Category Archives: Christmas


….and I’m back.

Other than possessing a belly that is growing at an alarming rate, and deciding this Christmas sucks, I’ve not been up to to much. I know. Sad.

I did spend several days last week seething inwardly as my Rockstar insisted on stopping at every store in sight just to window shop after my monthly checkup and other things. I seemed to have forgotten that I’m living with another woman. One who loves to shop. But never actually buy anything. I don’t know if it’s my raging hormones or my distended stomach, but I find myself having much less patience than normal. As evidenced by my unrestrained bickering Saturday night with my Rockstar’s Daughter. Let us just say, it’s the first time in five years I’ve given in to the urge to act exactly the same age as she.

As far as Christmas sucking, I know it’s not about the presents, (unless you’re a little kid), but I am a bit saddened that I’ve not been able to afford even gifts for my Beloved and his daughter. And honestly, I’m kinda too tired to give a shit. At least,  a lot of shit. Maybe a little poo I give. But I too, have considered forgoing Christmas at my Rockstar’s parents and vegging out in front of Netflix with a delicious box of creamy Kraft macaroni and cheese.

Is it because he got fired from his job a month ago and I need a little alone time? I’m not sure. So many months had gone by without me seeing him hardly at all when he was working because of our opposite schedules, and it’s been nice to see him for a change. But I think I got used to all that alone time. So now I’m just fucked up.

Once again today, we ventured to town to indulge in half-priced burritos at our favorite Mexican restaurant, and our trip turned into an all-day finish-his-Christmas-shopping outing. My Rockstar clearly did not find me to be perturbed enough, for when I mentioned that I did not desire to battle the masses all day, he said, “Well, you’d probably just go home and take a nap anyway.” It wasn’t because it was an untrue statement, but the fact that he was inferring my general laziness that irked me so. I refrained from releasing my pregnant-woman rage on him though, and sucked it up as we spent another hour in Macy’s looking at cookware for his mother.

I went to work tonight, and soooooo did not want to be there, even though the lack of dollars in my wallet should have given me a different perspective. So I convinced a coworker to close for me, and I arrived home to find the house filled with the calming sounds of Motley Crue. My Rockstar has been downstairs banging away on the drums, oblivious to my being home. As much as he irritated me today, I cannot help but smile when I listen to the over-played band. After all, he is still my Rockstar….

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The Business of Lullabies


I do not fancy myself a superb singer. I will never be that girl who sends chills down people’s spines when I hit that one note, because it’s pretty damn certain I won’t ever hit that one note. Believe me, I’ve tried. No crowds will ever fill Madison Square Garden just because I’m there to sing; although I have no doubt that my Rockstar, my brother, and I will fill it when we finally start our band. I can carry a tune, and sound better than about half the people you hear attempting to sing, including Taylor Swift. Nevertheless, I fully intend to sing to my baby once he gets here. I just hope my doing so will not cause more tears than are normally expected from a baby.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that the songs I use as lullabies may very well be the songs my baby uses as lullabies to his own children someday, if he has any. (The continued use of male pronouns in reference to my baby are my way of using osmosis to decide his gender for him. He has no legs yet, so there is no way he has yet sprouted a teeny tiny penis. But I will continue to try to sway him.) Or, if nothing else, they will be songs he fondly remembers as ones his crazy mother sang to him because she loved him. Either way, this is not business that should be taken lightly. Music is the poetry of sound. So instilling in my baby a vast library of musical genres is a must. So far, here is my lullaby list:

For standards, I’ve only yet come up with two:

1. Over the Rainbow

2. Baby Mine from Dumbo

Moving along to somewhat newer music:

3. Let It Be by The Beetles

4. You’re Beautiful by James Blunt (Sidenote: As this James Blunt song is about a girl who is addicted to drugs, I feel that I may only sing the chorus so as not to introduce my babe to such evility prematurely.)

5. Jesus Loves Me

6. Give Me Love by Jasmine Cain (a mostly-independent artist, but a great song)

7. I’ll Be There by The Jackson 5 (or Mariah Carey, if you prefer)

8. True Colors by Cyndi Lauper

9. The Rainbow Connection by Kermit the Frog (a song my uncle used to sing to me when I was small)

10. Silent Night (a Christmas song, sure, but what better to sing about than the night I hope to have?)

11. Love is Forever by Slaughter

12. Unconditionally by Katy Perry

13. Unchained Melody by the Righteous Brothers

This is only a start, so I open my lullaby list to those of you in blogland, so speak now. Just know that Rob Zombie and Iron Maiden will have to wait just a year or two.

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Long Live America(n Girls)


“If only I could have a Kirsten doll, my life would be complete.”

Or maybe a Samantha doll. And that’s all.”

“If only I could have the Christmas outfit to go with the Samantha doll that I don’t have, my life would be complete.”

“A Kirsten doll is $110. That’s like….a million dollars.”

These were the first hopeful, and then completely despondent thoughts going through my 10-12 year old head long ago. It began with a book.

(Does this surprise you? It seems that most stories associated with my most intimate wants and desires always start with a book.)

Anyhoo.

Once upon a time, a much younger Sparklebumps took a field trip to a historical farm in Ramsey, MN, and found a book she wanted to read entitled Meet Kirsten. Little did she know, but that this was only one book in a well-known series of books made to educate and entertain little girls on the lives and times of other fictional little girls in America throughout history. That series was American Girl, which later blossomed into  a brand that, in my opinion, rivals Disney. (My opinion is so based on the square-footage of the American Girl and Disney Stores that reside in the Mall of America here in Minnesota. I do believe AG takes up more space.)

Being the nerdy little moppet that I was, I was quick to check out every American Girl book that I came across in my school library- with the exception of the Molly books, which I immediately poo-pooed because of the fact that Molly wore specatacles. (Spectacles are not cool, Dude.) At the time, no marvelous American Girl Store existed, where shelves are lined with beautifully accessorized dolls that one can go to and choose from, and even purchase matching outfits of their own, so that little mother and doll can play gleefully together while wearing identical duds. Instead, everything was mail order, and every year around Christmas, it would arrive- the American Girl catalogue.

This was my Holy Grail, my perfectly published Christmas wishlist, my own version of the legendary JCPenney catalogue. No, I did not need to go through and circle the items I longed for, because I coveted ALL of them. (Minus the Molly section.) My only dilemma was whether I would rather have Kirsten (who was blonde like me, and whose name is similar to my own) or Samantha. (who fictionally lived during the Victorian Era, whose amazing lace and corset style called to my own Steampunk leanings.)

I yearned for, no, no- I PINED for an American Girl doll. Thinking back, I cannot recall a single other Christmas gift I so wanted and never received. Let me be clear, I never went with presents- in fact, I was ridiculously bombarded with mountains of presents on both Christmas and my birthday, and while I enjoyed and appreciated every one, there was always a slight stab of disappointment with every tear of shiny wrapping paper that revealed a present that was NOT an American Girl doll. I eventually gave up on the idea of ever having my very own  Kirsten or Samantha to dress and feed and teach and doll up.

Fast forward to many years later, when I was slightly more grown up but not much more mature. Like, a few years ago. I had nearly forgotten my obsessive need for an American Girl doll, when I heard on the radio of the Grand Opening of the American Girl Store in Mall of America. All the years of wishing flooded in on me, and I made up my mind to venture to this Mecca, and see for myself all that would be mine. Imagine my disappointment when I arrived, and saw for myself that the dolls were just as exhorbitently-priced for me as they were for my parents back in the day. I left, at last convinced once and for all that I was not meant to mother one of these inanimate girls. (Since then, I still find myself wandering the aisles on my bi-annual trip to the Mall.)

Now that I have an Almost Daughter of my own, it would make sense that I would bestow upon her her very own American Girl doll, but I find that I do not have any intention of doing so. Perhaps it is because she may be a little too old, (which is what we are going to pretend) or perhaps it is because if I bought her one, I would constantly find myself seething with envy every time she ran a brush through the damn dolly’s hair.

Clearly, I am of an age when it is not sensible, nor is it befitting for me to have a doll to cradle and play and drink imaginary tea with. But then again, when am I ever sensible?

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Filed under Beauty, Children, Christmas, Humor, Life, Money, Uncategorized

The Night Before Christmas (A Whorehouse Tale)


Here’s a naughty version for you all. Happy Holidays! XOXO

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the whore-house

not a hooker was stirring, or even a mouse.

The thigh-highs were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that Santa would fill them with sex-wares.

The hustlers were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of vibrators danced in their heads.

The Madam in her fur robe, and pimp in his coat,

Had just settled down with some cuffs and some rope.

When out on the street there arose such a clatter,

The pimp rushed over to see what was the matter.

He left the poor madam all tied up in bed,

While he looked out the window while scratching his head.

The neon from bar lights on the fresh-plowed snow,

Gave the glitter of strippers to the objects below.

When what to his lust-occupied eyes should appear,

But a Peterbilt semi, and a drunk plastered trucker.

The driver was fat, and totally tipsy,

The pimp thought he resembled St. Nicky.

He fell from the cab with a curse and finger,

And yelled at the top of his lungs for some strippers:

“Hey Sugar! Yo, Mimi! Venetia and LuLu!

Come, Baby! Come, Ginger! Come, Macy and Penny!

Get down hear this instant, I’ve had quite a trip!

Come suck on my balls while I play with your clits!”

As the girls tumbled out of their beds at the noise,

The pimp opened the window and screamed at the boy.

“Now look hear, you fucker! You gotta have money!

Pussy ain’t free, so show me some gravy!”

The trucker he swore as he dug through his pockets.

He’d spent all his dough on beer and some cigarettes.

He stumbled through the front whorehouse door,

And pleaded at the pimp about getting a whore.

“Dude! I ain’t got no money, no change at all. Yo!

My trailer’s filled with blowup dolls and dildos!

You can have them all if that bitch sucks my cock,

And sell all the rest to the sex shop down the block.”

The pimp, he thought hard, but then he thought, “It’s Christmas, oh joy!

My bitches deserve all his nipple clamps and toys.”

So he nodded affirmative; a hooker went down,

But when she came up, she was met with a frown.

“Your messy! Look at that jizz on your chin!”

The pimp railed at her while she looked on, chagrined.

The trucker sucked in a breath through his teeth,

While he mopped up his junk with a Christmassy wreath.

He chuckled when he saw spooge on his belly,

Because it reminded him a little of jelly.

The girls all stood silent, awaiting their orders,

The pimp slapped the hooker and shook her thin shoulders.

The trucker said, “Wait! Now wait just a second!

The gal helped me out. No need for you to wreck her!”

The pimp stopped his tirade, and glared at the trucker.

The trucker saw a new girl and wanted to fuck her.

He rubbed his soft cock til it started to grow,

Then he bent the girl over and he drilled that poor ‘ho.

The pimp was so surprised at his fervor,

He just stood there in awe and watched in great pleasure.

With a snap of his finger, two girls took their clothes off,

And got out the whips, ’cause he liked it rough.

The rest of the story, I will not really say,

Let’s just say everyone got off good on that day.

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Santa On Break


The following is an unpaid rant featuring a pissed off Sparkles.

I bet you all you parents out there with small children get a little bit excited when it comes time to take your little munchkins to your local mall for a photo op with Santa. What a heart-warming sight it is to see that fabled over-stuffed individual with the fruit of your loins perched on his lap blabbering on about the Furby or copy of Halo 4 they want for Christmas. I’m here today to tell you not to get your panties in a bunch and rush off to the mall nearest you. You wanna know why? Because you may just travel over the river and through the woods and haul your kiddos in there boots and hats and mittens through the crowded mall hallway to find a little sign informing you: Santa’s on break. Come back in fifteen minutes.

How do I know that something like this is possible, you may ask? Because it happened to me. I made the far journey across a crowded parking lot after ordering truck at my work with the thought that maybe, just maybe, I’d get a chance to sit on Santa’s lap and tell him face to face exactly what I wanted for Christmas. (Since my letters to him seem to get lost in the mail.) I donned my most festive sparkly tights and my non-slip treaded 6 inch heels so as not to fall and bust my ass in the newly fallen wintry snow, only to arrive at Santa’s giant purpley throned area (which makes me question his sexuality just a little bit) and find a sign informing me that Santa was on break. I looked around furiously to see that big red-velvet-adorned ass and a black elf escaping around the corner by Coldwater Creek. I bowed my head to hide the tears threatening to pour down my cheeks and contemplated running after the big lug, but then was momentarily distracted by the glittery display in the Victoria’s Secret window. After sniffing the various new perfumey scents they offer (which includes one specifically designed for me, aptly named “Sparkle”) I exited the store to find Santa was STILL on break. It was then my rational thinking got the better of me.

I have decided that Santa is very like a wealthy plantation owner before the Civil War. He owns vast acreage (the North Pole) and has many slaves. (Elves) He sits on his butt all year long smoking his expensive tobacco in his pipe and getting laid a lot, (Why else would he be so jolly?)  while his elven slaves work day and night to produce a product that he will then benefit from. (Perhaps not in a monetary way, but cookies are better than money anyway). Like any successfully-run slave driven plantation, there are a few times when it is necessary for the owner to actually put effort in. For Santa, this is the month of December, when he must travel to various malls and radio stations and appease the childish masses by letting them sit on his lap and remind him what they asked for.

Let me ask you this- for a man who sits on his ass all year long and has mythically-produced slaves, is it really necessary that he take a fifteen minute break during the one month he actually has to work? I think NOT! Is not sitting on your butt talking to kids already more of a break than any self-respecting working individual gets? And yet we continue to leave cookies and milk out for the man every single year, and give him a near-Godlike status. (“You better be good, Santa’s watching”)

I have decided we must take Christmas back from this wealthy slave-driving barbarian. No more can we respect his memory by placing his likeness in our homes at Christmas time. I propose that in his place, we replace him with someone just as jolly, but slightly less round. (At least in some areas.) I nominate the one, the only- myself. I pledge to gladly accept the whisperings of your children in my ears and all of their lovely letters too, while wearing a festive fur-lined garment perfectly tailored to all my curves. In appreciation of your electing me as your new Santa-like personality, I promise never EVER to go on break during the month of December, as long as I am supplied with my own army of Oompa Loompas with which to ready myself for the Holidays. In lieu of cookies, please set out one pair of stylishly-designed shoes in size 9, to ensure proper and timely present delivery.

P.S. I’m quite certain that Santa will regret not giving me a chance to sit on his lap….

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Listen Up, Santa


Look here, Santa, you tubby piece of Christmas cheer,

I’m done being Miss Nice Sparkle. I couldn’t help but notice that you COMPLETELY disregarded my last year’s letter. What? You think just because you wrote back and told me no that I was going to just shut up and let it slide? Fuck that shit.

You need to remember your sole purpose- that of bringing hope and PRESENTS to all the good little girls and boys in the world. Yeah, so maybe I’m about 20 years out of the age range of your average clientele, but damn it! I have a child-like imagination, you fucker! And, you know, maybe I wouldn’t necessarily be categorized as “good”, or “well-behaved”, but I’m tired of letting people walk all over me; and nobody was supposed to know about that whole selling booby pictures for money thing. How was I supposed to know that dude was going to sell them on Ebay? Anyhoo, you’re old enough that you could probably just forget about that whole incident. Except I thought it was kinda weird that the username of the purchaser of afore-mentioned photos was S.A. Claus. Ha. Did you realize your initials spell “sac”? I bet you got alotta shit for that in school.

So, here’s the deal. I’m gonna give you one last chance to bring me everything I ask for. I kinda wondered if you were pissed off because I didn’t leave any cookies for you last year, but hey. I have people I’ve actually met who deserve lovingly-made assorted baked goods more than you. It’s time now for you to be made aware of my demands:

1. I’ve been waiting more than patiently for that Mustang I mentioned last year. When you didn’t bring it, I thought- Fine. I’ll go buy it myself. I don’t need any handouts from a bearded fruity geriatric. But when I went to the Ford dealer, I remembered how fuck-traded the salesmen there were, so I just rolled my eyes and walked out. I’m pretty sure they were looking at my ass the whole time. So yeah. If it won’t fit in your sleigh, frickin’ buy a barge and ship it down here.

2. I decided that even though one can never have enough books, I should maybe read some of the thousands I already possess. So call up your dealer in Columbia and hook me up with a steady supply of coke, so I have enough energy to read after my normal 12 hour days at work. I also expect one of those awesome antique wingbacked chairs to sit in.

3. Since you have an army of elves, I don’t think it would be too difficult for you to just give one to me. I always wanted my very own little person to do my bidding. Not to be racist, but it seems normal for an elf to be sub-servient to someone of slightly higher stature. Just to be on the safe side, send one of the runty ones, though. And make sure that little shit is one of the good singers. I expect to be serenaded in an acceptable high-pitched manner.

4. To make it look like I’m not completely selfish, can you send another elf to help out at my Gramma and Gramps’? Gramma won’t admit they kinda need some help with cleaning and other menial tasks, but I think she wouldn’t mind if an elf showed up to help. She’d probably just think he’s a kid and shower him with presents anyway. She probably won’t be cognizant long enough to wonder why he hasn’t grown up in 10 or 12 years.

5. This may seem like it’s not for me, but trust me, it is. You need to bring my Rockstar a Custom Les Paul goldtop for Christmas. He’s been pretty depressed lately because of his job, and if he gets one of those, maybe he’ll buck up and finally write some awesome songs we can record. And just maybe, he’ll come out of his haze long enough to remember he’s dating a horny little bitch who needs to get some more than the average person.

6. Since things have been going swimmingly with my Rockstar’s Daughter, I suppose you can bring her something. She’s been wanting a drumset, but if that’s what you decide to bring her, you better fucking bring one of those electric ones she can bang away on through headphones. And don’t think I’m being mean, because that’s the kind my Rockstar was going to get her anyway. but if you bring it, then he’ll have more money to spend on me. And that’s good for everyone. 😉

7. So, I know the whole baby thing threw you off last year. So instead of bringing me a newborn, you can just get the adoption papers all ready for the cutie at church who’s in foster care. She’s the same age as my Rockstar’s Daughter, (But way sweeter) so I figure they’ll get along great. She also has a baby sister who I’ll take too.

I guess that about sums it up for now. But just remember, if my demands aren’t met to my satisfaction, I’ll let everyone know what a booby-obsessed funky little perv you are.

With all my Love,

Sparklebumps

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Dumbass


After opening my bass amp from my Rockstar a day early, I was distraught to find that despite the fact that he left a chord out for me, there was no sound coming from it. After plugging in various cords and whatnot; watching numerous videos on youtube on how to set up your amp, and flipping the on/off switch repeatedly, I found this little thing called a Volume Knob on my bass.

It helps if you turn it up.

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