Category Archives: Money

9 Things All Kids Should Be Taught


Perhaps this is pompous of me, writing such a list when I clearly do not own any children. But after having waited on a plethora of teens in the last few weeks at  my job, I feel it necessary to produce a guide for parents, because they are evidently clueless. Why 9, you ask? Well, I was going to do ten, but we all know how I feel about even numbers.

1. Leave a fucking tip.

Yes, I am aware that teens have real lives that are crammed with tests and hormones and peer pressures,  and so cannot be bothered with minute details such as tipping their server, or hell, even acknowledging them. But you fucking know what, you self-absorbed little assholes?! That person who listened to you closely enough to get your order right, and brought it out to you, and refilled your drinks, and cleared your shitty messy dishes away has a life too, and is NOT your mother, and so isn’t expected to wait on you hand and foot for free just because you haven’t had the decency to learn respect, and haven’t yet reached the age of twenty.

To the parents of such asshats- shame on you, and you should be caned daily until you feel remorse for not having taught your kids basic decency.

2. Chew with your goddamn mouth closed.

You are not a dog, so you do not have molars that, when in use, prohibit you from shutting your fucking mouth while you eat. So parents, teach your kids not to sound like canines when they eat, unless you want me to treat them as such.

3. Pick up your clothes, you ungrateful cretins.

If your mother, (or father) has the decency to buy you bodily protection from the elements, and to wash them, the least you could do is put them in the fucking laundry basket. And hang up your towel.

4. “Please” is not really optional.

Why the fuck would anyone do a damn thing for you if you can’t even be bothered to include this simple word before or after your request? Do it your damn self.

5.”Thank you” is not really optional either.

Yes, I bought you beer even though your are underage just so you could get up the courage to try and get that skinny blonde bitch to take your virginity. The least you could do is thank me.

6. Save your money.

If you spend all of your hard-earned McDonald’s check buying booze and paying for fake I.D.s, you’re going to have to ask your parents for money. Parents, you don’t really want that, now do you? And for the record, spending $58 on yoga pants from Victoria’s Secret is not wise. Your ass looks just as good in the $11 ones from Target

7. Stop interrupting.

If the adults in your life are having a conversation that doesn’t include you, it’s because they are talking about something of which you have no idea about. So just shut the fuck up until they’re done. There are plenty of times when they WILL want to talk to you, and instead of being a little shithead and saying, “Mom, I gotta go,” remember there was a time when you actually wanted your parents to talk to you.

8. You don’t know everything.

Yes, I’m well aware that teenagers are superior when it comes to wisdom, until they turn about 28. Just remember that all those things you’re going through, or will go through, or are just finding out about, are all things that someone older than you already experienced. So instead of poo-pooing their advice, listen just a little bit, even if you have to pretend you’re uninterested.

9. No one owes you anything.

So quit acting like they do.

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Filed under Children, Family, Humor, Life, Money, Uncategorized

Suck It, IRS


Dear IRS,

I have afforded you the courtesy of a “dear” in this letter, as I did not in my previous letter. You may (or may not) wonder why you have found me in such a pleasant disposition. I will tell you.

Today, for the first time in almost ten years, I owe you no money.

(Pardon me while I complete a little victory dance. No, I’m not having a seizure, I just grew up Baptist, so I don’t have the rhythm most normal people have. But yes, that was most certainly a completely vulgar hand gesture I was making in your general direction.)

I realize that there will always be poor unfortunate souls that your corporation will always prey on mercilessly, but no more shall I call my bank to find that you have withdrawn my last twenty-one dollars and thirty-seven cents without my permission. I will no longer need to write on my bill calendar your most deplorable automatic withdrawal payment that has been plagueing me like a virus for the last four years. With my now liberated monthly $100, I intend to purchase a ridiculous number of shoes, and books that will be added to my already multitudinous collection.

It has been brought to my attention that you do not care in the least about my opinion, oh wretched IRS, but that will not stop me on the 16th of every month from interrupting whatever it is I’m doing at the time to howl to the heavens most barbarically “SUCK IT, IRS!” while simultaneously re-creating the move made most famous by the wrestling tag team DX of Triple HHH and Shawn Michaels viscously several times in an unladylike manner.

Have a nice day,

Sparklebumps

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Filed under Humor, Life, Money, Uncategorized, Work

An Open Letter To All Things Pizza Hut


To the general presence of Pizza Hut,

Since I am no longer a slave under your employ, I feel it completely necessary to release the vile feelings I’ve been forced to keep inside for the past two-odd years concerning you. I must warn you that while the composition of this letter will be remarkably therapeutic for me, it may be at times inelegantly written, and show no signs of the self-educated woman that I am. Let me begin with something that I’ve been waiting to say for some time:

FUCK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ahem. Now that I have gotten that off of my sizeable chest, I will move on to everything that is wrong with your corporation.

Let me first say that the customer is NOT always right. Especially in the case of your customers. Yes, there may have been an occasion or two where extra cheese was not administered as requested,  or tomatoes were placed on a super-supreme pizza (which is completely inappropriate), but I stand by the fact that I did NOT jip you on your toppings, and every pizza made by my own two work-worn hands was properly spec-ed and lovely to behold. Because your company has the policy that you should give the customer “whatever they want”, you can surely expect that at some point you will run out of money after giving away free food to all  the trashy motha-fuckas who lie to get a comped meal. To this I say- it is your own goddamn fault.

Secondly, it is shameful that you pay your shift managers such low wages. Truly, when promoting your team members to such a status, you should include in fine print this:

We promise to work you until you bleed, if not outwardly, at least until you suffer from stomach ulcers because of stress. You will be forced to work all holidays and weekends without any thanks, and if you refuse to work any of the afore mentioned days, you will be shunned by our district managers and dramatically have your hours cut. You will NEVER receive any type of raise until you are so frustrated that you find a new job, at which time, we may consider gifting you with  our feigned appreciation and only a miniscule raise- enough to keep you in our chains. If at any time you tell your overseeing managers exactly what you think of them or their performance, even if it perfectly accurate and politically-correctly stated, you too will be shunned.

To the Pizza Hut customers,

I will admit that there are a few of you who are endearing and affable. To you, I show my utmost appreciating for having made my stay in Hell a little less horrifying.

To the rest of you, the entire uncivilized lot of you, I must once again show how uneloquent I can be.

FUCK YA’LL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

To those of you who would seat yourselves, completely ignoring the sign that distinctly states, “PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED”, as well as overlooking the fact that I and my fellow coworkers are human beings, and will greet and seat you at your convenience, I must say that you are pitiful creatures, and it is my hope that at some point in your despicable little lives someone treats you as though you are not worthy of basic consideration.

To those of you who insist on no pork coming in contact with your food, and a clean blade being used to cut your halal food, I will say that if you asked once, and politely, and in no way treated me as an inferior person, I followed your requests religiously. (I even wore gloves.) To those of you who made such requests in an incredibly rude and obnoxious manner (i.e. repeating said request as though I were in some way deaf or not listening, using an outside voice though we were clearly indoors, acting as though my female anatomy deemed me unworthy of human decency) even though I had helped you in the past and could clearly tell you were Muslim by your burquas, I will tell you that my hand may have once or twice slipped into the nasty, dirty, unkosher pork before touching your chicken pizza. I just can’t remember for sure.

To a certain district manager,

To quote every employee that ever came in contact with you who were not of the naïve and unknowing variety:

“You’re a piece of shit.”

I will admit, in the beginning, I was one of these naïve people, and was momentarily distracted by your lovely masculine height and vibrant blue eyes. In fact, I recall turning down a job at an amazing craft store when you asked me to because I felt bad that your beautiful little boys would not grow up knowing their dad because you were so overworked and would be even more-so if I were to quit. I did not realize then that the lack of general managers in your district was only due to your own egotistical,  self-absorbed, castigating style of managing. Yes, I realize that you know not what castigating means, because at one time, you asked me to use common and ordinary words that were easy to understand. I refuse to demean myself because you are too busy being Big Boss Man to read a fucking dictionary. You very recently stated that it was in the best interest of the restaurant and all the employees that I be demoted; to that I say, “It really wasn’t, because now you will see what the store truly runs like without one competent shift manager.” You will never, NEVER have a completely-staffed district, because you refuse to focus on what it truly takes to run a successful restaurant, but instead nit-pick at stupid shit that doesn’t matter. Perhaps if you begin treating your employees like people, instead of like the smushed Italian sausage that is on the bottom of your over-sized shoe, you will truly find success. Because you certainly don’t have it now, and you know it. Also, your wife is ugly.

This all being said, I release now my demons and will never again think of Pizza Hut in any way, even though the remaining employees who worked with me will think of me at least a little bit every single day.

Fuck you very much,

Sparkle

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Filed under Humor, Life, Money, Uncategorized, Work

Ten of Life’s Little Disappointments


As much as I’d like to say that every day is a Zippity-Doo-Dah one, there are just a few small trials we all must suffer through that cause a person to cry “Ay me!”

1. After consuming a particularly scrumptious McDonald’s meal, you reach into the bag from which such foody decadence has emerged and realize that there are no squishy, almost-cold bag fries to complete your meal.

2. When trying on clothes in your preferred department store, you realize that your butt is too large to fit in that pair of jeans you found on clearance, or your belly is in the way of zipping them up, or your boobs refuse to be contained in that adorable top you found, or your boobs are not sufficiently ample to fill out that fashionable frock you discovered. This experience is only made worse when you force yourself into said garments, and after discovering they don’t fit, you cannot remove them from your bloated body because your tits are too big and you are forced to call the shopgirl for assistance.

3. When you are daydreaming all day at work of feasting on a delicious bowl of Lucky Charms when you arrive home, only to notice that the milk is expired when you pull it out of the fridge.

4. When you go out for a nice dinner, and are excited to find that there are many hot and attractive female servers on duty, but you are gifted with the one gay guy as your host for the evening.

5. When you work and slave 60 hours a week, only to receive a check that is $200 less than you expected because those fuckers FICA dipped into it.

6. When you drink a lot of whiskey, or rum, or vodka, and have a thrilling and  quite amusing time, until you realize that a lot of whiskey, or rum, or vodka was actually too much, and you spend the rest of the night laying in front of the toilet.

7. When you find out Lady Gaga is finally bringing her tour to town, but the tickets are $160 for nosebleed seats.

8. When you get on the scale.

9. When your alarm clock goes off.

10. When you motion over that stripper that looks so hot on that guy’s lap over there, but as she gets closer, you realize she has a butterface and buck teeth.

Have a nice day.

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Cover Letter


So, I’ve never really written a cover letter for any resume I’ve handed out, but I did for this personal assistant job. Ok, so I know it wasn’t as professional as it should have been…

 

To Whom It May Concern,

Hello! And welcome to my cover letter! I’m so glad you made it this far! You’ve asked your applicants to list five things that would make them stand out from the rest. Since I adore talking about myself, this shall be an exciting exercise.

1. I am the hardest worker you will ever meet. This may seem presumptuous, but I am that also, so we’ll just get that out of the way right now.

2. I am brutally honest, and do not shy away from saying what is the truth when it needs to be said.

3.  Whatever skills I possess, are excellent ones. Whatever skills I don’t yet possess will also be excellent when I finally get them.

4. I have a sense of humor that makes working with me great, but it in no way interrupts or prohibits me from doing my job amazingly well.

5. To prove that number 2 is as true as it should be, and despite the fact that it is completely unprofessional and really has no bearing on whether I am able to perform the needed duties, the final thing that would make me stand out from your other applicants is my 38 DDD chest. Because it most certainly stands out, and whether or not anyone will admit it, it would probably come to mind when processing your interviews.

I look forward to working with you!

Thanks so much,

Sparklebumps the Book Whore

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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

… And Fiancee


Before you jump to attention and your phalanges quicken to congratulate me on my engagement, let me stop you right there. I am not engaged.

*Pause for collective sigh of disappointment*

Ok, now that that’s done, let’s get down to the real story of what’s going on.

I seem to be remiss in my blogging duties as of late. Though I would love to blame it on NaNoWriMo, I cannot, since I have written only 2100 words so far. Yet another project left unfinished. Talk about an unfinished life…

Anyhoo, I HAVE been quite busy doing other things besides sleeping and watching the boobtube. (Yay, me!) After two months of barely looking, and one week filled with house showings, we have come upon a most amazing house that shall be ours. It seems R is content with me enough to agree to purchase a real live home with me. (When I say “live”, what I actually mean is “alive with personality” not “alive with ghosts”. I have enough of those caged in my head.” )

The house we’ve found was once owned by a professor, which instantly boosts is on the cool-o-meter. It too, comes complete with a huge entryway, a closet big enough to house my entire shoe collection comfortably, three bathrooms so that all members of our little family may poop simultaneously, a fireplace and chimney large enough to allow Santa access, and a perfect spot to display a full-size mermaid statue. (I might mention here that one bathroom includes gnarly monkey and parrot safari wallpaper- I have not yet decided if this diminishes the rating on the cool-o-meter.)

I knew upon entrance to the house that it was surely the one for us, and my Rockstar seemed to agree with me, because despite his hesitance about purchasing a home for the first time ( all that yard work to do- even though I shall be the one more than willing to do it) he was quick to agree to making an offer. (With a little urging from me…no, I didn’t use my oral skills.)

The offer was accepted, contingent upon a home inspection and assessment. We had the home inspection tonight.

We arrived at our soon to be casa to find Mr. Inspector already finished with his business. Mr. Inspector was an adorable elderly gentleman who reminded me of Jolly Ol’ St. Nick, who was quick to point out the uniqueness of the place. He had brought with him his own folding chair to rest his considerable weight upon, which endeared him to me instantly. We ventured through the house, the whole while, Inspector St. Nick pointing out all the cool and unusual aspects of the house. When we were done, it was time to go over his findings and to write him a check. As I glanced through the first page of the report, I noticed my Rockstar’s name at the very top, and under it, my first name, followed in very small writing and parentheses “fiancée” I giggled when I saw it, and immediately put the report down.

It seems since I have begun telling people of our intentions of buying a house, most are quick to comment with “Oh, you know what’s coming next!” and “When are you getting married?”

It’s funny, because since we found this house, I haven’t once thought about that. I know I’ve blathered on in the past about “why won’t my Rockstar marry me?” and “Oh, what to do about my Rockstar not marrying me?”, but it seems the insecure Sparkle has disappeared, and has been replaced with one who really doesn’t give a fuck about that shit.

Whilst all my Facebook friends are posting non-stop about getting engaged, or getting married, or having babies, I have begun to realize that maybe my life is not about all that. Yes, I still wish for babies, but instead of being sad I haven’t any, I am more focused on teaching R’s Daughter that maybe she could be an artist when she grows up, or a baker, or a candlestick maker. I am more intent on becoming a published author than in years past, and now that we have found a house, I am excited to have a 2200 square foot canvas on which to express myself with art. If there are to be babies, or marriage, let them come- I’m not scared. But I’ll be even less not scared if they don’t come. And when I’m done tiling my mermaid bathroom in iridescent one-inch mosaic tiles, you can all come over and take a poo in it. XOXO

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