Five Years

Hey there, Strangers.

It’s been a long time. If you, my lovely readers, and I were in a relationship, you’d have every right to toss me aside for someone who doesn’t neglect you as I have the last few months. But, let me tell you something- after five years, relationships tend to go through a stale time before they get stronger. For yes, WordPress has informed me that it has been five years and a few days since I did begin a little online rant called sparklebumpsthebookwhore. Said action forever changed my life, I believe, completely for the better. It is hoped that it did, too, change all of your lives for the better. My histrionica convinces me it most certainly did.

Though I have not yet found life-altering fame, I will say that I am taking baby steps (sometimes very literally) to expand my horizons and experience new things I’ve never before experienced. I’ve thrown my best friend (who I met through my blog several years ago) a rather fabulous bridal shower, and just this past weekend joined her and her other favorites for a bachelorette party that included a horse-drawn carriage ride through the city. (Numerous Uber rides were also a first; I shall never forget the four of us piling into a Ford Fiesta driven by a friendly individual resembling Austin Power’s Fat Bastard. Good Times.)

My life has vastly improved in the last half-decade; this is mainly due to a little man who  resembles me too closely at times- mostly when he’s butting his head against whatever’s nearby when he’s pissed off. Yes, I have the mental maturity to not actually smash my head against inanimate objects, but, I promise, I’m doing it in my head constantly. Perhaps this is the reason I sometimes forget what I’m saying mid-sentence, and find it hard to focus on pretty much everything….

Yes, my Babe is too much like his mother, but in some ways, that’s great. (in my opinion.) His constant growling and attacking his stuffed animals and the dog proves that his wild imagination is intact, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Things with my Rockstar are less sexy that I’d necessarily wish them to be, but that will happen when there’s a toddler about and our work schedules are completely opposite. He still has amazing hair, and a habit of buying very expensive guitar gear. Ah, well. Boys will be boys.

My Rockstar’s Daughter is now officially a high-schooler (cringe), and I have come to realize that for the most part, we will have to ignore each other for the next four years for both of us to make it out alive. That’s all I’m going to say about that for now.

I’m still masquerading as a waitress until I finish my book, but as of this week, I got a $3 an hour raise, so I can’t really complain…even though one of my joyful “managers” refers to me as a “stupid fucking cunt”  to whomever will listen. Let’s just say the feeling is mutual. Even if he is a dude.

I am making more of an effort to use my time more wisely toward writing, which should go swimmingly unless they add an unknown season of Sons of Anarchy on Netflix, so you shouldn’t have to wait so long again for me to entertain you again. We’ll have to see if being a mother has drained me of my general amazingness.

XOXO,

Sparklebumps

Open Letter

Due to my inability to focus this day, I have decided to write a letter to all the things running through my head.

To my feet,

It is not because I abhor you that I dress you in less-than-comfortable fabulous shoes. It is simply because there are enough people out there who detest feet, and I should feel badly if I didn’t do my best to make them like you. As such, I bid you reconsider your cruel decision to continuously crack and flake and generally appear unappealing. I shall punish you by making sure no one is allowed to lick and fondle you until you react differently.

To a certain annoying person,

You are irritating as fuck. No, you don’t know everything, and it galls me to no end that you think that you do, and that you think I care to hear your narcissistic self boasting of how you plan to take measures in hopes of making things better. Things could only be better if you went away. So please, do.

To bad tippers,

I pity you, because karma waits for no man, and when you are being eaten by governmentally-enhanced were-people, you probably won’t even realize it’s your own damn fault.

To my Rockstar’s Daughter,

When I tell you to go away from me, it’s because I want you to be quiet, and as you are 12, and have a voice that echoes through three counties, that is clearly impossible. Do not misunderstand. I love you. I just love you better when I can’t hear you.

To my mailman,

I appreciate your rubbernecking due to my choice in gardening attire, as it reconfirms my suspicions that I am not completely a disgustingly fat turd, as my mirror and scale repeatedly tell me. However, I do not appreciate you delivering only undesired bills to my house. Just once, could you perhaps leave a check or accidentally deliver someone else’s issue of Playboy, please? Hey…. are you listening?

To my Rockstar,

I find you to be completely adorable, and your tush to be an incredibly inviting place to rest my teeth and/or hands. I do, however, wish that for just a day or two, you would cease working on our beautiful house, so I could feel a little less terrible about being a pathetic, lazy piece of donkey poo.

To my book,

Get out of my head, already. Find a perfectly blank computer screen on which to sit, instead of my overwrought, bipolar brain.

XOXO,

Sparklebumps

P.S. Chris Meloni, I haven’t forgotten you, no matter how hard I try. I suppose it doesn’t help that I see your daily posts on Facebook. I noticed you never even bothered to respond to my comment on your page, which made me sad.

 

 

 

Chores

In an attempt to get my Rockstar’s Daughter out of my hair and into better habits, I suggested coming up with a list of chores with which to fill her summer days. I was surprised at her unexpected fervor for said task, and even more surprised when one of the chores she thought of was picking up dog poo. (A job not even the most dirty of people relish, I expect.) Of course there were the typical chores a child should learn to accept: washing dishes, cleaning their room, etc… As well as a few that consisted of a bit more fun- giving the dog a bath with the garden hose, washing my truck with the garden hose, watering the flowers with the garden hose. (There does seem to be a disturbing obsession with the garden hose.)

I got to thinking about how we as children are bogged down with such minimal tasks as these; usually with the expectancy of reward upon completion. Why is it as we get older, these tasks no longer hold promise of payment? I object.

In lieu of starting a riot over such injustices, I have composed a list of chores that I might accomplish that very well may result in acceptable annuity. I trust you all approve.

1. Blow jobs.

To quote Samantha from Sex and the City: “Buddy. It ain’t called a job for nothin’.” From what I’ve heard in passing conversations, (yes, most of my passing conversations consist of blow jobs and the like, so shut up) most girls just don’t like to give blow jobs. This is completely foreign to me, for I love giving them so! There’s nothing like having my Rockstar’s hard, throbbing cock shoved down my throat. But! This isn’t all about me and my favorite penis.

Since some girls detest the act, this could be one of those chores they go to with dread, in hopes of a nice big allowance afterward. A nice, big, throbbing allowance- one that you can ride on and get extreme pleasure from….

2. Cooking.

Some women like to cook. I am some of these women sometimes. It’s when it’s an everyday occurrence that I begin to detest it. (Trust me, there’s a reason I always end up working in a restaurant.) They say that a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach; I always thought it was through his dick- but I guess if his stomach gets filled because I cooked for him, and the end result is him making sweet love to me, that’s almost as good as a good hard fuck.

3. Laundry.

It should go without saying that if you wash a man’s underwear, there will be no surprises when you’re down there doing your oral business. That is reward in itself.

4. Reading.

Because there has to be something completely enjoyable on the list. And reading always comes with knowledge. And the more you know, the more you grow. 🙂

Ok, I’m bored of this list now. Goodbye.

 

Dance, Baby, Dance

And I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget,
Forgetting any other home but this.

Like Romeo, I’ve been making an effort to have my Rockstar forget any other home than ours; sadly, I work completely opposite hours from him, and so see him (if I’m lucky) a total of about eight hours a week. I have feared that leaving him to his own devices so regularly should cause a rift between us that cannot be repaired.

Fortunately, the both of us wish our home to be ripe with bright colors and pleasant comforts, so neither of us has a chance really to become bored and listless. While my days at home with the dog are filled to bursting with painting of walls, and thinkings of painting of murals, his nights are filled with thoughts of luscious fertilized grass without bald spots. Our little time that is spent together is spent these days at Home Depot and Menards, where we have spent unmentionable sums of money.

This past weekend, we hurried to Menards for their Memorial Day sales and spent a goodly part of our morning navigating the aisles for things to make our house a castle. While I had the intention only of buying a few color-changing solar lights to brighten our sidewalk, my Rockstar insisted on buying a little bit of everything. $400 later, we exited the store with a lovely flower rug (which was his choice), 20 solar lights, garden edging, yard soil, and an outdoor swing. Sadly, I had to rush off to work for the day, so I was to enjoy none of our purchases immediately.

After spending a lovely day with my Auntie on Sunday, I arrived home to my Rockstar and his Daughter, who had decided that we must grill steaks on our new adorable grill. He approved of my mixing of alcoholic beverages for the two of us, and while his Daughter ran around with our Pup and her friends, we proceeded to get happily tipsy.

No drunk evening would be complete without a little Rock-N-Roll, which was filtered through our walk-out screen door. R and his Daughter have this little dance they’ve been working on since long before I was around, and I watched from our beautiful swing as they spun and twirled.

“You’re turn! Dance with dad!” His Daughter urged when the song ended.

I arose from my swinging, and it didn’t take long for R to realized that Phil Collins stole his song title I Can’t Dance from me.

“You’re so stiff! Loosen up! Yeah, you’re not graceful.” His responses to my awkward gamboling just made me giggle. Well, that, and his forceful grip on my drunken ass.

A dancer I may not be, but hey. I cannot be perfect all the time. I do, however, know the steps to the waltz (because I am very cultured) and also the snake-like arm movements of bellydancing, so I coached R and his Daughter on these finer points of dancing. I chose to don a pair of my taller heels to better match R’s height, only to have him say I was better at my own height, because my belly more perfectly bumped up against his man-parts. (This too made me giggle.) When he tired of my unfluid movements, I danced with myself among my many rainbow solar lights, pretending that I was in an enchanted forest.

There comes a time when One has had enough drink, and must retire. When my time came, I crawled into my bed, intent on passing out until the morning, only to be wakened by a hard chomp on my ass. Too, no drunken night is complete without having a long-haired Rockstar whisper in your ear, “I want to hear you come.”

XOXO

No, You Should NOT Have Passionate Kisses, Mary Chapin Carpenter

This letter is to you, Mary Chapin Carpenter,

No, you are not a dear, Mary, and so I cannot address this letter thusly. Let me begin by explaining the reason I am composing this letter.

I have long despised your mediocre talent, and even more has your choice in song recordings galled me for many years. Songs such as He Thinks He’ll Keep Her and I Feel Lucky have irritated the beJesus out of me since childhood, but none of these “hit singles” have caused me to cringe and my ears to fold in on themselves quite as much as the song Passionate Kisses.

I know not whether it is the unmusical tone of your voice, or the even less harmonic rhythm of the song itself, but, oh evil songstress of country, how I loathe thee. Let us look upon the unpoetic lyrics of said song for a moment, shall we?

Is it too much to ask
I want a comfortable bed that won’t hurt my back
Food to fill me up
And warm clothes and all that stuff
Shouldn’t I have this
Shouldn’t I have this
Shouldn’t I have all of this, and

Passionate kisses
Passionate kisses, whoa oh oh
Passionate kisses from you.

While I do not deny that we all at one time or another crave a bed that doesn’t cause our backs to ache, and I myself want more food than is necessary to fill me up, I must point out that these very commonplace wants do not, in my opinion, cause you stand out enough that you should deserve such things as passionate kisses from me or anyone else. Moving on….

Is it too much to demand
I want a full house and a rock and roll band
Pens that won’t run out of ink
And cool quiet and time to think
Shouldn’t I have this
Shouldn’t I have this
Shouldn’t I have all of this, and

Passionate kisses
Passionate kisses, whoa oh oh
Passionate kisses from you.

I might mention here that, to be honest, you are not a performer of such caliber that you are in the position to be demanding of anything. If you were, you would not be needing to ask for a full house for your rock and roll band, because it would already be sold out. Too, you would have enough money to buy pens that have ink in them if you were able to sell tickets to your shows. Maybe it is your entitled attitude that causes people to not want to see you in concert, hmm? Or maybe they just realize that you will ask just anyone for passionate kisses, and do not want to run the risk of acquiring herpes labialis. Anyhoo, I digress.

Do I want too much
Am I going overboard to want that touch
I shout it out to the night
“Give me what I deserve, ’cause it’s my right”
Shouldn’t I have this (shouldn’t I)
Shouldn’t I have this (shouldn’t I)
Shouldn’t I have all of this, and

Passionate kisses
Passionate kisses, whoa oh oh
Passionate kisses from you
Passionate kisses
Passionate kisses, whoa oh oh
Passionate kisses from you 

Did you ever think maybe, just maybe, if you quit yelling at whoever it is you want to make out with so desperately IN THE NIGHT while they are trying to sleep that they might actually want to kiss you? Maybe if you ever shut the fuck up for one goddamn second, and quit whining about passionate kisses, someone might actually desire to smush their lips against yours?!

I have come to the end of this atrocious song, and find that I have nothing more to say to you, Mary Chapin Carpenter. You may blame my place of work for playing this song frequently, because having had to listen to it on a regular basis has made me quite certain you will never, EVER be getting your coveted “passionate kisses” from me. To be clear, your tiresome neediness is the reason you lack affection.

Goodbye,

Sparklebumps

An Open Letter To All Things Pizza Hut

To the general presence of Pizza Hut,

Since I am no longer a slave under your employ, I feel it completely necessary to release the vile feelings I’ve been forced to keep inside for the past two-odd years concerning you. I must warn you that while the composition of this letter will be remarkably therapeutic for me, it may be at times inelegantly written, and show no signs of the self-educated woman that I am. Let me begin with something that I’ve been waiting to say for some time:

FUCK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ahem. Now that I have gotten that off of my sizeable chest, I will move on to everything that is wrong with your corporation.

Let me first say that the customer is NOT always right. Especially in the case of your customers. Yes, there may have been an occasion or two where extra cheese was not administered as requested,  or tomatoes were placed on a super-supreme pizza (which is completely inappropriate), but I stand by the fact that I did NOT jip you on your toppings, and every pizza made by my own two work-worn hands was properly spec-ed and lovely to behold. Because your company has the policy that you should give the customer “whatever they want”, you can surely expect that at some point you will run out of money after giving away free food to all  the trashy motha-fuckas who lie to get a comped meal. To this I say- it is your own goddamn fault.

Secondly, it is shameful that you pay your shift managers such low wages. Truly, when promoting your team members to such a status, you should include in fine print this:

We promise to work you until you bleed, if not outwardly, at least until you suffer from stomach ulcers because of stress. You will be forced to work all holidays and weekends without any thanks, and if you refuse to work any of the afore mentioned days, you will be shunned by our district managers and dramatically have your hours cut. You will NEVER receive any type of raise until you are so frustrated that you find a new job, at which time, we may consider gifting you with  our feigned appreciation and only a miniscule raise- enough to keep you in our chains. If at any time you tell your overseeing managers exactly what you think of them or their performance, even if it perfectly accurate and politically-correctly stated, you too will be shunned.

To the Pizza Hut customers,

I will admit that there are a few of you who are endearing and affable. To you, I show my utmost appreciating for having made my stay in Hell a little less horrifying.

To the rest of you, the entire uncivilized lot of you, I must once again show how uneloquent I can be.

FUCK YA’LL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

To those of you who would seat yourselves, completely ignoring the sign that distinctly states, “PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED”, as well as overlooking the fact that I and my fellow coworkers are human beings, and will greet and seat you at your convenience, I must say that you are pitiful creatures, and it is my hope that at some point in your despicable little lives someone treats you as though you are not worthy of basic consideration.

To those of you who insist on no pork coming in contact with your food, and a clean blade being used to cut your halal food, I will say that if you asked once, and politely, and in no way treated me as an inferior person, I followed your requests religiously. (I even wore gloves.) To those of you who made such requests in an incredibly rude and obnoxious manner (i.e. repeating said request as though I were in some way deaf or not listening, using an outside voice though we were clearly indoors, acting as though my female anatomy deemed me unworthy of human decency) even though I had helped you in the past and could clearly tell you were Muslim by your burquas, I will tell you that my hand may have once or twice slipped into the nasty, dirty, unkosher pork before touching your chicken pizza. I just can’t remember for sure.

To a certain district manager,

To quote every employee that ever came in contact with you who were not of the naïve and unknowing variety:

“You’re a piece of shit.”

I will admit, in the beginning, I was one of these naïve people, and was momentarily distracted by your lovely masculine height and vibrant blue eyes. In fact, I recall turning down a job at an amazing craft store when you asked me to because I felt bad that your beautiful little boys would not grow up knowing their dad because you were so overworked and would be even more-so if I were to quit. I did not realize then that the lack of general managers in your district was only due to your own egotistical,  self-absorbed, castigating style of managing. Yes, I realize that you know not what castigating means, because at one time, you asked me to use common and ordinary words that were easy to understand. I refuse to demean myself because you are too busy being Big Boss Man to read a fucking dictionary. You very recently stated that it was in the best interest of the restaurant and all the employees that I be demoted; to that I say, “It really wasn’t, because now you will see what the store truly runs like without one competent shift manager.” You will never, NEVER have a completely-staffed district, because you refuse to focus on what it truly takes to run a successful restaurant, but instead nit-pick at stupid shit that doesn’t matter. Perhaps if you begin treating your employees like people, instead of like the smushed Italian sausage that is on the bottom of your over-sized shoe, you will truly find success. Because you certainly don’t have it now, and you know it. Also, your wife is ugly.

This all being said, I release now my demons and will never again think of Pizza Hut in any way, even though the remaining employees who worked with me will think of me at least a little bit every single day.

Fuck you very much,

Sparkle

Ten of Life’s Little Disappointments

As much as I’d like to say that every day is a Zippity-Doo-Dah one, there are just a few small trials we all must suffer through that cause a person to cry “Ay me!”

1. After consuming a particularly scrumptious McDonald’s meal, you reach into the bag from which such foody decadence has emerged and realize that there are no squishy, almost-cold bag fries to complete your meal.

2. When trying on clothes in your preferred department store, you realize that your butt is too large to fit in that pair of jeans you found on clearance, or your belly is in the way of zipping them up, or your boobs refuse to be contained in that adorable top you found, or your boobs are not sufficiently ample to fill out that fashionable frock you discovered. This experience is only made worse when you force yourself into said garments, and after discovering they don’t fit, you cannot remove them from your bloated body because your tits are too big and you are forced to call the shopgirl for assistance.

3. When you are daydreaming all day at work of feasting on a delicious bowl of Lucky Charms when you arrive home, only to notice that the milk is expired when you pull it out of the fridge.

4. When you go out for a nice dinner, and are excited to find that there are many hot and attractive female servers on duty, but you are gifted with the one gay guy as your host for the evening.

5. When you work and slave 60 hours a week, only to receive a check that is $200 less than you expected because those fuckers FICA dipped into it.

6. When you drink a lot of whiskey, or rum, or vodka, and have a thrilling and  quite amusing time, until you realize that a lot of whiskey, or rum, or vodka was actually too much, and you spend the rest of the night laying in front of the toilet.

7. When you find out Lady Gaga is finally bringing her tour to town, but the tickets are $160 for nosebleed seats.

8. When you get on the scale.

9. When your alarm clock goes off.

10. When you motion over that stripper that looks so hot on that guy’s lap over there, but as she gets closer, you realize she has a butterface and buck teeth.

Have a nice day.

Cover Letter

So, I’ve never really written a cover letter for any resume I’ve handed out, but I did for this personal assistant job. Ok, so I know it wasn’t as professional as it should have been…

 

To Whom It May Concern,

Hello! And welcome to my cover letter! I’m so glad you made it this far! You’ve asked your applicants to list five things that would make them stand out from the rest. Since I adore talking about myself, this shall be an exciting exercise.

1. I am the hardest worker you will ever meet. This may seem presumptuous, but I am that also, so we’ll just get that out of the way right now.

2. I am brutally honest, and do not shy away from saying what is the truth when it needs to be said.

3.  Whatever skills I possess, are excellent ones. Whatever skills I don’t yet possess will also be excellent when I finally get them.

4. I have a sense of humor that makes working with me great, but it in no way interrupts or prohibits me from doing my job amazingly well.

5. To prove that number 2 is as true as it should be, and despite the fact that it is completely unprofessional and really has no bearing on whether I am able to perform the needed duties, the final thing that would make me stand out from your other applicants is my 38 DDD chest. Because it most certainly stands out, and whether or not anyone will admit it, it would probably come to mind when processing your interviews.

I look forward to working with you!

Thanks so much,

Sparklebumps the Book Whore

Torturing the Defenseless With Inedible Edibles

Ahoy, maties!

No, I have not turned Pirate during my long hiatus away from blogging. (Although, I think it would be really romantic to become a pirate…) I have decided that since I now have more blog followers than blog posts, it is my duty to once again take up my.. um.. keyboard, and defend you all against… utter and definite boredom. (OK, I probably should have thought that out a bit better, but whatever.)

To be honest, I’ve been busy boxing up my some 5,000 books (and my considerable though not quite as impressive shoe collection) for the big move to our new and not-yet-Sparkled-out house. Also, I have been accepted into the employ of a somewhat local grocery store- an adventure of which I will divulge a bit of right now.

 My official title I suppose would be considered “Overnight Stocker”. Now is the time for the perfunctory congrats you all have for me. I must admit at this time that, although it is not a book store job, I can honestly admit it is the best job I have ever had- namely, because I spend the night surrounded by almost nobody except my thoughts, and am required to greet and smile at customers minimally. (The latter alone makes having a fucked up sleep schedule completely worth it.)

Another reason this job is of such great interest to me is the fact that, until you spend eight hours straight in a grocery store, you are perhaps unaware of the plethora of fascinating and completely disgusting food items such places possess. I actually found kraut juice the other day. :o— (This is me vomiting just a little bit upon this discovery.)

I was in the baby food aisle last night, where I was required to stock a case of baby-friendly smoothies. This may not seem terrible at first, until I tell you that said smoothies were SPINACH, apple, and peach flavored. WHAT THE FUCK?! Are we now trying to get our infants to emulate Popeye, to grow big and beefy, by mixing a completely normal mixture of healthy fruits with spinach?! Not to be dissuaded, I continued on to the next case, only to be once again appalled by its contents. I have one question for any adults out there- would YOU eat blended apples and chicken? Not I, said the Sparkle.

I began investigating the shelves further. There, next to the quite-stylish re-useable Captain America grocery bag for 99 cents, were tiny jars of sweet potatoes with peaches, and itty-bitty meat sticks in water. Hot Dog Flavored Water, indeed.

Are we forcing the youngest of our species to graze on such abominations because once they are old enough to talk, they are coherent enough to deny such tortures? Why, oh why, would anyone buy a fruit food processed together with spinach for their littlest loved one? I’m all for trying new foods, but seriously, give the kid a chance to develop a normal palate before broadening his horizons!

I guess that’s all I have to say about that.

 

A Sparkly Housekeeper

I don’t know if it is a normal habit of people unsatisfied in their current careers, but I spend a shameful amount of time looking at the job ads on Craigslist. I generally look under the restaurant listings, as I am more likely to make the most dollars flashing my smile while catering to people stuffing their faces. However, during my perusal of Craigslist, I’ve sent my resume to a bank, a law firm, a nanny agency, and a plethora of other odd jobs. I’ve even considered applying at the Fantasy French Maids agency I discovered is in my town, but I wouldn’t want to put all the other French maids out of business, so I refrained.

I’ve found in my scrolling of hopeful jobs, that I seem to gravitate to the housekeeper type positions. Perhaps it is my unintentional goal to become Mrs. Doubtfire, or maybe I just don’t want to deal with the pain of having to work constantly with fucktards. Either way, I began imagining myself as some wealthy person’s maid, and I was not at all repulsed by the idea.

How fuckin’ weird am I? Most people dream of having a mansion on a hill with a yacht parked in the marina that they can drive to in their Porshe. I’d be content cleaning that fucking huge-ass house for $15- $20 dollars an hour. At least until I finish writing my bestseller and get my own castle. I wouldn’t even mind wearing a frilly, bust-enhancing maid’s costume while I did so.

Is this what I aspire to? Picking up after some arrogant CEO and his children who are being raised by a nanny? Yay me. (Sense the hint of sarcasm.)