On Nausea and Still Remaining Myself

Pregnancy is not an excuse.

Yes, ok, I haven’t written on my blog (or anywhere else, for that matter) for a shameful 18 days; my longest hiatus from blogging yet, I believe. I haven’t drunk coffee or whisky or any mind-altering substance for many weeks, (and I do not intend to for many many more weeks). When I go out to eat in a nice restaurant with edible food, I can no longer finish my Rockstar’s meal after snarfing down my own. In fact, I cannot even finish my own meal, and have taken to sharing. I still think of sex more often than the average person, but I also think of sleep more than a two-toed sloth. I remind myself of one thing:

This, too, shall pass.

Whereas in past times not so long ago, any text message I received was almost immediately responded to, I have become a textical hermit. My repeated responses of “Not good. Puking all day. Sleeping when not puking.” I’m sure got old quickly when people asked how I was faring, and quite honestly, that exact response sums up the last eighteen days frighteningly well. It didn’t help that last week when my Rockstar had an entire week off between changing jobs, and instead of indulging in an all-week fuckfest with him, I was forced to hack and cough and blow my nose in between naps when I contracted the Mother of All Colds. The only upside was that the nausea that had continued to haunt me for over a month has finally begun to subside; I am no longer hurling unless I’ve not eaten within two hours. Yay me.

For the entirety of my adult life, I have begun planning my Halloween costume for each year in mid-summer. Not so this year. In fact, yesterday was the first day that I realized Halloween is less than two months away, and I said to myself, “Self! Enough of this bull-shit! You’re fucking dressing up, even if it is as a horse wearing a feed bag in order to catch the vomit!” There will be no alcoholic libations, but at least I have a house this year, so I plan on celebrating by scaring the beJesus out of the neighborhood childlings. The buzz from such doings will certainly suffice.

I realize that when you become a mother, (which I’m not, quite yet, anyway) you change. But I’ll be damned if everyone I know will only engage in conversations with me that pertain to my child, now or later. People without kids have lives, and do things, whether the People With Kids believe it or not. I will never enjoy talking about diaper genies and the latest invention created to make parenthood easier. I will, however, speak of sexually deviant practices with whomever is interested, even when my waistline is 57″.  I am not complaining about where my future is headed in the least, only stating how perturbed I am that having my head in a toilet has kept me from doing the things I wanted in the last weeks.

P.S. The ultrasound specialist assures me that my baby’s lack of legs and arms is a natural thing at this point. I pray he’s not just placating me.

A Letter To My Baby

Dear Baby,

I would have addressed my letter “Dear Little Bastard”, but there are those who might have taken offense. Luckily, I am your momma, and shall teach you to have a great sense of humor, and to never be ashamed of who and what you are.

So, hello, baby. I’ve been waiting a really long time to be able to write a letter to you. You would think I’d have given a bit more thought to what I would write, but considering that I never actually thought I’d have an opportunity to write such a letter, you will understand my faltering. It seems very cliche’, but I love you, baby. I’ve loved you for a very long time.

I promise you will be the most loved baby there ever was, (I know that seems pretentious, but you will learn soon enough that I am very exactly that). And don’t worry, I promise to teach you what pretentious means, and how to spell it, because I don’t want you to be one of those silly people who only use simple words and nod stupidly when educated people talk to you. You will know many many things, and the things I cannot teach you, you will learn from other people who love you dearly, like Auntie Delightful, who will be your Fairy Godmother, and who did a happy dance in public when your existence was confirmed; she will teach you all about poetry and to love books like I will, and she will never run out of crafts for you two to o together. And my godmother Auntie, who has been waiting for you for a long time too. She will teach you to accept everybody, and to be kind to people you don’t necessarily understand, and, if you ask her to, she will teach you to quilt beautiful quilts that will keep people you love warm.

Your daddy will love you too, even though he might not say it. (You and I will get him to eventually, though, I know it.) He will teach you all about music, and how important it is, and how rockers wearing women’s makeup is not only funny, but very cool. He will also take you to car races, and watch football with you, and will play with you even though he is kind of old, and really just wants to take a nap. Don’t get mad when he doesn’t respond to all your questions- he doesn’t have as many words to use as I do; but that just means you have to listen closely when he does talk.

I have always hoped you would be a boy, because dinosaurs are so much cooler than Barbies, and teenage boys are less of a pain in the ass than teen girls. But if you are a girl, I will teach you to love dinosaurs anyway, and to not be a pain in the ass.

The most important thing you need to know is that life is beautiful, and all people are beautiful in their own way, so you need to treat them like they are special, because they are someone’s baby, too. Also, God is a cool Guy, but He sometimes will do things you don’t understand just because He can; don’t get discouraged, because you are tougher than anything He will throw at you.

I’m sure there will be many more letters for you, baby, but for now, I should really work on my book, so I will have more time and money to spend on you when you get here.

Love You Forever,

Mommy

642 Things To Write About #3 : Three People

Once again, a day of being uninspired, so on to number 3!

Describe three people (one might be you) at three ages looking at things they shouldn’t be looking at.

Of course one of them is me! Probably, I would say, all three of them is me, but I was actually not the first person I thought of when I read this prompt.

As my Rockstar is getting on to a more seasoned age, it has come to my attention that his propensity for looking at fine ass has remained untainted. As much as I would like to say he has eyes only for my ass, I am not so naïve to believe he is that unmanned (His balls remain firmly attached to himself, and NOT in a jar I keep on my shelf). Boys like to look, and as I myself enjoy the sport of ogling hot women, I completely understand. However, I do not wish my boyfriend to be the pervy old dude young chics whisper about behind their hands when we’re out and about. So, I must train him to be not quite so obvious about his gawking. (Which may prove harder than first thought considering that eyesight is one of those things that doesn’t age so well…)

The second person I suppose shall be me, as this is my blog. I shall speak of two ages of me, so as better to acquaint you with myself.

I seem to recall a time long long ago when I was maybe 7 or 8, when my friend (who was a few years older than me) and I made a habit of paging through her dad’s collection of Playboy and Hustler. While I found this act to be highly entertaining, it’s probably safe to say at such a young age, I should not have been looking at pictures of women seemingly saying, “Look at my pussy!”

As my Rockstar ages, so must I, and while the majority of older teen girls I see still look twelve to me, there is, on occasion, one or two that I find myself silently lusting after. Oddly enough, teen boys still look like ten-year-olds to me. I believe a rewrite of Lolita with lesbian proclivities might be very interesting. (To be clear, I’ve no intentions of ever acting on such feelings of lasciviousness. I remain a pervy old lady from afar.)

Finally, I shall mention my Rockstar’s Daughter. As I am the adult (haha, that’s still so funny to me!) in charge of her in the day, I should probably be editing what she watches on Netflix. Since her dad allows her to watch a surprising collection of PG13 movies (including Without a Paddle) even though she is not yet thirteen, I see no reason why she cannot watch Supernatural. (Though from what I’ve seen, it’s kinda scary for a kid.)  Whatever the case, nothing’s as scary as all the fucked-up shit she sees when she goes to her mom’s house. I believe hearing her mom threaten to call the cops on her half-sister is more damaging that anything she’d find on Netflix.

Click heres for #1 and #2.

642 Things To Write About #2: Trouble

Since it has been many moons since my last blog post, and I am feeling completely uninspired at the moment (due to the somewhat early hour of the day), I have decided to take another writing prompt from my handy book 642 Things to Write About. This shall be the second time I’ve used this lovely little writing aid, as the first time is posted HERE. My topic for the day?

Five things that always get you into trouble.

I’m sure that if I answer this with no filter, I will get into trouble. Is that what this question is supposed to do, I wonder?

Well, here goes….

1. My mouth.

And not even in the way you pervs are thinking, so get your mind out of the gutter! Ok, well, maybe in the past my mouth has gotten me in trouble that way…. but anyhoo, I digress. What I meant to say was, my mouth is like a moving box that’s been crushed and mangled and used one too many times. No matter how much you tape it up and try to get stuff to stay put inside it, stuff just continues to fall out, even when you put your hands over the top of it. Maybe it’s not such a huge deal now, but damn. I’m fucked if I ever become famous. Prepare yourselves for the continuous controversy of Shit Sparkle Said. I just hope people don’t despise me as much as I despise Kanye West.

2. My boobs.

You knew it was coming. Need I explain? Excessive boobage has caused dispute throughout history. Just look at Marilyn Monroe, Sophia Loren, and Anne Boleyn. Ok, that last one was a guess, but it is probably a good assumption that a well-endowed chest had something to do with Henry VIII’s decision to renounce Catholicism and dump his first wife.

3. My histrionic personality.

Which causes me to flirt incessantly, even with people I don’t necessarily find attractive, which in turn causes feelings of adoration and infatuation to fester into feelings of malice and hostility in people unlucky enough to wander through my fickle attentions. I would not consider  myself a heartbreaker, but I’ve certainly pulverized a few.

4. My book addiction.

And my shoe addiction. Which have both been detrimental to my wallet. Luckily, I have never suffered from buyer’s remorse.

5. I suppose, my blog.

Having been fired the one and only time in my life because of my online writing, and having appalled my parents and perhaps a countless slew of others, it is safe to say that my blog may justly be included in the list of five.

 

Smell

If you were to ask me

“What is your favorite smell?”

I would smile,

and offer you a seat.

Such business

should not be discussed

in haste.

You would look at me

in disgust, maybe,

when I begin with,

“Raw onions and horses.”

It cannot be helped.

I wish I lived in the age of the

Wild Wild West,

just so I could bury my nose in

my trusty steed’s dust-filled mane.

There’s really no explanation for the onions.

I continue,

“When you’re performing some monotonous task,

like grocery shopping,

and a man, (or a woman) walks by

smelling of sensuous perfume,

and the only thing you want to do is

trail behind them throughout the store,

just so you can get one more whiff.”

You nod, and smile,

we are on the same page now.

The words fall out of me now.

“The smell of last night’s sex

when you wake up.

The odor of lilies on a breeze

when you walk through Gramma’s garden.

Burger King, and McDonald’s, and even White Castle,

when you drive by them starving.

Puppy breath, and baby breath,

both horrible, really,

until you connect them with

innocence and everything good

left in the world.

Bleach,

because it’s clean.

Mud,

because it’s dirty.

Old people,

who were once young,

and the smell of my lover’s skin.”

You laugh,

because you never expected

such a simple question,

to have such a complicated answer.

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.

 

 

 

The Goose and the Gander

After a lovely day of bitching in the park and eating not-so-scrumptious wings at B-dubs with the lovely Cat Woman, I have decided to manufacture a silly little tale based off of our observations of geese and men today. So grab a bottle of Jack and have a seat.

Once upon a time, there was a gander (Sidenote: I have just discovered that a gander is a male goose. I do not know why a female goose is still called just a goose. Sexism at it’s finest.)

This gander was very handsome, and had a long elegant neck. (As geese tend to have.) He spent his day strutting through the park, honking lasciviously at the females of his species, and hissing arrogantly at any humans who deemed themselves fit to try and feed him stale bread and sunflower seeds. The only people he let get close were the ones who offered dill pickle-flavored sunflower seeds, which, unbeknownst to him, caused the gander to have wretched breath.

The gander was wildly narcissistic, and would spend long hours gazing into the man-made pond in the middle of town at the reflection of  his beautiful neck, sticking it out this way and that, and posing for the womanly geese that wandered past. There were a group of the females who fawned over the gander (as much as geese can fawn), but the gander would simply fertilize their eggs and then never honk at them again. (Sidenote: geese generally mate for life; another nature fact I have just learned.) The female geese were so busy caring for their fertilized eggs that they didn’t have time to warn other innocent geese of the gander’s shameful behavior.

One day, as the gander was doing a yoga-like pose as he peed, he caught sight of a goose he hadn’t yet pillaged. He stretched his long neck out while he finished his business, hoping the goose would notice how impressive and long it was (hee hee). He was so busy trying to impress the goose, that he failed to notice the naughty little boy who was running towards him. Before he knew what was happening, the gander found a grubby little fist wrapped around his prized neck, and he felt a yucky snap. He found himself looking down at the ground, unable to hold his little head upright, before the boy’s mother yelled at him and he was flung to the ground. The little boy ran off, and the gander was left honking and hissing, never even noticing the feather that was stuff in his nose hole, making him even more absurd.

From then on, the vain gander wandered through the park with a broken neck, which made his head to wobble unsteadily on his once-beloved neck, causing him to look a little bit demented.

The moral of the story: Don’t rubberneck at dames, you may end up without your most valuable asset.

“Lieb”-erate Me

 

 

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

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

11 Facts:

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

Now I will answer the questions asked of me.

My 11 Questions:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A zombie apocalypse.

5. Why to number 4?

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

6. Pop Tarts or Toaster Strudel?

Toaster Strudel, because they are so flakily delicious.

7. Favorite smell?

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

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

The power of seduction.

9.What is your worst habit?

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End

 

A Break From Monday

 

I began today with a to-do list of unending proportions. I have accomplished eight of the fourteen things on my list, (because I did, indeed, write an actual list for the day) and have decided that’s about enough work for now. So, as I logged into my blog account, I thought to myself, “Self! What better way to relax than to write some good old-fashioned smut?!”  What an excellent idea! I know I’ve said it before, but let me just give Mr. Grey and his Fifty Shades a run for his ill-earned money:

 

I remembered my training- how it felt when the cool links of the silver choke chain tightened around my neck, and how Professor’s massive hand spread across my exposed rear felt red-hot as he chastised me after I’d been too eager when I’d had him in my mouth. My refusal to stop fellatio had caused him to spend himself more quickly than he’d wanted, and I drank him in hungrily before he pushed me away. I saw the lust and indignation mingled in his eyes just before the leash connected to my collar was yanked forcefully forward, making my behind the perfect distance away for a good beating. The spanking wasn’t the reason I’d disobeyed him, though it was delicious in its agony, but what came after that I’d been insubordinate for. Professor always felt contrite after his punishments, and the severe hands that administered such harsh disciplines were as equally tender afterward.

That had been Professor’s flaw.

The chain around my neck was the same, a gift from Professor. He’d lowered it over my head that final day, and as the links fell cold around my collarbone, Professor had twisted the end loop around his meaty fingers slowly until it was cutting off my air. I’d hoped for one last time with him, a farewell, and my body responded as it had so many times before. Professor looked into my eyes, and I saw the almost imperceptible smile touch the corner of his well-formed lips. He knew his effect on me. He had taught me well.

He whispered in my ear, and his breath burned like fire on my skin, igniting an invisible trail of sensual gunpowder down the length of my body.

“Do not shame me.”

I would not. But the curiosity of what such brazenness would bring was always in the back of my mind. With my new master, I knew the chastening would be exquisite torture.

He stood before me now as I knelt, my leash lying loose in his hand. He saw me looking at it, waiting for his fist to close and the length of it to tighten, but instead, he dropped it.

No, this one would not feel contrition.

I think I made a small whimper when I realized it, which made him smile wickedly. Professor had said he was a venerable master, and I had not doubted it. I knew the satisfaction would be superb, but I could tell already that the waiting would be excruciating.

“Come here.” His voice was liquid-smooth, a deep sound that washed over me. I crawled forward, feeling a void at the end of my leash where a hand should have been. I kept my eyes downcast.

“Look at me.” His hand, the one that had dropped the end of my leash, cupped my chin and pulled it up until I saw his eyes gazing into my own. They were blue. The blue of an icy winter sky.

“You will look at me while you please me.”

This was new. A master had never before required such a thing. I did as he said.

 

 

A Farewell to Maya Angelou

My heart is breaking.

It seems silly, to say such a thing because someone you’ve never met has passed away.

But here I sit, silent tears pouring down my face. Tears for the magnificent collection of words that will no longer be sculpted and forged by your contemplative hands.

I see them, all those syllables, lying in a heap at my feet, and think that they look just a little bit forlorn, knowing they were not the chosen ones to be plucked for your masterpieces.

Of course, now that you are gone, you will be wildly popular.

It always vexes me that so many are paid attention to so greatly in death.

People will say, “Oh! Have you read all of her memoirs? She was quite a woman. Phenomenal, in fact.”

I will shake my head, not because the answer is no, but because I have known these things far longer than they, and am sorry they have lost out on all that time they too could have known your words.

You were proud, and not afraid to say so, yet you prayed for humility.

I will feed your ego now, and not fault you if you strut around arrogantly just a little bit in Heaven.

I am afraid there will never be another like you.

Someone who is so unapologetically truthful, and unconventionally beautiful.

Someone who will say words just as they are thought, but in such a way that causes a violent reaction, one of delight, or love, or anger, or wistfulness.

I will forever be sorry I never had the honor of meeting you, and hope that one day in the future, when I pass through those Pearly Gates, I might see you nod your head at me, just so I know that you know I heard you.

XOXO

From one Phenomenal Woman to Another