Welcome To My Box

It was my birthday on Saturday.

I am now at a terrible age.

It’s not necessarily because I’m over 29 and have yet to give Chris Meloni a booby-squishing hug, (although that certainly doesn’t help), or the fact that because of my candy-and-French-fry eating habits over the last 30-some years has made my body decide to rebel against me, but the main reason I am upset it because I am now stuck at an even number for the next 12 months.

I realize that any OCD readers out there may be appalled at the thought of someone actually WANTING to be an odd age instead of an even age, but hey, I’ve spent my years trying desperately to have attention on me. Anyhoo, I received a mailer that was meant to be filled out this week, and on it, there was an area that asked you to check a box for your age range. Instead of the usual 30-35 (which is disturbing enough that I fit into), I had to check the box that said 32-37. I know I shouldn’t say anything, because I’ll be there soon enough, but 37?! How did this happen? When did I end up being categorized with old farts?

Instead of dwelling on it, I decided to steal a line from Samantha in Sex and the City- “Welcome to my box.”

It’s a great place to visit, My Box is. It is filled with people who are (it is hoped) mature and won’t be caught dead in a Justin Bieber shirt. We are usually seasoned enough to know that not all marriages work out, and that rushing into things is not always a good idea. Sure, there are a few of us who are happily married, and even a few more who are romantic (?) enough to keep getting married again. (and again). Still, there are a couple of us that grow completely ill at the thought of ever again binding themselves to another human being for all of eternity.

In My Box, we are not ashamed to admit that we once listened to New Kids on the Block while playing Miami Vice in our basements as children. Some of us were absolutely enthralled with David Bowie as the Goblin King in The Labrynth, and will forever be looking for that perfect man who can pull off a spiky mullet while wearing leather junk-promoting leggings and a ruffly shirt. Here in My Box, we occasionally bebop to Backstreet Boys, and the GooGoo Dolls, or if in a fighting mood, Brandy and Monica’s The Boy is Mine. But to prove we don’t have completely hideous musical taste, we will admit that as children, we just wanted to grow up and grab our junk while singing “Heehoo!” in a funky falsetto exactly like our idol, Michael Jackson.

We were the ones who wore the massively baggy jeans that looked like jean skirts, unashamedly. The ones in My Box know about the clunky heels that were my first pair of grown-up shoes, and platform boots that were in every mall store that sold shoes- now only sold in Hot Topic.

We are the ones who are now populating the earth with new tiny beings who will grow up with the iphones and ipods fused to their hands, the ones who are giving way to the children who only have friends on Facebook, who are clearly evolving into birds that Tweet, and as we once said to our parents “what’s that?” when we found an old 8-track, our children will be confused and astounded when they find our old and antiquated VHS tapes buried in the back of some closet somewhere.

It’s not such a bad place, My Box, and I certainly don’t want to go on to the next Box.

Exquisite Pain

For my post title, I was going to steal the title from a Sex and the City episode, but that would border on plagiarism, so I put the English version of it. 🙂 Tricky me. No this post is NOT about S&M, and how I liked to get spanked,(god, you have no idea!) but about the fact that I have a new pair of “tallest shoes”, and how I am sure to be a cripple by the time I’m 50.

I suppose my first pair of heels were the chunky Mary Janes my fashionable friends convinced me to buy when I was 16. They were so beautiful; little flowers were embroidered along the toe and down the heel, and I wore them until they broke. (Sad day.)  I have not stopped buying heels since. The height of my addiction was when I kept paying off my Victoria’s Secret card, and they conveniently kept raising my credit limit, and happened to mail me a new shoe catalogue at least twice a week. (Bastards!) $2800 later, my good credit score is replaced with 13 pairs of fabulous shoes that I, in no way, can use as collateral in buying a house. Victoria took away my credit card, but I have figured out other ways to feed my obsession.

I get the most notice of my shoes at church, and no Sunday is complete without a white-haired elderly person exclaiming, “Oh! Look at your shoes! How can you walk in those! My feet would be killing me!” I assure them that my feet do not suffer (much) because I take my shoes off while I’m at the piano, and only extensive hours in said shoes cause discomfort.

On the way to visit my brother, I accidentally (on purpose) stopped at a store to look for a new pair of heels. After all, it’s been over a month since I’ve bought a pair… Anyhoo, I walked in and my eyes were immediately drawn to a pair of 6″ leopard-print booties with patent leather heels (Hallelujah! I have seen the light!) I rushed to them and tried them on, admiring them as I sauntered back and forth in front of the store’s little shoe mirrors. I looked at the price tag- $22.98?! What madness is this?! A breathtaking pair of shoes for under $30?!  I restrained myself from buying 3 other pairs of shoes, (becuase I don’t need my Rockstar’s Daughter saying again, “You bought ANOTHER pair of shoes? I don’t think Dad wants that many shoes in his closet.”) And I glided out to my car with my purchase and proceeded to decorate my feet with my new shoes. I then was off to my brother’s.

During the day, my brother and I ventured to a few stores, and ended up at my fave, Half-Priced Books. At each stop we made, I looked down at my new shoes and thought, “They are so PRETTY! I can’t stop looking at them!” and the Click click click of my stillettos as I walked through stores sent a chill straight to my nether-regions. Now I will tell you a secret.

What no one will mention about high heels is that they are really meant for fashion shoot photos only. As in, minimal walking required. Because after 2 or 3 hours of standing, walking, or running in heels, a person’s back begins to bunch up, their legs begin to spasm, and their feet (if feet had voices) begin to scream, “You bitch!!! Your killing me!” I am convinced every woman that’s worn heels for an entire day would concur. Back to my story.

As I was click click clicking my way through the bookstore, I noticed that my feet were beginning to ache. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, trying to alleviate the pain, but to no avail. At one point, I even sat on the floor of the store, using the excuse that I was looking at the Larry McMurtry books on the bottom shelve.( It’s true) As we left, my brother walked ahead of me to the car as I stumbled along in my 6″ torture devices, trying desperately to keep up the appearance that my shoes were fucking fabulous. When we arrived back at his house, I let out a huge sigh of relief when I unzipped my new booties and flung them away from me.

Yes, how silly of me to keep buying shoes that after a few hours of wearing feel as though I’m walking on sharpened bowie knives. However, as any masochist, I am addicted to the equisite pain of showing off gorgeous shoes, and when I am forced to cruise around in a scooter because of the extensive damage my heel wearage has caused to my body, I will continue to make a fashion statement.

“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….

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!

I Will Do Nothing Today. It’ll Be Great

The illusive Day Off. I suppose technically I had yesterday off, but I DID have to drive to church and get paid, so that counts as work, right? I also ended up making caramel rolls that turned out pretty awesomely. So…. what shall I do on this day that I really don’t HAVE to do anything on?

A year ago, I would have slept until noon. This seems like a good thing to do on a day off. And it was. Sleep is one of my favorite things to do, which is weird since I think it is a complete waste of time. Unfortuneately, I am really no longer a Child of the Night. My Rockstar leaves for work at 5:30 AM, and I have trained him to kiss me goodbye in the morning, so I usually get up soon after he leaves. Today, I had to take his daughter to school, so I suppose I did have one little thing I HAD to do. I’m back from that now; I made sure to have all the laundry and dishes done, and I scrubbed the floors this morning so I don’t feel guilty sitting on my ass for the rest of the day.

Lap dances.I always have this great idea that I’m going to come up with seductive and bewitching lap dance routines for my Rockstar. He used to frequent the strip clubs in his less-seasoned years, and he probably would still if he had any extra cash lying around. I told him I want to go to Sugardaddy’s for my birthday, but I do believe he is a-scared he shall lose my affections to a stripper. While there is only a slight chance of that, he would most-assuredly lose all his money to one. So, instead, I have vowed to be the awesome girlfriend that I am and try to keep it exciting at home. But really, what is a lap dance? You sit on his lap and grind around, stick your boobies in his face- you know. I’m quite good at those things already, although the boobies in the face happens unintentionally at regular intervals mainly because they are DDD’s. Oops. So I think I won’t practice lap dancing today.

Masturbation. I’ll say it again because it’s so fun- masturbation! Not really much to say there except this is one of my favorite past-times, and I do it quite regularly on my days off. Everybody should give themselves a hand now and then. Sadly, it has no long-lasting adventageous benefits.

Bad Tv. Since I am rarely home alone, there is limited time in which to watch those peurile shows and movies that I am ashamed to admit are my guilty pleasures. I know I am not the only one who will sit through an 8 hr marathon of Sex and the City, or find a thrill out of watching Demi Moore scream, “Suck my dick!” in G.I. Jane. And so, I may just have to find that DVD.

Blogging. Since I am relatively new to the blogging world, I could spend the day surfing around, reading other people’s thoughts on life, love, and meatloaf. Or I could be motivated and entertain you all with my own misadventures and ingenious ruminations on life. I may do that some more later.

McDonald’s. This goes without saying. I rarely have a time when McD’s is serving non-breakfast and I don’t need to cook for my Beloveds. French fries are my favorite. Yes, I should really be exercising so I can fit into my snakeskin satiny pants, but really, who can say no to french fries? My diet can start tomorrow.

So basically, on my day off, I may just have to “audition the finger puppets ” while watching Jennifer’s Body, snarf down a Big Mac, shimmy around naked, and write about it later. Have a Blessed Day. XOXO

Whiskey Kisses

The following post has not been rated due to the mature content. So by all means, keep reading!

I think it is really no secret that I loves the Sex. I love to watch it; I love to do it; I love to read about it; and I love to talk about it. Perhaps this is due to the fact that I was raised to NOT talk about it, to NOT do it, or to NOT even think about it. Who knows, but I do believe the morals my parents tried so desperately to instill in me backfired. At least just a little bit. That is not to say that I in any way resemble the girls from Sex and the City, because I could count on one hand the guys I’ve slept with, it just so happens that I have decent taste in men, so there has been no need to dispose of them as quickly as those girls do. Alas, my first relationship was somewhat devoid of mind-blowing Sex. Not completely- we DID do it once in a parking garage inside a step-side stickshift regular cab Ford ranger. (Yes, it was a tight squeeze.) But fortunately, with my Rockstar, I now have pretty fun sex quite frequently. I am a bit more adventurous than he is (no butt sex or spanking for him!) but really, that’s quite aright. I am just open to more things. But yes, he would be just fine sharing me with another girl (what guy wouldn’t?) Anyhoo, I am getting off track.

My Rockstar and I have a good time drinking, as well. I don’t know if this is normal in a relationship (as I have only been in 2), but we can entertain ourselves quite well, especially with a little whiskey or peach schnapps. Tip a few back, turn on some tunes, and it’s a mosh pit.  Also, whiskey is very beneficial in educating a person. I have learned that you must be careful jumping around on the bed with a microphone near your face,  heard numerous stories of past Exes, and found out that my boyfriend sings like Vince Neil. (At least he did when I was drunk.) I have also realized that we make a huge mess in the kitchen when we are drunkards. C’est la vie.

Porn is also very fun to watch when you are inebriated. I don’t know about you, but I love porn! I have been fascinated with it ever since me and my used-to-be friend Catherine found her dad’s Playboys. At least you men out there would agree with me- BOOBIES ARE FUN! It is also fun to find out you are the first person to give your 40 yr old boyfriend a blowjob while watching porn. Yay, me.

Basically, if you have never spent a night drinking with your significant other, try it! You may get to talking and learn somethin about them you never would have otherwise, or you may end up having sex in a different way, or maybe you will just end up having a steamy make-out session. And even if that’s all you do, just remember, at least you were probably too drunk to care if he had whiskey breath. XOXO