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.

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.

Frogs and Snails

Whoever said frogs and snails and puppy dog tails are what little boys are made of clearly never saw my kid….

Introducing Vincent Bohannen.

You Are Beautiful

Fitting rooms are death.

As in, every time I enter a fitting room,

I die a little bit inside

when I look in the mirror.

This dress would look great!

If it wasn’t on me.

I think to myself.

It doesn’t seem to matter

that I flaunt a pair of plentiful breasts,

the sort of which many women would pay dearly for.

Or that my legs,

though considerably short,

are toned from hours and hours of

wearing heels,

or waiting on tables.

I climb out of the dress,

which is rather difficult

since I forced the zipper up

in hopes of making it fit.

I shake my head and vow

that I will not be undone by an

inanimate piece of fabric.

I dress in my own not-quite-so-fabulous attire;

I face myself once again in the mirror,

and repeat to the refection there

the words many men have proven to be true,

the words friends that only tell the truth have spoken,

the words I remind myself that I believe:

“You are beautiful.”

 

Celebrity Showdown: Salma Hayek VS. Penelope Cruz

So we all know that Salma Hayek is (crudely stated) “super hot”. It is also known that Penelope Cruz is also “uber sexy”. True, there are many other equally inviting Hispanic actresses out there, but none that have acquired such American fame as these. Even though these women are great friends, today, we shall pit these two ravishing dark-haired beauties against each other to see which one comes out on top. (Technically, Penelope  already played a Woman on Top, but nevermind about that.)

Salma Hayek has showed her boobies in Desperado.

Penelope showed her boobies in… well, too many movies to list.

Salma’s boobies are nicer.

1 point to Salma.

Penelope Cruz has a beauteous face.

As does Salma Hayek.

Penelope’s face is prettier.

1 point to Penelope.

Penelope has a habit of playing mysterious, sensuous characters in her movies.

Salma played a drug lord in Savages and a vampire in From Dusk Til Dawn.

This is a tie, because there is no way to gauge how a plethora of enigmatic roles measures up against a drug lord and a vampire stripper. No points are awarded.

Salma played Frida Kahlo, my favorite artist.

Penelope played no real life person I admire.

1 point for Salma.

Penelope played the exact same character in two movies- Open Your Eyes and the American version, Vanilla Sky.

Salma has done no such thing.

1 point for Penelope.

Penelope is married to Javier Bardem, who is sexy in a creepy sorta way.

Salma is married to some French guy. (Who is not sexy.)

1 point for Penelope.

Salma has directed a video for Prince (who is awesome and from Minnesota.)

Penelope has no reknown Minnesotan friends.

1 point for Salma.

Salma also has been credited with three singing performances on films.

Penelope is apparently a mute Spanish bird.

1 point for Salma.

Penelope won an Oscar for her performance in Volver.

Salma has no golden statue.

1 point for Penelope.

Salma is dyslexic.

Penelope knows four languages.

No points are awarded at this time, because we cannot discriminate or show favoritism to either party.

Salma is an spokeswoman for aids.

Penelope likes to help stray cats.

1 point for Salma.

Salma has been voted one of People‘s 50 most beautiful people three times.

Penelope has been voted so only once.

1 point for Salma.

Salma has done the voice over work for an animated cat in Puss in Boots.

Penelope has had the most memorable line in a movie concerning cats from Vanilla Sky: “In another life, when we are both cats.”

1 point for Penelope. (Point so awarded because I have used said line on several occasions.)

My Rockstar is secretly in love with Penelope Cruz because of her sexy love scenes.

He does not even know who Salma Hayek is.

1 point for Penelope.

We have come to the conclusion of the celebrity showdown, and as sad as I am to say that there are no amazingly- hot Spaniard-like women lying in front of me in need of medical attention I would willingly give them, I am happy to announce that the points have been tallied. Oddly enough, both Salma and Penelope have accrued an equal amount of points, so this celebrity showdown has been a complete waste of time, and I have come to the realization that each person must make their own decision on the level of these women’s hotness based off of their own personal preference. There you have it.

 

Different

Before

Trinyx stayed just under the surface of the waves, watching the beautiful creature with the bouncing hair react to the lecherous older one. She worried when she saw the angry expression cross the young human’s face, wondering what had angered him so, as she watched him shove the other man out of the way. Trinyx felt as though her very self was being pulled toward the handsome boy as he stomped angrily away from the ship’s rail, until she noticed a splash in the waves next to her. She moved away in disgust when she realized what it was- one of the other less-attractive humans was leaning over the side of the ship, retching into the sea. She was filled with fury that he was polluting her ocean in such a way, and wanted to jump up and  grab the man, pull him into the water, and swim down to the deepest depths with him where she knew he would perish. Instead, she swam close to the body of the ship, and indignantly banged her tail against the wood several times.

As she swam away toward her home, she looked back, and saw several of the men looking confused and leaning over the ship’s rail, peering into the water, wondering what sort of fish had rammed their boat. Trinyx glimpsed the dark-haired man too, who seemed to be looking directly at her, though she knew it was too dark for him to see that far. She lifted her pale hand in a useless gesture, and thought she imagined the man raise his own hand in return. The waves moved    her, and she pushed her tail against them , diving into the night-black water.

Far below the moonlit surface of the ocean, Trinyx slowed her movements, realizing how close she had been to a human. She thought of how soft his hair had been between her fingers, and how it had sprung so lightly from them. She weaved her fingers between the ropey lengths of her own hair that was billowing out around her, and let it go, watching it lazily drift in the leftover currents of her swimming. A few small fishes glides through it, and she swatted them away, perturbed.

She felt melancholy now, now that she had felt the air on her thick skin. She had never felt the pressure of the water surrounding her, but she felt it now, and she wanted to be back against the ship, looking into the expressive eyes of the alluring young man again. She thought of him and wondered if his skin would feel like hers, and she ran her hands down her torso, over her breasts and down her belly, until she felt scales that led into a lengthy tail. She looked at her tail, the tail that was the envy of her sisters, with it’s rainbow of purple and green and silvery scales, and decided it was not at all beautiful. Her fingertips felt over the coarse scales, and she wanted to feel what it was like to stand on two legs like the humans on the ship had.

The man’s eyes had been one color, and though she had never seen her own, she knew from looking into her sisters’ faces that mermaid eyes were an ever-changing kaleidoscope of colors, and she thought to herself how uninteresting that was- as she had watched the man, she could see within his eyes a flurry of emotions, whereas when she watched her sisters, the constant color shift in their eyes made it completely impossible to know what they were thinking.

She had let the man’s sounds wash over her; how different they had been from her own! From the things her grandmother had told her, human voices were terrible to listen to, and humans themselves were seemingly possessed when offered a mermaid song, but Trinyx had liked the sound of his words- they were not melodious as a mermaid’s, no, but still pleasing to the ear in their own way.

She fingered the silver chain that was tied in her hair, and pushed the little button that had released the tiny door. She cried out when she saw that the picture inside was beginning to disintegrate already, and she shut it again quickly, hoping to preserve the likeness of the woman who looked like her human. She gripped the locket tightly to her chest, and was amazed that she cared so for this man, this creature who was so unlike her. She swam in circles, wondering what she was to do now.  Bubbles and fish floated out of her way as she did so. She was forbidden to have contact with the upper world, but there was one thing she knew for certain- she had to see him again.

 

Jewel’s Snaggletooth, Forgive Me

Dear diaphanous singer Jewel’s Snaggletooth,
I have decided to compose this letter of apology after witnessing your operator’s performance on the ACM’s last night.
It is true that a snaggletooth such as yourself is not always seen as a blessing or an attractive thing to have. I must admit that throughout the many years of your celebrity existence, I would wince in disgust at any glimpse of your presence during Jewel’s television performances, and think atrociously to myself, “Jesus Christ, she isn’t a homeless goat herder in Alaska anymore, why doesn’t she get that fixed.” Alas, Jewel finally collapsed under the pressure of the opinions of horrid judgemental people such as I, and I am sad to see that, Snaggletooth, you are no more.
While I had heard through celebrity gossip grapevines that you had been extracted, I had not yet witnessed it for myself until last night. In the past, when Jewel would sing about her diminutive hands, (“I know”) I would harshly be convinced that it was too bad that it was you, Jewel’s Snaggletooth, that was not small and unobtrusive. And when she would wonder, “Who will save your soul?”, I would wonder, “Who will save Jewel’s lover’s dick from the terrible shredding it will surely receive from Jewel’s blowjobs?” Perhaps that question was the one that finally persuaded Jewel to journey to the dentist.
I wanted to apologize, Snaggletooth, because as Jewel was tittering on last night about her hands and starving children, I couldn’t help but notice how aggravatingly perfect her new at-least-partial dentures were. No longer when she smiled did your beastly form stick out repulsively; no, no. Instead, a straight and perfectly whitened grill filled her smile the likes of which would rival Julia Roberts. It was then that I knew I had made a mistake.
I wax infinite on the subject of beautiful imperfection, only to realize that I falsely appraise such imperfections such as yourself. Perhaps it is because I believe celebrities are to be without flaws, or perhaps it is because I do not want their flaws to be more endearing than my own. Whatever the reason, Snaggle, I wish Jewel had never disposed of you.
I believe if you were to have made it through the bitter jabs of judgmental crowds, you would have been among the Elite of Celebrity Flaws such as Cindy Crawford’s Mole and Madonna’s Tooth Gap. However, Jewel’s Snaggletooth, I regret that you have surrendered too soon. And for that I am sorry.
Regretfully,
Sparklebumps

Racist

I was thinking today about race, and so decided to use the amazing tool given to me known as the Online Dictionary to look up the definition of racism. Here it is:

Racism:

1. the belief that races have distinctive cultural characteristics determined by hereditary factors and that this endows some races with an intrinsic superiority over others

Given that definition, I must admit that I am absolutely and unapologetically racist.

I cannot help but think of how beautiful a woman would be if she possessed all the superior qualities of every race….

She may have skin as dark as a moonless night like a Nubian Princess, or as pale as the brightest star, like a statuesque Scandanavian.

Her eyes would tell the most intimate secrets as you looked into them- maybe a bright Cerulean blue as the purest Aryan’s, perhaps delicately slanted like an Asian Empress’, possibly midnight black as a Spaniard’s.

Her lips would speak the softest words through lips as full and luscious as an African’s, and her tongue would roll the spoken consonants and gracefully as any Mexican.

Her hair could be a riotous mass of flaming curls, compliments of her Irish heritage, or perhaps ebony sleek due to her Hunan roots. It would of course be braided in the intricate and detailed micro-braids of her Liberian ancestors.

Her body! Oh, her body! Perhaps small and ethereal as those in China, perchance as tall and lean as those in Iceland. Her curves would rival any Latina’s anywhere- breasts round and plentiful with an ass to match, and she would stand proud and strong as any Amazonian chieftan. Men throughout the world would fall at her feet just to glimpse her delicately-shaped ankles.

She would possess hands stronger than any farm woman’s, a mind sharper than a Russian physicist’s, and her soul would be kinder than any found in an Amish community.

If there was such a race as this, how could we not believe we live in a beautiful world?

The Beauty Rituals of a Queen

When I was fifteen or so, my parents took me to a used bookstore. It had just recently opened up, and was located in a historic ramshackle building. Because it was new, nothing was organized, as in- there were piles of books EVERYWHERE. No organization, no categories, nothing. While the inner librarian in me would balk at such a situation, I must tell you how delightful it was to go searching for a treasure I didn’t even know was there. I came across a treasure indeed- a biography on Queen Elizabeth. Since she was known as the Virgin Queen, and I myself was a virgin at the time, I took it as a sign and asked my father to purchase said book for me. I went home and read the entire thing in two sittings.

There was much history that I read about, but the thing I remember most about that book was the chapter on Queen Elizabeth’s beauty habits. At that time in my life, I was obsessed with maintaining my looks (as if anything has changed). I read about Elizabeth’s practice of rubbing mercury on her lips to make them a luscious red color. I secretly went out to the shed on my parents property and looked for an outdated thermometer that I could break open and procure mercury from. (Nevermind the fact that mercury is highly lethal. I thought if I could die with the pale white skin and berry red lips of a virgin queen, it mattered not.) It is probably a good thing for my lips that my mom caught me and forbade me to smear mercury on them.

One beauty ritual that Elizabeth practiced that I actually did try was putting eggs and cream and mayonnaise in my hair to make it shiny and flowing. I don’t actually remember if it worked, but I do remember the reactions of the numerous people my mother told about my odd behavior. (What?! Eggs in her hair? How gross! What a weird kid!)

Fast forward 16 years later.

I still long to have ivory white skin, instead of the pale blotchy skin of a Minnesota woman, and I still long to have  the luscious flowing locks of a Boticelli angel. I have made no secret of the fact that my hair color is not at most times natural. (If the Pumpkin Orange and Little Mermaid shades were not a clue.) To be clear- my complete and utter boredom with my various hair colors has caused me to color and bleach and dye and fry my hair to the point where my raved-of (by my Grammy) natural curls now resemble that haystack that girl in Oklahoma got stuck up on. After once again shading my hair a glorious unnatural crimson color last night, I decided that unless I wanted to go with a chic Audrey Heburnesque pixie cut and start all over, I was going to have to get a perm. And so, I awoke this morning and made my way to the local Beauty College. (Where hair care is affordable and only slightly questionable.)

The instructor of my stylist instisted on perming a test strand of my hair. I rolled my eyes on the inside (since I have gone from Elvira black locks to a Gwen Stefani bleach job without losing hair) and waited patiently for the verdict.

“We aren’t going to do a perm today.” She stated quite unapologetically.

She went on to explain that if my hair was permed, I would lose my amazingly bright redness, and my strands would turn to mush. I exited the building and returned home, where I immediately did online research on how to repair my poor abused hairs.

I was reminded of Queen Elizabeth and her egg hair masque when I read that eggs and mayo make an excellent remedy. I was also reminded of Catherine Zeta-Jones and the first issue of People‘s 50 Most Beautiful People when I read that beer does wonders for the human coif.

So once again, I find myself partaking in the odd beauty rituals of a queen. I am composing this post honey, olive oil, and egg yolks saturate my hair and continuously drip down my face. While I admit that a plastic Target bag wrapped around my head is not entirely sexy, I guarantee the end will result in fabulously moisturized locks that would make even Queen Elizabeth jealous. Sadly, I am reminded how horrid I think honey smells as it oozes down my forehead onto my keyboard.

Too Much Style (For Some People)

It is true that I use fashion as a means to express my personality. No, I do not agree that you are what you wear, because I know many amazing and interesting people who wear nothing exciting at all. And sometimes there really is nothing more comfortable to wear than a pair of yoga pants and a white Tshirt. (sans bra, of course) But if one were to look into my closet, their eyes would be blinded by a sea of satiny, overly decorated fabrics. My dresser drawers are stuffed with sparkly, fashionably-torn leggings and jewel-toned turquoise blue jeans. The amount of black clothing I own is minimal, yet necessary, because of the many rainbow colored shoes I possess. If one of the afore-mentioned boringly-clad people would come over to my house and ask to borrow some clothes, it is safe to say that they would be distraught to find nothing that would fit their less-than-desirable fashion standards. (or their chests.)

While it is true that bold decisions in fashion may be questionable at times, I have yet (almost) to have anyone blurt out, “Your outfit is hideous!” as I walk by in my banana-colored peep-toe pumps and poofy silver skirt. My Rockstar, though open-minded about fashion, has complimented me only on my more conservative ensembles, yet appreciates the fact that there is effort put into my getting dressed every day. A Sunday morning would not be complete without at least one individual at church stopping me to openly admire my new pair of stillettos, or my ruffly green blouse. Aquaintances have described me as dressing as a “prom queen” or a “fashionista”, and to that I reply, “What the hell is wrong with that?”

The other day, my Rockstar’s daughter and I were deeply engrossed in the painting of many Christmas presents. We were carrying on a lovely conversation that somehow turned to makeup and fashion. The day before, the Daughter had mentioned the excessiveness of the makeup I was wearing, and since she has never been bothered by the glitter and sparkles before, I decided to ask her about it.

“So I wear too much makeup, eh?” I asked proddingly.

She shrugged. “I don’t think so; I think your makeup is BEAUTIFUL, but my mom says you do.”

Ah.

“She also says your clothes are really ugly.” She continued.

Normally, I would take offense, but since the “ugly” comment is coming from a person devoid of fashion personality, I feel only pity.

“Oh. Well your mom’s clothes are a little bit less flashy than mine.” I replied democratically.

“Well, I don’t think your clothes are ugly at all! I think they’re awesome! The very first time I saw you I thought how I wanted to look just like you. My mom tries to put makeup on like you and then she’ll come out of the bathroom and be all like, ‘Oh, don’t I look BEAUTIFUL?’ and I tell her, ‘No way, Mom, you look ugly like that’ and then she gets really mad, but it’s just because she doesn’t know how to put makeup on like you do. And all her clothes are BROWN.”

I refrained from letting the “heehee” that was floating around in my brain seep out from my mouth. “Well, maybe she just didn’t have anyone to teach her how to put makeup on. But you know, lots of makeup should never be used to cover up your face. You should only use that much for fun, ok?”

“Yeah, I know.”

We continued painting in companionable silence, my little fashion protege’ and I.

I do not feel malice or animosity toward the Daughter’s Mother, because I realize she is just using her jealousy as a defense mechanism. Even without having her ex as my Rockstar and her Daughter as my Almost-kid, I would still have more wit, and personality, and boobs than she. But if she would ever ask, I would also have the decency to coach her in makeup technique.

If you are wondering what this person looks like, you may refer to here.