A Letter to Alan Rickman

My esteemed Alan,

I would have referred to you as Al in my opening, since it feels as if I’ve known you since I was a wee thing, but you are English, and are much too refined for nicknames.

I wonder if you noticed that I refer to you in the present tense, despite the bitter fact that you left us one year ago today. I do so because, to me, you are very much alive on my movie shelf. I would like to thank you for that.

It’s true that you played an angel with no private parts in the movie Dogma, (a scene which, incidentally, is the only I remember of the entire movie) and a villain on several occasions, (Die Hard and Robin Hood); however, I will remember you most fondly as Colonel Brandon from Sense and Sensibility. It is really quite odd- the first time I watched you in that role, I despised you immensely.

I remember, I was at a friend’s for her birthday party when I was fifteen, when all of us decided to watch that film. Given my age at the time, it makes sense that I did not immediately appreciate your less-than-obvious good looks. It was a time when Freddie Prinze Jr. was a more apparent heartthrob…

It was a few years later when I again watched Sense and Sensibility when I realized how perfectly you pined for Kate Winslet’s character- I actually ended up detesting her after realizing how rude she was to Colonel Brandon. Still, I suppose I should be happy that you finally got the girl, even though I find myself a little jealous.

My jealousy of fictional characters was only compounded by your portrayal of Professor Snape in all the Harry Potter films. My hatred for Snape in the first six films was completely wiped away in the last, where you instantly forever and “always” became my favorite character. (Oh, to be loved as Lily was…)

You also happened to star in my favorite Christmas movie, Love Actually. Though I have nothing to  say about your performance because your character ended up being kind of a douche. I suppose you played the part well, since that was how we were supposed to feel about you?

I mustn’t forget your voice; that voice that resonates within my mind whenever you are mentioned- what am I supposed to do now when I finally write a screenplay that needs a man who’s voice can “talk a woman out of her knickers by just whispering her name, or scare the living shit out of children”?! Damn you and your pancreas, Alan!

I only jest, Mr. Rickman. I’m just upset that in a few short months I will be writing a similar letter to our dearly departed Prince. Although it’s nice to think that your rich, deep voice and his ridiculously high falsetto are blending in the far beyond.

Always,

Sparklebumps

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!” )

My Aging Metabolism

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

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

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

To the Displeasing Ones It May Concern,

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

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

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

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

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

Love Never,

Sparklebumps

Entertainment for Women- 1980

The thing about being a bookwhore is- you need a designated space just for the plethora of books you’ve picked up throughout the years. Luckily, when we bought our house, my Rockstar understood this, and so did-eth not protest too much when I claimed the third bedroom as the sleeping place for my tomes.

Being the girl who was jealous of Belle when the Beast gifted her with an entire castle library, my vivid imagination has always envisioned my own fantasy-like library. Sadly, my budget is somewhat lacking. So instead of replacing the drop-ceiling nasty-ass foam tiles with a ceiling of pure gold, I opted to cover said ishy tiles with textured wallpaper that will be painted in bronze to match the antique-ish looking loveseat I found for a steal on Wayfair.com. (If anyone who works at Wayfair is reading this- I’m giving you free advertising. Feel free to send some gift cards my way.)

As I was squinting to avoid spider webs and dust from getting into my eyes as I struggled to get ceiling tiles down, a magazine dropped from the heavens (or the water pipes). Imagine my excitement when I stepped down from my dangerously-chosen folding chair step stool and saw that the gazette that had nearly poked my eyeball out was a Playgirl  from 1980. No, my thrill did not come from the thought of becoming engrossed in the pictures of disturbingly-hairy men within; (I prefer the the sight of naked boobies over a man  lounging with his near-flaccid dick pointed at me) my enthusiasm was of the nostalgic nature. Though 1980 was a year before I was born, so I cannot properly pay homage, I take great pleasure in the obscene media of an earlier day. After all, isn’t it always a good time seeing how sex has evolved since the times of a full bush and Burl Chester? (Yeah, I said “Who?!” too.)

Oh yes, believe that I absolutely DID read the thing cover to cover. After balking at the surprisingly low price of such pornography (only $1.95), I took in the not-so-sexy face of Robert Urich- the “hunky” star of TV’s Vega$– a guy I’ve never heard of. I do believe even if I had been of age at the time, I would not have found Robert to be very salty.

Of course, women only read Playgirl for the articles, right? The most interesting article advertised on the cover was “The Joys of Three-Way Sex”; which, when I think about it, I’m not quite certain I want to think about that much bush in one room anyway. Since I am a fan of older men, I thought I might be pleasantly surprised when I saw there was an eight-page photo spread “in praise of older men”. Let us just say I got slightly distracted by the number of Magnum P.I. mustaches and Farrah-Fawcett-ish hairdos. I suppose in 35 years, my kid will look at the current beard craze in exactly the same distaste.

I was slightly appalled and greatly amused to read the letter portion. “Please help me. My cousin and I are having a relationship. Is this considered incest?” and “At the age of 23, I still don’t know what an orgasm is all about.” Oh, the innocence. Were women in the 80’s so naïve? My personal favorite was “I’ve just broken up with my sixth lover in five years. Am I a slut?” My response to such a question would have been, “How many women did that lover sleep with in those five years?”

The best part was an advertisement for “Stud Wear”. Somehow, I really just don’t think  a pair of briefs featuring Pinnochio with a special pocket to show just how long his nose can grow would be very alluring. Although I do laugh my ass off every time I think about my Rockstar donning a pair.

Of course every nekkid dude pictured was quoted to “love long walks and sunsets” and to love “falling asleep in a woman’s arms ” before awaking to go “make love on the beach as the sun rises.” Let me tell you where that gets you- an elbow in the eye and a crack full of sand.

Too, there was a special section on “Men of the Eighties”. It’s good to know that “men of the eighties are beginning to realize that there’s a lot more fun to be had in bed when their lovers fully participate.” What? Did men of the seventies just expect their women to lay there like blow-up dolls while they humped them? Seriously. I wanna know.

I really want to send in my $12 and see if I receive the see-through briefs with the tear-away tabs for my Rockstar so I can “get a piece of the action”.

Trust that this magazine is now one of my greatest treasures and will make an appearance any time I need a good laugh.

Thirty-Fucking-Four

Damn, I’m old.

Yes, yes, I realize that a good many people out there are much older than I, but having celebrated my birthday just yesterday and realizing I’ve accomplished not all that much has made me feel incredibly aged.

It is true, I’m much wiser than my 33-year-old self was, having experienced child-birth and having lived with an almost step-child every day for the past year. For this I suppose I am grateful. However, there are some downfalls to growing older….

I have less patience for mankind as the years go by- my theory that most people are assholes has been proven again and again over the past year. While I was willing to overlook such trivialities in the past, as the years go by, I more frequently find myself daydreaming of a time when  I can walk through a parking lot without having a farmer hanky blown in my direction, and the imbeciles on the roads are restricted from operating motor vehicles.

I realize how non-existant my will power has become- I am not my perfect goal weight. I have not finished writing my best-seller. I haven’t learned any languages, or trained the dog to quit barking, or finished painting the mural in my basement bathroom. Boo on me.

I feel like I’m eighty most of the time- this may have something to do with the fact that I am not at my goal weight. And that my diet consists of Caribou Coffee and French fries. And that my chosen form of working out is walking out to the mailbox daily to see if a million dollar check has arrived yet.

Whatever. At least I still look good.

Baby Mine

I wrote this for a flash fiction contest. The writing prompt was to write about a demon who is really bad at their job and keeps making the life of the person he is possessing better. I can’t get it to publish on the website, so I guess you guys get to read it…

I know it’s against the rules to possess a baby, but come on. It was just too easy.
Felix Bartholomew Embry was born at 3:01 A.M. That was how he caught my attention in the first place. Any baby born just in time for the witching hour has a special pull for all of us demonic spirits. There were several of us in the hospital that night, but I was the first one to hear his borning cry.
“Ahh,” I thought to myself. “A pure soul ripe for the picking.” If I could feel anything remotely delightful, little Felix’s squalling would have filled me with a thrill to the tips of my toes, if I had toes. Instead, I had to be satisfied with a nefarious sensation as I made my way to the birthing suite.
As I entered, I took in the scene. Squalling babe resting not so silently on mother’s magnificent chest, proud father beaming down at them. I’ve never been fond of newborns; my newest conquest being no exception. In fact, for a moment, I wondered if some other insidious spirit had already beaten me there. Felix was a disturbing shade of violet, and his toothless mouth looked much wider than is comforting for a baby’s to look. I should have left right then.
“He’s so beautiful.” I would have laughed when his mother said so, but demons cannot laugh without a voice to use. I took one more look before attempting to enter Felix’s flailing body, and then I made my move.
I felt his limbs stiffen momentarily as I slipped in, but as I was not completely immersed, I couldn’t see what was happening. For a split second, I saw the hospital lights above burning down like brimstone from Heaven when his eyes rolled back in his head, but then I was stuck, and saw nothing. I shook myself, and felt the mother’s grip on him tighten when I did so. Ah. There. I settled in. I reached deep within myself and found my darkest, most terrifying voice. I couldn’t wait to see the parents reactions when they heard the voice of Beelzebub come out of their “beautiful” spawn.
“Hello, mama.” What the fuck?! I tried again.
“Daddy!”
Their faces reflected the shock that I was feeling. Not only were my words not coming out how I was saying them, but they were emitted in the most angelic child-like voice ever heard. I growled, and it came out in an adorable infantile giggle.
“Did you hear it?” The father looked in awe at his wife, and then his son, and back again. I tried to look around, but this gelatinous baby body I was in refused to obey.
This was a bad idea. A very bad idea.

Basically, no matter what I do, it comes out making little Felix look like an infant prodigy, and I’m stuck in here living a real-life version of Charlotte’s Web. Fuckin’ A.

Contemplating Motherhood

I always said I would be a good  no, a great mother if I ever had kids.

Well, I have one now, and I’m starting to think I might have not had a fucking clue what the hell I was talking about.

I don’t find myself rambling on non-stop to every ear willing to listen about my son’s sleeping habits, bodily functions, learning progress, etc. Of course, I tell them if they ask, but when people ask, “How’s the little one?” I am quite at a loss for words, and stumble around in my head frantically searching for the right words I’m supposed to say. My response is usually- “He’s good. He’s the cutest baby in the world. He’s a happy boy.” People look at me after I’ve said so, waiting for me to add more. What else is there to say? He’s a baby. He sleeps a lot and cries when he’s hungry.

Then there are the times my Babe and I are at home. Of course I read to him, which he seems to relish, perhaps because I do all the voices. I give him the recommended Tummy Time, despite the fact that he came out holding his head up and possessing of legs pretty much strong enough to walk on. We go for walks sometimes, during which I worry that the cracks in the city sidewalks are bad enough to cause shaken baby syndrome. I feed him when I’m supposed to, and play with him so I can see his adorable smile; but then I hear these women talking about how much they love babies and always want to hold theirs, never wanting to put them down. I put mine down. In fact, the only time I hold him is to feed him, read to him, and occasionally cuddle profusely with him. But what I wonder is: do all those women obsessed with their babies have maids? Because I have a house to clean, and a dog to take care of, and a yard full of flowers to take care of, and how the hell am I supposed to hold my baby all the time when I have all that shit to do?

I don’t look ahead and think to myself that, “Oh, hey! I’m going to want another one of these little papooses in a couple of years so this one has someone to play with, or so I have another baby to hold.”  I love him to bits, and I want him to grow up to be a strong, respectable man, but how could I possibly love another one when this one has my whole heart? Even if he did make me completely miserable the entire time he was growing inside me. And I already want him to be 2 or 3, so he can talk back to me and I can at least understand him.

I haven’t dropped him on his head, but neither do I gingerly hold him as if he might break the way my Rockstar does. I don’t like to see his sad face, but when he cries when he’s not hungry, I don’t immediately pick him up, and I tell him he doesn’t need to fuss, because I know he’s faking it. I know this, because during these times, I walk over to him and start singing “Somebody to Love” and his little fake cries turn into squeals followed by smiles. At least he has good taste in music.

Honestly, the only proof that I have at least one motherly bone in my body is the plethora of pictures that have filled up my phone and my Facebook wall.

I’m not even sure my Rockstar finds me to be motherly, since he asked me why do I have to cart the baby around all over the place. I just thought I was acclimating him to the general public. And I thought him being with me was better than leaving him with a babysitter….

I suppose I’ll not really feel like a mother completely until he gets old enough to actually call me “Mommy”. I guess if he believes it, then there’s no reason to doubt it.

 

A Letter to a Modern-Day Adonis

Dear Charlie Hunnam,

As I have stated in my post title above, you, Charlie, are a modern-day Adonis, and so must be the recipient of my latest letter. Kudos to you.

It is true, you are best known as the tortured soul Jax Teller from Sons of Anarchy, and while I have not been privy to much of your other work, I do believe the multitude of sex scenes with delectable ass shots in SOA may have had something to do with that. (It’s like two scoops of butter pecan ice cream…) I must admit, there are very few nude males that I would gladly torment my eyes with, (as I am very much a boob gal, and do so adore a good titty display) but you, kind sir, are welcome to remain naked in front of my vision indefinitely.

It is still a bit disturbing to me that you hale from Newcastle upon Tyne. As well-read as I am, I had no idea what the fuck that meant, but investigated enough to find that it was somewhere in England. Cheeri-o, mate! I actually hope to never hear your original accent, which I assume is British, because you seem to be so down-to-earth and not at all pompous as generally English people tend to be. However, if you ever decide you wish to share your man-meat with me in a carnal fashion, I will allow you to adopt whatever foreign crappy accent you deem appropriate. Just know that I am not quite certain what my reaction may be if I hear, “Tha’ wus fookin’ gright, love.” after we’ve spent ourselves. I may be forced to shut you up by sitting on your not-quite-shaven face.

You may be delighted to know, too, that even my very straight Rockstar has taken notice of your perfectly-sculpted physique. He does not blame you in the least for incessantly posting shirtless pictures of yourself on your official Facebook page. “After working out like hell to look like that, can you blame him?” were his exact words. I think you may just have a chance with him…

I seem to recall having watched a little-known movie a few years back starring you, in which, I’m sure, you were superb. Sadly, I do not recall you being naked, and so it was not noteworthy. Do not get me wrong, oh Gorgeous One- you need not be bare-assed for me to adore you. I can prove it is true by saying I’ve had two dreams in which you starred, neither of which you were nude in. (Sadly.) I must ask: why weren’t you naked in my dreams? I mean, for real. What the fuck?!

I do not think you are aware of my ….fetish for long-haired men. Let me only say that when your hair is of a shorter ilk, I would not so readily do you. But, if you were there lying naked in my bed, I suppose I could lower my standards a tad so as not to waste a good boner.

I applaud you for turning down the role of Christian Grey in the movie version of Fifty Shades. As beautiful as you are, not even you could have saved it from sucking balls. Although, if you had retained the role, I would have, of course, rushed out to buy the DVD no matter how terrible the film was, if only to see you shirtless and spanking someone. Do not be discouraged. I will write for you a well-written smutty book that can be turned into the biggest blockbuster of all time.

In closing, I would like to say that you, Charlie Hunnam, have almost cured me of my insane love for Christopher Meloni; I haven’t dreamed of him since you came into the picture.

Always yours, (even if it is only in my dreams)

Sparklebumps XOXO

 

Survive and Thrive Workshop: Prompt #2

Write about what keeps you up at night.

The things that keep me up at night aren’t the stuff of nightmares.
Instead, they are the memories of days past.
You see, when the world is asleep, it is the perfect time for me to reminisce
on what has been, and what could have been, and what is to come.…
In nights gone by, I HAVE been kept awake by worries,
those devious little monsters that wiggle into a person’s brain,
and scratch, scratch, scratch, with their wicked little claws.
I finally learned they only exist if I let them.
So I figured out a way to starve them out,
and I watched them, one by one,
as their emaciated bodies slunk away into the darkness.
These nights, I am kept awake by delightful things
like raging heartburn and stretching belly aches
due to pregnancy.
As irritating as these are, I suffer them gladly,
because I have waited almost a lifetime for this baby.
It gives me a chance to sit in the dim,
thinking on the things I will teach my boy.
I smile when I consider what a love for books I will impart on him.
Too, in these dark hours, I watch my Love sleeping,
and wonder if my son will have his nose,
and maybe those little smile lines around his mouth someday.
What is there to fear in the darkness?
Without the dark, the light would never look so glorious.

Survive and Thrive Workshop

One of the really good reasons for having a best friend as an English major is that you get invited to join in such things as writing workshops on occasion. This is one of those times.

Our writing prompt for the day was this: What are your two most prevalent inner landscapes and how would you describe them?

My response?

My inner landscapes…. I’m not really sure they can be separated.

After all, can a person separate a piece of themselves from himself? There’s certainly a farm, … although it’s been many many years since I’ve actually spent a goodly amount of time there.

As if that matters.

It is as vivid in my mind as this afternoon’s lunch.

There’s a hill across the gravel road that always seemed huge to me, which in reality is probably much more considered a grassy knoll.

Forgive me. I was small when last I saw it.

A barn, where countless hours were spent shoveling cow manure to the musical ramblings of The Judds and Alan Jackson.

I do wonder now why shoveling shit held such glamorous allure for a ten-year-old. Odd.

Over there, an almost matched pair of classic Chevy trucks are parked, given new life by a cousin I always thought was “the coolest”.

Behind the barn sits a row of pig huts, and beyond that a rather unimpressive cattle pasture seemingly bare of grasses, but still entertaining enough that I spent hours wrestling boulders the size of my head up,catapulting them onto the barely crusted-over cow pies.

What glorious explosions of leafy green poop!

I grin to myself, remembering the thrill.

That was then, a simpler, more innocent time, but it’s still here within me somewhere.

Moving on.

The landscape of now is rife with imagination; mixed, too, with the stress and unease of humdrum, everyday life.

Oz, Neverland, Wonderland, and Willa Wonka’s Chocolate Factory all appear at times, though my yellow-brick road is sometimes blocked with piles of unpaid bills and regrets.

No. No regrets. I must remember there are no regrets, only choices that have taught me more than I might otherwise have known.

To my left is Ireland, because who DOESN’T want to go to Ireland?

It is, after all, the place where all the epic fantasy movies are made.

Alice’s white rabbit runs past, late as always, across the moors of England to my right.

You know- the ones Eustacia Vye spent so much time on.

It depends on which day you are here, what other places you might see.

New York City is never too far, the night lights of which rival Vegas, which is just there.

You see? Don’t mind the mostly nude women walking about- we all need something pretty to look at.

If you prefer, I can point you in the direction of the menagerie.

The unicorns and mermaids will be awake by the time you get there.

Of course, it snows on occasion, because I AM from Minnesota; our weather here can be….fickle. worries. The sun will come out tomorrow.

A little red-headed orphan told me so.