Category Archives: Work

Five Years


Hey there, Strangers.

It’s been a long time. If you, my lovely readers, and I were in a relationship, you’d have every right to toss me aside for someone who doesn’t neglect you as I have the last few months. But, let me tell you something- after five years, relationships tend to go through a stale time before they get stronger. For yes, WordPress has informed me that it has been five years and a few days since I did begin a little online rant called sparklebumpsthebookwhore. Said action forever changed my life, I believe, completely for the better. It is hoped that it did, too, change all of your lives for the better. My histrionica convinces me it most certainly did.

Though I have not yet found life-altering fame, I will say that I am taking baby steps (sometimes very literally) to expand my horizons and experience new things I’ve never before experienced. I’ve thrown my best friend (who I met through my blog several years ago) a rather fabulous bridal shower, and just this past weekend joined her and her other favorites for a bachelorette party that included a horse-drawn carriage ride through the city. (Numerous Uber rides were also a first; I shall never forget the four of us piling into a Ford Fiesta driven by a friendly individual resembling Austin Power’s Fat Bastard. Good Times.)

My life has vastly improved in the last half-decade; this is mainly due to a little man who  resembles me too closely at times- mostly when he’s butting his head against whatever’s nearby when he’s pissed off. Yes, I have the mental maturity to not actually smash my head against inanimate objects, but, I promise, I’m doing it in my head constantly. Perhaps this is the reason I sometimes forget what I’m saying mid-sentence, and find it hard to focus on pretty much everything….

Yes, my Babe is too much like his mother, but in some ways, that’s great. (in my opinion.) His constant growling and attacking his stuffed animals and the dog proves that his wild imagination is intact, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Things with my Rockstar are less sexy that I’d necessarily wish them to be, but that will happen when there’s a toddler about and our work schedules are completely opposite. He still has amazing hair, and a habit of buying very expensive guitar gear. Ah, well. Boys will be boys.

My Rockstar’s Daughter is now officially a high-schooler (cringe), and I have come to realize that for the most part, we will have to ignore each other for the next four years for both of us to make it out alive. That’s all I’m going to say about that for now.

I’m still masquerading as a waitress until I finish my book, but as of this week, I got a $3 an hour raise, so I can’t really complain…even though one of my joyful “managers” refers to me as a “stupid fucking cunt”  to whomever will listen. Let’s just say the feeling is mutual. Even if he is a dude.

I am making more of an effort to use my time more wisely toward writing, which should go swimmingly unless they add an unknown season of Sons of Anarchy on Netflix, so you shouldn’t have to wait so long again for me to entertain you again. We’ll have to see if being a mother has drained me of my general amazingness.

XOXO,

Sparklebumps

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The Vagabond (otherwise entitled Why Parents Need Cocaine)


My child is one. I suppose if you want to be technical, he is one and a little more. The point is, I haven’t slept in over a year.

Yes, ok, so that’s not exactly true. I just this afternoon slept for a good half hour while the Babe napped. And I guess my Rockstar watched him yesterday morning so I could sleep in a wee bit. But a whole eight-hour night’s sleep? Such things are the things of myths and fairytales.

I’ve been remiss in my writing of blog posts; a fact that is proven by my last post which was sometime in March, I think. Too, I find myself not a whole lot further in the writing of my book- because Pinterest is the Devil’s hippodrome, and he very successfully distracts me in his evil game of idle pin surfing. Spring has brought hours of yard work, and a kid who freaks out every time I attempt to Brazil butt-lift my saggy ass have also preoccupied me from becoming my most amazing self. On the plus side, my kid is ridiculously awesome and my exact mini male replica.

The thing I have learned in the past year? Anyone who has ever gotten hooked on cocaine must first have had a child. How else would you explain the need to be awake for extended hours and days at a time? How else would the dishes ever get done and the lawn mown and the laundry folded and the kids get fed and bathed and read to?

As I am generally not of the criminal ilk, I have opted for a more legal path. Diet vitamins and other assorted energy-boosting products. Along with reaching my goal weight, I shall now find the energy to create my most interesting characters.

I must admit, the true origin of buying such energy-boosting items stems from the fact that I’m just too lazy to exercise. But, ya know, maybe I won’t be after a week or two of partaking in legalized speed.

My real question is- how the hell does anybody get anything done with more than one kid?!

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November the First


Hmm. I don’t write on here so much anymore. This makes me sad. So I shall begin anew.

I suppose I would do well to update you all on everything that’s been happening in the last, well- the last really long time. But in the words of Inigo Montoya: “No, there is too much. Let me sum up.” –

My baby is a seven months and a little bit old. Holy shit.  And even though I lost every bit of weight I gained when I was pregnant with him, I do not find myself motivated enough to lose the extra 50-60 lbs. I had before that. So sadly, I have not yet reached my goal of ultimate M.I.L.F. status. But, ya know- I’m still awesome. And I have the best kid who is so smart and funny and adorable. And I’m not even being biased. Let me prove it:

IMAG1125

 

Things between my Rockstar and I have not been the stuff of romantic comedies of late. Unless you’re thinking of the part in the movie when the couple argues and breaks up. No, we haven’t broken up; in fact, I suppose technically we’ve never even argued- you can’t argue with a person who doesn’t respond to your gripe. But in recent times I find myself bitching to myself over his lack of interest and general laziness in the relationship. After having expressed myself to him, I realize I’m kinda over it. A person can only take so much disappointment. And since his daughter now lives with us full-time, I am not in quite as good of spirits as I once was. Boo.

On a lighter note, I now work with an adorable hot chic that says I’m her favorite, and I have been approved for six new credit cards in the last two months, which is something I’m not quite sure is a good thing yet- other than the fact that finally after six years, I actually CAN get approved for things. Sadly, in those six years, I have not learned restraint, and also not-quite-but-almost maxxed out all said credit cards. BUT! I have a beautiful new copper loveseat in my perfect library that’s sitting in front of my very expensive electric fireplace I ordered with my Menard’s card.

Also, my most amazing friend Delightfulness is almost engaged, and apparently has a ridiculously large wedding budget that I get to help her plan with. Such a wedding will have no room for chubby bridesmaids, so I must force myself to not eat in the coming year, which will help with the whole M.I.L.F. thing.  Life is good.

Too, I am completely re-inspired to finally finish writing my book, though since I have an adorable little boy who has inherited my need for attention, the only time I have to write it is after work, when I sit down in front of my computer and get distracted by Facebook and Pinterest. Aye, me.

XOXO

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A Thank You Letter to Shitty Tippers


To Whom It May Concern,

I have taken it upon myself to show my gratitude for your extremely benevolent behavior toward me during my past 17 years of service for you. As you have so courteously treated me, so now will I return the favor.

I would like to thank those tippers from large groups or big families who insist on paying the substantial bill for their obnoxious get-togethers. It is true, I noticed you trying to get the best deal out of me when ordering your food, as I also noticed how you flinched when another member of your party ordered additional appetizers without checking with you. I am indebted to you for the 5% tip you left as you paid with hundred dollars bills. The  horrendous mess your gathering left behind- the crayons littering the floor, the parmesan cheese dumped into leftover beverages, the ketchup that so eloquently spelled out the name of the birthday girl on the table- most certainly made up for the missing 15%.

To the “family” man who was forced to bring his toddler boys out in order to give his wife a Girl’s Night Out- my sincerest gramercy. I appreciated that you so graciously thought to leave me an entire dollar as you towed your little shitkins out after they left my coworkers and I with headaches because of their incessant screaming. Your  largess, and your decision  to leave an upturned bowl of spaghetti all over the floor has shown me exactly what I don’t want in a husband.

To the elderly peeps who believe that “two bits” is an acceptable tip- trust that if ever you find yourself in a nursing home in your last years and I am lucky enough to be employed there, I will show you and your full Depends the same courtesies you have bestowed upon me these many long years.

And finally, to the endless list of people who cannot even be bothered to tip at all- I promise to pray for you. I pray that you are warmed by the hottest fires of the deepest hells; I pray that your children are carted off by the Slender Man, and I pray that you will be arrested by military officials and forced to listen to Taylor Swift songs for the entirety of your despicable lives.

With my  deepest appreciation and most passionate loathing,

Sparklebumps

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….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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642 Things To Write About #2: Trouble


Since it has been many moons since my last blog post, and I am feeling completely uninspired at the moment (due to the somewhat early hour of the day), I have decided to take another writing prompt from my handy book 642 Things to Write About. This shall be the second time I’ve used this lovely little writing aid, as the first time is posted HERE. My topic for the day?

Five things that always get you into trouble.

I’m sure that if I answer this with no filter, I will get into trouble. Is that what this question is supposed to do, I wonder?

Well, here goes….

1. My mouth.

And not even in the way you pervs are thinking, so get your mind out of the gutter! Ok, well, maybe in the past my mouth has gotten me in trouble that way…. but anyhoo, I digress. What I meant to say was, my mouth is like a moving box that’s been crushed and mangled and used one too many times. No matter how much you tape it up and try to get stuff to stay put inside it, stuff just continues to fall out, even when you put your hands over the top of it. Maybe it’s not such a huge deal now, but damn. I’m fucked if I ever become famous. Prepare yourselves for the continuous controversy of Shit Sparkle Said. I just hope people don’t despise me as much as I despise Kanye West.

2. My boobs.

You knew it was coming. Need I explain? Excessive boobage has caused dispute throughout history. Just look at Marilyn Monroe, Sophia Loren, and Anne Boleyn. Ok, that last one was a guess, but it is probably a good assumption that a well-endowed chest had something to do with Henry VIII’s decision to renounce Catholicism and dump his first wife.

3. My histrionic personality.

Which causes me to flirt incessantly, even with people I don’t necessarily find attractive, which in turn causes feelings of adoration and infatuation to fester into feelings of malice and hostility in people unlucky enough to wander through my fickle attentions. I would not consider  myself a heartbreaker, but I’ve certainly pulverized a few.

4. My book addiction.

And my shoe addiction. Which have both been detrimental to my wallet. Luckily, I have never suffered from buyer’s remorse.

5. I suppose, my blog.

Having been fired the one and only time in my life because of my online writing, and having appalled my parents and perhaps a countless slew of others, it is safe to say that my blog may justly be included in the list of five.

 

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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.

 

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