Sandra Lee is the Key to Internet Popularity. Also, Wankers!

I am not at all interested in blog traffic. To those people who have read Sparkles Plenty with any degree of regularity, this will come as no surprise. I only write when some random thought pops into my head that prompts me to interrupt my customary lazy, do-nothing pursuits long enough to pound away at the keyboard and post my fool-headed thoughts. I never intended anyone to actually read this little thing anyway, and with the exception of my husband, no one I know is even aware it exists. So imagine my surprise when I started getting emails from people who had read what I’d written. Who were these people, and what in the world prompted them to type in www.sparklesplenty.blogspot.com? I could understand the traffic if I’d named the thing freevacations.com, loseweightwithoutdieting.com, or parishiltonisastupidwhore.com, but I couldn’t figure out how something so bizarrely named that I’d deliberately tried to keep secret ended up getting found. Eventually I gave up the fight for anonymity and quit trying to be all cagey and shit. If people wanted to read it, they were welcome to. Besides, it’s not like I had a say in the matter since I put it on the freaking internet, for pete’s sake. But as time has gone on, I’ve truly come to enjoy reading the emails and comments. Anonymous camaraderie can be oddly reassuring. And while I still don’t give a good goddamn how many people read this website, I do find it interesting to see how they end up here.

I know that there are a lot of blog-type people who really encourage readership, so to them I am about the unload a precious, secret nugget of promotion: Write about Sandra Lee. I cannot tell you how many Google searches regarding Ms Lee resulted in people visiting Sparkles Plenty. (Although there was someone who did a search for “people I’d like to punch in the face,” and I have to say that if I weren’t married I’m pretty sure I would like to date that person.) Here are a few of the most entertaining searches:

Sandy likes to suck: After seeing several episodes of her show, I’d be inclined to agree, although I have a feeling this person had an entirely different maneuver in mind.

Sandra Lee appetizer wanker: Oh my sweet lord. If there’s an hors d’oeuvre out there called a wanker, I want to know about it, and I want to know about it right now, people! I cannot imagine a scenario more spectacular than to carry around a tray of those at my next dinner party and ask each guest, “Wanker?”

Sandra Lee cans: Aw, come on. You don’t need the internet for that. Just tune in to her show and if she’s wearing a tight sweater or – God forbid – a tank top, those prodigious cans will be on full Technicolor display.

Sandra Lee nuts turd: I’m not sure what to make of this one. I’m repulsed, yet fascinated… all at the same time!

So there you have it. Sandra Lee is the ticket to increased website traffic. You can thank me later, because right now I have some wanker recipes to look for.

Some Stupid Bug Bit Me on the Ass

So I'm sitting outside tonight, admiring the evening sky, enjoying a scrumptious adult beverage and generally minding my own business when I'm subjected to an aerial assault by some America-hating evildoer. Oh, alright. A lightning bug flew into my face, but it was terrifying nonetheless. Worse still, it caught me mid-drink, caused me to semi-choke when my delicious cocktail went down the wrong way, and resulted in a body-racking coughing fit. In the midst of said fit I thrashed about in my chair while my body tried to prevent death by vodka-choking. Unfortunately, this caused close contact of my body with the all areas of the chair, so about this time some wretched bastard of an insect decided to take a bite out of my ass. I jumped out of the chair, tripped over a stray flower pot, knocked over a tiki torch, and finally managed to keep from falling over the side of the deck by desperately clutching railing, but in this process I managed to knock my tasty beverage off the deck, spilling it in places where only squirrels could enjoy. Dejected, I stood among the deck wreckage, observed the carnage surrounding me, and put my hand down the back of my shorts to locate to source of this heartache and misery. I found nothing. The bastard had escaped!

I have since located my trusty can of Raid and am about to venture back outside to annihilate this bug with extreme prejudice. Since it was probably an ant I imagine I have a long night of scouring ahead of me. But somewhere out there is a pismire with a gobfull of my nether regions, and it will be found. And then it will pay.

All I know is that if I had my own personal bat colony I wouldn't have to deal with this nonsense.

Siesta: Now That's An Idea We Can Get Behind

I’ll be taking The Cousin out for a day on the town later this week. He is visiting from out-of-state and, being a man of eclectic tastes, he’s all about touring downtown Nashville and then driving around to see where his country music heroes live. I will do my best to be an adequate tour guide, but since my knowledge of the subject extends only as far as the children of famous people with whom I used to ride the school bus, he might be in for a disappointing afternoon.

But here’s what will make it interesting: while my cousin and I share a common maternal ancestry, we couldn’t look much more different. We both take after our fathers, so that means I am a super-white honky who can glow in the dark, while he inherited the rich coloring of his Mexican and Native American ancestors. And because he lives in inner-city Los Angeles, he has that urban, streetwise look, if you know what I mean. And I think you do. He is a big Spanish-speaking fella with large tattoos and a dark complexion, and his appearance alone spells “hoodlum” to a lot of middle-American folks. He is the person that People Who Love America are trying to protect our society from, because if we don’t do something quick, before you know it we’ll all be forced to eat tamales and smash piñatas, the English language will disappear from the face of the earth, and then the terrorists will have won, people!

Anyway, he has his heart set on taking a tour of the Ryman Auditorium, and I’m already looking forward to the reaction we’ll get from the tour guide when big Hispanic dude with skull tattoos walks in to the Mecca of country music. The "gangsta" who knows more about bluegrass than should be allowed by law will school them on all the country music greats, while Little Miss Caucasian asks if Pearl Jam ever stood on that stage and if so, could she please smell Eddie Vedder’s dressing room?

Ah, this is going to be good times.

I'd Like to Punch Sandra Lee in the Face

I am full of love for the Food Network. I started watching it in its infancy many years ago when it was only viewed by stupid geeks. Of course this means that I too am a stupid geek, but I've known that for years and have come to terms with it quite nicely.

Anyway, I learned to cook by observing my mother, if by "cook" you mean boil water and open cans. It was quite common for her to cook a pound of pasta, open a couple cans of tomatoes, mix the two on the stove, and call it dinner. For extra variety we might have some bread and butter, or maybe some salt.

Once I grew up and had to do my own grocery shopping, I became painfully aware of how lame my culinary life had been. I'd admire shelves of exotic ingredients and listen to people discuss chicken stuffed with prosciutto and whether it would be better grilled or broiled, all while I shuffled along the grocery aisles looking for discounted cans of Chef Boyardee. I wanted to be one of Those People who could cook with ingredients that didn't require a can opener. So when I encountered the Food Network, I knew it was my express ticket to Gourmet Town.

My favorite of the Food Network people is Ina Garten, aka Barefoot Contessa. Not only are her recipes superfantastic, but when I watch her show I can fantasize about living a glorious life in The Hamptons surrounded by a posse of gay men who delight in telling me how fabulous I am while they organize jaunty flower arrangements. Unfortunately, for every Ina Garten there's a wanker like Bobby Flay, and don't even get me started on him. But the most offensive of all is Sandra "Semi-Homemade" Lee, who is in a ridiculous, inept league of her own.

I remember watching with slack-jawed horror as Sandy prepared an "Indian dinner" using Uncle Ben's rice, jarred gravy, and half a seasoning packet. Now don't get me wrong. When you're as lazy as I am you appreciate a good shortcut in the kitchen. But combining powdered sloppy joe mix and a can of condensed soup to make gazpacho is not a method of cooking that should be encouraged. We may do it from time to time, but we do it behind closed doors so that we can keep our shame there. Of course Sandy likes to tell everyone that "they can take the credit without doing any of the work!" by using store-bought ingredients, but when you make chili using jarred spaghetti sauce and a package of taco seasoning the only thing you're going to be taking is the blame for a hideous meal. And this critique is coming from a woman who grew up eating macaroni and tomatoes.

I used to watch Sandra Lee's show for the sheer trainwreck factor, but eventually the morbid curiosity wasn't enough to keep me coming back for more punishment. A few months ago, however, I was cruising through the channels when I saw that Sandy was going to make a Kwanzaa Celebration Cake. I'm always up for a little enlightenment, and since I am descended from a long line of lily-white crackers, Kwanzaa is something I know very little about. If there was a traditional cake, I wanted to know about it. Sure, it would be the crapped-up, bastardized, Sandra Lee version, but I'd still pick up a little bit of cultural knowledge. I settled in for some Semi-Homemade insight into African customs.

Sandy started off with store-bought angel food cake. While that didn't strike me as inherently ethnic, I stuck with her. After slathering the whole cake with canned frosting (but it had cocoa added to it to get rid of that packaged taste -- thanks Sandy!) she proceeded to dump a can of apple pie filling in the center. To top the whole thing off, she sprinkled the top of the cake with roasted pumpkin seeds, popcorn, and corn nuts. Corn nuts, people. Bitch is crazy. She proudly finished the monstrosity off by inserting some festive Kwanzaa candles, but since you can't polish a turd that was just a waste of some perfectly good candles.



I still don't know much about Kwanzaa, but I'm betting twenty bucks that no one in or from Africa eats that garbage. And I hope the proud African people rise up and give Sandy the beatdown she so richly deserves. Afterwards they can come over to my house, where there will be macaroni and tomatoes for everyone.