Depressing

I can’t decide which is more depressing:

The fact that it’s payday, and I can pay my rent and truck payments and have just enough money left over to get gas for the next two weeks so I can get to work, or the fact that I’m actually considering going out to the corner by work where the resident homeless guy stands with his sign and asking him for tips on how to appear pitiful…

And the Oscar for Making Their Boobage Disappear Goes To…

All I can say is a non-intelligent sounding text acronym: “WTF?!?!??!”

I, like billions of other individuals throughout the world, tuned in to watch the Oscars last night. Actually, after a heated discussion about whether to forego this week’s episode of the Walking Dead in order to watch the Oscars, my Rockstar somewhat unwillingly tuned in. (Boobs win, y’all.)

My Rockstar and I have made a habit of watching the beginning of red-carpet awards shows so as to comment between ourselves on the amazing fashion sense (or lack thereof) of famed and sometimes not so famed celebutants. We have jokingly agreed that we should replace Joan and Melissa with our very honest and sometimes harsh own fashion police show. Last night was no exception.

At the beginning of the evening, I thought perhaps it was only a fluke that the three Jennifers (Garner, Lawrence, and Aniston) were all wearing questionable gowns. Do not misunderstand- all three of their gowns were absolutely amazing, except for one huge (or not huge) thing. All three women looked as though they had suffered a mastectomy before donning their designer duds. It’s true, Jennifer Aniston is not the bustiest of celebrities, but I’m quite certain more than one lonely man sitting at home has jacked off to her quite acceptable B-cups when she was portraying Rachel. However, that Garner chic (who I always considered to be gorgeous until I noticed last night that Ben Affleck must have run her through the ringer) has had quite lovely cleavage in the past, and is not the fact that J. Lawrence not a skinny mini what makes her appealing?

I continued watching in hopes that maybe the designers were only playing such tricks on girls named Jennifer. Sadly, it seems the fad for this year was making voluptuous actresses appear waif-like and un-endowed. Anne Hathaway, (who’s lovely knockers rival my own) Renee Zellweger, (who only had titties to speak of really as Bridget Jones) and Reese Witherspoon (who’s demi-cut dress even made my Rockstar go “WTF?!” ) all seemed to be channeling Audrey Hepburn. Don’t get me wrong- Audrey’s lack of boobage has always been greatly admired by me- so much so that during my anorexic days, I seethed at the fact that my ever-present hooters did not diminish to miniscule Audrey size. However, NONE of these women have Audrey-esque Love Warts. In fact, the only person who’s cleavage was almost perceptible to the naked eye was Nicole Kidman. (A surprising fact, considering that even though I’ve actually seen naked boobs on her in past films, she has none to speak of.)

When did flat-chested come back in style? It’s true, high fashion caters to women who are not blessed in the breast department, but I think Jennifer Aniston’s gorgeous red ball gown would have been even just a little bit more gorgeous if it had been cut in such a way to let her Girls breathe. I’ve come up with the perfect solution…

Someone needs to get me an invitation to next year’s Oscars, and I promise there will be enough cleavage to make up for what we missed this year. 🙂

Sap

I have been described as excessively emotional.

I do not deny that this fact could be accurate.

It’s true that the viewing of any movie where an adorable and innocent fur person (mainly the family dog) will cause me to sob uncontrollably and sulk around for days after or that I will fly into a rage if the Guess shoes I found on clearance last week when I had no dollars are purchased by some asshole who has a higher paying job than I. Luckily, because I so often heard “Quit crying or I’ll give you something to cry about!” as I was growing up, I have succeeded in at least partially bridling my feelings long enough to run into a bathroom stall or seek solace in the cab of my yellow truck before screaming to the heavens “Shitfuckdamnpisshell!!!!!!!!!!” when I’ve once again realized the fuckin’ IRS took money out of my account without first consulting me.

Surprisingly, as tempermental (I prefer the word passionate) as I can be, I have absolutely zero tolerance for others of the same disposition. When a dead Patrick Swayze would be glowing and whisper lovingly “Ditto” to a then-adorable Demi Moore in Ghost, my ex-hubby would emit a strangled sob and pretend he had something in his eye; all the while, I would tease him mercilessly about what a sap he was, though I was secretly hoping if I ever came to an untimely death, I too would be allowed to use Whoopi Goldberg’s body at will. When my employees at work become distraught over customer relations (or relations with each other) I instantly tune them out and tell them to “shut the fuck up.” Perhaps it is the fact that they are at work, and have a job to do that makes my patience non-existant, but I cannot explain my harsh teasing of those who cry for completely valid reasons.

I was looking through Youtube today for various musical videos with which to waste my time, when I realized that music is the one thing to which I fully and definitely support emotional diahrrea. I realize not every person connects with music as I do, but no matter the language- if a musician or singer is actually talented, you can almost completely understand what it is they are meaning to get across. (Or, in Taylor Swift’s case, her lack of talent gets across that someone should pummel her in the head so she can cease thinking up lyrics that are “never ever ever never” awesome.)

‘Tis true that PMS and other uncontrollable life factors may contribute to my ever moving feelings when I listen to tunes, but just  read these lyrics and tell me YOU didn’t get at least a little misty-eyed.

I know there’s hurt I know there’s pain,
But people change lord knows I’ve been no saint
In my own way, regret choices I’ve made
How do I say I’m sorry? How do I say I’m sorry?

I was scared, I was unprepared oh, for the things you said
If I could undo that I hurt you I would do anything for us to make it through
Draw me a smile, and save me tonight
I am a blank page waiting for you to bring me to life
Paint me a heart let me be your art

I am a blank page waiting for life to start
Let our hearts stop and beat as one together
Let out hearts stop and beat as one forever
How can I erase decisions I’ve made
How do I go back what more can I say
All that remains are hearts filled with shame
How do we say we’re sorry? How do we say we’re sorry

I was scared, I was unprepared oh, for the things you said
If I could undo that I hurt you I would do anything for us to make it through
Draw me a smile and save me tonight
I am a blank page waiting for you to bring me to life
Paint me a heart let me be your art

I am a blank page waiting for life to start
Let our hearts stop and beat as one together
Let out hearts stop and beat as one forever
I’d go back in time and I’ll realize
Our spirits aligned and we’d never die
Draw me a smile, and save me tonight
I’ll be your blank page waiting for you to bring me to life
Paint me a heart let me be your art
I am a blank page waiting for life to start
Let our hearts start and beat as one together
Let our hearts start and beat as one forever

P.S. It’s Christina Aguilera if you wanna look it up and bawl.

The Beauty Rituals of a Queen

When I was fifteen or so, my parents took me to a used bookstore. It had just recently opened up, and was located in a historic ramshackle building. Because it was new, nothing was organized, as in- there were piles of books EVERYWHERE. No organization, no categories, nothing. While the inner librarian in me would balk at such a situation, I must tell you how delightful it was to go searching for a treasure I didn’t even know was there. I came across a treasure indeed- a biography on Queen Elizabeth. Since she was known as the Virgin Queen, and I myself was a virgin at the time, I took it as a sign and asked my father to purchase said book for me. I went home and read the entire thing in two sittings.

There was much history that I read about, but the thing I remember most about that book was the chapter on Queen Elizabeth’s beauty habits. At that time in my life, I was obsessed with maintaining my looks (as if anything has changed). I read about Elizabeth’s practice of rubbing mercury on her lips to make them a luscious red color. I secretly went out to the shed on my parents property and looked for an outdated thermometer that I could break open and procure mercury from. (Nevermind the fact that mercury is highly lethal. I thought if I could die with the pale white skin and berry red lips of a virgin queen, it mattered not.) It is probably a good thing for my lips that my mom caught me and forbade me to smear mercury on them.

One beauty ritual that Elizabeth practiced that I actually did try was putting eggs and cream and mayonnaise in my hair to make it shiny and flowing. I don’t actually remember if it worked, but I do remember the reactions of the numerous people my mother told about my odd behavior. (What?! Eggs in her hair? How gross! What a weird kid!)

Fast forward 16 years later.

I still long to have ivory white skin, instead of the pale blotchy skin of a Minnesota woman, and I still long to have  the luscious flowing locks of a Boticelli angel. I have made no secret of the fact that my hair color is not at most times natural. (If the Pumpkin Orange and Little Mermaid shades were not a clue.) To be clear- my complete and utter boredom with my various hair colors has caused me to color and bleach and dye and fry my hair to the point where my raved-of (by my Grammy) natural curls now resemble that haystack that girl in Oklahoma got stuck up on. After once again shading my hair a glorious unnatural crimson color last night, I decided that unless I wanted to go with a chic Audrey Heburnesque pixie cut and start all over, I was going to have to get a perm. And so, I awoke this morning and made my way to the local Beauty College. (Where hair care is affordable and only slightly questionable.)

The instructor of my stylist instisted on perming a test strand of my hair. I rolled my eyes on the inside (since I have gone from Elvira black locks to a Gwen Stefani bleach job without losing hair) and waited patiently for the verdict.

“We aren’t going to do a perm today.” She stated quite unapologetically.

She went on to explain that if my hair was permed, I would lose my amazingly bright redness, and my strands would turn to mush. I exited the building and returned home, where I immediately did online research on how to repair my poor abused hairs.

I was reminded of Queen Elizabeth and her egg hair masque when I read that eggs and mayo make an excellent remedy. I was also reminded of Catherine Zeta-Jones and the first issue of People‘s 50 Most Beautiful People when I read that beer does wonders for the human coif.

So once again, I find myself partaking in the odd beauty rituals of a queen. I am composing this post honey, olive oil, and egg yolks saturate my hair and continuously drip down my face. While I admit that a plastic Target bag wrapped around my head is not entirely sexy, I guarantee the end will result in fabulously moisturized locks that would make even Queen Elizabeth jealous. Sadly, I am reminded how horrid I think honey smells as it oozes down my forehead onto my keyboard.

A Valediction to Chris Meloni

My pulchritudinous Christopher,

I have come to the heartbreaking conclusion that this shall be the last letter I shall ever compose to you.

“But why, my sweet luscious Sparklebumps?” You ask? (Or more correctly, you so blatantly do NOT ask.)

I must admit, my (or not mine) amazing specimen of a man, that the thought of never again typing up a letter of blatant lust to you has got me a bit misty-eyed, but no- I cannot go on as we have. (Or have not.)

I cannot help but notice that my multiple attempts to gain your attention have, in fact, received no attention at all from you. My birthday post for you HERE and my first confession of love HERE lack the sufficient comments from you necessary for me to continue my unrequited love for you. Despite the numerous offers of boobie squishes I have promised you upon our initial meeting, you remain ever distant- living with that very tall wife of yours and scowling beautifully without any thoughts of me whatsoever. I cannot bear it, Chris.

Though I do not consider myself high-maintenance, I have been assured by a number of the male species that I do, at times, require excessive attention. Since I have received not one iota of attention from you, I do no think that I am being unreasonable in ending our bond; it was doomed from the very start.

I will no longer dream of your strong Stabler arms around me, nor shall I pine to stretch myself to the very max to reach your very kissable lips with my own. (Which would be completely impossible anyway, since I haven’t shoes tall enough to make ME tall enough.) No more shall I imagine you scowling at me in your very Christopher way when I have denied you my delicate lotus-like privates. (Which is also quite incredible, as I would never deny you anything, my dearest Bald Man.)

I hope with this, my last goodbye, you feel anguish at never having experienced my magnificent boobage in all its glory, and contrition over never having donated your sperm to me in such a way that would produce little Mini Mes and Yous. (Our unborn children wail in grief.) It brings me great sadness that your hardened manhood shall never find its way into my mouth, for I surely have wanted to know exactly how many licks it would take….

Know this, my once darling Chris, my future love life shall ever be slightly grim and jaded, even if I have moved my attentions on to Sean Bean.

For Never Yours,

Sparklebumps

Vision of A Mermaid

Jack lay in his hammock and tried to let the gentle sway of the ship lull him to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw her.

He’d heard stories of mermaids ever since the first day he’s set foot on the King’s Mistress, and even though he enjoyed the imaginative tales immensely, he had always found them to be somewhat incredible.

“What a fool I was.” He snorted quietly at the thought, trying not to disturb the other men. What the old sailors who’d spun the tales hadn’t mentioned was the fact that once you saw one, you wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything else. He’d seen Lucky, the first mate, scowling at him when he’d been daydreaming about her today. The knots he’d been tying wouldn’t have held up in a gust of wind. He sighed.

When they’d docked in Calcutta, he’d been forced to stay aboard the ship because of his age. “Ship’s Boy needs to suffer.” Cap’n said. He was hanging over the rail feeling sorry for himself, when he heard the splash. The moon was under a dark cloud cover, and he couldn’t really see what had caused the noise. He thought it was a jellyfish at first, but wondered at the dark reddish color. He grabbed a hold of a mainline and leaned over the railing to get a better look.  He squinted, but couldn’t make out a thing.

Just then, the moon emerged from her dusky curtain, and the sanguine mass changed to a brilliant copper. There was a white flash from underneath, and suddenly he was face to face with a watery angel. Her eyes were the color of the sea, and looked at him in curiosity; he was entranced as they changed from a deep cobalt to shining emerald to beryl and then to jade. They were set into a heart-shaped pale pale face. What he had thought was an oddly-colored Man-O-War was actually a heavy mane that fell from her head over her naked shoulders and fanned out into the water around her, seeming to be a live and separate creature. She smiled, and he felt as if the ship’s deck had sunk from underneath him.

“Hooooo-eee.” He let out a breath, and she slid away through the water quicker than any fish he’d ever seen. Now that he knew she was there, he could see her through the dark, bobbing slightly with the waves. Jack thought quickly about all the stories he’d listened to about mermaids, and he slid his hand into his pocket and felt the silver locket his mum had given him. If he had been thinking clearly, he never would have considered it, but his only thought now was to get within arm’s reach of this mysterious being. He sunk to his knees onto the deck of the ship and withdrew the locket from his pocket. He squeezed it, debating for only a second before holding out his arm through the rails of the deck.

” ‘S alright, Miss.” He spoke quietly, but wondered if “Miss” was a bit ridiculous.  How DID one address a sea sprite? He shook his head and then his arm, just enough to get the locket at the end of the chain to spin.

In a glint of pale skin and fiery tresses, she was back; she snatched the locket from his hand so quickly he didn’t have time to react. She swam away again, a little closer this time, and he watched in spellbound delight as she examined her treasure. She rolled the locket around in her hands, and let out a small cry resembling a dolphin’s when the latch sprung the little silver door open. She held it away at arm’s length, but when nothing else happened, she drew it close again, and peered at the picture of Jack’s mother that was within. She looked at him then, and back at the photograph, no doubt noticing the resemblance between them.

“‘S me mum. I miss ‘er terrible a’ times.” Jack spoke softly still, and he couldn’t help the emotion that spread through his statement. The sea goddess cocked her head when he spoke, and came closer. He leaned back from the rails, trying to get her to venture closer. From his new spot, he couldn’t see her, and hoped with his whole being she couldn’t see him either, and was curious enough to want to.

He heard water lapping against the ship, and saw  long fingers wrap around one of the rails before those ever-changing eyes were gazing at him once again over the boards of the ship. He sat there and just took in the sight of her for a moment in the light from the ship’s lanterns. The locket he’d offered was tied securely in her hair, along with a variety of other artifacts- a fork, a monocle, several pearls larger than any he’d ever seen, and an expensive tobacco pipe. He wondered for a moment who had given her such things, and inched closer. Her eyes never left his, even when he looked over the edge of the ship and saw womanly hips that gave way to scales and a massive tail that ended in an elegant ruffled fin. The fin waved lazily against the ship, and Jack was reminded of the barn cats’ tails of home. He was admiring the rainbow of scales in the moonlight- dark purple that were silvery in moon beams, and then looked aquamarine. He looked up to find the mermaid observing him just as intently, and disturbingly close.

He scarcely breathed, afraid he’d frighten her again. The two stared at each other for long minutes, waiting for the other to make a move. Jack sat more still than a statue when an ivory arm reached out and her damp fingers grasped one of the riotous dark curls atop his head. She pulled it gently, then let it go.  It sprung back into place, and she repeated the act. After the second time, a small sound escaped from her throat, and he realized she was laughing. She grinned and reached for another lock of his hair, and he silently thanked his mother this tiny birthright that so entertained a sea maiden. Jack heard a giant clatter of boots from the other side, and drunken voices of sailors drunk on too much rum, and his sea angel disappeared. He cursed under his breath, and remained seated on the deck, feeling as if he’d just had his heart ripped out through his chest. A burly man stumbled over to him and stuck a knee on Jack’s shoulder. Jack cringed at the putrid smell on the man’s breath.

“‘Ey there, laddy, ‘ile yer down there, what say ye to a ‘ittle favor? Ye’r almost pretty ‘nough to be a lass!” The sailor used a crude hand motion and guffawed loudly, and Jack shoved the man’s knee away and stood.

“I hear ye’r sister’s down on the docks and real good at that.” He spoked the insult loud enough for the other men to hear, which caused a collective drunken laughter to ring out. The crude sailor scowled at him before walking away, and Jack sent one final glance out to see, convinced he saw a womanly silhouette bobbing gracefully in the tide.

My New Goal: A Superbowl Commercial

Yes, yes, we all know it was the most important day of the year yesterday- Superbowl Sunday. I must admit, the only reason I know it was was because I spent the entire day cracking the whip to ensure that every person who ordered pizza received it in enough time to properly digest before having to suffer through Beyoncé’s “entertainment”. Luckily (?), I made it home in enough time to see the much-talked-about Farmer commercial. (Which would have been soooo much better if it had been for Ford.) This got me wondering: can a person advertise herself?

When I thought about it, the only individuals I could come up with that may perhaps “advertise” themselves were prostitutes and escorts. (Unless you are counting all those people on dating sites) But then I got to thinking, “Why COULDN’T one advertise oneself?”  I suppose normal boring people mightn’t have much to advertise, but what about all the awesome people? Isn’t advertising for general awesomeness allowed? After all, that’s all any commercial really does.

While I began this blog just to blurb about whatever it was I was thinking about, I cannot deny that every time I find I’ve acquired another follower, I do a little happy dance. (Which you all must know makes the girls jiggle.) And since I wish to be a famous author the likes of which have never been seen before, what better way to get the word out than to show up somewhere between the Ravens and the 49’ers?

(I realize I’d actually have to finish a book, but nevermind about that.)

Here’s what I was thinking:

The commercial would start out focusing on a fabulous pair of Swarovski-encrusted stilettos, and pan up to reveal a pair of sexily-muscled gams connected to the feet in the shoes. They are the legs of a uber-hot model, or perhaps a Salma Hayek-type. She sashays past a park bench with a dorky yet slightly adorable man sitting reading a book. Suddenly, she stops sashaying and does a double take- what is that he’s reading there?! Why, it’s a Sparklebumps book! Suddenly, the nerdy dude is amazingly sexy, and the hot woman cannot resist sitting down next to him and fawning desperately over him. Then the words pop up- “Only the sexiest people read Sparklebumps. Be one today! ” And then that guy with the movie preview voice starts talking: Her latest publication is in bookstores everywhere. Buy it today!

Yeah, now there’s a commercial for ya.

Geico’s got the gecko and the  “weeeee!!!!!!!!” pig, why couldn’t I have a Salma Hayek?