Tag Archives: aging

We Sold Their Lives Today


We sold their lives today.

Sixty years of collecting,

lying there like so much rubbish,

just waiting for someone to make an offer.

Selling memories is heartbreaking business.

First it was two for a dollar,

then six for a quarter,

and finally,

ten for a penny.

I waded through

too many

salvaged coffee cans, flower pots, and garden tools.

Shame on you, Grampa.

We all thought Gramma was the pack-rat.

Everything is half off.

I watched her struggle to maintain composure

when the offers were low;

she wanted to hold on to that tiller-

the one he used for so many years.

I wanted to scream “NO!” for her

when she sighed consent

and hung her head,

too weary and old to

argue again.

So many times she heard it-

“Do you want to keep this?”

“Take it,”

was always her reply.

What she meant was,

“Take it, because I have to

know my memories are being held

onto by those I love.”

We hauled them away by carloads, their belongings.

Some were worth much;

others just worth the idea,

“This was Grampa’s.”

or

“This was Grandma’s.”

Now they’ve become our memories.

Memories of the time when

we couldn’t

make time wait,

and our hands were useless to

stop life.

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Filed under Family, Life, Love, Uncategorized

My Aging Metabolism


I’m getting older. As if working with a bunch of underage teens has not helped me with this realization, for the last few weeks, I’ve had unsolicited email notifications blowing the fuck out of my phone with these taunting words in the subject line: Your Aging Metabolism.

I could be wrong here, but I do believe that repeatedly sending emails to a potential customer badgering her about her worst dread is just bad advertising. What is it about “Your Aging Metabolism” that makes this asinine company think I would ever respond, and in a positive way to their dim-witted emails?!? Surely, said company is hoping to sell me bottle water from the mythical Fountain of Youth, or whatever magical potion that makes Christopher Meloni maintain his Adonis-like good looks; it seems to me their attempts would be more successful were they to fawn over my general fabulosity, rather than mentioning a little flaw I may or may not even deal with.

I have decided I will respond to them in a blog post…

To the Displeasing Ones It May Concern,

I have received a good many of your emails. Unfortunately (for you), I have opened none of them. I’ve no desire to buy whatever the fuck it is you may be selling, since you have been impertinent enough to remind me of “my aging metabolism”-  a matter that I have little to no control over.

Let me tell you something, you inconsiderate assfaces. My metabolism quit aging when I was ten. My metabolism was thought to be about 107 years old, judging by the pictures of me at that time. Yes, I may have lost my “baby fat” when I was a teen, but that was mostly due to not eating for about four years, and exercising instead of sleeping.

Since you have been so kind to call to mind that I’m getting older, we may as well assume that my metabolism is about 500 years old now. Which means there’s nothing you can do about me getting fat in my old age; I plan on eating the French fries that cross my path, and not foregoing the cake Marie Antoinette so graciously said I should eat. No pill advertised by dumbasses like you will be able to save me.

For future reference, next time you want to try to manipulate unsuspecting victims, try something along the lines of “Let us help you maintain your amazingness”. Not “Buy our shit, Fat ass”, which is essentially the advertising you went with. If you wish to fire your ad execs and hire me, I would consider gracing you with my talents; however, at this point, I’d be charging you up the butt.

I will let you know that I most certainly will tell every person I know who receives emails about your shenanigans, and urge them to also completely ignore your abhorrent behavior.

Love Never,

Sparklebumps

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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.

IMAG1000_1_1_1_1

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Welcome To My Box


It was my birthday on Saturday.

I am now at a terrible age.

It’s not necessarily because I’m over 29 and have yet to give Chris Meloni a booby-squishing hug, (although that certainly doesn’t help), or the fact that because of my candy-and-French-fry eating habits over the last 30-some years has made my body decide to rebel against me, but the main reason I am upset it because I am now stuck at an even number for the next 12 months.

I realize that any OCD readers out there may be appalled at the thought of someone actually WANTING to be an odd age instead of an even age, but hey, I’ve spent my years trying desperately to have attention on me. Anyhoo, I received a mailer that was meant to be filled out this week, and on it, there was an area that asked you to check a box for your age range. Instead of the usual 30-35 (which is disturbing enough that I fit into), I had to check the box that said 32-37. I know I shouldn’t say anything, because I’ll be there soon enough, but 37?! How did this happen? When did I end up being categorized with old farts?

Instead of dwelling on it, I decided to steal a line from Samantha in Sex and the City- “Welcome to my box.”

It’s a great place to visit, My Box is. It is filled with people who are (it is hoped) mature and won’t be caught dead in a Justin Bieber shirt. We are usually seasoned enough to know that not all marriages work out, and that rushing into things is not always a good idea. Sure, there are a few of us who are happily married, and even a few more who are romantic (?) enough to keep getting married again. (and again). Still, there are a couple of us that grow completely ill at the thought of ever again binding themselves to another human being for all of eternity.

In My Box, we are not ashamed to admit that we once listened to New Kids on the Block while playing Miami Vice in our basements as children. Some of us were absolutely enthralled with David Bowie as the Goblin King in The Labrynth, and will forever be looking for that perfect man who can pull off a spiky mullet while wearing leather junk-promoting leggings and a ruffly shirt. Here in My Box, we occasionally bebop to Backstreet Boys, and the GooGoo Dolls, or if in a fighting mood, Brandy and Monica’s The Boy is Mine. But to prove we don’t have completely hideous musical taste, we will admit that as children, we just wanted to grow up and grab our junk while singing “Heehoo!” in a funky falsetto exactly like our idol, Michael Jackson.

We were the ones who wore the massively baggy jeans that looked like jean skirts, unashamedly. The ones in My Box know about the clunky heels that were my first pair of grown-up shoes, and platform boots that were in every mall store that sold shoes- now only sold in Hot Topic.

We are the ones who are now populating the earth with new tiny beings who will grow up with the iphones and ipods fused to their hands, the ones who are giving way to the children who only have friends on Facebook, who are clearly evolving into birds that Tweet, and as we once said to our parents “what’s that?” when we found an old 8-track, our children will be confused and astounded when they find our old and antiquated VHS tapes buried in the back of some closet somewhere.

It’s not such a bad place, My Box, and I certainly don’t want to go on to the next Box.

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Wake Up, Dammit!


I adore sleep.

I find it to be one of the most relaxing things a person can do with their free time. In fact, I find myself doing it quite frequently, sometimes even up to eight hours a day. When I’m bored, I think to myself, “I should take a nap.” When I’m tired, I think to myself, “Perhaps I should slumber.” However, I am very rarely bored, (because I have a blog and about 5000 books to read), and when I am tired, I cannot help but think that while I maybe need sleep, there are just too many other things I could be doing that may benefit my quality of life just a tad more than napping might. (Passionate hard-core sex and watching marathons of Law and Order SVU come to mind.)

You may wonder why I have babbled on so. My Rockstar is in the process of sawing logs in a disturbingly loud manner even as I am virtually speaking to you. Now, I understand that he is on the edge of geriatricism, weighing in at a solid 42 years of age, but COME ON! It’s 6:42 PM here. (I need not mention that he’s been sleeping for a good half hour already, but I guess I just did.)

I can see my future life very clearly: While some women are afraid to end up alone with forty cats, I am afraid that I will end up alone with a permanently snoring Rockstar. Sure, I could pet him as one of the afore-mentioned lonely old women might pet her cat, but instead of an adorably contented purr, all I will get is a snarfling gargling loud goooooiiiiiiiouuuuuugh. (That’s the closest thing I could come up with for spelling a snore. Sorry.)

I must admit that I hadn’t any uber-exciting plans for the evening, (other than washing my snoring prince’s silky boxer shorts,) but a simple “How do you do, dear” would have been nice. I got home and hopped in the shower to wash off the pizza crud from work and exited the bathroom sans clothes only to find him having a team meeting with the Sandman. WTF. I didn’t know I was dating Rip Van Winkle.

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Filed under Humor, Life, Love, Uncategorized, Work

The Benefits to Dating the Elderly


Tonight, my Rockstar celebrated his birthday. I have, on occassion, mentioned the near- generational gap that seperates us. While not quite old enough to be my father, the age difference would be the equivilant of his ten year old daughter dating someone of legal American drinking age . When put that way, the word “ewww” comes to mind.

It is true that certain downfalls accompany being in a relationship with a time-worn individual. Namely,the absurdly early bedtimes of 8:30 they have, and a somewhat less-than-satisfying sexdrive of only four times a week. However, I have devised a list of advantages that come from dating a geriatric:

1. They know what they want. My Rockstar knows he wants to retire.

I believe his exact words when asked who he admired were, “Anyone who doesn’t have to work for a living.” I must admit, he hasn’t exactly figured out how to achieve this dream yet.

2. They are generally monetarily settled.

I say generally, because this is not yet something that completely applies to my Rockstar; however, he IS very good about paying the cable and rent on time.

3.They know better than to argue with a woman.

Perhaps women are not always right, (HEEHEE! Just kidding!!!!!) but men of a certain age know better than to try and dispute what a woman says. (Or in my Rockstar’s case, receive a face-smashing once or twice to help them realize when they’ve come up with erronous ideas.)

4. They are better in bed.

Instead of enduring the thiry-second jack-rabbit drilling of the inexperienced, I get to enjoy the prolonged sensual humpings of a man who’s made love with someone other than his right hand and the Jergen’s bottle. Too, he is considerate enough to pull my head away before his man-juices shoot down my throat when I’m administering a blow job. Unfortunately, last night, he didn’t pull it quite far enough out of the way… Let me just point out- that shit stings when it hits you in the eye.

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The “Perks” of Being 30


I am sad to say that through-out my 20’s, my excessive buzooms were never quite as perky as I would have liked. The term “nipping out” didn’t generally apply to me. Oddly enough, the girls have decided in their old age to change their ways. Apparently, they are planning on aging as gracefully as the rest of me, because for the past few months, my nipples have been saying, “Look at us! We exist! We will NOT be hidden underneath ANY kind of bra material or shirtness!”

Just thought you all would like to know.

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