The Hunger Calls

It is a time for new resolutions. Paying off debt, losing weight, being kinder- that sort of thing. Lucky for me, I’ve come to realize that New Year’s Resolutions are bullshit, so I don’t have to do any of those things previously mentioned. HA

Sadly, my credit cards are pretty much maxed out, so I do  desire to pay off my debt. Buuuut, I also desire to go to Rocklahoma, and hang out with all of my favorite bands. I also desire to buy (what many people would consider) unnecessary decorative items for my home. So I don’t know if I’m going to pay off debt this year or not, ok?

I am also of the age where my weight doesn’t much bother me anymore; though I do, at times, want to be an uber-hot mama that people gawk at. Fortunately, DDD boobs and a penchant for brightly-colored duds can accomplish pretty much the same thing.

However, my best friend is getting married in the end of February, and asked me last year to be one of her bridesmaids. Note, I said she asked me last year. Which means I had over 365 in which to shed the 65 or so pounds that would inhibit me from being one of the sexiest bridesmaids that ever lived. (Hey, just dream with me here.)

As if being on the chubby side wasn’t enough,  her other bridesmaids could fit into a pair of my pants all at once. Dammit.

Now my bestie has always been quick to argue when I’ve been down on myself, so my fears of looking like a heifer in wedding pictures have naught to do with her. In fact, my girl even let us pick our own dresses- to let us show off our own personal style and not have us despise her for picking something we all look like shit it.

No, my insecurities are all of my own making.

So like any normal person, of course I took that year I had to slim down and buff up.

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Just kidding.

Knowing myself as I know myself, I bought my dress (from China) in the size that I was at the time I bought it. Last year. And now, less than two months away from the wedding, I’m exactly (or maybe a tad bit more) the weight I was then.

It had been over nine months since I tried my dress on initially when I took it to the alterations lady a few weeks ago to get the tail bustled. After much sucking in and pulling back, it zipped, but just. After she measured for straps to hold up the busooms, I was thinking that, HEY! I look pretty good! (Yeah, ok, so I had to have her take my socks off because it was too tight to bend down. Shut up.)

Sadly, the next day, my neck and shoulders were completely jacked up from sucking in and bunching up. So, instead of being the super-sensuous bridesmaid I imagined in my head, I’ve settled for being able to sit during dinner and still being able to breathe, and maybe avoiding my armpit fat from photobombing the wedding party.

The thing I’ve discovered, though, is that the will power that once made me only eat three saltine crackers and a grape each day back in ninth grade has gone on permanent vacation. The simple fact that I’m trying (ok, not really) to lose weight makes me completely ravenous, to the point that I want to eat every single order of boneless wings that I serve to a table. (GAAWWWWWD, boneless wings sound amazing right now….)

I’ve told myself for the month of January, I will focus on eating less, and worry about shaping up in February. Unfortunately, since my daily diet rivals that of an African elephant, I’ve got quite a bit of cutting down to do.

To help keep my stomach from crying aloud with his own voice, (which I imagine sounds very like Boris Karloff) I’ve taken to drinking copious amounts of coffee mixed with way too many pink packets. Coffee is supposed to speed up your metabolism, they say. What they don’t say, is that coffee makes you pee like you’ve been drinking booze for seven days straight. And it probably doesn’t help that the sleep I’m supposed to be getting to help me trim down is interrupted by caffeine.

I just…. I just want to be skinny like I was when I thought I was fat.

(On the plus side, whenever I’ve shown a picture of me in my dress to anyone, their first reaction has always been, “Geez, your boobs look huge!” )

Xanax VS. Books

I was texting my friend Cat Woman last night, and since her life is in crisis at the moment, the conversation turned to shrinks and happy pills. I myself am a firm believer in just ignoring problems until they go away, and imbibing copious amounts of alcohol to aid that process. Luckily, most of the normal world, (including Cat Woman) does not share this belief, otherwise we’d be a planet filled with angsty drunkards.

Anyhoo, when Cat Woman offered selling me some Xanax at fifty dollars a pop to better cope with my ignored issues, I refused profusely, stating what a large number of books fifty dollars would buy me. She then asked an interesting question: What can a book do that Xanax cannot?

Well. You Book People out there already know. Clearly, my pal is not one. So, to quote my favorite character Inigo Montoya in the greatest movie of all time The Princess Bride: “Let me ‘splain. No no. There is too much. Let me sum up.”

A book has no adverse side effects. Sure, if you read a sad one, you may shed a tear and suffer post-reading depression, (this has happened to me after reading Where the Red Fern Grows, yet I’ve read it again and again.) but you have no worries of urinating less than usual or not at all, or becoming jaundiced or twerking unintentionally. (All possible side effects of Xanax.)

A book will calm you down. I am aware that Xanax is meant to do the same thing. However! A book may also excite you, or anger you, or frighten you! I’m not going to go through all the other emotions, because, well, we’re not in the third grade here. But you get the point.

A book may cost you fifty dollars a pop, but generally those are only those pretentious coffee table books not many people look at anyway. Yes, ok, if you are like me, you may find yourself spending fifty dollars every time you exit a bookstore, (a used one, it is hoped) but what do you have to show for it? At least twenty-four hours of reading, and after it wears off, you have the memory of what you just read, instead of the anticipation of an anxiety attack until you read another.

Depending on the book, the use of one will not cause controversy with other people who don’t believe in Western medicine. Not that we’re trying to keep Eastern doctors in our good graces here, but you know, it couldn’t hurt.

A book will distract you from your problems. Sure, Xanax will do the same thing, but only temporarily, and when you are done with it, there is no plethora of knowledge swimming around in your skull. If you find yourself sinking down into the depths of despair because the euphoria of finishing a book has worn off, read another. And incidentally, there is a whole Self-Help genre that will probably do the same thing Xanax will.

Well, there you have it. I may not be your first choice for the debate team, but I think I got my point across.

P.S. If you really think you’ve got it bad, read a book about the Holocaust. Then you might think to yourself, “Hey, at least I don’t have to stand in the sun for thirty-six hours before some Nazis gas me and my kids.

June 17th, 1994

Then.

Kelly spent the night last night. We went to Anne Lake to go swimming, but there were boys there, so we didn’t. When we got up to leave one of them asked if we were going to swim, and Kelly said, “Not with you,” and he said, “well, golly.” and shut his trap. So we went to Spec Lake. Mom rented Oklahoma today. It’s really stupid. But a girl in it got married. Sigh. Kelly said Travis (Kelly’s brother) was having Cory over and she was really happy. I sorta wish it was me, but I think I like Ethan more. I don’t know. I can’t wait till camp. We might take one of Janet’s or Angie’s bras and over to the boy’s part. It’ll be funny if we do.

Uptown Girl

Many months ago, my lovely friend Delightfulness invited me to a party that at the time was to be held at a To Be Determined date. Her boyfriend’s wakeboarding group holds annual Video Premier Parties, and she wished for someone to help keep her entertained while he frolicked drunkenly with his mates. I quickly agreed, as any chance to dress up and hang with a like-minded pal is never to be passed up. After getting all fabulated last night, (as in, dolling ourselves up fabulously) we made our way to Uptown Minneapolis.

There is something to be said of Uptown. Surely, it is over-populated with hipsters and other wanna-be uniquees. But who cannot be awed by the beautiful old buildings that don every corner, and the many businesses trying to be different from all the others? We arrived to the bar where the party was getting started after driving around trying to figure out how to get there because the normal roads were blocked off for the annual Art Fair. Before we stepped into the specially-reserved Messanine Room, I was pleased to have my extensive cleavage ogled by a man with a Heinekin and a wife in the elevator.

Upon entering the “super-special M room”, my friend and I plopped down quite lady-like in the overstuffed leather chairs that are impossible to get out of and proceeded to analyze and Joan-Rivers the steadily growing guests. Later on in the evening, I actually texted my Rockstar the picture I took of the Girl In the Too-Tight Dress as she became known, because the fact that I could see her entire crotchal area and almost her bare bottom could not rudely be kept to myself. It seems that karma most certainly came around on that incident, when Delightfulness disbelievingly pointed out the two non-gentlemen sitting near us indiscreetly taking pictures of my boobage in my sparkly dress. I asked her if I should note to them that such pictures should be used for masturbation purposes only. She, for some reason found this hilarious.

There was one thing that greatly disturbed me. In the wide open party room, the bathroom was blatantly obvious and open to the general public. Of course there was a door with sufficient locking mechanisms to promote privacy while one did their business; however, I needn’t point out that men who imbibe multiple liquorous beverages care not who sees them pee. And so, I decided after seeing at least four men in the urinal position, I needed to find a different restroom to use. Delightful and I headed upstairs to seek one.

Alas! There was no restroom to be found on the open roof of the building, but as we descended once again to the lower levels of the Underlings, I was stopped by a security guard on the stairs.

“Wait! Wait!” He cried in his burly black man way.

I looked around in horror, afraid I had in some way offended the Uptown way of life as I walked down the stairs in my 5″ heels.

“Yes?” I replied hesitantly.

“How you doin?” (Ah, I thought. I understand) He flashed his flirty non-ugly smile at me. “Come here, come here.”

I difficultily ascended a few stairs and leaned forward to hear his whisper.

“Where you from? What’s you’re name? Can I have your number?”

I gave him a million-dollar smile and shrugged.

“I’m Nobody from Far Away, and I don’t know my number.” Delightful and I raced down the stairs when he nearly flung his cell phone at me while trying to convince me to enter my number. Apparently the tie I stole from Delightful’s boyfriend was a Security Guard Magnet.

The rest of the night was a blur, as my older-than dirt brain began to wear down. After leaving the party and trekking a good four blocks in the rain to procure a slice of pizza for the drunken boyfriend of Delight, we were on the road home.

I must say that having a plastered individual back-seat driving is a humourous and yet somewhat-annoying experience. After driving around Lake Calhoun and a few neighborhoods where we could have gotten shot, we found our way back to the interstate. The night was made complete with a late-night stop to Taco Bell, which was disturbingly disgusting. Within 30 seconds of setting foot in Delightful’s apartment, I was sprawled on her couch snoring nearly soundlessly.

P.S. We took a picture in our fabulous get-ups, and laughed hysterically when it looked as though I was pointing at Delight’s much-smaller-than-mine boobies.

 

She’s Alive!!!!!

Today is a day to celebrate. I urge you all to stop what you’re doing and dance a jig, or clap yo’ hands, because today is Delightfulness‘ birthday! Ok, I can see where you mayn’t be as thrilled as me, but she is my special friend that I know personally, and I can assure you any dancing or clapping that is done for her is well deserved. If you have never paid a visit to her blog, you MUST! She is simply too funny and sweet for words, and she writes amazing poetry. Lucky for me, she lives nearby, so I get the honor of her presence on occassion.

Today, Delightful, I will gift you with everything you ever needed, and deserve.

A muzzle: To place on the faces of the adorable children you deal with every day that seem to think you are but something to eat. That’ll show them the next time they try to bite you. Simply place this muzzle on the next child that bites you  and scream, “NO BITING, DEVIL CHILD!” Yeah, I know. It’s prolly a good thing I haven’t children.

A Box of Kleenex: For the next time you walk in to your apartment and find your beloved watching Alien VS. Predator. Heeheehee!!!!!!

A Gluten-free cupcake: Technically, that would be me, since you call me Cupcake, and I contain no allergens for you, but this one was prettier, although I don’t know if there is a difference in the way a gluten-free cupcake looks compared to a regular deadly one. You’ll have to tell me about that.

Michael Gray-Gubler: Because you love him and he is almost as pretty as Chris Meloni. Sadly, I was only able to find a picture of him- it seems he and Chris also have that in common.

A beautiful pair of shoes: because every birthday girl needs a new pair of shoes!

A poem: I bet you didn’t even know you knew Maya Angelou, did you? Well, she knows you, because she wrote an entire poem that describes you perfectly. I have included it just here.

Have a lovely birthday, my friend! I loves you to pieces and I’m so glad you put up with me. XOXOXO

A True Friend

A friend will tell you you are beautiful even if you look like shit because you drank a bottle of Captain and threw up all down the front of your sparkly shirt.

A friend will say, “How was it?” not “Shame on you!” when you tell her you screwed the maintanance guy from work when you were still married.

A friend will not brag about how great her guy is when you tell her yours is sucking.

A friend will hug you and say “Everything will be ok” when you’re crying on the floor of your empty apartment after you’re left your husband and are wondering if you did the right thing.

A friend will say, “You’re a dork,” but sing along anyway when I’ll Never Break Your Heart by the Backstreet Boys comes on the radio.

A friend will tell you truthfully, “You sucked,” afteer you get done singing Proud Mary at karaoke. (For the record, that song is really tough to sing…)

A friend will go to a concert with you when you invite them- even if it IS Celtic Woamn you’re going to see.

A friend will think of you once or twice when she’s in Vegas with her boyfriend, and bring home those complimentary shampoos and lotions the hotel gives for you because they are pink, and you like pink. (I love you, Delightful!)

A friend will tell you you’re worth marrying, even if your Rockstar boyfriend doesn’t think so.

A friend will not judge you if you wear turquoise lame’ leggings because they are shiny and make you happy.

A friend will let you veg out on her couch and not make you talk if you don’t wanna.

A friend will not gawk at you and think inwardly, “What a piggy” when you inhale a large pizza in under 15 minutes.

A friend will tell you you’d make a great mom, even though you are telling her how you are on the edge of strangling your almost-step daughter.

A friend will tell you you look amazing naked, even though you don’t.

I Have No Friends…Should I Be Upset?

Happy 6 AM, Lovelys! I’m surprisingly awake for having drunk (drank) a third of a bottle of vodka last night. However, I AM contemplating crawling back into bed after completing this post. Today I will address the fact that I essentially have no friends, the reasons I believe this to be true, and the why this doesn’t really bother me. (although I feel like it SHOULD bother me.)

I suppose I cannot say I have NO friends- there are certainly a few people I could call up that would probably “hang” with me if I asked them to- and my friend Carebear is the person I consider to be my only friend, even though I haven’t seen her in over a year. (She did call when she found out I was fired)  I am well aware that where any lack of friends is concerned, I myself am solely to blame. I will tell you why:

I don’t answer my phone.

Perhaps it is the fact that I was not allowed to answer the phone at home while I was growing up, or the fact that a remarkable amount of my phone calls are bill collectors, but I have obtained a slight malevolence toward my cellular device. It matters not that I have changed the ringtone to the opening music of  Law and Order SVU; when my phone rings, I feel no desire whatsoever to push the little green button and lift the phone to my ear. I have a secret foreboding if I speak into a phone, my voice will somehow resemble that of the demon-possesed Emily Rose on the other end. And as most normal people prefer NOT to have entire conversations in text, I have forfeited friends simply by not answering their calls. No matter that I will text them endlessly if they wish to chat.

Girls don’t generally like me.

I don’t necessarily know this fact to be true, but it certainly seems that when I try to be friendly to aquaintances (check out Party or Bust) I am avoided like a leper, or in the least, my approach is received with trepidation. That is not to say that I’ve not made friends with co-workers at my various places of business, however, those girls all seem to have their own lives, with no time for a Sparkle. And as my Rockstar would not appreciate the many guys who would like to be my “friend”, (or as he puts it, “You know they just want to fuck you, right?”) I am resolved to settling for my Rockstar as my source of merrymaking. (Which I’m completely content with)

Groups of people are scary. (More than 2 is a group)

My one friend Carebear is the complete opposite of me in this sense. She thrives on getting all her friends together in one place, such as having a girls night, or getting together for drinks with her coupled friends. For me, I would much rather be thrown into a vat of boiling hot dog poo. I find it difficult to have a meaningful conversation with one person when another person who is not me insists on chiming in at various intervals. Perhaps it is because I like to maintain eye-contact with the person I’m speaking to, and when there is more than one, I get dizzy. When I am one-on-one with a person, I can converse infinitely on any variety of subject with that person, but as soon as another person is added to the conversation, my vocal chords immediately shut down and I become a mute. It matters not if I know both people. Yes, I realize there may be underlying issues here.

People are assholes.

My making this statement should clear up any remaining queries you all may have as to why I have no friends. But allow me to annotate: I generally attempt to be kind and sparkley to any person I come in contact with- however, if judgement is cast upon me in any fashion, I immediately shut down said sparkle and cease to be interested in further aquaintance with the judger. This may be a kind of judgement in it’s own way, but friends are supposed to love you for who you are, not for who they want you to be. And since sex and boobs and saying what you think can be offensive to those with more delicate sensibilities, I tend to procure much more judgements than I do friends.

Now I will tell you why I am not bothered by my lack of chums: I would prefer to read a book than talk about the latest hot guy at work; I like to spend time with my Beloveds, and don’t want to feel that I’m neglecting them by going out with friends when I could be home with them, and any girls my age usually have their own children and most seem to have forgotten that they were a person BEFORE they were a mother, and I do not find constant chatter of animal crackers amusing.

Yes, there are occassions when I believe it would be lovely to have a group of gals you could always count on like in Sex and the City, but I suppose until I can find some girls who don’t want to talk on the phone, who will love me even though my boobs are bigger, who don’t want to have a girl’s night, and who will let me eat all the french fries without thinking, “She’s going to get fat”, I will have to amuse myself with my 13 other personalities. And when my Rockstar dies, I shall be one of those incredibly talented hermit-types.

 

P.S. I Do consider all my bloggy people to be my friends, though you would probably all hate me in real life. XOXO

 

We’re All Out of Crazy Here

Hello, My Lovelys. Today I have decided it’s about time that I reach 1000 views on my blog. (I personally think I should have reached this about a week ago, but perhaps I am not as utterly entertaining as I believe myself to be.) Even so, I when I logged in this morning, I found that 19 people had already viewed my site today, even though I hadn’t yet posted anything yet, so at least I have a small following. By the way, I love you all who read my blog, whether it’s every day, once a week, or you are new to my site. XOXO

So, I only need 179 views today to make me famous,  (in my own mind), so if you feel the need to spread the word about this “life-changing site”, feel free! To do my own part, I shall delve into the deep and twisted recesses of my mind to bring you a story that is just too bizarre not to be true. It is a story about life, love, friendship,  stalkerism and me. (All my favorite things to write about) To prove to some readers (Trask Avenue) that Creeperville seems to follow me wherever I go, this is my story….

Once upon a time, Sparklebumps had a friend we will call Carebear. (Carebear has been mentioned in previous posts as the friend who pussy-whips her men.) When I left my husband and had gotten an apartment, Carebear was in the middle of dating a man named Chaqd. (FYI, the “Q” is silent. Chaqd had low self-esteem in school so he made up a way to stand out by adding a “q” to his otherwise normal Chad name, and he gets very upset when you don’t acknowledge the “q”.)

Carebear and Chaqd had a very tumultous relationship, mainly because Carebear wished to be married (as she was the only one of her friends not yet) and Chaqd was a hopeless romantic who believed in Karma and Fate and all that fun stuff. Because Chaqd was also emotionally unstable, he freaked out quite frequently when Carebear would tell him to get a “real” job and quit being such a baby. There were many conversations about Chad with a Q  between her and I, and being able to see more clearly than she, it seemed to me that Chaqd was just a slightly more-neurotic ex-alcoholic female version of myself. Carebear had even said several times that he and I would be perfect together.

During the course of their relationship, I only met Chaqd once, and he seemed nice enough. He tried really hard to be the kind of boyfriend Carebear required him to be, but his excessive emotionality irked her. That and the fact that she didn’t find him in any way remotely attractive. When I told Carebear that I had left my husband, she immediately dumped Chaqd, thinking that now we could be the not-as-skinny Midwest version of the gals from Sex and the City. I had not yet told her that I had a red-headed Fuck Buddy who had incidentally become my boyfriend. When she found out, she called Chaqd up and he came back to her like a moth to the flame.

After a week or two, she decided she didn’t want to deal with Chaqd’s hysteria anymore, and dumped him for good. This resulted in Chaqd’s descent into what we call Stalkerism. He hacked into her Facebook account and would show up at her house in the middle of the night banging on the door and begging for Carebear to take him back.

One night during all of this nonsense, I was working at my bookstore, as I do, when Chaqd came waltzing in the door. He stated that he had come in to get my advice on how to get Carebear back. Being the blunt and honest person that I am, I said, “Dude she doesn’t want you back, and considering the good things that I know about you, you probably deserve someone nicer. You need to get over it and find a good girl. And quit acting like a crazy nut.” (This may seem very un-friend like of me, but as I said before, Carebear is a great girl- I would never in a million years want to marry her.) This got us talking about Carebear’s less-than- desirable qualities, the main one being that her desire for material things resulted in many over-time hours, keeping her from being available to her young son.

When it was time to close up, Chaqd walked me out to my car, and we were babbling about whatever non-stop, so since my apartment was only a few blocks away, I invited Chaqd to come over for a bit and hang. (In hindsight, if I would have thought about the Stalkerisms he had committed, I would not have done this.) For a few hours we talked about life, and Chaqd, being a histrionic like me, told me all about himself. (without me asking him to.) We talked about the ironic fact that we both want children desperately and don’t have any, and about art and Prince. ( Because I was alphebetizing my CD collection.) I told him it was time for me to sleep, so he had to go, but if he needed a friendly face, I was around. He stood in my doorway and said, “You know, Carebear said we would be perfect together.” I was some-what surprised she would have told HIM this while they were still dating, but I was happily dating my Rockstar, so I told him, “Yes, maybe we would have been if I didn’t have my Rockstar.” We said goodbye and he left.

The next day, Chaqd texted me and told me he was so happy that we had had the lovely colloquy that we’d had, and that he wanted to go out for lunch if I wasn’t busy. I thought it a bit odd, but at times I suffer from bouts of dumb-assedness, so I told him ok. We went out for lunch and Chaqd told me he was leaving for a trip to Vegas with his dad the next day, but would think about me the whole time. He asked if he could text me while he was there, and I suspiciously said he could.

The entire next week, my phone was bombarded with texts from the Chaqd, many of them coming in the middle of the night, as he was staying up all night in Vegas. He proceeded to schmoogle me with text of his undying almost-love, and how he couldn’t believe we were so alike. I continued to remind him that I had my Rockstar, and although I didn’t mind being a friend to him, he needed to understand that not anything romantic was going to come of our relationship.

The night he came back from Vegas, he showed up at my apartment building at 3 AM and text me that he was outside with flowers. I told him that I would not buzz him in, because his behavior was borderline dilirious. He spent the next hour texting me from downstairs, trying to convince me to let him in so he could just “lay in bed with me while I slept.” I shut my phone off.

In the next week or so, I found out that Chaqd had been talking to Carebear again, and twisted everything around to make it look that I was persuing HIM. She called me up, furious, asking me how I could do that, and why was I going after Chaqd when I had my Rockstar. I explained the situation, and since she had had her own Stalker behavior from him, she understood. Unfortunately, Chaqd had also mentioned our conversation about Carebear being a less-than-admirable mother (Oops.) She and I ended up having a huge fight, telling each other all the things we actually thought about each other that we had never said in 20 years.  I admit that I shouldn’t have told Chaqd what I thought, since Carebear was my friend, but I guess we got it all out anyway.

We spent the next days in a terrible three-some text war, Carebear, Chaqd, and I, with alot of he-said, she-said going on. In the end, we deleted Chaqd from our lives and slightly forgave each other.  Our friendship is no longer what it used to be, although I know if I called her today, Carebear would be there for me. Unfortunately, if I called Chaqd today, he also would be there for me.

So this is the story of how my honest and too- big mouth got me in trouble with someone I love.  May this be a lesson to you all. XOXO

P.S. Make me famous today!