The Anthropologist Formerly Known as Prince

I remember thinking once,

“I’d never want him to produce my music.”

Fool that I was.

I didn’t realize then

that the sound I had mistaken for

messiness and chaos

was actually the character of mankind

caught on tape.

It was,

truly,

anthropology at its finest.

You entangled each one of us

in the snare of your guitar strings;

furiously jotted endless lyrical notes,

and then released us back

into the wild with a song.

You were an incomparable teacher;

you taught us to Gett Off,

what doves sound like when they cry,

and that not everything that glitters is Gold.

At times,

it seemed as though you even

controlled the weather-

it rained Purple;

it snowed in April.

A lesser man would have agonized over

such a petite figure;

but you strutted yours.

Ruffled, tailored, Purpled.

You masqueraded as a sex object,

and no one ever realized you were

preaching the Gospel while you did it.

You told us of a Park

where life won’t be so bad;

it was in our hearts,

but now we can tour the frickin’ place

for a hundred bucks.

I guess it’s just a Sign O’ the Times,

isn’t it?

“The Beautiful Ones you always seem to lose.”

The Hunger Calls

It is a time for new resolutions. Paying off debt, losing weight, being kinder- that sort of thing. Lucky for me, I’ve come to realize that New Year’s Resolutions are bullshit, so I don’t have to do any of those things previously mentioned. HA

Sadly, my credit cards are pretty much maxed out, so I do  desire to pay off my debt. Buuuut, I also desire to go to Rocklahoma, and hang out with all of my favorite bands. I also desire to buy (what many people would consider) unnecessary decorative items for my home. So I don’t know if I’m going to pay off debt this year or not, ok?

I am also of the age where my weight doesn’t much bother me anymore; though I do, at times, want to be an uber-hot mama that people gawk at. Fortunately, DDD boobs and a penchant for brightly-colored duds can accomplish pretty much the same thing.

However, my best friend is getting married in the end of February, and asked me last year to be one of her bridesmaids. Note, I said she asked me last year. Which means I had over 365 in which to shed the 65 or so pounds that would inhibit me from being one of the sexiest bridesmaids that ever lived. (Hey, just dream with me here.)

As if being on the chubby side wasn’t enough,  her other bridesmaids could fit into a pair of my pants all at once. Dammit.

Now my bestie has always been quick to argue when I’ve been down on myself, so my fears of looking like a heifer in wedding pictures have naught to do with her. In fact, my girl even let us pick our own dresses- to let us show off our own personal style and not have us despise her for picking something we all look like shit it.

No, my insecurities are all of my own making.

So like any normal person, of course I took that year I had to slim down and buff up.

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Just kidding.

Knowing myself as I know myself, I bought my dress (from China) in the size that I was at the time I bought it. Last year. And now, less than two months away from the wedding, I’m exactly (or maybe a tad bit more) the weight I was then.

It had been over nine months since I tried my dress on initially when I took it to the alterations lady a few weeks ago to get the tail bustled. After much sucking in and pulling back, it zipped, but just. After she measured for straps to hold up the busooms, I was thinking that, HEY! I look pretty good! (Yeah, ok, so I had to have her take my socks off because it was too tight to bend down. Shut up.)

Sadly, the next day, my neck and shoulders were completely jacked up from sucking in and bunching up. So, instead of being the super-sensuous bridesmaid I imagined in my head, I’ve settled for being able to sit during dinner and still being able to breathe, and maybe avoiding my armpit fat from photobombing the wedding party.

The thing I’ve discovered, though, is that the will power that once made me only eat three saltine crackers and a grape each day back in ninth grade has gone on permanent vacation. The simple fact that I’m trying (ok, not really) to lose weight makes me completely ravenous, to the point that I want to eat every single order of boneless wings that I serve to a table. (GAAWWWWWD, boneless wings sound amazing right now….)

I’ve told myself for the month of January, I will focus on eating less, and worry about shaping up in February. Unfortunately, since my daily diet rivals that of an African elephant, I’ve got quite a bit of cutting down to do.

To help keep my stomach from crying aloud with his own voice, (which I imagine sounds very like Boris Karloff) I’ve taken to drinking copious amounts of coffee mixed with way too many pink packets. Coffee is supposed to speed up your metabolism, they say. What they don’t say, is that coffee makes you pee like you’ve been drinking booze for seven days straight. And it probably doesn’t help that the sleep I’m supposed to be getting to help me trim down is interrupted by caffeine.

I just…. I just want to be skinny like I was when I thought I was fat.

(On the plus side, whenever I’ve shown a picture of me in my dress to anyone, their first reaction has always been, “Geez, your boobs look huge!” )

I Know What It Feels Like To Hold the Sun Now

I know what it feels like

to hold the Sun now.

As I cup his beloved face,

my hands are warmed by

that smile,

the most brilliant of smiles;

my arms tingle with the heat of it.

The fire spreads through my body

and I feel like Icarus,

burning up from such close proximity.

The flames of this

Love

dance in my muscles,

causing me to hold him

a little tighter than I should.

His tiny doll’s hand reaches out

to hold my cheek,

and I wonder if he feels

the warmth

of the Moon,

reflecting the glory of his Light.

Entertainment for Women- 1980

The thing about being a bookwhore is- you need a designated space just for the plethora of books you’ve picked up throughout the years. Luckily, when we bought our house, my Rockstar understood this, and so did-eth not protest too much when I claimed the third bedroom as the sleeping place for my tomes.

Being the girl who was jealous of Belle when the Beast gifted her with an entire castle library, my vivid imagination has always envisioned my own fantasy-like library. Sadly, my budget is somewhat lacking. So instead of replacing the drop-ceiling nasty-ass foam tiles with a ceiling of pure gold, I opted to cover said ishy tiles with textured wallpaper that will be painted in bronze to match the antique-ish looking loveseat I found for a steal on Wayfair.com. (If anyone who works at Wayfair is reading this- I’m giving you free advertising. Feel free to send some gift cards my way.)

As I was squinting to avoid spider webs and dust from getting into my eyes as I struggled to get ceiling tiles down, a magazine dropped from the heavens (or the water pipes). Imagine my excitement when I stepped down from my dangerously-chosen folding chair step stool and saw that the gazette that had nearly poked my eyeball out was a Playgirl  from 1980. No, my thrill did not come from the thought of becoming engrossed in the pictures of disturbingly-hairy men within; (I prefer the the sight of naked boobies over a man  lounging with his near-flaccid dick pointed at me) my enthusiasm was of the nostalgic nature. Though 1980 was a year before I was born, so I cannot properly pay homage, I take great pleasure in the obscene media of an earlier day. After all, isn’t it always a good time seeing how sex has evolved since the times of a full bush and Burl Chester? (Yeah, I said “Who?!” too.)

Oh yes, believe that I absolutely DID read the thing cover to cover. After balking at the surprisingly low price of such pornography (only $1.95), I took in the not-so-sexy face of Robert Urich- the “hunky” star of TV’s Vega$– a guy I’ve never heard of. I do believe even if I had been of age at the time, I would not have found Robert to be very salty.

Of course, women only read Playgirl for the articles, right? The most interesting article advertised on the cover was “The Joys of Three-Way Sex”; which, when I think about it, I’m not quite certain I want to think about that much bush in one room anyway. Since I am a fan of older men, I thought I might be pleasantly surprised when I saw there was an eight-page photo spread “in praise of older men”. Let us just say I got slightly distracted by the number of Magnum P.I. mustaches and Farrah-Fawcett-ish hairdos. I suppose in 35 years, my kid will look at the current beard craze in exactly the same distaste.

I was slightly appalled and greatly amused to read the letter portion. “Please help me. My cousin and I are having a relationship. Is this considered incest?” and “At the age of 23, I still don’t know what an orgasm is all about.” Oh, the innocence. Were women in the 80’s so naïve? My personal favorite was “I’ve just broken up with my sixth lover in five years. Am I a slut?” My response to such a question would have been, “How many women did that lover sleep with in those five years?”

The best part was an advertisement for “Stud Wear”. Somehow, I really just don’t think  a pair of briefs featuring Pinnochio with a special pocket to show just how long his nose can grow would be very alluring. Although I do laugh my ass off every time I think about my Rockstar donning a pair.

Of course every nekkid dude pictured was quoted to “love long walks and sunsets” and to love “falling asleep in a woman’s arms ” before awaking to go “make love on the beach as the sun rises.” Let me tell you where that gets you- an elbow in the eye and a crack full of sand.

Too, there was a special section on “Men of the Eighties”. It’s good to know that “men of the eighties are beginning to realize that there’s a lot more fun to be had in bed when their lovers fully participate.” What? Did men of the seventies just expect their women to lay there like blow-up dolls while they humped them? Seriously. I wanna know.

I really want to send in my $12 and see if I receive the see-through briefs with the tear-away tabs for my Rockstar so I can “get a piece of the action”.

Trust that this magazine is now one of my greatest treasures and will make an appearance any time I need a good laugh.

Thirty-Fucking-Four

Damn, I’m old.

Yes, yes, I realize that a good many people out there are much older than I, but having celebrated my birthday just yesterday and realizing I’ve accomplished not all that much has made me feel incredibly aged.

It is true, I’m much wiser than my 33-year-old self was, having experienced child-birth and having lived with an almost step-child every day for the past year. For this I suppose I am grateful. However, there are some downfalls to growing older….

I have less patience for mankind as the years go by- my theory that most people are assholes has been proven again and again over the past year. While I was willing to overlook such trivialities in the past, as the years go by, I more frequently find myself daydreaming of a time when  I can walk through a parking lot without having a farmer hanky blown in my direction, and the imbeciles on the roads are restricted from operating motor vehicles.

I realize how non-existant my will power has become- I am not my perfect goal weight. I have not finished writing my best-seller. I haven’t learned any languages, or trained the dog to quit barking, or finished painting the mural in my basement bathroom. Boo on me.

I feel like I’m eighty most of the time- this may have something to do with the fact that I am not at my goal weight. And that my diet consists of Caribou Coffee and French fries. And that my chosen form of working out is walking out to the mailbox daily to see if a million dollar check has arrived yet.

Whatever. At least I still look good.

My Boy

My boy,

I think you are most beautiful

while you sleep-

arms stretched “this big”

and legs splayed, frog-like.

But then you awaken,

and I see

how completely wrong I can be.

You smile,

and even though your mouth

is as empty as an old man’s,

that smile holds

the whole world within it;

and I cannot help but

hold your tiny grinning face

in my hands.

I can scarce believe

that without a single intelligible word,

you make me fall in love

over and over again.

There are times

when I’ve felt a failure;

but looking into your beloved face,

I realize that whatever may come,

I’ve already succeeded.

T-shirt

I picked your dirty T-shirt up

off of the floor today.

Dirty isn’t the right word,

because as my fingers lifted it,

the smell of your cologne

wafted up to my nose.

That scent,

the scent of you,

intoxicates me.

In my altered state,

I wondered once again

how you manage to stay smelling

so fresh.

There has never been a time

in the past six years

when I’ve even caught a hint of

unseemly body odor.

I brought your shirt

up to my nose,

closed my eyes,

and inhaled deeply.

It reminded me

how I love to breath you in

as we make love;

your skin,

your hair,

your breath.

I awaken from my reverie

and grin.

All that just from doing

your laundry.

 

Elegy for a Crayon

I saw you lying there

Used up and broken.

Your flaming shade

the color of blood-

I half-expected to see

a pool of scarlet oozing

from your stubby ends.

Your wrapper

had been peeled away

completely from one of your pieces;

the other lay in shame

very like a rape victim,

in tattered vestment.

Your identification had been

ripped away.

Only the bold letters OLA

remained.

As I cleared the table,

I placed my hand over you

quickly

To conceal your

wretched state.

I recall a time

when I had adored ones

such as you,

and would never have thought

to leave them in

such a pitiful condition.

I wonder how many more

rainbows you would have

created,

had fate not sent you such a

vicious end.

I toss your remains

into the trash,

apologetically,

and I think to myself.

Children can be so cruel.

I’ll Ask You Only

Writer, teacher, student, daughter,

introvert, lover, poet, scholar.

All these describe you, but in the end,

I’ll ask you only to be my Friend.

 

A person who shares my deepest sorrows

and comforts me with fresh tomorrows.

One to who, I too, can lend a hand

when the ground around you is sinking sand.

 

Your passions, above all, I beg that you reveal;

and every stir of your soul they make you feel.

Your worries, also, please always expose;

my duty as Friend is to lighten that load.

 

Times of madness, times of brilliance,

ideas, wishes, dreams, experience.

Heavens and hells, comings and goings,

I pray you have these to overflowing.

 

The hurts will happen; don’t quake, Dear Heart!

They arise to make you more stalwart.

Without anguish, we would never see the Light.

Without pain, blessings wouldn’t burn nearly as bright.

 

The delights of your life I hope are so many

they drown out the heartaches you have, if any.

The tears you shed, some will be sad,

but with my help, joyful ones even more will be had.

 

We two, so different, and yet just the same

walk paths unalike, play contrasting games.

Our lives go on, ever changing, but in the end,

I ask you only to stay my Friend.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Letter to a Modern-Day Adonis

Dear Charlie Hunnam,

As I have stated in my post title above, you, Charlie, are a modern-day Adonis, and so must be the recipient of my latest letter. Kudos to you.

It is true, you are best known as the tortured soul Jax Teller from Sons of Anarchy, and while I have not been privy to much of your other work, I do believe the multitude of sex scenes with delectable ass shots in SOA may have had something to do with that. (It’s like two scoops of butter pecan ice cream…) I must admit, there are very few nude males that I would gladly torment my eyes with, (as I am very much a boob gal, and do so adore a good titty display) but you, kind sir, are welcome to remain naked in front of my vision indefinitely.

It is still a bit disturbing to me that you hale from Newcastle upon Tyne. As well-read as I am, I had no idea what the fuck that meant, but investigated enough to find that it was somewhere in England. Cheeri-o, mate! I actually hope to never hear your original accent, which I assume is British, because you seem to be so down-to-earth and not at all pompous as generally English people tend to be. However, if you ever decide you wish to share your man-meat with me in a carnal fashion, I will allow you to adopt whatever foreign crappy accent you deem appropriate. Just know that I am not quite certain what my reaction may be if I hear, “Tha’ wus fookin’ gright, love.” after we’ve spent ourselves. I may be forced to shut you up by sitting on your not-quite-shaven face.

You may be delighted to know, too, that even my very straight Rockstar has taken notice of your perfectly-sculpted physique. He does not blame you in the least for incessantly posting shirtless pictures of yourself on your official Facebook page. “After working out like hell to look like that, can you blame him?” were his exact words. I think you may just have a chance with him…

I seem to recall having watched a little-known movie a few years back starring you, in which, I’m sure, you were superb. Sadly, I do not recall you being naked, and so it was not noteworthy. Do not get me wrong, oh Gorgeous One- you need not be bare-assed for me to adore you. I can prove it is true by saying I’ve had two dreams in which you starred, neither of which you were nude in. (Sadly.) I must ask: why weren’t you naked in my dreams? I mean, for real. What the fuck?!

I do not think you are aware of my ….fetish for long-haired men. Let me only say that when your hair is of a shorter ilk, I would not so readily do you. But, if you were there lying naked in my bed, I suppose I could lower my standards a tad so as not to waste a good boner.

I applaud you for turning down the role of Christian Grey in the movie version of Fifty Shades. As beautiful as you are, not even you could have saved it from sucking balls. Although, if you had retained the role, I would have, of course, rushed out to buy the DVD no matter how terrible the film was, if only to see you shirtless and spanking someone. Do not be discouraged. I will write for you a well-written smutty book that can be turned into the biggest blockbuster of all time.

In closing, I would like to say that you, Charlie Hunnam, have almost cured me of my insane love for Christopher Meloni; I haven’t dreamed of him since you came into the picture.

Always yours, (even if it is only in my dreams)

Sparklebumps XOXO