Smell

If you were to ask me

“What is your favorite smell?”

I would smile,

and offer you a seat.

Such business

should not be discussed

in haste.

You would look at me

in disgust, maybe,

when I begin with,

“Raw onions and horses.”

It cannot be helped.

I wish I lived in the age of the

Wild Wild West,

just so I could bury my nose in

my trusty steed’s dust-filled mane.

There’s really no explanation for the onions.

I continue,

“When you’re performing some monotonous task,

like grocery shopping,

and a man, (or a woman) walks by

smelling of sensuous perfume,

and the only thing you want to do is

trail behind them throughout the store,

just so you can get one more whiff.”

You nod, and smile,

we are on the same page now.

The words fall out of me now.

“The smell of last night’s sex

when you wake up.

The odor of lilies on a breeze

when you walk through Gramma’s garden.

Burger King, and McDonald’s, and even White Castle,

when you drive by them starving.

Puppy breath, and baby breath,

both horrible, really,

until you connect them with

innocence and everything good

left in the world.

Bleach,

because it’s clean.

Mud,

because it’s dirty.

Old people,

who were once young,

and the smell of my lover’s skin.”

You laugh,

because you never expected

such a simple question,

to have such a complicated answer.

Shitty Day

So I’ve been remiss in my blogging duties of late, and I really have no excuse, other than Netflix added a considerable number of BBC PBS specials. Forgive me, but I now know the details of Henry VIII’s home palace, and what one must do in order to protect the Queen’s Crown Jewels. (Are Crown Jewels capitalized? I feel like they should be.)

Anyhoo, I spent the week telling myself that I would not drive 15 miles to go to Caribou Coffee, unless there was a more valid reason to go to town. Luckily, this morning, I made one up, telling myself that I needed to buy body wash and face wash and curl cream made specifically for African-American tresses. (If I must, I will claim Africa as my motherland in order to use such products without being judged.) I decided to bring the dog with, since she receives puppy treats when going through the Caribou Coffee drive-thru.

When I came out from spending my allotted dollars for beauty products, I opened my truck door and was taken aback from the butt stench that wafted toward me. I discovered that puppy, (who took a massive dump before we left home) decided to take another dump, (in my truck), and without having anywhere else to retreat, stepped through it on the passenger seat and smeared it all the way across to the driver’s seat. (Um, ew does not begin to describe.)

I had bought an arsenal of Clorox wipes in the store, but alas! There is little that cleaning wipes can do in such a situation. I was forced to sit in the little bits of smushed feces that remained on my seat the entire ride home, windows open, and puppy looking sufficiently forlorn and embarrassed.

Upon arriving home, the dog got a hose-down with plenty of soap, and my poor truck got a scrubbing that I’m certain will not erase a certain odor d’Poo. Anybody want to buy a pretty yellow truck?

Things One Thinks In a Dark Theatre

This past weekend, I got a chance to hang with my homie Delightful and experience an incredible production of the musical rock opera Rent.  I was surprised such a small-town theatre could do such a superb job putting on a Broadway musical, but there it was. It was so good, in fact, that the adorable gay couple next to me cried for the entirety of two songs after Angel died, and so amazing that I am dragging a few of my peeps to it again this Sunday.

Anyhoo, it seems a writer’s mind (or a psychopath’s, if you prefer) is never silenced, even when faced with a much-younger gorgeous man singing about his fictional druggy skank of a girlfriend. Here are just a few of the things I found myself thinking…

The guy playing Roger is beautiful. Like, for real, a curly-headed somewhat scrawny Adonis, who can sing. What?! This is only his second role in a stage production ever?! He’s so gorgeous. 

I should really take voice lessons. It’s utterly ridiculous that I’m not performing in plays of this caliber.

The guy playing Roger is beautiful. I wonder what he’d do if I just ran out on stage and kissed him….

Ok, who am I kidding? I can’t sing like these people, even with voice lessons. I could at least play the keyboard. Yeah, I should do that.

Oh! We’re going to Half-Priced Books after this! WOOHOOO!!!!

The guy playing Roger sings like an angel. I really wish he’d quit kissing that girl in the fishnets.

I wonder how many of these actors watched the movie version of Rent a million times. It’s uncanny how closely they sound like the actors in that when they sing.

Oops. I wonder if that old couple in the front row over there were expecting the facefull of ass they just saw?

I really wish the guy playing Roger was named something other than Roger. What kind name is Roger for a rock god?!

I honestly don’t know where to comfortably put my legs. I didn’t realize “front row” actually meant “center stage”.

OK, do the actors think its weird that I’m staring at them when they sing? I mean, if I were a few rows back, it wouldn’t be such a big deal, but yeah, I can practically smell Tom Collins breath here…. but where else am I supposed to look? There’s no one else on stage.

The guy playing Roger is so beautiful. I wonder if he needs someone to help him get into costume… (I’m quite aware I sound like a complete nincompoop, but you didn’t see the guy playing Roger, so shut up.)

I just got chills when that girl hit that note. I want to be able to give people chills, dammit!

I’ve just decided Rent is my favorite musical.

I wonder if this theatre realizes how completely white all their characters are. Wasn’t that the whole point of this play? To show diversity? Fuckin’ Minnesota, I tell ya.

The girl playing Mimi has the tiniest hands ever. I think her fingers are shorter than mine.

La vie Boheme? More like, la vie the guy playing Roger!

For the record, Delightfulness agreed with me on the beautifulness of Roger.

Open Letter

Due to my inability to focus this day, I have decided to write a letter to all the things running through my head.

To my feet,

It is not because I abhor you that I dress you in less-than-comfortable fabulous shoes. It is simply because there are enough people out there who detest feet, and I should feel badly if I didn’t do my best to make them like you. As such, I bid you reconsider your cruel decision to continuously crack and flake and generally appear unappealing. I shall punish you by making sure no one is allowed to lick and fondle you until you react differently.

To a certain annoying person,

You are irritating as fuck. No, you don’t know everything, and it galls me to no end that you think that you do, and that you think I care to hear your narcissistic self boasting of how you plan to take measures in hopes of making things better. Things could only be better if you went away. So please, do.

To bad tippers,

I pity you, because karma waits for no man, and when you are being eaten by governmentally-enhanced were-people, you probably won’t even realize it’s your own damn fault.

To my Rockstar’s Daughter,

When I tell you to go away from me, it’s because I want you to be quiet, and as you are 12, and have a voice that echoes through three counties, that is clearly impossible. Do not misunderstand. I love you. I just love you better when I can’t hear you.

To my mailman,

I appreciate your rubbernecking due to my choice in gardening attire, as it reconfirms my suspicions that I am not completely a disgustingly fat turd, as my mirror and scale repeatedly tell me. However, I do not appreciate you delivering only undesired bills to my house. Just once, could you perhaps leave a check or accidentally deliver someone else’s issue of Playboy, please? Hey…. are you listening?

To my Rockstar,

I find you to be completely adorable, and your tush to be an incredibly inviting place to rest my teeth and/or hands. I do, however, wish that for just a day or two, you would cease working on our beautiful house, so I could feel a little less terrible about being a pathetic, lazy piece of donkey poo.

To my book,

Get out of my head, already. Find a perfectly blank computer screen on which to sit, instead of my overwrought, bipolar brain.

XOXO,

Sparklebumps

P.S. Chris Meloni, I haven’t forgotten you, no matter how hard I try. I suppose it doesn’t help that I see your daily posts on Facebook. I noticed you never even bothered to respond to my comment on your page, which made me sad.

 

 

 

Drink

As I sit here drinking rum

at ten-thirty in the morning,

I begin to wonder if maybe

I might be a pirate by the time the bottle’s gone.

Wouldn’t that be ideal?

There certainly seems to be

a goodly number of drunk men

thinking they are Superman….

I can see the commercial for it now.

No need for higher learning!

Drink what you want to be!

Like, if you long to be a cowboy,

break out the Jim and Jack!

You’ll be whoring and meeting your enemy

at high noon in no time!

You aspire to be a great writer, you say?

Well, what kind of writer do you wish to be?

Do you wish to write brilliant

yet depressingly dull fiction?

Hemingway preferred absinthe.

Mind the green fairy, though.

She may put a shotgun in your hand

and bid you blow your brains out.

You have a journalistic edge?

Wild turkey was Hunter’s poison.

(I do wonder if maybe you might

just turn into a turkey if you drink that though.)

Wouldn’t it be grand?

If instead of just being called an alcoholic,

you could be called Marilyn Monroe?

What if you constantly drink vodka?

Will you turn into a Russian anarchist?

I’m not sure all Russians endorse anarchy,

but there sure seems to be

a hella lotta movies portraying them that way.

The question really is….

if you drink sea water,

are you actually a mermaid?

Chores

In an attempt to get my Rockstar’s Daughter out of my hair and into better habits, I suggested coming up with a list of chores with which to fill her summer days. I was surprised at her unexpected fervor for said task, and even more surprised when one of the chores she thought of was picking up dog poo. (A job not even the most dirty of people relish, I expect.) Of course there were the typical chores a child should learn to accept: washing dishes, cleaning their room, etc… As well as a few that consisted of a bit more fun- giving the dog a bath with the garden hose, washing my truck with the garden hose, watering the flowers with the garden hose. (There does seem to be a disturbing obsession with the garden hose.)

I got to thinking about how we as children are bogged down with such minimal tasks as these; usually with the expectancy of reward upon completion. Why is it as we get older, these tasks no longer hold promise of payment? I object.

In lieu of starting a riot over such injustices, I have composed a list of chores that I might accomplish that very well may result in acceptable annuity. I trust you all approve.

1. Blow jobs.

To quote Samantha from Sex and the City: “Buddy. It ain’t called a job for nothin’.” From what I’ve heard in passing conversations, (yes, most of my passing conversations consist of blow jobs and the like, so shut up) most girls just don’t like to give blow jobs. This is completely foreign to me, for I love giving them so! There’s nothing like having my Rockstar’s hard, throbbing cock shoved down my throat. But! This isn’t all about me and my favorite penis.

Since some girls detest the act, this could be one of those chores they go to with dread, in hopes of a nice big allowance afterward. A nice, big, throbbing allowance- one that you can ride on and get extreme pleasure from….

2. Cooking.

Some women like to cook. I am some of these women sometimes. It’s when it’s an everyday occurrence that I begin to detest it. (Trust me, there’s a reason I always end up working in a restaurant.) They say that a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach; I always thought it was through his dick- but I guess if his stomach gets filled because I cooked for him, and the end result is him making sweet love to me, that’s almost as good as a good hard fuck.

3. Laundry.

It should go without saying that if you wash a man’s underwear, there will be no surprises when you’re down there doing your oral business. That is reward in itself.

4. Reading.

Because there has to be something completely enjoyable on the list. And reading always comes with knowledge. And the more you know, the more you grow. 🙂

Ok, I’m bored of this list now. Goodbye.

 

I Shaved A Mouse’s Butt

And cut off his tail with a lawn mower.

I don’t recall the nursery rhyme ending quite like that….

Neither am I a farmer’s wife, so I don’t really know what he was doing in my yard to begin with.