Tag Archives: Beauty

Why I Really Just Don’t Care What You Think


I know, the title of my post sounds very rude. I certainly didn’t mean it to, but I have a serious case of the Fuck-its today, so too bad.

I’ve heard that a woman with confidence is something to behold. Men flock to them, and women want to be just like them. This second fact is the reason I would not necessarily consider myself a Confident Woman, because I am convinced only a completely insane person would wish to be just like me; however, I HAVE come up with a few reasons why I don’t completely suck, and why I really don’t give a fuck what people think. (But I still love you and think you’re all awesome! XOXO)

1. I know the definitions and correct spellings of such words as concubine, scintillate, and a plethora of other words many normal people don’t know, including plethora. I also know how to correctly pronounce oneiromancy.

2. I will dye my hair blonde, or red, or black, or orange, or pink, and just shrug when someone says it looks bad, because it keeps me from being bored with my otherwise normal-looking self. I also don’t mind resembling the Little Mermaid or Jessica Rabbit.

3. I can tell you who wrote Polonaise in A Major, when he wrote it, how he died, and if you wish, I can play it on the piano for you. Or I could play the theme song from Alice in Wonderland by Shinedown.

4. I can eat more than a family of four; therefore I do not waste food. Ever. Those starving people in Africa that your mother told you about? There’s nothing left for them when I get done.

5. I can work a 12, or 15, or 17 hour day and still give a shit what my place of business looks like when I leave it. But I am also not afraid to sit on my ass and do absolutely nothing and admit it when I have a day off.

6. I am the most stubborn person on the planet. Some of you may like to point out that this isn’t a good quality, but if we have a second Holocaust, or I am caught and tortured to give up the location of our nuclear weapons that could destroy the population, rest assured that the hidden Jews will be safe andhumanity  will live.

7. I can aim and shoot a gun, which doesn’t really do me any good unless a Zombie Apocolypse occurs.

8. If you are my friend, you will remain my friend, even if you are a complete Assface who treats me as a fair-weather friend and only call when you need something. However, chances are I may not answer your call the next time you need me to save you from a burning building.

9. I am not too hard on the eyes. I’m not saying I’m as pretty as Marilyn or Audrey, but I’m cuter than at least some women you know. And even if I think you’re more beautiful, I say to myself, “I’m cuter.” Even if it’s not true at all.

10. I can admit that I’m a complete dork, because I am also smarter than all those people who call me one. Including my Rockstar. (Don’t worry, he loves me because of my dorkdom.)

11. The final reason I just really don’t care what anyone think is because I can whoop their ass if they cock off. They just need to give me a reason. XOXO

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I Thought Summer Was Hot, But I Guess It’s Just Me


When I got terminated from my bookstore, one of my first thoughts actually was, “Hmm. I guess I will no longer be receiving excessive attentions from strange men that I don’t know.” When this occurred to me, I must admit that I was slightly distraught- not only does the attentions of weirdos make for interesting blog fodder, but despite the general creepiness of most advances I’ve received, they somehow still manage to satisfy my histrionic need for adoration.

It seems that my worries concerning this subject were pleonastic (Yes, I’ve been reading my thesaurus again.)

What I failed to realize at the time of my firing is that I had newly been hired as a Pizza Slut. That means- out of 17 employees, I work with exactly two other women. What do you think the reactions are of men (and boys) who get to work with my amazing self every flippin’ day?

Admit it. You’d be thrilled too.

Shall we go over just a few of the wanton and unbelievable comments I’ve received in the last 9 months? Here we go:

“You don’t understand. I’m completely falling in love with you. I don’t know what to do about my girlfriend.”

You may be surprised at this one, since I have not before this mentioned anything about an overly-amorous being at work.  Let us just say his job title rhymed with “moss”, and he no longer works with me. (I promise, I had nothing to do with that.)

“You’re gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous. And your personality is awesome. I only have one question. Will you be my secret lover?”

Incidentally, this was the fourth sentence out of a new employees mouth after having met me. It left me wondering what it is about me that makes people think they can say these blatant things to a fellow employee….

“You are and amazing and powerful woman, Sparklebumps. That scares me.”

Oh yes. I am sooooo scary. BOO! MWAHAHAHHAA

“You’re totally awesome. I love working with you.”

I must admit, every employee I have has said this to me at some point, even the ones who don’t lust after me. It’s because, well… I’m awesome. I don’t mean to sound cocky, but it seems to be true.

“I find you to be very pretty. ”

Seems very sweet right? That comment was followed with- “And you have a really hot ass.”

“You’re gorgeous. I want to squeeze your butt, but I didn’t want to get fired. But I think you’re really beautiful.”

No, I didn’t let him squeeze my butt, just in case any of you wondered about my boundaries…

While I find it incredible that these comments are truthfully flung my way so frequently, I must admit that it’s quite good for my ego. It’s also a bit humorous that my allure seems to have no age limits. You would think a 20 year old would have a slightly different inclination than a 52 year old. But who am I to judge?

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Casting Agent Fail


I’ve just been to the movies.

I went to see Snow White and the Huntsman.

Given my inclination toward all things fairy tale and princess- related, you would think I’d be ecstatic right now.

I would be, except for one little casting mistake that was quite impossible to ignore.

Kristen Stewart was playing Snow White.

I could go on and on about the imagination it took to create such a magical masterpiece as I have just witnessed. The CG effects and action scenes rival those of Avatar. I could rave about the utter gorgeousness of Charlize Theron as the Wicked Queen, and the chilling effect her crazed-for-power eye bugginess had on my soul. I could babble deliriously over the rugged overly-handsome guy who played Thor who’s name I don’t know, and mention how sexy it was to hear him utter my favorite line- “Once upon a time.” Sadly, all of this cannot not make up for the disturbing and disgusting choice some must-be-insane completely mentally-handicapped fucktard made when he decided Kristen Stewart could ruin his entirely otherwise-perfect movie.

It is true I may have been slightly poisoned against Kristen during my temporary insanity days when I had to watch the Twilight movies. Don’t get me wrong. She was perfectly cast as the mousy personality-devoid Bella Swan. There was nothing she could do to make a limpid tiresome character less so. In fact, she seemed to have known this, because she did nothing including acting when she was getting paid to star in that squalid series. But I’m not talking about that anymore.

First of all, if you look back on your childhood storytime days, you may recall the fact that in the original Snow White, she was mentioned to be the fairest of them all. Who the fuck could even BEGIN to imagine Kristen Stewart as the fairest of anything?!?!?!?! Throughout the movie, the only thing I could think was,”Wow. Charlize Theron in full Aileen Wuernos Monster makeup would look better than Kristen Stewart at her best.” Kristen is not in any way hideous, or malformed, no. It is the fact that she has the figure of a 13 year old boy and the face of Sarah Plain and Tall that bothers me. If the girl could act, I wouldn’t give a shit- all the greatest actors are ugly. Chistopher Walken is a prime example. But how are we to believe that Snow White is the one to save the entire world from complete desolation when she walks around looking permanently constipated? You have no idea how badly I was hoping Charlize would slash scary knife repeatedly across Kristen’s face, just so her features would in some way move me.

Why couldn’t it have been ANYONE else?

Megan Fox, though slightly over-rated, would have at least provided the necessary eye-candy effect that Snow White is supposed to have.

How about Anne Hathaway? She’s deliciously pale and raven-haired. Her acting doesn’t suck either.

I realize Angelina is a bit old, but at least her acting ability is schooled enough that she could make you believe she was supposed to save the world.

Pretty much, any unknown half-decent looking actress off the street could have saved me from wanting to scream at the screen, “Kill her Charlize! Rip her face off!!!!!”

You have no idea how upset I am.

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Plain


I received perhaps the best compliment ever from a coworker the other day without him having said barely a word.

This coworker happened to be the self-proclaimed douche I’ve mentioned in past posts. While I find him hilarious to work with, I can understand why some people would find him offensive. Mainly, because he is offensive. He has no qualms about telling people exactly what he thinks or giving them shit when he thinks they are being ridiculous. He enjoys spending the work hours he shares with me doing this exact thing, because he finds my flirtatious nature absolutely ridiculous, yet we get along great, because I have no problem agreeing with him on his self-proclamation of ass-holery.

Anyhoo, we were discussing a coworker’s wife who had come in to dine, and I pointed out that she really was quite plain. As always, the conversation turned to the subject of me (because, after all, everything IS all about me) and I stated something along the lines of- “I realize that I am very plain, but that woman was expecially so.” At that comment, the self-proclaimed douche’s eyes widened and he shook his head as I continued to ramble on about the saddery of plainness. When I noticed this, I stopped in my lecture, and he simply said, “Sparkle, you’re not plain.”

Coming from someone who finds me mostly ridiculous and frivolous, I found this to be a great compliment, especially since I am deathly afraid of being unnoticeable.

With all the beautiful people in the world, I find it most exhausting to try to even reach the bottom rung of the Beauty Ladder. While I admit that I do have relatively nice skin, when I wake up in the morning, I find nothing whatsoever in the mirror that stands out (at least in a good way.) I am pale, my eye color is an un-interesting poop shade, and my nose is too bulbous to be defined as “small”. I jazz all this up by swooping on brightly colored shades of eyeshadow, and applying glitter or blush to my cheeks.

It is true that my wardrobe reflects my inner showgirl. I own almost nothing that doesn’t sparkle or shine. However, I still find myself to be a plain girl playing dress-up in Dolly Parton’s closet.

So, it’s nice to see that at least one person has noticed my excessive tries to avoid Plaindom. Even if he is a douche.

P.S. I must point out here that looks aren’t everything, but to quote Freud- “Beauty has no obvious use; nor is there any clear cultural necessity for it. Yet civilization could not do without it.”

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Fat Ass


So I was going about my business last night at work trying to get my shit done and get the hell outta there, when Little Miss Attitude (the 18 year old manager who sucks ass that I fully intend on taking all managerial hours from) started a conversation with me.

Sidenote: Little Miss will talk to ANYONE, even me who is almost completely unresponsive to her voice, simply because I do not wish to have my ears assaulted by imbecility. She also lacks the knowledge of a 4th grader, believing Asia is a country- but we will not get started on that.

Little Miss: So I burned 356 calories before work, plus I did a bunch of crunches, and I might work out when I get home.

(For your informations, she also ate 4 meals during her 7 hours shift)

Me: *refusing to state what I just did above*

Little Miss: Do you work out?

Me: Nope. I hate excercise and there are many other things I’d rather waste my time doing.

Little Miss: Wait. Do you like your body?!

(This question was asked in such a way that there is no doubt in my mind that she was implying that I shouldn’t like my body.)

Me: It has it’s good days and bad days, but my clothes still fit and I still have people begging to touch my body.

Little Miss: Well, clothes will always fit. It just depends how big you want your clothes to be.

(Apparently my size is completely offensive to this little bitch, and she is not going to desist in commenting so.)

For some more of your informations, this chic comes to work in a size 7 pants, when she should actually be wearing a size 11. (Which is what I wear) This is a constant source of conversation amongst the employees when she isn’t around, because the squeezing of her fat into too-small of pants makes her look as though she is a balloon on the verge of popping. I, on the other hand, wear the size of pants that actaully FIT me, and do not look like my body is made of plastic-encased pudding.

As I no longer deemed Little Miss’s comments worthy of response, I went about my business once more, but I continued to ponder what she said. This is my un-edited rethought response to her question- “Do you like your body?”  :

My upper arms may look better in a shirt with cap sleeves than sleeveless, but they are able to carry my 85 lb. almost-stepdaughter into bed when she falls asleep in my lap. They are also able to carry 100+ boxes of books up a flight of stairs without any help. They are also capable of giving amazing hugs.

My ass may not fit perfectly in a pair of low-rise jeans, and it may not look like a Victoria’s Secret model’s in a pair of lacy thongs, but it’s just the right size for my Rockstar to have something to grab onto when he’s feeling frisky, and just looking at it drives my boss insane with desire.

My thighs may be the size of Arnold Schwarzzenegger’s torso, but I can proudly take any buff dude to the gym and kick his ass on the squat-thrust machine. They also have faded stretch marks from when I was a chubby kid, but that just reminds me that I’m not as awful looking as I used to be.

My boobies may not be as perky as Pamela Anderson’s implanted ones, but they are still more than a handful for any guy, and I don’t need a Wonderbra to make cleavage because I have more than enough naturally.

My twat (I love that word!) may be “fat” and too completely capable of getting camel-toe, but the surprised response of “You’re so tight!” seems like the one a girl would want to hear.

My calves may look like they belong to an Olympic weight-lifter, but they look great in heels and a skirt, and these legs of mine can walk me to California, or Antarctica,  if a Zombie Apocalypse ensues and we run out of gas.

My lips may not be Angelina-esque, but they are just the right size to keep bullshit and idiocy from falling out of my mouth.

My hands may be calloused, and I will never be able to be a hand model, but they prove that I can work hard and I don’t expect someone else to take care of me (although that would be very nice). The fingers on my hands are surprisingly short and child-like, but I bet your fingers cannot bring people to tears by playing Beethoven’s Grande Sonata.

My shoulders may look like a line-backer’s. but they are just the right size for an 85 lb. 9 year old to sit on.

My neck may not be long and slender, but it’s strong enough to hold up my skull, which encases the most important part of me- my genius brain. This brain is capable of great imaginings, and is full of trivial facts- one of which is that Asia is, in fact, NOT a country.

Yes, I like my body. So there.

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Things I Can Imagine About Myself If I Don’t Look In A Mirror


I have a problem with mirrors. As in, I look great if I don’t look into one. My self -confidence is at such a level that I can sashay around feeling glamorous and stunning; until I look in the mirror ;then  my stunningness melts into a puddle around my 5″ heels. So I’ve decided, instead of telling you what I know about myself, to quote Anne of Green Gables- “If you let me tell you what I imagine about myself  you’d find it a lot more interesting. “

1. It’s easy to imagine I have the 42″ in-seam of Stacey Keibler, until I look in a mirror and realize my Short Length jeans are dragging on the ground.

2. I like to imagine I have the pale alabaster skin of Nicole Kidman, or Queen Elizabeth, until I look in the mirror and see that my pale skin is blotchy and uneven.

3. As I cannot look into my own eyes, it is easy to imagine the color of my eyes is cerulean blue (that was always my favorite color crayon), that is, until I look in a mirror and see that my eyes are, in fact, just a poopy brown color.

4. It’s nice to imagine that my Sweater Meat actually looks good under a sweater, until I look into a mirror and realize that I just look fat in sweaters.

5. To the touch, my thighs and ass compare to steel; that in no way helps me when I attempt to fit them into a pair of stylish low-rise jeans. (I come out looking like I have two asses)

6. I like to pretend that I have the curly flowing locks of a Bavarian princess (I don’t actually know if Bavaria has princesses, but it sounded good) until I look in the mirror and remember I need 4 different kinds of hair product to make the frizz on my head acceptable for public display.

7. It’s easy to imagine that I have a full desirable face and figure (like Scarlett Johanssen), until I look in a mirror and see that those little statues of Buddha and I have disturbingly similiar features.

8. I imagine my neck is one to be spoken of reverently in poetry, perhaps being decribes as long and slender, and then I look in the mirror and realize I should change my name to Sparklebumps NoNeck.

9. My boss Frenchie once described me as “having an hourglass figure”. I was excited until I looked in the mirror and realized he must have been looking THROUGH an hourglass  when he described my figure. (Because honestly, there is only a two inch difference between my waist and hips)

10. I like to imagine I have an attractive beauty mark that girls will one day imitate with piercings, like Cindy Crawford or Marilyn, but then I look in the mirror and see I display a multitude of “beauty marks” that will in no way be duplicated appealingly.

11. It’s easy to imagine I have a Dolly Parton rack, until I remember I don’t have as much money as she does to maintain it.

Oh well, at least my feet look cute in shoes…

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Female 5 o’Clock Shadow


To all of those who read my blog, you are well aware that I bask in the glory of being a woman. I love sparkles, and pink, and makeup, and heels. I take advantage of having boobies whenever the opportunity is afforded me.  That being said, I have one ginormous gripe about being a woman. The expectancy of shaven legs.

I fucking hate it. I think that shaving my legs is the biggest waste of time. When I add up in my head of how many dollars I have spent on razors, shaving gel, etc., I become so enraged that there is an immediate threat of fatal razor laceration to anyone who is near.

Since I had the joy of hitting puberty at an extremely early age, I have gotten to enjoy this complete wastage of time for over 20 years. Luckily, I have come far from the early days of leg shavage; no longer do my legs sport the nicks and cuts of the inexperienced butcher with a Bic; no, no. I now weild my over-priced Venus with the skill of a seasoned warrior. There is no greater thrill than having to take an hour long shower to rid myself of the repulsive hair on my gams that God gave me.

Of course there has been the occassional week or two without proper hair expungetion. How mortified has the unlucky man been who has had the misfortune of running his hand up my leg at those times. Since I already am not getting the naked fun time I desire of 3 times a day, I am forced to shave my legs every day in order to not further alienate my Rockstar.

At this time, I will cannot even go into detail of the more intimate hair removal that is required of women nowdays, as I am too upset over having yet again wasted 10 minutes of my shower time. If it shall go on like this, there is a chance I may have to take more serious measures. Like electrolosis.

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“If Your Not in the Beauty Olympics, You Can Become A Very Interesting Person”


The title of my post came from the book Sex and the City, (which besides for this epic line, was a complete waste of my time.) I think it sufficiently describes why I now have a semi-interesting blog that I write.

No, I do not believe I come from the Ugly Patch, in fact, I clean up alright,  but I am not a front-runner in the Beauty Olympics either. Being one of only 4 female cousins in my family, I was the one who would never have made it passed the first round of a beauty pageant, and the one who would never have been voted prom queen. I must be satisfied with being the one with the biggest busooms.

In high school, having been the best friend of the Pretty Girl, I focused my attentions on sharpening my piano playing abilities, since there was no way I could keep up with her in the beauty department. My mad music skillz afforded me enough attention to feed my inner histrionic personality monster. Much of my alone time was spent fantasizing about being the belle of the ball, which I think enhanced my imagination enough to turn me into the prolific writer that I am today. (That was a joke.)

I have succumbed to the fact that there are just some things I cannot change about myself (like my face), and I have given up hoping that my non-magical mirror will tell me, “Sparkle, you are the fairest of them all.” Instead, I am happy to report that my mirror no longer screams, “Look away! It hurts my eyes!” I  was quite glad to realize that (in my own opinion) I am one of those people who gets better looking with age. (like Mariska Hargitay) And one thing I’ve learned- if an individual PRETENDS that she is beautifically superior, she can make other people believe it too. Luckily, I have my writing to keep their interest when they find out the truth….

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“A Girl Can Never Wear Enough Blue Eyeshadow.”


Ever since I heard Jamie Lee Curtis utter these words in My Girl, I have been a believer.

While I was growing up, I wasn’t allowed to even THINK about makeup- my parents believing it would turn me into a tart or a wanton woman. In 4th grade, my friend was allowed to wear foundation because her skin resembled a 3D topographic map. There was an incident when we snuck into the bathroom at school and proceeded to smear said foundation onto our faces, which looked as though I was attempting to dress in black face, since her skin was so much darker than mine. We were rudely interrupted by my incredibly strict teacher, who looked down disapprovingly and said, “Sparkle, would your parents be happy with you at this moment?” The threat of my teacher informing my parents of my transgression kept me from playing with my friend’s makeup of then on.

When I was 15, excessive begging finally led to my parents allowing me 2 beauty basics: blush and mascara. I somehow managed to procure a tube of “Terra Cotta” lipstick as well. If you don’t know, Terra Cotta is a fancy word for dark orange. When I wore my lipstick to school, the boy I had a crush on stated, “You still have a pretty face, even though you have ten pounds of makeup on.” I was slightly confused, since my friend wore, foundation, powder, eyeshadow, AND lipstick, yet wearing a bright (albeit awful) color of lipstick seemed to make me anathema.

One of the ways in which I have been fortunate is that I never suffered from acne, so I’ve never had to cover anything up on my face. Sadly, I believe I’ve inherited the bags that are under my dad’s eyes; when I am 50, I’ll probably look like I’m ready to go on a $10,000 shopping spree. With my face.

Being a person who is easily distracted by sparkles and bright colors, a trip to ULTA puts me in a state of euphoria. Just seeing the aisles of glittery eyeliner, rows of lipstick, and rainbows of eyeshadow is enough to bring me to orgasm. If you find a girl lying in the middle of ULTA with handfuls of makeup screaming, “OOH! YES! YES! YES!” , you will know you have found me.

My pale vampiric complexion makes it possible for me to wear bright bright pink lipstick and get away with it, and fun purpley eyeshadow brings out the lovely poop color of my eyes. Perhaps when I am old, I will be the ridiculous old woman who wears too much makeup, but it will make me smile every day.

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The Allure of J.B.F. Hair


Having lived my entire life as one of the Unfortunates Born With Naturally Curly Hair, I understand the struggle that we, as so named, collectively endure. Not to say that the curly-headed people are unattractive; in fact, I would say quite the opposite is true. For example, Beyonce resembled African Royalty when she wore her hair in the full glory of her natural afro, (in my opinion) where as, Paris Hilton with her skinny stick-straight hair resembles a corpse that’s been buried for at least a month. (also my opinion.) The hardships we face are as such: which professional hair-care products do we dare spend our hard-earned money on, when any one of them may leave our curls weighed down, greasy, or resembling the crunch on a piece of blackened chicken? There is always the option to go au naturale, but then one runs the risk of being mistaken for an un-evolved cavewoman.

When I was small, I remember an incident when my momma took me to the salon to get my bangs trimmed. Now, when I see pictures of myself as a child, I am ashamed to say that I do not believe my mother ever made me brush my hair. But for some reason, I remember quite a few haircuts from back then. Anyhoo, I informed the woman about to trim my bangs that I wanted them cut so they would be straight. Obviously, this was not an option. She did attempt to straighten them with product and a round brush, but I left the beauty shop in tears because “I just wanted straight bangs.” I believe that event has scarred me for life.

When I was 13, I FINALLY convinced my parents to allow me to get a perm. This may seem strange, since my hair was curly already, but at the time, I didn’t have the nice spirally curls I wanted. My tresses actually looked like I went to bed with my hair wet. So I spent my teen years paying to have acceptable -looking curls. When I was 18, I went to the salon again and told the woman to chop it all off. That was probably the cutest haircut I ever had. I still get compliments about my senior pictures.

From 18 until now, I have had nearly every color of hair imaginable. (most recently Wildfire Orange) Mostly, this is because I get bored easily, but partly it is because I am trying to find a color that compliments my riotous curls. On my 28th birthday, I went to the salon and got a haircut inspired by Rihanna’s fauxhawk. I must say that I got many many compliments on that style, and the ones that followed. I think it was because there are not many people I know that are willing to almost shave there head, and my personality matches my hair.

I have now decided that I will grow my hair out, and though I straighten it sometimes, (which is ALOT of work) I mostly just let it be curly. (which is also alot of work) Every morning, I must spritz leave-in conditioner (because curly hair is dry), goop some gel in, spray some spray-n-play, scrunch it, blow dry it, and add hairspray while my head is flipped upside down, just to get my mane looking like J.B.F. hair. For those of you who have been under rocks, J.B.F. stands for Just Been Fucked. Yes, I now go to work every day looking like I’ve just done sex. Apparently, this is becoming, as I have many customers tell me, “Oh! Your hair is so cute!” My gramma also raves about it every Sunday at church to anyone who will listen. So, I guess my point is, I shall not try to be someone I’m not. I shall go through life looking as though my Rockstar just got done shagging me.

To all you Curly-Headed People, I salute you.

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