not?

I have been to the Rennaissance Festival.

Talk about sensory overload.

It has been a long-standing wish of mine to attend a Rennaissance Festival, considering that everything princess-like and fairy-tale-ish appeals to me so. (Men with long hair may also be mentioned in that list.) So this year, I made a point to finally go to a land where men are cads and women are dressed like courtesans. (As opposed to real life, where men are assholes and women are dressed like sluts.) Upon hearing of the new addition added to the fair, the Mermaid Cove, there was no way I was missing it once again.

My friend Delightful and I arrived to the dust-cycloned fields of Rennaissance Parking, and I was secretly already berating myself for wearing my stilletto suede ruffled Rennaissance-inspired boots as we tramped through the dirt to purchase our tickets. Upon entering the gates and being thrilled at the many faux medieval accents I’d already encountered, I was immediately over-whelmed by men in leggings and busooms of women that were on the edge of escaping their barely-there entrappings. My overwhelmingness of eye-opening tittilage (haha) was quickly distracted by a vendor selling sparkly and amazing crystals.

I found soon enough that although medieval Rennaissance fair was equipped with modernized biffys, the stench of shit was just as barbaric. This was due to the fact that about 40 biffys were situated in a circular fashion behind a wall that allowed the smell of human waste to rot in a not-so-lovely enclosed area. Blech.

At one point, I wondered if Delightful was preturbed by my ever-increasing lack of concentration. “OH! A man playing a lute over there! Oh! We must go see what all the cheering is about! Oh! Look! A puppy!” (Not very rennaissancey, I’ll admit)” Look at that accordian player with the creepy eyes! He most certainly IS making eyes at me!” At least Delight burst out laughing when I made eyes back at the grungy accordian player, so perhaps she was mildly entertained. (For the record, the accordian player was seen on several occassions throughout the day, but I cannot say with certainty that he was stalking me, as it IS is job to roam.)

We laughed at the wonderfully crass Washer Wenches while enjoying frozen oranges that dripped onto our cleavage. We oohed and aahed over the many decadent and ornate costumes that walked by. And then we stood in line for a good 45 minutes to adore the mermaids.

Now, there are many people who might say such myths as Santa Clause and Mermaids and Jesus are just that. While I do wonder if the original Santa is, in fact, still alive, I very much do believe in mermaids. You may laugh, but have you ever thought- where did the idea for mermaids come from if they didn’t exist at some point? Perhaps they were not exactly how we envision them, but for goodness’ sake, people believe in dinosaurs.

I am quite aware that the mermaids I saw at the Rennaissance Festival were not true ones (because I could see their knees through their less-than-authentic tails) but as I watched them wave prettily and beckon to men, I thought, “What the heck? That’s exactly what I do every day!” The realization that I am essentially a mermaid with better shoes was quite exciting. Then I thought to myself, “I used to dream of being a mermaid. My mother told me that wasn’t possible, but look! These girls are mermaids, and their mothers probably told them they couldn’t be either!”

So I have come to the conclusion that I WILL, I WILL be a mermaid. Auditions are held in May and June. I can’t wait.

 

P.S. If anyone has suggestions on how to audition to be a mermaid, feel free to comment.