I’ll Ask You Only

Writer, teacher, student, daughter,

introvert, lover, poet, scholar.

All these describe you, but in the end,

I’ll ask you only to be my Friend.

 

A person who shares my deepest sorrows

and comforts me with fresh tomorrows.

One to who, I too, can lend a hand

when the ground around you is sinking sand.

 

Your passions, above all, I beg that you reveal;

and every stir of your soul they make you feel.

Your worries, also, please always expose;

my duty as Friend is to lighten that load.

 

Times of madness, times of brilliance,

ideas, wishes, dreams, experience.

Heavens and hells, comings and goings,

I pray you have these to overflowing.

 

The hurts will happen; don’t quake, Dear Heart!

They arise to make you more stalwart.

Without anguish, we would never see the Light.

Without pain, blessings wouldn’t burn nearly as bright.

 

The delights of your life I hope are so many

they drown out the heartaches you have, if any.

The tears you shed, some will be sad,

but with my help, joyful ones even more will be had.

 

We two, so different, and yet just the same

walk paths unalike, play contrasting games.

Our lives go on, ever changing, but in the end,

I ask you only to stay my Friend.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Lieb”-erate Me

 

 

Jonas Lee over in his Imaginarium has nominated me for a Liebster Award. Since I’m generally awesome (or so people seem to think), this is not the first of such an award. Actually, I just checked, and I was nominated here, here, here, and here. Wow. I’m starting to feel a little like the literary Meryl Streep here…. Anyhoo, I must say that Jonas is pretty amazing, because he responds to my comments in a timely fashion, and I just realized that his name is actually Jonas. (Dude, I’ve been reading your blog for awhile, but it kinda just clicked now. You have an awesome name!)

Since I have received this award before, I’m beginning to run out of interesting facts to mention about myself, so I have taken the liberty of copying Jonas’ (so cool!!!!!) 11 facts about himself and editing them to fit my self. Here they are:

11 Facts:

1. I hold no Bachelor’s degree, or Master’s either. While I believe that, in some ways, further education might benefit me, I find that I am a little bit smarter and a damn bit funnier than those who suffer from such an education. That, and I don’t want school loan sharks hounding me. I already have Victoria’s Secret on my back about a little $2800 deficit.
2. I panic when anything flies near my face. Insects, rocks, baseballs…. you get the picture. The only exception is penis, because I usually initiate such things.
3. While Jonas can quote the entire movie “Clue”, I can quote the entire movie “Clueless”. A much more useful feat.
4. I, too, am super stubborn.
5. Green Lantern is NOT my favorite super hero. Unless it’s Ryan Reynolds, because he is beautiful. But Mystique is pretty frickin’ awesome. I suppose she may be considered a super villain though…
6. I would take sex over a philosophical debate anytime.
7. I am right handed, but my left boob is bigger than my right, and my left hip is going out. Fuckin’ A.
8. I almost named my daughter Ophelia. But then I remembered that I don’t have a daughter.
9. French fries magically disappear around me. As do Doritos, cheese, ramen noodles, candy… really, anything that can be put in my mouth. (Yes, that was meant to sound dirty.)
10. I,too, have astigmatism in both eyes. And have a nasty habit of wearing my contacts for four months longer than I should.
11. As a child, I never wanted to be a garbage man, but I did think being a lion would have been an excellent career choice.

Now I will answer the questions asked of me.

My 11 Questions:

1. You are able to scratch one thing off your bucket list, no matter what it entails. What is it?

I suppose I would choose to be a model in the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show, because that seems like the most unlikely thing to happen from my Honey-Do List. Because I’m short, not because I’m chubby.

2. You can listen to any band/artist (live) in their time period. Who would you want to see?

Iron Maiden!!!!! Because I want to see Eddie! And because if I see them in concert now, it would kind of be like watching my Grampa on stage.

3. If you could collaborate with any artist/author/professional on a project, who would you choose?

My first choice would have been Maya Angelou, but since she decided to die before I met her, I will have to go with #2. Dolly Parton. Because the woman is brilliant. And adorably nice.

4. Would you rather live in a zombie apocalypse (Walking Dead) or an electronic apocalypse (Revolution)?

A zombie apocalypse.

5. Why to number 4?

Because who would be able to survive if we were in an electronic apocalypse and I couldn’t write on my blog?! Too, any excuse to chop people’s heads off is a good thing, even if they ARE already dead.

6. Pop Tarts or Toaster Strudel?

Toaster Strudel, because they are so flakily delicious.

7. Favorite smell?

Raw onions. And horses. Don’t judge me.

8. You can have one super power. What would you choose?

The power of seduction.

9.What is your worst habit?

Acting as though the world revolves around me. It isn’t my fault….it’s my histrionic personality.

10. What do you find to be your best quality (physically or mentally)?

My boobs and my ability to understand why idiots are idiots.

11. What keeps you from having your dreams come true?

Nothing can stop me! Except shiny things. And mermaids. And pretty men and women that smell nice.

I’m sorry, Jonas, (Jonas!! I had to say it twice!) but it is a well-known fact that I do not follow all the rules of Liebster-dom, and so I cannot ask question of people I do not post links to. Suffice to say that anyone who comments on my blog is very wise, and should be paid attention to.

The End

 

I Am Now a Mermaid

Thanks to Pouring My Art Out.

Awesomesauce. XOXO

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?

“At the End of the Day”…

…I must audition for the local production of Les Miserables, whether I can truly sing or not.

Because it is my absolute favorite musical of all time.

I was really meant to be in the big Hollywood blockbuster production of Les Mis, but nobody even bothered to ask me if I wanted to win an Oscar for portraying a sad and pathetically fallen-from-grace Fantine. Instead, the picked Anne Hathaway and her amazing alien-esque eyes. Damn Them.

‘Tis alright, though. I’ve always favored Eponine and her heart-broken renditions of On My Own and A Little Fall of Rain. Luckily, in every production I’ve ever seen, the actor cast as Marius tends to be fi-ine. So if I get the part, I’ll get to have an attractive dude who can sing “hold me close, and let it be.”

While I would do well and have the “tools” to perfectly portray a prostitute, I suppose in the end I most closely could resemble a disenchanted Mme. Thenardier. I most certainly understand the concept of being married to someone who “isn’t worth my spit.” (Although, that’s a bit more harsh than I would actually put it.)

For my upcoming audition, I may choose one song from the person who’s part I wish to play, and another un-related song. Here is where I shall ask for opinions on which un-related songs may wow the Les Mis casting judges. While I have a strong voice that mostly hits correct notes, I would prefer any suggestions that are written for male types such as Steve Perry. (I suppose since I can execute any Journey song without the slightest qualm, any of those may be a good option.)

Now for the part of choosing a character to play…. I believe I shall sing one of Eponine’s selections, but the more I think about it, I believe it would be amazing and sexually confusing for all paying play-goers if I were to play the un-relenting Javier. I don’t always agree with era-appropriating old storylines, but would it not be a good time to see me in a power-hungry authoritative roll? I most certainly do.

“I dreamed a dream” that I starred in some production of Les Mis, and dammit, that’s what I’m gonna do.

Who Says You Can’t Be Something You’re Not?

I have been to the Rennaissance Festival.

Talk about sensory overload.

It has been a long-standing wish of mine to attend a Rennaissance Festival, considering that everything princess-like and fairy-tale-ish appeals to me so. (Men with long hair may also be mentioned in that list.) So this year, I made a point to finally go to a land where men are cads and women are dressed like courtesans. (As opposed to real life, where men are assholes and women are dressed like sluts.) Upon hearing of the new addition added to the fair, the Mermaid Cove, there was no way I was missing it once again.

My friend Delightful and I arrived to the dust-cycloned fields of Rennaissance Parking, and I was secretly already berating myself for wearing my stilletto suede ruffled Rennaissance-inspired boots as we tramped through the dirt to purchase our tickets. Upon entering the gates and being thrilled at the many faux medieval accents I’d already encountered, I was immediately over-whelmed by men in leggings and busooms of women that were on the edge of escaping their barely-there entrappings. My overwhelmingness of eye-opening tittilage (haha) was quickly distracted by a vendor selling sparkly and amazing crystals.

I found soon enough that although medieval Rennaissance fair was equipped with modernized biffys, the stench of shit was just as barbaric. This was due to the fact that about 40 biffys were situated in a circular fashion behind a wall that allowed the smell of human waste to rot in a not-so-lovely enclosed area. Blech.

At one point, I wondered if Delightful was preturbed by my ever-increasing lack of concentration. “OH! A man playing a lute over there! Oh! We must go see what all the cheering is about! Oh! Look! A puppy!” (Not very rennaissancey, I’ll admit)” Look at that accordian player with the creepy eyes! He most certainly IS making eyes at me!” At least Delight burst out laughing when I made eyes back at the grungy accordian player, so perhaps she was mildly entertained. (For the record, the accordian player was seen on several occassions throughout the day, but I cannot say with certainty that he was stalking me, as it IS is job to roam.)

We laughed at the wonderfully crass Washer Wenches while enjoying frozen oranges that dripped onto our cleavage. We oohed and aahed over the many decadent and ornate costumes that walked by. And then we stood in line for a good 45 minutes to adore the mermaids.

Now, there are many people who might say such myths as Santa Clause and Mermaids and Jesus are just that. While I do wonder if the original Santa is, in fact, still alive, I very much do believe in mermaids. You may laugh, but have you ever thought- where did the idea for mermaids come from if they didn’t exist at some point? Perhaps they were not exactly how we envision them, but for goodness’ sake, people believe in dinosaurs.

I am quite aware that the mermaids I saw at the Rennaissance Festival were not true ones (because I could see their knees through their less-than-authentic tails) but as I watched them wave prettily and beckon to men, I thought, “What the heck? That’s exactly what I do every day!” The realization that I am essentially a mermaid with better shoes was quite exciting. Then I thought to myself, “I used to dream of being a mermaid. My mother told me that wasn’t possible, but look! These girls are mermaids, and their mothers probably told them they couldn’t be either!”

So I have come to the conclusion that I WILL, I WILL be a mermaid. Auditions are held in May and June. I can’t wait.

 

P.S. If anyone has suggestions on how to audition to be a mermaid, feel free to comment.

Menage a’ Trois (Almost)

I awoke and found myself if a completely empty room. I didn’t know where I was or how I got there, but oddly enough, I felt completely calm and unpanicked. I looked to my left and saw an open door nearby that, from what I could tell, led down a bare hallway. I realized then that I was unable to move from the spot where I lay; it was as if I had no control over the muscles of my body, yet this failed to alarm me. I had the subconcious feeling that I was waiting for something, and so I continued to do just that.

After a few minutes, a gorgeous woman walked through the doorway. I kid you not when I say she was the sexiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. Her raven hair fell in gentle waves to her waist and was only shadowed by even darker eyes that looked at me hungrily. She wore all black, which made her impossibly long legs look even lengthier. I didn’t know what to expect, but  a flood of Spanish words coming out of her mouth certainly wasn’t it.

I didn ‘t have a clue what she said. I was actually so struck by her utter perfection that I couldn’t think of anything to say anyway, so I remained mute. I found enough strength to struggle to a sitting position, and was a bit taken aback when this beautiful creature crouched down right in front of me. I remember admiring her balance, because she was wearing these stellar sky-high patent-leather shoes. She placed her perfectly-manicure hands on either side of my face and looked deeply into my eyes before she said a few more foreign words.

Then, she kissed me full on the lips. I instantly sunk into the kiss, and it was like a switch was flipped. She sunk to her knees and moaned as she began to devour me. I shivered as her hands slid down my arms and fumbled with my shirt. Her tongue parted my lips and my tongue met it hungrily in a sensual dance. I could feel my panties growing wet, wetter than they’d ever been; after all, when had anyone this gorgeous (nevermind that she was a complete stranger) ever embraced me with such need? She seemed to know what she was doing to me, because her long fingers slid down and over that heated area, and she pulled away just far enough for me to see the smile that played on the corners of her mouth. She spoke a few more words I couldn’t understand, and then, just as smoothly as she had slid to the floor, she rose and left without a backward glance.

A whimper of need escaped me when I realized she wasn’t coming back. I would have followed her, but my body once again had become immovable. I trembled with desire and frustration as I willed my legs to do their job, and then embarrassment when I looked down and saw the wet evidence of my longing smeared on the concrete floor. It seemed like an eternity that I sat there paralyzed, wondering where the hell I was and what the fuck was going on.

I heard clicking footsteps and my heart quickened. Was my Spanish queen coming back? I thought that it was perhaps her closeness that warmed my body enough to move, (a ridiculous thought, I know) and I promised myself that when she was close enough, I would grab her and not let her escape; I planned to make her desire me as much as she had made me desire her. The thought disipitated when a petite blonde entered the room.

I have never been partial to blondes, and she was not as stunning as my foreign female, yet she was in every other way perfectly tailored to my tastes. She was tiny, yet still possessed those curves that drive men wild. She wore a powder pink nightie that hid nothing of what was underneath, and she grinned coyishly as she bent down and placed a kiss on my upturned forehead.

“Relax, love. I’m here to give you what you want.”

I felt my shoulders unbunch, and my body loosened as she gently pushed me back to the position I had started when I’d woken up to this whole fiasco. Her touch seemed electric; even the innocent nudge on my shoulder sent currents of  want through me. I bit my lip, embarrassed that such a simple touch would create such a reaction. The blonde smiled, and I was mesmerized by the dimples that appeared.

 Her small hands carressed my body, finishing the task of removing my shirt which the brunette had started. Her arm inadvertantly brushed my erect nipple; my back arched and this time I could not hold back the moan that came. My eyes met those of this tiny woman, and I realized the stray touch hadn’t been an accident at all. She ran her finger down my belly, causing goosebumps to appear.  My hips began to move of their own volition, and when I felt her warm hand on my crotch, the movement became more noticeable. She ran her hand over that spot a few times, as she used her other hand to continue creating gooseflesh by running her nails down my sides.

The next second, this diminutive woman had torn my panties away. My eyes widened in surprise; sure, I’d had a man or two do the exact same thing, however, these had been strapping, muscled men, of whom behavior like that was expected. Yet, this angelic-looking girl had just exihibited the behavior of a lusty, animalistic male. If I hadn’t been soaking wet at that point, I certainly would have been now.

I started to speak and she placed a perfect finger on my lips to stop me. Then she lowered her head and ran her tongue around my nipple before she bit down, just slightly. I shivered again, and I heard a laugh come from her throat. Then she was stroking me; expert fingers playing with my clit, before she slid a finger inside me. I was dripping, and her fingers so tiny, that I barely felt it, and she knew that, so she slipped another finger in. I sighed as my eyes rolled back, and she continued to work her fingers. I felt her slip a third finger in, and I thrusted my hips against her; this was the equivilant of having a perfectly- sized dick in me. She wasted no time in adding a fourth finger, though, and I cried out at the unexpected feeling. So much! Yet my body amazingly accomodated, and I was even more turned on. The blonde looked straight into my eyes, and I shook my head  because I knew what was coming, yet my body screamed “Yes!”, and the next moment she plunged her entire fist into me.

I had had a man once try fisting me, but his hands were so large, and my pussy so tight, that he hadn’t even been able to get three fingers in. Yet, this woman had been able to do so.

I sucked in a breath, shocked at the mixture of pleasure and pain. The woman smiled triumphantly, and I came, hard.

Don’t you wish you could have a dream like this every night?  😉 XOXO

I’ve Had A Dream

In typical Sparklebumps fashion, I completely forgot to mention a little dream I had last week. Of course, the distraction from getting fired may have had something to do with it.

Let me fill you in on a bit of my dream history.

When I was 4 and 5, I had a recurring dream that freaked the piss out of me for some unknown reason.

I would dream I would hear music coming from the basement of my house (which was a house we didn’t live in) and I would go down to investigate. On some occasions, in my dream, my mom would come down the stairs smoking a cigarette and carry me back up to bed. Other times, in my dream, I would follow the music down a long hallway that had a flickering light at the end of it. I never did get to the end of the hallway.

When I was perhaps 7, I dreamed that my mom and I were running away from a man who had just escaped prison, and we hid in an abandoned mechanic shop that was in the middle of a field. The man found us and poked my mom’s eye out with a board.  When I awoke, I rushed to my mother and confirmed that both her eyeballs were in their sockets.

I have had good dreams, as well, but they seem much more un-interesting, so I will not share them at this time.

When I worked at a day-program for mentally handi-capped people, I had a dream that I was pregnant with triplets, which I delivered amidst the probing eyes of the clients I worked with. The building we were in then started on fire (because labor always brings on a fire) and I rushed to the bathroom with my babies. The bathroom transported me to a swamp that was infested with hungry crocodiles, which tried unsuccessfully to eat my new babies. I screamed at the crocs,”Get away from my babies, you fuckers!”

Another baby dream I had while I was married that was quite entertaining: I dreamed I went to a Baptist college that many of my friends have gone to, and I got kicked out because I had diahrrea of the mouth and went running up and down the halls cursing. I then found myself in the middle of a series of cornfields, being hunted down by military helicopters intent on blowing me into tiny pieces for this infraction. I escaped into a falling down farmhouse that seemed secure, and proceeded to have a baby boy (even though I don’t remember being pregnant) and as I sat rocking my new babe, he looked up at me and said, “Don’t worry, mommy, I won’t grow up to be a Republican.” This did NOT amuse my then-husband, as he and his entire family WERE Republican, and essentially treated  Election Day as a national holiday.

So, like what happens to many other people, the details of the dream I had last week faded from my mind upon awaking, however, I remember the gist of it.

I was having dinner at a nice restaurant with Country music stars Jason Aldean (whom I don’t especially find attractive), Eric Church (whom I also do not find attractive, but sings my favorite song at the moment Drink in my Hand), Luke Bryan (who I believe to be the the most legitimate hick of all time- HELLO! he actually says WARSH instead of WASH in a song), and another current male country singer who was devoid of a face. (which seems to happen in dreams alot) I was just kickin’ back with the boys, confabulating about hot chics and other important Man Topics, when the waitress brought our food. The following occurrence that happened in my dream is eerily accurate to real life: each of the guys asked if they could have a french fry from my plate, and I proceeded to become hysterical at the thought that they would DARE suggest such a thing. I then swooped down on them all and thieved all of their dinners from them.

What can I say- who can be bothered with famous men when there are french fries to be had?