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She spent the day with her mother.

They did the things mothers and daughters do- window shopping, dining out and the like. As they were lunching on skinny fries and cobb salads, the girl almost dropped her fork when a small child of another patron nearby let out a ferocious shriek. That got her mother talking even more.

“So your cousin is planning to marry that dimwit girl even though she quit her job. I wonder how happy he’s going to be working three jobs when she’s sitting at home popping out babies?” The older woman tsk-ed once or twice before taking another bite of her salad.

“Well, he must know how pampered she is, Mom. They’ve been together since high school.” The girl tried to steer her mother away from baby talk.

” I just hate to think they’re going to have a bunch of babies when they haven’t thought about how they’re going to afford them. And that’s another thing that irks me, most of those kids at school where I teach have such horrible parents that care more about they’re dumb dogs than they do about they’re kids!” The girl hid her amusement at the fact that her mother still refused to use the word “damn” in front of her daughter, even though she was going to be thirty-two in two months.

“Yeah, well, isn’t that the way of it? All the people who shouldn’t have kids have whole herds of them when the ones that want them can’t have any.” The girl refrained from adding “including me” to the end of that sentence. She didn’t have the energy to get into that conversation today.

Her mom had a few more choice words on the subject before bouncing to another topic three or four more times before dessert came.

After her mom dropped her off, the girl walked slowly up the stairs to her apartment, the depression of the days outing weighing heavily on her heart. She couldn’t ignore the tiny tutus in the baby section of the department store earlier, or what seemed like the constant flow of new mothers with strollers who had sped by all day. She took out her keys, and let out a wavering sigh as she opened the door.

Her boyfriend was in a surprisingly good mood after having worked with morons all day, and was excited to show her the new guitar he’d found listed on Craigslist. She couldn’t help but think that the baby blue of the Gibson’s body would be the perfect color for a newborn’s nursery. After awhile, the two sat down to finish watching the last few episodes of a show they’d been watching on Netflix.

The girl was momentarily distracted from her misery as they watched the young love blossom of the two main characters on the TV screen, until the heroine’s sister decided that was the perfect time to go into labor. The girl clutched her pillow and unsuccessfully pushed back tears while the woman onscreen gave birth to a flawless baby girl, as the fictional family looked on proudly. The girl had had enough.

She had a lovely life- a job that paid her bills, a friend or two who were always there for her, a boyfriend whom she loved and loved her back, and yet she felt she hadn’t a thing in the world. She tried to push away the thought of the children she didn’t have as she slid down to her knees and slipped her lover’s boxers off before taking him in her mouth. She thought to herself before she lost herself in foreplay- She may as well play the part of a useless slut, since her body was never going to be used for a good purpose.

Come Back, Vince Flynn!

Listen here, Vince Flynn,

I’ve got a bone to pick with you, and you’re gonna listen to me, whether you’re actually dead or not.

It’s really not ok that you just died like that.

OK, so maybe it wasn’t really all that sudden, since you announced your ass cancer in February and all, but geez! You don’t think you coulda picked up the phone and called, huh? After all, we’re kind of neighbors. I mean, you live in Minnesota and I live in Minnesota.

I think fondly of the times when I worked at my bookstore and people were constantly coming in to look for your books. I began to wonder what all the fuss was about, and so I picked one up one day. And then it was all over.

I began to search high and low for your books in hardcover, for I knew instantly that they must be a permanent part of my ever-growing library. And the fact that I turned my well-read Auntie onto you is a fact I am quite proud of, even though she admitted that your writing style was not quite her cup of tea.

I shamedly confess that while I adore your writing (and your beautiful face that is now without life) while I own  many but not all of your books, I have yet to read more than one. After all, I have many books to read, and I can’t just be reading spy novels all the time. Anyhoo, now I will have to put aside my Memoirs of Cleopatra and take up with Mitch Rapp in your honor.

I had hoped that we, as co-Minnesota writers, might have collaborated on a story that then became wildly successful, or at least collaborated at friends over a steamy….. cup of joe in downtown St. Paul after one of your book signings. Ah C’est la vie. Or c’est la morte, rather.

I am rather upset that I’ve picked up additional shifts at work this weekend, and so I shall miss your funeral, which I’m certain shall be a sight to behold. I would send flowers, but I am poor, and well, you are dead, so you wouldn’t probably appreciate them anyway.

I mourn your passing, because you are an author, and a good one, and one I’ve had numerous conversations about with my co-worker. If at any time you feel unrest and wish to converse with someone in the real world, you have my permission to sneak your wispy ghost self into my bedroom and have a chat. Although, I must point out my world is, at times, more of an illusion than real.

Love in the Afterlife,

Sparklebumps

Tagline

It’s true that I ignore my Daily Prompt on a Daily Basis. (Ha). But this one could not be ignored.

Often, our blogs have taglines. But what if humans did, too? What would your tagline be?

This got me to thinking. Mainly, because about 700 different things popped into my head, and now I had to figure out a way to put it all in one sentence. Hmmm.

Aright, here it is:

Welcome to a glittery world where everyone is mad (as in crazy, not angry), that is ruled by Queen Sparklebumps, a mermaid who has yet to earn her tail. It’s a nice place to visit, but beware, people who spend a lot of time here most certainly fall in love with the Queen, mostly because her imagination runs rampant, and a little bit because she has an impressive rack. Sex, humor, and candy are approved. Visitors are encouraged to feed the Animal.

Drunk I May Be

But feelings I still have.

The fact seems to have escaped my Rockstar.

After a non-grueling day as a Pizza Slut, I arrived home and proceeded to get pleasantly buzzed, thanks to a little (or big) bottle of 99 Apples.

My Rockstar and I sat down and amiably zoned out on a TV show we both enjoy; I cooked him a drunken grilled Cheese, my specialty, ( a grilled cheese slightly askew made with love and Colby Jack cheese), when all of a sudden, his Daddy Dear called. I decided to play a funny, and while he conversed with his male creator, I proceeded to don his newly washed swim trunks over my yoga capris, and my only-minutely small bra over the tank top I was already wearing. I reaped a smile, and perhaps a squashed man-giggle, before he bid adieu to his daddy. I mentioned the obvious swim trunks, when he decided to be his ass-faced self.

“Yeah, my pants used to fit you.”

I admit here that I have gained only two pounds since I last tried his pants on for fun, and so I took this as an affront. (Even more so due to my drunken state.)

I have never once professed to be a skinny-minny; in fact, the opposite is true. I admit to fatness on a daily basis, though I appreciate the times when  people decide to disagree with me. HOWEVER, I may not be a Mena Suvari, but I care (at least sometimes) about other people’s feelings, and would never tell my semi-cute girlfriend with the big boobs that she was less than perfect. That is for people who are jealous of her to do.

‘Tis true that I am more than a little inebriated, but I can still spell inebriated without spellcheck, which means my feelings can still be hurt. And so I persevered in ignoring him for the remainder of the evening, which only resulted in his going to bed early. Fuckin’ A.

I Am Proud To Announce: Nothing

There seems to be a growing trend on Facebook.

People are constantly getting pregnant and/or getting married.

I find this deeply disturbing.

Have people always been getting joined in holy matrimony and then proceeding to get knocked up? Where have I been all these years?

I realize that the world would have ceased to exist long ago if people had not been procreating, but have they always done so at such an accelerated rate, or is this just a contest to see who can accrue the most “likes”?

Too, doesn’t anybody ever just live in sin anymore? What the fuck is all this bachelorette party nonsense and wedded bliss bullshit? I seem to remember my bachelorette party consisting of me, my best friend (who happened to be the worst Maid of Honor ever), a pregnant co-worker, and a 52 -year-old woman who didn’t drink. And the wedding? Well, we all know how well the marriage turned out, but let’s just say it’s a good thing we didn’t have a photographer for longer than an hour. (The joys of being non-photogenic.)

As I page through my Facebook main page, I can’t help but notice that on a weekly basis, my “friends” (I’ll just put it bluntly, most of those people are people I haven’t seen in ten years or more) are forever announcing pregnancies, or engagements, or more pregnancies, or weddings, or even more pregnancies, or posting about how amazingly wonderful their lives are. I took a look at my own profile, and, at first, I was distraught at the list of life achievements I’ve apparently been unable to unlock in this virtual game called life, but even more distraught I became when I noticed how few “likes” my witty and amusing updates that have little to do with my life had amassed. Apparently, you are not somebody until you HAVE somebody growing in your belly.

I took a look back on the life I’ve lived thus far, and wondered momentarily if a divorce is worthy of a Facebook announcement, before tossing that idea aside. I admit that, while I may  appear to have an incredibly entertaining life, according to Facebook standards, I am incredibly dull. At least, that is what I felt for a moment, before I made a resolute decision. I DO have an announcement to make:

I am NOT going to be stupid enough to get married, because despite what all you Facebook fuckers may say, couples DO bicker sometimes, or piss each other off, and some cheat on each other, and are not always as happy as unwedded couples. I DO NOT have a child growing in my belly, and while this may make me sad at times, I will continue to concentrate on enjoying the company of the non-Daughter I’ve been lucky enough to have a life with. I DON’T hang out with my friends and take silly drunken pictures, but my one friend I do have loves me even when I don’t feel like hanging out. And if we are going on about accomplishments, let me just point out that I have bigger boobs than most people, I have a blog that totally rocks, and my Rockstar and I did It twice today. So na-na-na-na-boo-boo.

A Retard Response

It has been brought to my attention that I am offensive.

I must tell you, if anyone bothered to ask, I would gleefully admit fault at this accusation.

However, I am sad I’ve lost a reader over it.

(Mainly because every reader I DON’T have keeps me that much further from taking over the world.)

Our little story begins with a post I wrote in which I used the word “retarded”.

I agree that this word is highly offensive; after all, no one exactly goes around wishing someone would accuse them of retardedness. That being said, I wish to set things in the right.

A reader left a comment stating that the use of the word “retard” should never happen to beget laughs or guffaws. Therein lies the problem.

Firstly, if I happen to be funny in my posts, it is not intentional. True, I may on occasion publish something filled with wit, but I myself do not find myself overly amusing. (Unless I stand in front of the mirror naked and stick my belly out while juggling my excessive busooms.) So really, if I used the word “retard”, it was because I meant it as it is meant to be used, and not to accrue readers looking for laughs.

After my back and forth comments with said reader, I began to wonder if maybe I was in the wrong. (Briefly, mind you, as people of genius are rarely ever mistaken.) I made a point to come home and consult my Webster’s Encyclopedic Dictionary, my American Heritage Dictionary, and my handy dandy online Dictionary, only to discover that I did, in fact, use the word “retard” in the correct and un-offensive manner.

From Webster:

Retard: To obstruct in swiftness of course, to keep delaying, to impede; to hinder

From America’s Heritage:

Retard: To cause to move or proceed slowly, to be delayed.

From the world wide web dictionary:

Retard: A person who is stupid, obtuse, or ineffective in some way.

So there you have it. I believe my exact words were “I went to the non-retarded looking check out person”. Because I wanted to swiftly and without hinderance be out of the grocery store. Whether you look at definition 1, 2, or 3, I in no way used the word “retard” in reference in a derogatory way toward or about someone who may or may not be mentally handicapped, which is what my dear reader was so upset about. I simply wanted to be checked out by someone who was not stupid, obtuse, or ineffective in getting me the hell out of the grocery store.

I understand why someone with a mentally handicapped relative or friend may take offense at the term, but I have never used such a word in malice or hatred. If anyone would bother to delve a little deeper into past posts that I have written, they will notice that I am without judgment or prejudice toward anyone of different race, gender, creed, what have you. If anything, I take offense that anyone would dare suggest I used the word “retard” loosely or in a derogatory way, because I do on occasion read the dictionary to find out the proper and real definitions of words. I do not apologize for the things that I’ve written, but am only sorry some people have sticks up their asses and need to blow shit out of proportion.

P.S. If I would have meant it in a derogatory fashion, I woulda said, “Aright, Rain Man, get your fuckin’ retarded ass in gear.” But that is something I would never say. And really,  if you care to admit it or not, everyone is a little retarded in some way. After all, I am completely obtuse when it come to mathematics.

P.P.S And really, I find myself to be much more offensive in nearly every other post I’ve ever written. Do you not agree?

 

Not-So-Secret Not-So-Sexy Behavior

There was an episode of Sex and the City where Carrie was moving in with her boyfriend Aidan and came to realize there was what she called SSB (Secret Single Behavior) she wasn’t able to partake in while having a live-in bf. I understood exactly what Carrie was referring to.

My Rockstar is out of town this weekend. While I am saddened that I haven’t his warm body to ravage in the night and his Michaelangelo angel face to wake up to, I must admit that my sadness is relatively short-lived.

Some girls rejoice at the thought of their boyfriends being out of town for the weekend. These girls generally have oodles of girlfriends they party with, or oodles of booty call numbers they dial before their poor boyfriends are even cruising out of the driveway. I confess my motives are not of this ilk, and probably not as juicy to read about.

My evening of aloneness plans are shameful, it’s true.  When my rockstar goes away, I make a trip to the closest junk food aisle or Burger King, and spend at least $20. I then ensure that I have rented the most ridiculous of scary movies with which to terrify myself in the dark, and then make my way home. These are the nights when my ADHD comes out to play in earnest. While a truly horrific movie can keep my interest very nicely, I do believe the last drama I rented when my rockstar was away took me a good 7 hours to finish. It was not bad in the least, no, it was just that I had makeup to experiment with and hair dye to administer to my tresses and blog posts to write and the such. I also recall last time that I watched The Devil Inside, which resulted in me texting my coworker at 2 AM telling her the demons were surely coming to possess me and that she needed to save me. Fuckin’ devils.

I normally watch said movies in my underwear and a tshirt, because of course those are the most comfortable things one can wear when alternately stuffing one’s face with food that has no food value and nervously pulling the covers over one’s head to hide from demon possession. It would seem a clever idea to invite a friend or two over who might be able to assist in giving the demons a choice in bodies to possess, but then I would have to put pants on, and that just doesn’t sound like a very good time.

Evading the Uprising

There comes a day in every adult’s life when he or she must make the choice to risk their very safety in order to use their carefully-clipped penny saving coupons. Today was that day for me.

I left work dreading the task looming before me. As if I did not already abhor grocery shopping anyway, the Cashwise in my city wickedly decided to advertise dollar saving deals on Doritos and other life-sustaining foodstuffs. I planned my assignment with the skills of a Navy SEALS ninja.

I seemed to have forgotten my riot shield, as I was not expecting masses of people stocking up for the approaching zombie apocolpyse, and so I hunkered down into a defensive pose as I laid my re-usable grocery bags in the seat of my cart, all the while clutching my purse, preparing to use it as a battering weapon if necessary. I looked down, refusing to make eye contact with other people crazy enough to try to get their two-for-one Oreos, afraid my own insanity would be reflected in their eyes.

I made  a pitstop at the coupon bin, keeping my cart between myself and the elderly lady frantically searching for the free Malt-O-Meal coupon. I found what I needed, and proceeded to bound through the fruit aisle at a self-preserving speed, stopping only long enough to pick up a seedless watermelon marked down to $4.98. As I did so I couldn’t help snickering to myself that I finally had a melon in my hand that was bigger than my own “melons”.

I repeatedly flipped through my handful of coupons, intent on not missing an item and having to risk backtracking through the money-grubbing throng. I debated on whether to get Hershey caramel chocolate coffee creamer or French Vanilla before madly tossing both on top of my free bananas and scotching outta there before I was rammed by the overweight man in the sweat pants.

I maneuvered my growing-heavy cart down the frozen foods aisle, ignoring the call of the new Cool Whip Frosting, and hastily grabbed two delicious looking tubs of ice cream, only to realize when I got around the corner that the tubs I had the coupon for were on the endcap. I threw my hands up before throwing the unwanted tubs in the place of the two I grabbed. (Shhh, you know you’ve done it too.) I zoomed past the candybar aisle, resisting temptation, before coming to a screeching halt in the shortest checkout line that sported a not-retarded looking checkout dude.

Sadly, in my extreme speed, I failed to notice the elderly couple in front of me who had been unable to locate said sale Malt-O-Meal. I looked on, pretending to smile politely when all I really wanted to do was shove grampa and gramma into their carts and push them off to the old people’s home. At last, their Malt-O-Meal was found, only to find out it wasn’t what they were looking for. Finally, I was cashed out and bagged up, only to realize when I got loaded into my truck that my endorphins were pumping, and I zoomed home in record time for absolutely no reason.

Wake Up, Dammit!

I adore sleep.

I find it to be one of the most relaxing things a person can do with their free time. In fact, I find myself doing it quite frequently, sometimes even up to eight hours a day. When I’m bored, I think to myself, “I should take a nap.” When I’m tired, I think to myself, “Perhaps I should slumber.” However, I am very rarely bored, (because I have a blog and about 5000 books to read), and when I am tired, I cannot help but think that while I maybe need sleep, there are just too many other things I could be doing that may benefit my quality of life just a tad more than napping might. (Passionate hard-core sex and watching marathons of Law and Order SVU come to mind.)

You may wonder why I have babbled on so. My Rockstar is in the process of sawing logs in a disturbingly loud manner even as I am virtually speaking to you. Now, I understand that he is on the edge of geriatricism, weighing in at a solid 42 years of age, but COME ON! It’s 6:42 PM here. (I need not mention that he’s been sleeping for a good half hour already, but I guess I just did.)

I can see my future life very clearly: While some women are afraid to end up alone with forty cats, I am afraid that I will end up alone with a permanently snoring Rockstar. Sure, I could pet him as one of the afore-mentioned lonely old women might pet her cat, but instead of an adorably contented purr, all I will get is a snarfling gargling loud goooooiiiiiiiouuuuuugh. (That’s the closest thing I could come up with for spelling a snore. Sorry.)

I must admit that I hadn’t any uber-exciting plans for the evening, (other than washing my snoring prince’s silky boxer shorts,) but a simple “How do you do, dear” would have been nice. I got home and hopped in the shower to wash off the pizza crud from work and exited the bathroom sans clothes only to find him having a team meeting with the Sandman. WTF. I didn’t know I was dating Rip Van Winkle.