Sparkles Plenty

Ten Years

2011-09-04T18:41:00.000-07:00

[I am writing this at the behest of a dear friend who is compiling people's reflections, thoughts, and feelings on 9/11 ten years later. I look forward to seeing what others write, and am honored that he asked me to participate. Update: To see the finished project, please visit http://www.theneonlounge.com/2011/09/11/september-11th-2001-where-were-you/ . It's well worth your time.]

The morning of September 11, 2001, I received a frantic phone call from my mother. My aunt, who had been visiting Nashville for a few weeks, had boarded a plane earlier that morning to return to Los Angeles. Within a few minutes of her departure, news had broken that someone had flown a plane into one of the World Trade Center towers. Details were still very sketchy at that point but it's fair to say that Mom was freaking the fuck out. I calmed her down the best I could, pointing out that Nashville was a long way from New York. Certainly this was just some sort of freak accident that, while decidedly unfortunate, was going to end up being little more than a blip on the American Tragedy Radar. I hung up the phone and chuckled to myself that some poor bastard had gotten loaded, taken off in his Cessna, and John Denvered himself into the side of the World Trade Center. And then I heard that the second tower had been hit. Hmm. Maybe my drunken pilot hypothesis had a couple holes.

As more details emerged, my brain slowly began to register the horror and magnitude of what was taking place. Like the rest of us I was sickened by what I saw on the television. The jets flying into the skyscrapers. The towers engulfed in flames. The sight of the people who jumped out of the buildings, deciding in their final seconds of life that it was better to leave this world by diving hundreds of feet onto cement than by being burned alive in a crumbling prison of concrete and steel. I cannot fathom what must have been going through the minds of those in the towers, as well as those who were on the planes; the crushing dread and despair of knowing that they would never see or speak to their loved ones again. Knowing their children would have to grow up without a parent, their wife would -- within a matter of minutes -- be a widow. The grandchildren they'd never meet, the mother to whom they would never be able to say "I love you" ever again. I simply cannot imagine how that must have felt, but I don't really want to try, either. And those men and women who ran into the fire -- literally and figuratively -- to save others? The word "hero" is not big enough.

The horror of that day has been well-documented by much better writers than I so there is no need for me to elaborate further, and political responses to the attacks of 9/11 are best left to those with more knowledge than I possess. But speaking as Random Jane Q. Public, I must admit that I'm frustrated by our collective apathy with regard to the world that exists outside our borders. Via a National Geographic study, I present Exhibit A:

"The survey demonstrates the geographic illiteracy of the United States," said Robert Pastor, professor of International Relations at American University, in Washington, D.C. "The results are particularly appalling in light of September 11, which traumatized America and revealed that our destiny is connected to the rest of the world."

About 11 percent of young citizens of the U.S. couldn't even locate the U.S. on a map. The Pacific Ocean's location was a mystery to 29 percent; Japan, to 58 percent; France, to 65 percent; and the United Kingdom, to 69 percent.

One in ten can't find the US on a map? Oh, that's just spectacular. Almost one in three can't find the Pacific Ocean. How is this even possible? It takes up like a quarter of the entire planet or some such shit. Yet if you asked the typical American about Kim Kardashian -- the undeniably attractive yet equally undeniably vapid young woman who has managed to parlay getting peed on in a sex tape into fame and fortune -- they could tell you all about her business. Christ on a cracker, is it any wonder the rest of the world hates us?

Don't get me wrong, I'm not blaming the 9/11 attacks on Kim Kardashian (although there's a part of me that wishes I could -- I'm not gonna lie) but at some point we as Americans have to acknowledge our own shortcomings as well as those of our government. We've heard statistics like those previously mentioned; we've seen them among American beauty pageant contestants who blame the ills of the world on a lack of maps. And we respond with the occasional rueful headshake and What-can-you-do? shrug. We have devolved into a society that not only accepts ignorance but passively encourages it. (Sarah Palin, anyone? Because come on, no matter what your political ideology this is a woman who has built her political foundation on quips, winks, homespun folksiness, and general likability instead of her firm grasp of foreign and domestic policy.)

George W. Bush's response to the American people after 9/11 was that "Al Queda hates us because of our freedom." This, to me, ranks up at the top of the list of his ludicrous statements, and I will admit that in my estimation that is a very long list indeed. But I think it would have been much more accurate had Bush admitted that in the early 1990's the American government had encouraged the people of the Middle East to revolt and promised them our support. We told them we had their backs. They revolted, we helped them out for a little while, and then we bugged the fuck out of there leaving them holding the bag. People were subsequently raped, tortured and murdered, banished from their homeland, left to starve, and, in possession of precisely nothing, forced to try to make their way in the wilds of Afghanistan. America was all, "We got what we wanted, mostly, so thanks! Good luck to ya! Oh, and God Bless!"

Um, I don't think it was "freedom" that caused them to hate us, President W. There are many other nations who have similar freedoms that are not the targets of animosity. Belgium? Canada? Sweden? The Netherlands? Portugal? Switzerland? Brazil? All free nations, last I checked. Yet when he made that ridiculous proclamation an alarming percentage of Americans rallied around it, accepting it as truth because, after all, it was just those dirty backward Muslims, jealous of our televisions and air-conditioning and crazy voting ways, that felt compelled to pilot a jet into the side of a building on the other side of the world.

There are people who would love nothing more than to witness America's destruction. There were a few on 9/11 who managed to carry out a plan designed to do that very thing. I hope that as I write this those people are battling explosive diarrhea in the deepest pits of toilet-less hell along with the likes of Pol Pot, Idi Amin, and Hitler while waiting for their lapdances from some non-existent celestial virgins. I hope their time in eternity is filled with the misery and grief they wrought on so many others who were guilty of nothing but trying to live their lives the best they could. I hope there is nothing to eat in hell but head cheese and brussels sprouts.

I will not defend the indefensible. The actions of 9/11 were at the hand of a group of evil zealots with no regard for human life. Their hatred is unimaginable to me. But that hatred came from somewhere. Bin Laden and his ilk planted the seed, and those who perpetrated the attacks allowed it to grow. But there had to be soil for it to take root, and it is incredibly disheartening to me that -- while I am certain our government didn't knowingly cause these problems -- it contributed to them.

We must acknowledge that there is a world outside our country, a world that -- contrary to what the former President said -- doesn't give a shit about our nice cars, leather handbags, or some skank that gets pissed on on camera.

We have to wake up. We owe it to those who died ten years ago. They deserve better.

I Have Some Spectacular News!

2009-07-12T21:16:00.000-07:00

Oh my, it's been so long.

Well, anyway! What's new, you whores? Not much has changed here in Chateau de Sparkles. The Mister and I continue to work our delicate fingers to the bone every day, although now that I think of it my husband would probably not appreciate having his hands referred to as delicate, so let's call his manly. Mine are delicate. Delicate like rose petals. The cats are doing well and are probably planning their next MMA encounter as we speak. Most of the time they toddle around doing their own thing, but every once in a while it's like a bell rings somewhere in the distance, a bell only the two of them can hear, and then it's ON. Chasing, pouncing, stalking, followed by more chasing and pouncing, and then the occasional throttling. Then they retreat to their separate corners and take naps like nothing ever happened. Now that it's summer their sparring sessions have decreased in frequency which is just fine since they often occur around 4 o'clock in the morning. Mama needs her beauty sleep. Mama needs more than sleep actually, but that's really another story.

Ah, summertime. Which brings me to a very exciting development here in SparklesLand. We have an abundance of wildlife here, despite the fact that we're in a pretty urban area. There are a bunch of birds and squirrels, and I have managed to make friends with members of both species! There's a little gray bird who hangs around our deck and pecks away at the birdseed we've put out. Other birds do that too of course, but this particular one doesn't mind me being outside while she does it. She chows down equally well solo or with an audience. Either she's not afraid of people or she's really goddamn hungry. Either way she is now my new animal friend, and her name is Gertie. There's also a very young squirrel who shares Gertie's lack of shyness and/or overwhelming hunger, and I had a nice conversation with her today as she gnawed on some sunflower seeds right in front of me. No, I wasn't drunk. And I have named her Bonita. But the best thing of all is that I'm pretty sure I've seen a bat flying around!

I've written before about my desire to establish my own personal bat colony but geography and environment have conspired to keep that dream unrealized. But the other evening I was sitting outside trying to attract some new animal friends when out of the corner of my eye I saw the frenetic fluttering of a small animal in the sky. My heart wouldn't let me believe it at first. I was trying to talk myself out of it. Maybe it was a drunk bird? A robin hooked on meth? A crow who had smoked too much bad shit? But no! It was a bat... I was sure of it! I sat and thought what I could do at that very moment to encourage it to keep fluttering around my backyard, disposing of all the mosquitoes that I'd coated myself in DEET to repel. Would it like an old banana? Some rotting meat? I didn't know! What do bats really like? What is their equivalent of beer and nachos? In the end I decided to put it into Mother Nature's hands and let the chips fall where they may. I sure hope that bitch is my friend.

So, that about wraps it up. You are probably astounded right now by my exciting life on the edge and feeling a bit dejected about your own lackluster existence. Please do not feel that way. I promise you that stalking bats and talking to indigenous rodents is not as exciting as it may sound.

Sorry it's been so long since I've posted anything, but living the life of a daredevil requires a great deal of time. Oh, before I forget! Some have asked why I'm not on Twitter. Well, I AM, my bitches! I have been for a while actually but never did anything with it. I still don't do THAT much with it since I refuse to be that guy who posts about what they're cooking for dinner or how sunburned their nose got while they were gardening. I've only recently started "twittering" on a semi-regular basis (oh my sweet lord kill me now) and those are still pretty few and far between. But if you're so inclined you can follow me here. I can't promise much, but I'll definitely post more there than I do here.

Until next time, whores. xoxo

Conversations Around the Campfire Part I

2009-04-26T20:11:00.000-07:00

This weekend The Mister and I went camping with some of our closest friends. Naturally we sat around the campfire and drank booze a great deal of the time, and you can probably imagine the conversations that ensued amongst our dumb asses. To wit:

Friend: What kind of tree is that? Is that an oak? An elm? I can't tell from this distance.

The Mister: It's an oak. Very tall, very straight. That's our family motto! "Be as the oak: strong and upright."

Me: Huh? Your family has its own motto?

The Mister: On my father's side, yes.

Me: A family motto! Wow. That's kind of hardcore.

The Mister: Well, your family might have one too. If they did, what do you think it would be?

Me: "Pass the gravy."

The Sobbing Commences In 3... 2...

2009-03-09T15:55:00.000-07:00

Ok, so on a scale of 1-10 how much have you missed me? No, negative integers are not an option here, bitches!

Anyway, my posting has become more and more sporadic, and that trend will undoubtedly continue for the foreseeable future. As it turns out things like "work" and "family" and "booze" take up a lot of my time. Oh, and I've also become a complete Facebook whore. I don't know how it happened and I'm not particularly proud of it but there you go. At least I have the knowledge that I never dipped my toe into the cesspool that is MySpace to cling to as I wave goodbye to what little dignity I have left.

So any of you who know me "in real life" (ugh, it keeps getting worse) are welcome to look me up on Facebook where I will continue to spout my stupid nonsense. I'll still dabble here from time to time, but I have no idea when I'll have more bullshit to post so don't email me. Really. I know you'll be lost without me, but try to hold it together.

A Random Thought While Watching The Fiesta Bowl

2009-01-05T17:01:00.000-08:00

I'm thinking that if you are a male member (hee!) of a university marching band flag-twirling brigade it would probably be easier just to walk around campus naked except for a fringed leather vest and some lace chaps. I mean you'd be sending the same message, but it's a lot less effort.

My Holiday Gift To You

2008-12-31T12:31:00.000-08:00

Anyone who reads this website with any degree of regularity can tell you about my bizarre, completely unwarranted fascination with Sandra Lee. Over two years ago I wrote about how she should be punched in the face because of her horrifying Kwaanza celebration cake, which has been referred to by others as an "edible hate crime." There's no way my words can do justice to that repugnant piece of crap, so I've decided to provide you with the visual. I just watched it and when it got to the part where she was sticking the candles in the cake I laughed so hard I choked on my apple juice. That bitch is out of her gourd.

I'm Not Dead, I'm Just In Virginia

2008-12-20T19:23:00.000-08:00

You have probably been thinking that I am dead. I am not. Yay!

I would just like to say that I have been drinking a fair amount of vodka, so please cut me some slack.

Ok! So, anyway... one of the reasons I've been so horrible about writing is that something screwed up the keyboard on my laptop. I don't know what happened, but some of the keys got all sticky and wouldn't work. I'm pretty sure I didn't spill anything on it, so as far as I'm concerned the only logical explanation is that one of my glorious little feline princesses peed on my computer. That isn't really a good explanation since neither one of them tinkles indiscriminately but I am refusing to accept the blame for any computer keyboard destruction so I am going to pin it on something that can't argue. But The Mister bought and installed a new keyboard for me a few days ago, so watch out bitches!

The other reason for my lack of writing is the fact that I am a lazy old cow. But let's not dwell on that fact, shall we?

Anyway, there's not much to report. At present I am sitting in a hotel suite in Roanoke VA with my husband and his two sons who are here for the holidays. Number One Son (who is on his "gap year" - the year between high school and college) has spent the last year in Europe wreaking havoc that I am much happier not knowing about, despite my partial funding of it. Like when he called from Amsterdam pleading for money and I said "Send it to him but for the love of Christ don't tell me what he's going to spend it on." And Number Two Son came over directly from his home in Australia. His mischief has all been local up to this point because he hasn't invaded Europe yet but that day is coming soon. Europe, before too long you'll have an exuberant consumption machine who spends most of his time eating, farting, and trying to score booze. You'll probably want to prepare yourself.

We spent some time at Pop's Sparkles in New Jersey and took the train into New York City where we trudged around in slush and tried to dodge freezing rain. I harumphed my way around Times Square, Madison Square Garden, and Rockefeller Plaza while being pelted in the face with freezing precipitation, but we grabbed some dogs at Nathan's and that made it all worth it. I know it's all eyelids and assholes, but hot damn! That's a good fucking hot dog.

So we're on our way home now, which will leave me with a total of three bastards who eat their weight in food every day while informing me that it's not to-MAY-toe, it's to-MAH-toe.

Bastards. It's going to be a long ass week.

An Ode To My Husband

2008-11-20T18:18:00.000-08:00

Following is a transcript of some of today's instant messages between me and a coworker:

Coworker: [Manager who shall not be named] wants to know if he can take a vacation day on Sunday. I've already got coverage for him but I told him we'd need your permission first.

Me: As long as there's coverage it's alright with me. Why does he need Sunday off?

CW: He's proposing to his girlfriend on Saturday night.

Me: In that case, tell his ass to get in here on Sunday so he can work toward paying off that freaking rock he just bought her.

CW: I know! He sprang for a real diamond and everything. What's wrong with cubic zirconia or pawnshops?

Me: He's so young and idealistic.

CW: After two failed marriages I can tell you that if I ever do it again I'll have my girlfriend collect aluminum cans. Then she can buy whatever ring she wants with the can money.

Me: You are so romantic.

CW: Maybe she'll bring candles so there will be some nice ambiance when I present her with a can of beanie weenies.

Me: You have the soul of a poet.

CW: If I'm in the right mood I might even buy name brand.

Me: Well, [The Mister] and I got married in a conference/storage room in a courthouse in Columbiana, Alabama. And then we stopped by Sonic for lunch on our way home to take a nap. You sound like my kind of people.

CW: Did you supersize anything?

Me: Just our love.

Calcium Is Important

2008-09-24T18:35:00.000-07:00

Sparkles phone: One ringy dingy

Me: Hello?

E: Oh doll. I have some horrible news.

Me: Oh sweet Jesus. What is it?

E: They're closing our Days Inn! It's going to be demolished and they're going to build a Whole Foods or something. I'm just sick.

Me: Uh... hmmmm.

E: Didn't you hear me? Don't you remember all the beautiful moments we've shared there?

Me: Well yeah, I guess. It is a pretty crappy hotel though. It always had that disinfectanty stale smell. Kind of like what your high school locker room smelled like after the janitor got done cleaning it. Like, I know you're trying and all, but there's only so much Pine Sol can do. You can't polish a turd and when the raw materials are so... OH MY GOD WHAT ABOUT JERRY GREEN AND FRIENDS!?!?!?!?!

E: Uh yeah... hello!

Me: If the Days Inn goes away that means there will be no Days Inn lounge. Where will Jerry Green and Friends spread their unique brand of musical magic?

E: I don't know! There aren't many places in Louisville that can accommodate that level of beauty. I can't even describe it...

Me: Well, take one part Morris Day, one part Barry White, and one part Julio Iglesias. Mix it all up and put it in a shiny suit. I think that comes pretty close.

E: You are such a hater. We had so many good times with Jerry and his friends.

Me: Yeah, we did. The campy entertainment quotient was off the charts. But it was kind of, uh, uncomfortable at times.

E: What the hell are you talking about?

Me: We kind of, uh, stood out in that crowd.

E: What?

Me: Oh come on. We were the only white people there. And we're whiter than most white people. We practically glow in the dark. We were definitely not the most well-represented demographic.

E: Everyone was always so nice to us!

Me: Yes they were! But you've got to admit that we seemed out of place. Everyone thought so. You remember the waitress we had the last time we were there? Even she asked us if we were lost. And she was so... hard to watch.

E: Shut up! Bessie was good people.

Me: Yeah she was, but seeing that poor frail lady try to hoist trays of drinks to serve to drunk assholes like us? Her golden years -- and her back -- deserved better.

E: I did want to give her a glass of milk and a Boniva. Poor Bessie. But we did have fun. Remember that one time my husband passed out and went to bed and we stayed in the bar and that drunk guy started hitting on us?

Me: And you told him we were lesbian lovers? And then he said that he'd give all the money in his wallet to come back to our room and watch? And he stayed and talked to us for almost an hour while repeatedly adjusting the front of his Sans-A-Belt pants? Yeah, that was great.

E: But then he went to the bathroom and never came out. I'll bet he passed out and ended up sleeping with his face in a puddle of urine.

Me: Maybe that was why he was so fond of polyester pants. Totally wash and wear. That's probably a pretty handy quality for the man on the go who occasionally sleeps on the floor of a public restroom.

E: Oh, I'm going to miss that place. The high school prom decorations, waitresses with degenerative osteoporosis, the beautiful 80's love ballads sung by Jerry Green and Friends, the smell of Pine Sol, and the drunk men in polyester pants.

Me: You're goddamn right, lady. Good times.

I Should Probably Be The Vice President

2008-09-05T18:39:00.000-07:00

I recently overheard a conversation between two women who were discussing Sarah Palin and why she would be a stellar vice president. One of them said she was going to vote Republican because Palin was "a hockey mom and hockey moms don't back down."

I've always known that the criteria for being a VP wasn't as rigid as it was for President, but apparently I had no idea! Now I know the office is open to just about anybody. As long as you don't go and do some bullshit like shoot someone in the face-- ok, bad example.

Anyway, now that all that has been cleared up, I know that I am supremely qualified to be your Vice President. Here is why I expect your vote in November:

1. I know how to drive a car.
2. I can open jars all by myself.
3. I always never forget to clean out the lint filter on the dryer.
4. My favorite soup is potato.
5. I don't spit when I talk. Usually.

There. I've laid it all out for you. I may not be a hockey mom but you can't deny I've got some goddamn great qualities. And I've never shot anyone in the face, either. Suck on that, Republicans.

I'm My Own Worst Enemy

2008-08-25T20:30:00.000-07:00

So... I haven't written anything here in quite a while, huh? I could offer any number of provocative reasons why, but the truth is that I'm one boring old skeezer. I like you people and don't see any reason to subject you to tales of why I changed my cats' brand of food or what I found when I cleaned under the seat of my car.

There's nothing exciting to report in the Land of Sparkles, and that's not necessarily a bad thing. Although I do have some sort of odd skin disorder, and I know you're dying to hear more about that so please allow me to grant your wishes and fill you in. I think it all started as bug bites of some variety but they're more itchy than your ordinary mosquito bites and apparently I get all OCD in my sleep and scratch and scratch until I draw blood. I do this every night which means that these goddamn things never heal, so now I look like I have full onset herpes, total body variety. And I was this close to whipping out my cell phone and taking pictures of my leg so you could witness the horror but I decided against it. You can thank me later. Anyway, I'm getting very frustrated by this and have been trying to figure out why the powers of the universe hate me. I have my flaws but I do try to be a good person, so what gives? Then I remembered that one night a couple weeks ago when I was watching the news they showed a mugshot of some dude who had been arrested for hoarding a HUGE number of animals. To call this mugshot unflattering would be like calling the Grand Canyon a hole in the dirt, and as soon as I saw it I laughed out loud, all "Sweet Jesus, back up the camera!" I know, I know. I'm going to hell, but it was a reaction. But then I found out that the dude had suffered burns all over his body while he was fighting in the Iraq war. Yes, I KNOW, but I swear he just looked like a huge dork with a bad haircut, not someone who'd suffered horrible injuries! You can't call me any names I didn't call myself, but goddamn... how long does my lovely alabaster complexion have to pay the price of my assholery?

So I ask you, what's the cure for my affliction? Vaseline? Baking soda? Neosporin? More vodka cocktails? I'm hoping it's the last one. I really don't want to have to wind up going to my doctor about this because she'll just complain about me not visiting her sooner and then she'll end up hating me just like God does. And the Veterans Administration.

My Last Words Will Probably Suck

2008-07-31T19:21:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I've written and you're probably wondering what my cats have been up to, and who could blame you? The short answer is not a hell of a lot. It's been business as usual where they are concerned, except for the fact that Gloria has managed to figure out how to eject discs from the Playstation. So on any random night at Casa Sparkles you'll see me rocking the fuck out on Guitar Hero, Maggie gnawing contentedly on the curtains, and Gloria batting the Playstation console with her paws until she manages to get the disc to pop out. When that happens she will glance up at me with a distinct look of smug satisfaction while I clutch my plasic toy guitar and wail about how I was this close to finishing Rocking Her Like A Hurricane. Maggie will pause, observe for a moment, and then resume chewing on the drapes.

In one of my more brilliant tactical maneuvers of late, when the time came for Maggie's annual shots and checkup I scheduled an appointment with a veterinarian who makes house calls. This probably wasn't really necessary since Maggie is essentially fearless and completely unfazed by visits to the vet office. But Gloria is a much more sensitive little beast and because she was so traumatized by her last visit that she shat herself right there in the waiting room I decided to give this new mobile vet a try. All went well and Maggie got a clean bill of health except that she was hosting a tapeworm. When the vet told me that I was so horrified that my knees buckled and I had to sit down. I remembered the tapeworm from the biology lab in college, the one so large that its preserved body could only be contained in one of those massive jars usually reserved for pickled eggs sold in old roadside stores somewhere in Oklahoma. The vet shrugged it off, assured me it was no big deal, that it happened all the time, gave Maggie a shot and pronounced her cured. Shortly afterwards Maggie went to a window so she could spend some quality time chewing on some curtains.

Now is probably the time that you're wondering what I have been up to, and again, who could blame you? My life is one of unceasing wonder and enchantment. Take, for example, today: For a reason that completely escapes me I found myself perusing an archive of people's last words. I have no idea how that happened, but it did and let me tell you I was enthralled. That, my friends, is some interesting shit. And now is the time that I will share with you some of my favorites. I realize, of course, that many -- if not all -- of these are complete fabrications. Like someone famous grunted a couple times, maybe farted or something, then breathed their last. Their loved ones were all, "Oh, this won't do. We need to come up with something better than 'Pfffftttt!' Hey, how about this?" But the truthiness of this notwithstanding, I found these famous last words inspiring:

All right then, I'll say it: Dante makes me sick. Lope de Vega
My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One or the other of us has to go. Oscar Wilde
Dammit…Don't you dare ask God to help me. Joan Crawford. The comment was directed towards her housekeeper who began to pray out loud.
Get the fucking nuns away from me! Norman Douglas
I should never have switched from Scotch to Martinis. Humphrey Bogart

Naturally this made me consider what my last words will be once the time comes for me to take my drunken shuffle off this mortal coil. Knowing me it will be something like "Does this scab look infected to you?" or "Damn, I knew I shouldn't have eaten that whole can of pork and beans." Typical statements like this seem less than dignified though, so I'm furiously thinking about something befitting someone of my poise and elegance. Yeah, I know what you're thinking and you can shut the hell up.

I do not anticipate needing some badass final words anytime soon, but a girl can never be too prepared. If I ended up being remembered for my dying comments on eating too many canned beans I'm pretty sure I'd spend eternity bitching in purgatory. Some of you bitches will undoubtedly be in purgatory right there with me and you do NOT want to listen to me until the end of time. So you'd better hope I come up with something good. Preferably having to do with vodka and world peace, because that's pretty much what I'm all about.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

2008-07-11T21:24:00.000-07:00

I believe I ~~threatened~~ promised to regale you with the stories of my visit to New Jersey to see Pops Sparkles over Fathers Day weekend. It's been almost a month since I went. Goddamn I'm slow. Anyway, here are the highlights:

I almost died on the flight up there. Yes, it's true! Ok, not really but it felt like it. My flight from Nashville to Philadelphia was very ordinary, although I do feel compelled to inform the citizens of that city that they need to clean that bitch up. We all know that the real estate surrounding metropolitan airports is usually less than the best a city has to offer, but all things considered I still understand why my friends call it Filthadelphia. It could be so nice, Philadelphians! Please stop hating on your city and try to remove at least one layer of the grime.

So I landed in Philly and made my way to the gate of my connecting flight. I was flying into the Allentown/Bethlehem PA airport so I wasn't expecting a 747, but I also wasn't expecting a propeller plane that last saw action during the goddamn Battle of the Bulge, either. When I saw the ground crew "secure" the props with a big red piece of elastic I got a bit antsy, and when we had to stop on the runway to manually start one of those propellers my stomach threatened to revolt. Fortunately we managed to reach our cruising altitude of eight thousand feet (!!!) but fate punched me in the face again when I learned that no refreshing adult beverages were available on that plane. I don't normally drink on flights but I was willing to make an exception in this case. After all, it's not every day a girl gets to ride shotgun in a 1922 Spitfire.

Long story short (too late!) I landed safely, snagged the ugliest rental car in history, and toddled off to Pops' house. Shortly after I arrived we made a run to the local liquor store. The parents needed to restock since people would be coming and going all weekend, so we lugged a few bottles of wine, some gin, vodka, and whiskey to the checkout aisle. The clerk chuckled and asked what the occasion was, and my father told him that there was no occasion, we were just trying to cut down.

Saturday we went on the biannual Hackettstown historic home tour. This was right up my alley because I love to look at old houses. Also, I'm nosy and like to snoop. But anyway, I found it fascinating to see the insides of the huge old Victorian houses, and it made me even more resolute in my decision to find the person who installed a dropped ceiling of acoustic tiles in the upstairs of our house and kick them in the crotch.

After the home tour we decided we wanted lunch, so Stepmother Sparkles clued us in to a local company that was hosting a customer appreciation day where there were going to be free burgers and hot dogs. We beat it down there to partake in the complimentary snacks. The only snag in this otherwise perfect plan was that it was a livestock feed and supply company hosting the event. I should probably say here that my father owns no livestock and as such is not much of a customer of this feed store, but if you think that was going to keep us from enjoying free hot dogs you're out of your mind. We just waded through the paddock of goats and chickens to the barbecue where we proceeded to load up on whatever they had to offer. Then the three of us huddled under the eaves of the warehouse, doing our best to steer clear of the farm animals and the pouring rain, scarfing down as many of the free hot dogs we could hold.

So, in summation, we have ridiculously large liquor purchases, snooping in nice people's houses, and standing in the pouring rain two-fisting some free weenies. (Dirty!) That is what I did on my vacation. And that, my friends, tells you everything you need to know about me and my family.

Search Phrase of the Day

2008-07-01T14:50:00.000-07:00

Today someone found this site by typing "Swedish slut Kristina" into Google.

That's kind of harsh, dude. (I don't know for sure that the searcher was a male, but come on... you totally know he was.) I mean, yeah, I'm pale and all, but my family is Irish. Get it right.

I Think I Shall Embroider a Pillow

2008-06-19T10:19:00.001-07:00

I Don't Like Olives Either

2008-06-11T20:17:00.000-07:00

It's almost time for my annual Father's Day pilgrimage to New Jersey. I'm looking forward to spending time with Pops and Stepmother Sparkles; I don't see them often and they're wonderful, fun people. Some of our weekend activities are yet to be determined, but some things are sure to occur.

After I arrive at their house on Friday afternoon my father will ask me where I'd like to go for dinner. I'll tell him I don't really care, and he'll suggest a local steakhouse. He'll mention his favorite appetizer and suggest we split an order. I'll tell him that I don't like mushrooms but that if he likes them that much he should order them regardless. My father will then inform that I do so like mushrooms, that I've loved them since I was a child, and I'll tell him that no, no, I've never liked them as long as I've lived. He will be completely baffled by this and will commence The Interrogation. Do I like salad? Yes, I do. What about cornbread? Absolutely yes. Broccoli? Nope, not a fan. This will not go over well. How could I not like broccoli? What about cauliflower? I will tell him I don't like that either. Brussels sprouts? No, they make me vomit. He'll shake his head, mumble to himself, and eventually tell me that I'm out of my mind. I will then admit that he may be right and ask where he keeps his vodka.

From that point on my father will spontaneously shout out various fruits and vegetables. When I answer that yes, I do like that particular item he'll nod approvingly. When I say no, he'll inform me that I used to like that food as a child and he doesn't know what happened to me. At first I will tell him that I've always felt that way, but he won't have it. He'll tell me that I did so use to love boiled cabbage and that I've just got a selective memory. This will go on all weekend. Eventually I'll just shrug and say that it's probably all due to puberty and hormones. He will accept this explanation.

On Sunday he'll ask if I want some coffee and I'll say no thank you, I don't like coffee. He'll start explaining to me how I used to love it when I was younger and I'll be tempted to tell him that no, I've never liked it, but I'll think better of it and remind him of the whole puberty thing. Then he'll ask me if I enjoy reading the Sunday paper and I'll say sure. He'll tell me that he loves to do the jumbles while he drinks his coffee. I'll admit that the jumbles aren't my favorite, and he'll say that if only I liked to drink coffee I'd probably enjoy doing the jumbles too.

Around this time he'll turn the TV on and will immediately put it on The Weather Channel. He'll make comments about the climate in Tennessee and New Jersey. Then he will ask me who my favorite Weather Channel meteorologist is, explaining the strengths and weaknesses of each. I'll think about this for a little while, wondering what the "right" answer is, and then I'll give up and ask him again where in the hell he keeps his vodka.

Oh PETA, Why Are You Making Me Hate You?

2008-05-06T08:14:00.000-07:00

As all four of my long-term readers know, I'm ~~batshit insane~~ very fond of thoroughbred horse racing. I had been eagerly anticipating last Saturday's Kentucky Derby for weeks. The Mister and I had to attend the funeral of a friend's grandmother earlier that day, and I'm not ashamed to say (although I totally should be) that as the funeral crossed the one hour mark with no end in sight I started getting antsy and checking the time, wishing that Mamaw hadn't had so many grandchildren determined to memorialize her. Eventually we were able to pay our respects, spend a few minutes with our friend, and then beat it back home to catch the race. My husband even informed me that I should have enough time to fix a tasty cocktail before post time, which was just a sweet, sweet bonus.

Everyone knows how the race turned out. And now the righteous indignation and pearl-clutching begins. The number of people who are suddenly experts on all things equestrian is truly staggering! And now PETA has leapt into the fray, and, oh PETA.

Let me just put a few things in perspective here before I'm branded an animal hating murderer:

1. I was, and still am, sickened by what happened on Saturday. As soon as I saw Eight Belles lying on the track I knew what was coming and I left the house and stayed outside until I knew the coverage would be over. When my husband came outside and told me that she had two broken ankles and was euthanized on the track I thought I was going to vomit. The only thing that kept me from doing so was the thought of wasting the delicious cocktail that I'd already consumed. (Oh not really... shut up.)

2. I've been a defender of PETA for as long as I can remember. I've disliked many of their tactics and felt that too often they've crossed the line from animal advocates to maniacal douches that no one can take seriously, but it's hard for me to fault people whose purpose is to protect animals from abuse and exploitation. But now, as well-intentioned as they may be, they've gone from being occasionally reactionary and uninformed to full blown crackpots who need to stop, take a breath, and step away from the crazy.

3. I understand and appreciate the outrage people feel over this whole episode, and believe me, I'm right there with you. But some of the comments people have made about it make me wonder about their knowledge of horses in general, the sport in particular, and grasp of reality overall. Let's look at a few of the most asinine points being thrown out there:

Three year old horses shouldn't be allowed to race in the Kentucky Derby.
The Kentucky Derby is a race FOR three year old horses. That's kind of like saying 18-22 year old male NCAA football players aren't allowed to play in any NCAA football games. It is, by its very definition, what the race is. Without three year old racehorses, there IS no Kentucky Derby.

Now I understand that the crux of the argument here is that three year olds are too young to be racing at that level, but thoroughbreds start training and racing at age two when they are physically mature. This is physiologically the best thing for them with regard to muscular and skeletal development, at least according to the American Association of Equine Practitioners. That sounds like a rather selective organization, so I'll assume that they know what they're talking about.

One thing that many people are very correct about is the lack of mental/emotional maturity in three year old horses. That's one of the reasons the Derby (and all the Triple Crown races) are so unpredictable; horses that young are spazzes. This is not unlike their mammalian cousins of the human variety. Teenagers aren't known for their well-reasoned, responsible, steady behavior. They are moody, not always apt to listen to or follow instructions, and often behave in ways that defy logic. How else can we explain the success of High School Musical? Anyway, this leads us into our next point:

Horses are relentlessly beaten and whipped by jockeys to make them run faster.
Oof. Oh, where to begin?

I guess no one other than the horse can say if the whip is painful, but it's essentially universally accepted that it's not. Horses have very thick skin and the whips are pretty flimsy. I'll grant you the word "whip" connotes something extremely unpleasant, and I kind of bristle when I hear people refer to whipping a horse, but from what I've been able to ascertain in a lifetime of following the sport (as well as being married to someone who used to own racehorses), it amounts to little more than a "thump" to you and me.

Jockeys use the whip for a variety of reasons, and each horse is different. Some horses don't respond to it at all (which is another reason I believe that it doesn't hurt them -- animals react in some way if they're being hurt), some might tend to run faster (although this often seems to be more of a Pavlovian response brought about through their training rather than a I'm-getting-the-shit-whipped-out-of-me-I've-gotta-run kind of thing), but more often than not it's used as a way to get their attention. A jockey might use it to prompt a horse to change leads if he didn't do it on his own, to let the horse know that it's time to "open it up" and run on all cylinders (for lack of a better term), to help with navigation, or to get the horse's attention back on the race if he gets distracted. Some horses wear blinkers because they tend to look more at what's going on around them rather than what's going on in front of them. Some horses don't like blinkers but still need a gentle "Hey, pay attention to what's going on up here" and that's where the whip comes in.

As for Eight Belles being relentlessly beaten? Uh, no. There are already strict rules in place regarding when and how often the whip can be used, so it's not like some jockey can just go apeshit and start indiscriminately whipping the hell out a horse. The whip has specific purposes, and nowhere on that list of purposes is "beat the hell out of it to make it run faster." While it's true that some horses do run faster after the whip is used, again, bear in mind that that's a training thing. It's not unusual to see a jockey standing in the stirrups and pulling on the reins to slow a horse down in the earlier stages of a race. Timing is important and many horses are trained not to run at full speed until given the command to do so. For craps sake, don't confuse a jockey maintaining control of a horse's natural tactical speed with just beating it to make it go faster.

This jockey should be banned from horse racing.
Ok. If Gabriel Saez, Eight Belle's jockey, continued to run her knowing that she was injured, I agree with this 100%. In fact, I believe a beatdown is in order. I will find the miserable SOB and kick him in the crotch until HE needs to be euthanized. Who's with me? I'll even drive and we can take turns in the crotch-kicking!

That being said, there is absolutely no indication that he knew anything was wrong. In fact, probably nothing was wrong. The horse didn't collapse until well after the race was over. From everything I've read the consensus appears to be that her injuries were sustained after the jockey pulled her up to stop her from running after the race. It sounds like her bones were fragile and couldn't handle the stress of going from one extreme to the other. Tragic? Absolutely. The jockey's fault? I seriously doubt it.

Whipping should be banned from horse racing.
Again, if whips were used only to beat a horse about the hindquarters until they ran as fast as they could due to the pain of the whip I'd agree 100%. But let's look at a couple of key points from above: Horses -- especially young horses -- are fractious and easily distracted. Jockeys have to use whips to keep horses from drifting off course and running into the rail or into other horses. So if there were no whips we could see horses colliding with the side of the racetrack and causing multiple horse pileups. Yeah, that sounds like a much better alternative, PETA. Thanks for your input. Now STFU.

Honestly, I'm completely torn up about what happened to that filly on Saturday. But putting blame where it doesn't belong or insisting on ridiculous changes based on uninformed, kneejerk reactions isn't the answer either. I think Eight Belles was the victim of an unfortunate trend in thoroughbred racing that's developed over the past several years, and that's the overwhelming emphasis on speed. Obviously racehorses have always needed to be fast. Watching some animals loll around a racetrack at a leisurely gallop doesn't make for a particular compelling sport. But until relatively recently a horse's racing career lasted for several years, meaning that the horses had to be durable as well as fast. But most of the money to be had in racing is not in the races themselves but in the subsequent breeding rights. Now horses who experience great success on the track are raced for a couple years, or just long enough to secure substantial breeding value, and then put to stud. Durability isn't much of a factor since their racing careers are so short. When solidity and strength aren't important any more they're bred out of future generations, and then you have a poor horse like Eight Belle whose bones just aren't strong enough.

I don't know what all the answers are, but I firmly believe that in order to prevent something like this from happening again we need to look toward the owners and the breeders to make longevity and overall soundness as important as the other qualities. But when someone is investing millions of dollars into a single horse they want to see a return on their investment, and speed, not strong bones, is what brings in the heavy coins. It's not right, and invariably that greed, in my opinion, cost Eight Belles her life, but it's the way it is and most of us don't have the kind of money needed to change it. Hopefully the people who are involved in the sport because they love it and the animals who participate in it will step up and make the necessary changes, and those who only care about how much money they can earn at the expense of an innocent animal will face the fury of my Feet of Steel in their crotches.

In the meantime, because it can't be said enough: PETA? Shut the fuck up.

28% of Americans Need My Help

2008-04-11T18:23:00.000-07:00

I read an article earlier today that troubled me so much that my lazy ass was spurred into action. I found the piece interesting overall, but there were a couple of sections that jumped out at me:

History News Network’s poll of 109 historians found that 61 percent of them rank Bush as “worst ever” among U.S. presidents. Bush’s key competition comes from Buchanan, apparently, and a further 2 percent of the sample puts Bush right behind Buchanan as runner-up for “worst ever.” 96 percent of the respondents place the Bush presidency in the bottom tier of American presidencies.

and

81 percent of Americans, according to a recent New York Times poll, believe he’s taken the country on the wrong track. That’s the highest number ever registered. The same poll also says 28 percent have a favorable view of his performance in office...

I'm in no position to argue with the first point, because while I'm not sure what exactly constitutes a "historian," I'm assuming these people have a lot of letters after their name and I, on the other hand, do not. Also, history was always my weakest category in Trivial Pursuit. I totally sucked ass. I did even worse in that one than I did in Sports and Leisure, which was really saying something because i really blew the donkey in that category. But every once in a while I might get lucky and score a horse racing question or one that had to do with booze. If I got asked one of those I had that shit in the bag! But when it was history time I usually just lobbed Bay of Pigs Invasion or Neville Chamberlain out there and hoped for the best.

It was the second point that almost gave me a seizure. 28 out of every 100 Americans think W is doing a swell job? That was a call to action! Clearly these people need my assistance, so I'd like to provide them with some other information that they're probably struggling with.

1) The moon isn't actually made out of cheese.

2) That rumbling sound you hear when it rains hard? It's not really God rearranging his living room furniture.

3) As it turns out, light bulbs aren't powered by magic fairy dust.

I hope that clears a few things up. I'll be happy to answer more questions if you'd like. Remember, I'm here to help.

We Can't All Do Big Arms

2008-03-08T23:14:00.000-08:00

I learned earlier this evening that Eddie Izzard will be performing this summer at the Ryman Auditorium. How awesome is this? Let me count the ways. Oh, alright. I can't count that high. Shut up.

If I am fortunate enough to witness his "Do you have a flag?" bit I do believe I will wet myself. Oh, who am I kidding? I'm so excited about seeing him live that he could read the yellow pages and I'd wet myself.

Shut up. Again.

My Life Is Too Full For This Foolishness

2008-03-07T21:05:00.000-08:00

It has been brought to my attention that I do not post with enough regularity to satisfy some people. These pointed observations are made by people whom I do not know, and while I question the occasionally alarming level of personal investment people have into the insane ramblings of a complete stranger, I feel obliged to respond.

So, to those who have taken the time out of their day to write to me and tell me that I suck because I don't write enough for their liking, please consider the following before firing off another douchey email to me:

1. I have a job already, and in exchange for doing that job I get this stuff called "money." I can tell you with a relative degree of certainty that money pretty much rocks. That's what allows me to buy booze, and never underestimate the importance of that. When this website starts paying me in vodka you will see dedication the likes of which you've never witnessed before. Until then a girl's got to prioritize.

2. I rather enjoy spending time with my spouse, which is pretty much why I married him. That and his enormous schlong.

3. I have two feline children to take care of. It takes a lot of time and attention to fill up their food and water bowls every day, and don't even get me started on the litterbox. It's one of those automatic cleaning ones, and have you ever stopped to consider the amount of effort required for me to sit on the sofa while the little metal rakey thing sweeps away the poo? I don't think you have!

4. Do you have any idea how much reality tv is out there, desperate for me to watch it? How can you expect me to focus on sharing stupid, meaningless stories when America's Top Models Engaging in the Most Unbelievable and Shocking Workplace Shenanigans and Police Chases, vol 39 is on? Good Lord y'all. I'm only human, for craps sake. If cut, do I not bleed? If spit upon, do I not get wet?

5. That booze won't drink itself, people.

I rest my case.

A Lot Of Swedish Names Suck

2008-02-20T21:27:00.001-08:00

As I've mentioned before, I name most all my possessions. There is no rational explanation for this other than the fact that I'm not very smart and am easily entertained.

Suzanne, my crappy twelve year old vehicular companion, recently began breathing her death rattle and I was forced to find a replacement. After some shopping around I ended up with a sassy little piece of Swedish machinery. The car is fab (and since I know you're dying to know -- yes you are, so don't front! -- this is what I got) but naming it has been quite a challenge. The more reasonable among you are probably thinking that I should forego the naming ritual and just drive the damn thing and shut up about it. Unfortunately, for a moron like me, that is simply not an option.

After taking the appearance and characteristics of the new SparklesMobile into consideration, I managed to decide on a name. The new car is attractive enough, socially acceptable but ultimately unremarkable, and fast as hell. (The whole turbo shit is pretty sweet. If I open that bitch up and drive it "as it was meant to be driven" I feel like I'm sitting on a rocket. But since, according to my husband, I drive like a loser grandma much of that performance is lost on me.) Based on that criteria, I selected the name that, to me, denoted pleasant and polite, but ultimately slutty: Donna. (I'm not calling all Donnas superficial sluts, just the ones that I knew. Don't email me, Donnas! But if you're a Donna that I knew growing up, yes I just called you a superficial slut so just deal with it because you know it's the truth.)

Unfortunately "Donna" got shot down by The Mister, who insisted the car was far too European for such an American name. He's never voiced any objections to my possession names in the past, but he was vehement about this one. Eventually I relented and began the search for a new name. Since my car is Swedish I looked at traditional Scandinavian names, but none of them resonated with me. Pops Sparkles pointed out that my own name is cited as being of Swedish origin, but 1) I wouldn't name my car after me, no matter how awesome I am -- which, let's be honest, is pretty damn awesome -- and B) I've always heard Kristina was a Greek name. If those two countries were close to each other I could chalk it up to geographical overlap, but Greece and Sweden are damn far apart. One is all about beaches, olive oil, and sheep and the other is about skijumping and pickled herring. Not many similarities. So you know what that means? One of those countries is a thieving bastard and is trying to bogart my name!

Anyway, after a couple days of very careful deliberation, I decided on a new name for the car: Heidi. Not necessarily Swedish, but it's European for craps sake and that's going to have to do. Besides, every Heidi I've ever known has been a slut, and that's good enough for me.

Let Me Explain The Problem With Mormonism

2008-02-11T19:53:00.000-08:00

Tonight The Mister and I watched a very informative and interesting program on PBS called The Mormons. Let me make it very clear from the outset that I am not here to criticize anyone's faith. Hell, I come from a very long, vehement line of Catholics and they've trademarked their own special brand of crazy. I am firmly of the opinion that your salvation is between you and your maker and my dumb ass has no business telling you what to do with your eternal soul.

With that being said, I would like to switch gears for a moment -- bear with me, because I am going somewhere with this -- and point out that talent at the art of hair design is not something universally shared. Like most everything, some people have a gift for it and some don't. Unfortunately for me, my mother was under the grossly incorrect assumption that she was skilled in this particular area. This misapprehension, coupled with her unfathomable affection for Lilt home perms, is why I spent a good chunk of my high school sophomore year bearing a frightening resemblance to Roseanne Roseannadanna.

Ok, so back to Mormons. Brigham Young had more than fifty wives. I hope he was taking his vitamins. But even with all those women at his disposal he still sported this hairdo:
I know things were tough on the prairie, what with all the mayhem and cannibalism and all, and no doubt there was a horrifying lack of upscale hair salons in 19th century Utah. But with all those women around surely he could have found someone able to cut and style his hair so that it didn't look like he had a winged maxipad stuck to the top of his head.

Brigham, dude, people would have been so much more accepting of the whole multiple wife dealy if you'd had a more authoritative hairdo. Hell, look at Mitt Romney! He's a complete nutbar but he's done quite well for himself, and I have no doubt it's due in large part to his pretty, pretty hair.

So anyway, I have singlehandedly figured out why Mormonism hasn't enjoyed more mainstream success in the theological world. I hope the powers that be are paying attention to me because I've got this shit nailed.

Meanwhile, as I type this, old Brigham is looking down on me and saying, "Crack on my hairstyle as much as you want, bitch. At least I didn't look like Roseanne Roseannadanna."

Sad Times in Sparkleville

2008-02-05T21:52:00.000-08:00

It is with a heavy heart that I report the demise of the Sparklesmobile, Suzanne. Yes, I name my cars. I also name my plants, furniture, and various household appliances. Don't judge me, y'all!

Anyway, as a public service I would like to inform you that there are things called "oil leaks" that can develop. And those "oil leaks" can spring up in places called "head gaskets." And when that happens, it blows ass. When you drive a twelve year-old piece of shit car that kind of nonsense will cost you more to repair than your sad, pathetic car is worth. And that's when you'll find yourself in the situation that I am in. Boo hoo.

So I will be buying a new car in the next couple weeks. I still have not decided what will be a suitable replacement. The Mister and I have had discussions recently (most all of which have taken place in his car) but I can report that those discussions have not gone well:

The Mister: So, what kind of car are you going to buy?

Me: Eh, I don't know. I'm still grieving. In the semi-bastardized words of Celine Dion, I'm not sure my heart can go on. I can't think about another car.

TM: Well, you're going to have to. Hate to break it to you.

Me: [sob]

TM: I don't care what you buy, I just want you to take good care of it. Make sure a good mechanic takes a look at it at least once a ...

Me: [looking out the window, rolling eyes, and doing PacMan mouth movements]

...

[approximately 37 minutes later...]

TM: What about a BMW?

Me: Ah, no. Not my thing. Don't really like them all that much. [Realizing that I'm in The Mister's car, which is -- you guessed it! -- a BMW] But they're great cars! Really!

TM: Uh huh. What's wrong with them?

Me: Nothing... I just like something a bit smaller. But... hey! I could get one of those little bitty ones like from the James Bond movie. I could be Jane Bond! And I'd kick ass! Awwww, hell yeah!

TM: What in the hell are you doing over there with your hands? And what is that farting sound you're making with your mouth?

Me: I'm using my imaginary gear shift. And KICKING ASS!

TM: Maybe you should think about a minivan.

I'm Menacing a Whole New Community Now

2008-01-27T20:39:00.000-08:00

Hola, my bitches.

The Sparkles family has managed to drag its sorry ass across town and is now settling in to the new house. As I'm sure you can imagine, this weekend totally blew ass. I'm still sitting here surrounded by boxes wondering how in the hell a few minor kitchen appliances and a couple pillows managed to occupy approximately forty eight cardboard boxes, but whatever. The house is fab, the neighbors kick ass, and I know we'll be very happy here.

Because I know you're dying to know (and you are, so shut up), the cats are doing alright. I've always known that Maggie and Gloria -- despite being members of the same species -- are completely different animals, but this move has emphasized the point even more. Maggie is as dumb as a box of hair, but she's totally fearless. Once we got here and I let her out of the carrier she tore ass around the house, jumping up on any surface she could find, crawling into any space where she could fit, and exploring any crevice that managed to attract the attention of her little peanut brain. Gloria, a very deliberate, thoughtful cat, ran and hid under the bed for the day. She's still quite skittish about the whole situation and freaks the fuck out whenever we open the refrigerator, but since Maggie lunges headfirst into the crisper to see what the hell kind of shenanigans the lettuce and broccoli have been up to since her last inspection it's a pretty good balance.

So, we're here. We're unpacking, the cats are adjusting, and the unsuspecting area residents have no idea that some big ass fools have just infiltrated their neighborhood. God help them.

We've Got Way Too Much Crap

2008-01-20T21:23:00.000-08:00

Hola! It's been a long time since I've rapped at ya, has it not? Oh alright, I'm done channeling Jim Anchower. But I would like to say that, if Jim Anchower existed, I'd totally ride around with him in his Ford Festiva listening to REO Speedwagon. That band can suck my butt, but there's a time and place for everything and there's nothing quite like cruising around drinking some suds and listening to some really bad redneck music. On second thought I might have given too much away, so let's pretend I didn't say that, shall we?

So, anyway. I'm pleased to announce that The Mister and I finally found a house we liked. It only took us about two years, so apparently we're a lot pickier than I originally thought. But we closed on the house earlier this week and are now in full-on relocation mode. The move date is T-minus six days and counting, and about seven days from now the price of vodka stock ought to go through the roof.

The hardest part of the whole moving nonsense is finding a way to dispose of the tremendous amount of crap we've amassed in the past few years. Some people have suggested a yard sale, but if you think I'm going to spend an entire weekend afternoon sitting in my yard haggling with fools over the price of some old flowerpots you've lost your mind. The other obvious alternative is to donate it to charity, but I'm embarrassed to say that a lot of the stuff we've thrown out was in such poor shape that it wasn't worthy of giving to the homeless. At one point I threw out a pair of my husband's shoes, and when he saw me put them in the Hefty bag he gasped and stuttered about how they were $800 Italian leather shoes that he bought in Florence or Rome or wherever the hell, and how could I even think about getting rid of them? Only after I held them up and focused his attention on the fact that the goddamn soles had fallen off did he begrudgingly acknowledge it was time to let them go.

So the next several days will be devoted to trying to unload a bunch of worthless crap on unsuspecting people and then cramming what's left into boxes and trash bags so that we can drive it across town, unload it, and stuff it into closets where it will not see the light of day for another six years. It's going to be a long ass week. Thank Christ my good buddy vodka will be at the end of it.

Oh, and if any of you guys out there are interested in some cheap aluminum and gray fabric office chairs from 1978? Have I got a deal for you!

I'm Back, and I've Got a Wand Dammit

2008-01-07T20:26:00.000-08:00

Oh, hello. Hello!

Did you think I'd drunk myself into a vodka coma and fallen off the sofa, breaking my dainty little neck? Hell no, bitches! Check me out, I'm back.

Anyway, I hope everyone had a great holiday season. I would say "Christmas season" but I do so enjoy fanning the flames of controversy and cackling at all the pearl-clutching. Don't get me wrong. We here at Casa Sparkles get into the spirit of the season as much as anyone else, and we even had a ~~Christmas~~ holiday tree, just like they did at the stable in Bethlehem. I'm pretty sure that in addition to gold, frankincense, and myrrh at least one wise man brought a package of tinsel.

Anyway, I could lie and offer any number of legitimate reasons for my absence, but the fact is that my husband, who rocks harder than anyone has ever rocked before, got me a HDTV and a Playstation3 for Christmas. I told him that now I'd never get any housework done. And then we both cracked up because it's not like I ever do anything around the house anyway.

So I've spent the last couple weeks sitting slack jawed in front of the tv, shouting at Hermione to get out of my way already because my magic wand won't work when she's standing right in front of me. I've called her a stupid whore more than once, and I'm not proud of that, but how can I get all Wingardium Leviosa on that flying owl if she won't get out of the way?

In closing: Yes. I know. I'm so lame Jesus couldn't heal me.

Why Polite People Don't Invite Us To Parties: #482

2007-12-28T06:11:00.000-08:00

Recently The Mister and I attended a concert. A couple close friends of ours were going to the same show, so we met up beforehand at a nearby pub.

Me: Finally! I made it, bitches!

The Mister: Hello! Would you like a drink?

Me: Uh, have you forgotten who you're talking to?

TM: Yeah, that was a stupid question. I'm going to order some food too. What do you want to eat?

Me: Eh, nothing for me. A tasty adult beverage will be enough.

TM: Really? I know you were in a meeting all afternoon. I figured you'd be hungry.

Me: [speaking loudly due to the noise] Yes, I was in a meeting, but after a while someone got hungry and made some popcorn. So I spent the next hour cramming as much popcorn into my mouth as it would take. My mouth was stuffed full of popcorn most of the afternoon.

TM: [speaking to friend sitting next to him] What did she say? I couldn't hear her.

Friend: She spent the afternoon with some dude named Popcorn.

I Should Probably Be A Doctor

2007-12-21T18:56:00.000-08:00

I stumbled across a very sad story today: 1 of last U.S. World War I vets dies in Ohio at age 109

There was one part that caught my attention and really got me thinking. Because there's nothing I like better than an honest-to-goodness mystery.

The Smith-Crates Funeral Home in North Baltimore, Ohio says J. Russell Coffey died yesterday at the age of 109. He had been living in a nursing home. There's no word on the cause of death.

I've got twenty bucks that says it was lupus.

I Believe I Shall Make A Law

2007-12-20T18:02:00.000-08:00

I think I've mentioned before that I had jury duty back in September. It was the first time I had ever been called for it and I was happy to comply, but I really didn't want to be seated on a jury because it was going to mean some long ass days for me. Of course my employer had to give me the time off, but since there are some things that only I can do (because I am so freaking indispensable, and don't you forget it) I was going to have to spend some time in the office regardless. That was seriously going to cut into my drinking time and lord knows we couldn't have that, so I kept my fingers crossed that I wouldn't be selected to be on a jury. From everything I'd heard I had nothing to worry about. Everyone I knew who'd had to report for jury duty had spent their time sitting in a big room with hundreds of others, listening to other people's names being called out. After a couple hours of this all of the people left -- of which there were very many -- were free to go about their business. It was essentially common knowledge that being called for jury duty meant you'd go sit in a room for a few hours and then go home.

The morning of the big day I made my way to the courthouse, listened to a judge give us a quick speech telling us how awesome we all were for being there, as if we needed him to tell us that because Hello! We know how great we are so please carry on, and then parked my ass in a chair with my book. A few minutes later they called out the first batch of names. You can probably see where this is going and yeah, you're goddamn right my name was called right off the bat. The thirty of us went up to the courtroom where fourteen people would be randomly picked to sit in the jury box and undergo the first round of questioning from the attorneys. As soon as both attorneys were satisfied with the fourteen on the jury (twelve jurors and two alternates) the rest of the jury pool would be dismissed, with the thanks of the court, of course. And from there they'd probably wander downtown to have martinis for lunch and laugh at the rest of the poor bastards sitting there, martini-free, listening to opening arguments. I hoped I'd get lucky and not be called as one of the first fourteen, but again you can probably see where this is going and, again, you'd be exactly right: Say hello to Juror #4! For some reason that still escapes me, neither attorney found me objectionable enough to dismiss. Damn.

As it turned out, the case we were assigned was being tried in chancery court. If, like me, that means nothing to you, chancery court is essentially business/contract court. When I heard that whatever positive feelings I had about fulfilling my civic duty evaporated. A contract dispute? A goddamn contract dispute? I didn't want to sit on a murder trial or anything like that, but I was hoping for something that would hold my interest. Maybe a particularly nasty divorce with allegations of porn addiction and/or a foot fetish, or perhaps somebody who got busted whacking off in public. Something.

I will spare you the details of the case, not because they're secret or anything, but because I don't want you to fall asleep on me. I've spent too much time writing this crap down for you to go and nod off in the middle of it. Anyway, suffice it to say that a printing company was suing a freight company for losses they [the printing company] suffered when the freight company didn't deliver some products on time. The court had already determined that the freight company was in breach of contract, but for whatever reason the plaintiff wanted a jury to decide what damages they were due. So we, the jury, sat for hour after hour after goddamn hour examining bills of lading and listening to witnesses discuss why a particular trucking company sucked ass or why they didn't. The attorneys both did a good job, although the defendant's counsel was a bit of a jackass. He was ethically obligated to vigorously represent his client, and we all respected that. But there were times when he went too far and we were all sitting there thinking about what a dick he was. Passion and vehemence are one thing; unnecessary and deliberate assholery is another.

Finally the trial was over, and not a moment too soon. I got a little tired of being chaperoned to the restroom to make sure I didn't run into another juror and hide in the stall discussing why Exhibit 18c was more compelling than Exhibit 39f. I understand that they wanted to ensure no one on the jury was compromised, but damn. If they thought we were going to spend our precious spare time discussing freight invoices they were severely misguided.

Despite the snoozefest that was the trial, all of us jurors took our responsibilities extremely seriously. Deliberations were very earnest and occasionally quite heated. For the most part we agreed on damages, although there were a few points where we quibbled. The plaintiff was asking to be compensated for numerous fees/charges/losses totaling several hundred thousand dollars, and at one point we argued for almost twenty minutes over one item worth eight bucks and some change. That's dedication, people.

Eventually we decided on a number and were getting ready to put our signatures on the necessary documents when one juror asked if we could apply a Jackass Attorney Penalty. We all looked at each other, hoping someone would be able to come up with a legitimate reason why we could charge the defendant for having a buttmonkey for a lawyer, but we ultimately decided we couldn't. We delivered our verdict, neither side was satisfied, and we came away feeling as though we'd done our jobs well.

Three months after my jury experience I'm still thinking about the Jackass Attorney Penalty, and I've decided that I should implement something similar in my day to day life. I would like to call it a Douche Fee. Who's with me? Obviously we all have our individual pet peeves, many of which may not be particularly rational, but there are some things that are universal, or at least should be. Parking in a handicapped spot when you are not? Douche fee. Playing air drums in public? Douche fee. Being Jessica Simpson? Double douche fee for you, you dumb talentless bitch.

I'm pretty sure this is an idea whose time has come, and I believe I'm just the crotchety old skeezer to implement it. So if you see some tall brunette in a supermarket confronting someone, all "Excuse me, but are those spandex bicycle shorts you're wearing? At the grocery store? You owe me five bucks for being a douche," please do say hello to me.

I've Got The Whole Clydesdale Scenario Figured Out

2007-12-14T23:05:00.000-08:00

Don't ask me why or how, but for some reason I found myself goofing around on YouTube tonight, and oh my gosh you guys look what I found!

It's the Budweiser commercial that I remember from when I was a little kid! I watched it over and over, sang along way too loudly, and spent a great deal of time considering what I'd do if I had my own personal Clydesdale.

I think I'd brush him or her every day, and braid the hoof hair at least once a week. I know horses aren't used to their furry anklewarmers being braided, but I don't want all that long fur dragging through fields of poo. The braids wouldn't last long, what with all the stomping through the meadows and stuff, so at some point I might have to consider a weave. A big goofy animal who didn't know any better rocking a cheap hair weave? Fantastic! My horse would be like the Britney Spears of the animal kingdom. Except it would be smarter. Yeah, I went there. But I defy you to formulate a compelling argument against it.

Oh! And also, if it were a girl horse, there would be lots of pretty ribbons. Because what would be cooler than a horse who could totally kick your ass eight ways to Sunday wearing big fancy foofy bows? Nothing, that's what!

And it is right about now that I realize I've probably had too much to drink and should probably go to bed.

My Husband Refuses To Shine On Like A Crazy Diamond

2007-12-07T21:38:00.002-08:00

Me: Hey, there's a show on PBS that might be interesting. It's Neil Young and David Gilmour playing Pink Floyd!

The Mister: Uh, ok. Hmmm.

Me: You've gotta love The Floyd!

TM: They don't do that much for me, actually. I think they're wankers. And the biggest wanker of all? David Gilmour.

Me: I don't know anything about their wankitude, but some of their songs really do it for me. I know from personal experience that there's more than one guy in the Middle Tennessee area who got laid because he played some Pink Floyd at precisely the right moment.

TM: Uh huh.

Me: Shine On You Crazy Diamond? That shit is genius.

TM: [blank stare]

Me: When they start in with the guitar? wah WAH wah Waaaaahhhhhh [demonstration complete with air guitar, thank you very much] Holy hell, that's awesome.

[crickets chirping]

Me: Don't you think that's great?

TM: [shrug]

Me: You are totally harshing my groove. I'm way too hip and cool to have my groove harshed.

[sigh]

Alright, fine. We won't watch it. Are there any Golden Girls reruns on?

Give It Up For Feathers

2007-12-06T19:00:00.000-08:00

Now is the time for us to discuss my new most favorite thing on the internet, and no, it's not porn. It's Planet Unicorn!

Many of you may have already heard of it, but it was new to me until very recently. Then again, I only just stopped illuminating my igloo with melted whale blubber so it's possible I might be the last one aware of this. But in case you haven't seen it either, do yourself a favor and check it out: www.planetunicorn.tv Here is the first episode so that you can experience the majesty immediately:

There are only five episodes (boo!!) and they're just 3-4 minutes each, so it doesn't take long to watch them. Which is good for me because I do have to get some work done during the day. I really shouldn't watch these at work though, because at one point yesterday I laughed so hard that I semi-slid out of my chair and knocked my head against the monitor, but I don't think anyone heard it over the sound of my snorting. As you might have noted, I am a graceful, delicate flower.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy the adventures of gay unicorns Feathers, Cadillac, and Tom Cruise. And if you don't... well, I'm not sure we can be friends anymore.

Why I Should Not Be Permitted To Buy Real Estate

2007-12-03T20:42:00.000-08:00

The Mister and I have been house hunting off-and-on for the last year or so. We like where we are and are in no hurry to move, but we're starting to outgrow our house. I don't know how that happened with only two people, so I think I'll blame it on the cats. Before I got that plush catnip mouse toy we were fine. After? Oh my god we can hardly move up in here!

We are not overly picky when it comes to real estate. We don't care about a lot of things that other people do, but we have a couple things that we're quite firm about: 1) The house needs to be close to downtown. We are not suburban people. I'll put up with the occasional drive-by if it means I'm within walking distance to the cigarette store. B) The house needs to be older. Pre-1950, ideally. McMansions make us want to punch someone in the face and then vomit.

Throughout the course of this house hunting we've attended a large number of open houses. Most of the time we'll walk out, all shrugging and "Meh, didn't do anything for me." But sometimes we'll encounter something that tests our ability to keep a straight face while in polite company. There was one house we saw that was, to the best I could tell, quite lovely. It was inhabited by two gay men, which normally equals Jackpot. But in this particular case the word "flamboyant" didn't come close to describing these two gentlemen. There was a baby grand piano in the living room (which wasn't anywhere close to being big enough to accommodate it) flanked by flickering electric candelabras. The homeowners had some very nice furniture, but the whole house had that whole garish vibe to it, like it was designed to be a showcase for Pottery Barn's new Liberace line. We tried hard to look past the numerous decorative feathers, Rodgers and Hammerstein posters, and 10+ Glamorshots prominently displayed all over the house, but there was so much stuff in there it was virtually impossible to see the house itself. Also, who in the hell hangs multiple pictures of themselves all over their house? These weren't pictures of the guy in interesting places or with his partner or pet or family or anything like that. It was dude in a cardigan prissing for the camera. And they were all over the freaking house. I don't know about anyone else, but seeing a collage of my airbrushed photos is about the last thing I want to lay my eyes on as I scramble to TinkleTown.

Anyway, The Mister and I looked around, tried in vain to visualize the house without all the headshots and feathers and electric candelabras, and then left. It really did seem like a nice house, but being inside it was such sensory overload that leaving it felt like escaping from a crowded elevator filled with people wearing way too much cheap cologne. As we were walking out to the car my husband said, "I've been in gayer houses, but not in about 30 years. Oh my god." Indeed. Word to anybody who is trying to sell a house: Remove all your Glamorshots.

So anyway, where was I? Oh yeah... house shopping! I've come to learn that I lose all common sense when presented with certain amenities, namely A) wood-burning fireplaces and/or 2) granite kitchen countertops. I'm not sure why I have such a burning desire (Ha! See what I did there?) for a fireplace, but I seem to lose all control when I see a house with one. Gas fireplaces hold no appeal for me, because while I appreciate their convenience and totally understand why people find them to be desirable, to my mind they are little more than oversized Bic lighters. To add to the mystery, I've had wood-burning fireplaces before, and I've used them precisely zero times. But for some reason I am under the ridiculous impression that I live inside a Currier and Ives print and will spend countless hours in front of a crackling fire daintily sipping mulled cider while horse drawn sleighs travel down the street. And the granite counters? No idea where that obsession comes from, but they totally make me hot.

House shopping with me is undoubtedly quite a nightmare, because every time my husband voices a completely reasonable concern I get tunnel-visioned and start shrieking like a harpy about fireplaces or counters.

"I don't know about this house. The layout is kind of strange, and the kitchen is pretty small."

"But did you see the fireplace?"

"Yeah, but did you see the kitchen?"

"Yes I did! It had gorgeous counters! Granite!"

"I guess, but it was tiny. And the bedrooms are pretty small. The bathrooms need updating. The roof looks pretty old, and I think there might be some structural problems. The floor is uneven and the electrical wiring looks pretty suspect. The plumbing looks bad and I think there might be termites. Lots of repairs, I think."

"Oh, whatever. Did you see the fireplace?!?!?!"

At My Job, We're All About Anal Bacteria

2007-11-27T20:51:00.001-08:00

A conversation that took place earlier today at my office:

The Man: [poking his head inside my office] Hey, I've got a weird question: Is there any capitalization in "E coli?"

Me: Yeah, the "E" is capitalized, the "coli" is not.

The Man: For real? I don't even want to know how you know that.

Me: E. coli was my mystery bacteria in Microbiology! And it's Escherichia coli if you're nasty.

The Man: Uh... should I ask?

Me: Probably not. I'm a biology geek and I really doubt you want to hear about it.

The Man: I have no doubt you're right. But what in the hell is a mystery bacteria? Does it come wrapped in a little package with a question mark on it?

Me: Yes it does! It's kind of like a jack-in-the-box. You open the lid and hope to Christ that your mystery substance isn't anthrax. [rolling eyes] God.

The Man: Well shit... I don't know. What the hell is a mystery bacteria?

Me: You're given a test tube. You run tests until you figure out what you've been given.

The Man: Did you freak out when you found out you had E coli?

Me: Hell no! I got lucky! There were some people who had Mycobacterium smegmatis.

The Man: Huh?

Me: Smegmatis. SMEGMA-tis. Think about it.

The Man: Uh, um... OH MY GOD.

Me: Yeah, tell me about it. I was happy to have the lower-intestinal bacteria once I considered the alternative.

The Man: I think I'm going to be sick.

Me: Yeah. You know you've been hosed when people who get the bacteria known as "gut flora" are happy about it. Biology... she is a cruel mistress, my friend.

The Man: I think I've got to go to the bathroom.

Me: Ok! Hey! Glad I could help!

Coal Miner's Quarterback

2007-11-24T19:05:00.001-08:00

Dear Doug Flutie,

This may not be easy to hear, but dude: You are fooling precisely nobody.
Every time I see you on television these days my first thought is "When did Loretta Lynn start commentating college football games?"
It's time to lay off the Grecian Formula. While Loretta is not an unattractive woman, I'm pretty sure that's not the look you're going for.

I Found A Petite Little Bird

2007-11-18T21:05:00.001-08:00

I am a procrastinator. I will put off necessary duties until the last possible moment. One year I did the entirety of my Christmas shopping at 5pm on Christmas Eve. At WalMart. Because that is just how classy I am.

For the last several years I've been the designated Thanksgiving cook. This isn't really a big deal since there are only three of us. It isn't too difficult to cook for me, my husband, and my mother, in large part because I cook what I like and those other two clowns will eat just about whatever is put in front of them. But when you combine Thanksgiving cooking duties with irrational procrastination you are left with nothing but 20+ pound birds at the grocery store on the Wednesday before the big day. The first few years I just shrugged and hoisted the big ass turkeys into my shopping cart, banking on the fact that my husband really digs turkey sandwiches. And I like turkey sandwiches too, but more because turkey is a perfect vehicle for mayonnaise and salt. I don't really care about the protein. I just want the fat, sodium, and cholesterol. We all have our vices, and lord knows I have plenty, but in the culinary realm mayonnaise is on my list of top five. I've been known, in moments of dietary weakness, to eat it by the spoonful. Yeah, you heard me. I'm not proud of it, but I'm keeping it real here.

As I soon found out, no matter how fond someone might be of turkey sandwiches, when you're dealing with a twenty-three pound bird and only three eaters you're going to be faced with more leftovers than you can slap between a couple pieces of bread. In years past I bravely soldiered on, making turkey soup, turkey hash, and turkey pot pies. But after a couple weeks of this I was so sick of the bird that if I saw another piece of turkey I was going to kick somebody in the crotch.

This year I'm very proud to say that I learned my lesson. I felt like hammered shit today and spent the majority of the morning and afternoon whining like a baby on the sofa, but I managed to get my ass down to the grocery store to do the holiday food shopping. I shuffled along the aisles, grunting and sneezing while pushing my cart. Then, in the distance, I viewed the meat section. It was surrounded by other shoppers. There appeared to be some shoving. I felt my chest tighten and my heart speed up. I gulped and braced myself. I needed a small turkey. I had to find something not designed to feed an entire army platoon. I simply could not deal with another year of turkey tacos or whatever the hell. I heard the Chariots of Fire theme song in my head as I fought through the crowd and started looking through the turkey bin. When I located a thirteen pound bird I snatched it up, cradled it like a baby, and proudly set it into my grocery cart.

So this year I predict a wonderful Thanksgiving. There will be plenty of bird for dinner, as well as some nice ~~mayonnaise~~ turkey sandwiches afterwards. And best of all, no one will be kicked in the crotch.

I Have A Serious Question. No, Really.

2007-11-15T18:11:00.000-08:00

Somehow I managed to make my way on to one of my employees' personal email distribution list. I'm baffled as to how this occurred, because I am no closer to this employee than I am to any others (read: not at all) and while we engage in the periodic business-related exchanges, we are certainly not pals. I don't know him very well, but since his car is garishly decorated with Confederate flags, Bush/Cheney stickers, and a large bumpersticker that reads "American by Birth, Southern by the Grace of God," I think it's safe to assume that we share very little common ground from an ideological standpoint. But for whatever reason he includes me whenever he sends out his flurry of emails. This is fine, because I can hit the delete button with minimal effort and lightning speed. And this skill comes in handy when I receive his instructions to boycott gasoline purchases on the second Wednesday of the month so that we proud Americans can send loud and clear messages of protest to the large oil companies regarding the outrageous price of gasoline. Aw, yeah! Well played, chief! Don't buy gas on Wednesday! Send the message to Big Oil that we consumers are in control, and we can totally wreck you if we decide to! Never mind the fact that if no one buys gas on Wednesday they'll just buy it on Thursday, and presumably buy more of it while they're at it. Hell yeah! Way to stick it to The Man!

This morning when I saw an email in my inbox from this employee titled "BOYCOTT!" I cringed and prepared myself for the onslaught of stupid. I was not disappointed. I was urged to boycott the use of the new dollar coins because they no longer include the words "In God We Trust." First of all, it's yet another in a long line of urban legends. (Apparently there were a very small number of these coins minted without the phrase, but it was due to an error of some sort, not a deliberate omission.) But the email really got me thinking. Yeah, you heard me. I was thinking. And this is where the serious question comes in:

Even if that phrase were omitted from a coin, why is it such a big deal? I ask this for two reasons:

1) While I am certainly no Biblical scholar, I have enough knowledge of the good book to know that The Almighty doesn't appear to be a huge fan of the dinero. Poverty is celebrated in the Bible. There's the whole thing about how it's easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to enter heaven, and let's not forget how Jesus started whaling on those dudes changing money outside of the temple. (I'm not suggesting Jesus administered a beatdown. This is for literary effect. Don't email me!) For a deity that, by every account I've heard, is somewhat skeptical if not downright disdainful of wealth, it seems odd to me that people would be so determined to inextricably link the two.

and,

B) A coin? Really? Really? Is the verbiage really that important? Because I say, who gives a crap? I'm not trying to be flip here, but I truly cannot understand why people get so invested in what's printed on currency or minted on coins. Judging by the number of times this email had been forwarded and the multitude of exclamation points contained within the comments pleading people to refuse these coins, this is an issue that resonates deeply with some people. But for the life of me I can't figure out why. I'll be the first to admit that I don't have a dog in this fight, because I don't give a shit what's on my money. It could have a picture of Daffy Duck on it. I only need to know one thing: Can I trade it for cigarettes and vodka? If so, I'm happy.

I am honestly confused by this. I really don't get it. Feel free to insert [joke about stupid] here.

I Will Go To Unbelievable Lengths For A Good Taco

2007-11-09T20:06:00.001-08:00

I work with a large number of people who are fluent in Spanish and English. Some of them are from areas with large Spanish speaking populations and who grew up being bilingual, some are immigrants from various Hispanic countries who have managed to learn English and speak it better than an alarming number of natives, and many are children of people who fled Mexico several years ago. I don't know why they fled that country, and while I probably should, I'm far too lazy to look that kind of stuff up. There are any number of salacious reality shows on television. Why waste my time educating myself when I could spend it wondering why the girl with the gigantic fake boobs slept with him?

One day, quite a while back, one of my employees said that he was going to go out for lunch and asked if I'd like him to pick up something for me. I asked him what he was going to be getting, and he said he was going to grab some tacos.

Me: Oh, thanks for asking! I'm not in the mood for Taco Bell, though.

Employee: Ewww. I'm not going to The Bell. I'm talking about real tacos.

Me: [perking up] Oh! Like Baja Fresh?

Employee: [Collapsing into a chair, presumably overwhelmed by the stupid] No, gringo. REAL tacos. Real Mexican tacos.

Me: Ooh!!! I think I might like that! Where are you going?

Employee: Uh... just some people I know that make tacos.

Me: What kind?

Employee: All kinds. You can get whatever you want. Carne, pollo. Whatever.

Me: OK!!! I'll take a couple beef tacos. Oh, sorry. Carne! Hee! Did you hear me just habla?

Employee: Yeah, nice job. *cough* Anyway, what do you want on your tacos? You can get whatever you want. Guacamole, salsa, lettuce, onions...

Me: I'd just like some cilantro and lime juice. Can they do that?

Employee: [rolling eyes] Uh, yeah. I'm pretty sure they can swing that.

Me: Don't laugh at me! I habla'ed and everything!

So anyway, about 20 minutes later he came back bearing the most glorious food ever. I scarfed those tacos down, snorting and grunting the entire time. After I was finished I went outside and smoked a cigarette. They were that good.

A couple months later this same employee said that he was going back to get more tacos and would I like any. I almost broke my ankle sprinting to my purse to get him the money. The second experience was every bit as beautiful as the first. I asked the employee where, oh where, were these maestros of the taco located? He hesitated, pointed over his shoulder, and said that they were "that way." That kind of vague crap simply would not do. I pressed for more information.

Me: Do they have a restaurant?

Employee: Uh, no. I don't think you could call it that.

Me: Well then where do you go to get the food?

Employee: They have a truck... kinda.

Me: Oh! Like a mobile taco stand?

Employee: If you want to call it that.

Me: So it's like a little trailer or something?

Employee: No, it's more like a van.

Me: Oh! So kind of like an ice cream truck that they sell tacos out of?

Employee: Uh... it's more like out of the back of their van.

Me: Huh. Ok. Well, where are they?

Employee: It might not be a good idea to say.

Me: What? I'd be one of their best customers! How is that not a good thing?

Employee: [blinks]

Me: [finally catching the hint] Oh, I see. Are they trying to keep a low profile?

Employee: Yeah, you could say that. They're not supposed to be here.

Me: Ah, ok. Well I don't give a crap what their legal status is, I just want to know where I can go to get more of those tacos. These things are like crack to me.

Employee: They stay down by the river in a van. They sell tacos to make some money.

Me: Down by the river? Huh. Really? There's not much down there other than a... uh, park.

Employee: Yeah. They don't have anywhere to go.

Me: Damn... that sounds pretty rough. I hope they can make it. [Then, unable to resist, because I am a total jackass sometimes] So they're LIVING IN A VAN DOWN BY THE RIVER?!?!?!

The taco-dealing employee now works the overnight shift, so I only see him as he's leaving work and I'm arriving. I still don't know exactly where these taco vendors are, and while I hope that their fortunes have changed and permitted them to move out of the VAN DOWN BY THE RIVER, I'm still disturbed that I have no idea as to their whereabouts. Their food was that good. And I wouldn't be surprised if one of these days I got a craving and ended up getting arrested for wandering around the riverbank shouting about where the bitches were who make the awesome tacos.

My Friends Are Legendary Theologians

2007-11-03T21:20:00.001-07:00

Overheard tonight at a dinner with friends:

"So you've got your Catholics with their wine and beads and guilt. And the Jews don't eat pork because pigs are dirty, but have you ever seen how chickens live? They eat shit all the damn time! And the Mormons... they confuse me. Aren't they the ones who wear paper bags on their heads?"

Sparkly Art

2007-10-26T20:19:00.001-07:00

One of the most common questions ~~I've never been~~ I'm asked is, "What kind of art do you enjoy?" My goodness, what a complicated question! Generally speaking, my taste in art runs in the vein of the contemporary. Oh sure, DaVinci was alright I guess, considering he was designing bicycles, gyroscopes, or whatever the hell else in his spare time. Michaelangelo's Sistine Chapel isn't too bad, although every time I see it I think God is suggesting that Adam pull his finger. I guess fart humor really is timeless after all.

The first time The Mister and I went to Australia we spent a day at the Sydney art museum. There was a shitload of great art, but when my husband saw some works by Brett Whiteley he almost wet himself. We bought a couple Whiteley prints and had them framed. This one is in our dining room, and this one hangs over our mantle. The internet pictures don't do them justice; they are truly spectacular works of art.

The rest of the pictures I have are family antiques and are exceptionally proper and rather fussy, because my ancestors were tall on money and short on taste. (I am totally getting haunted for that.) The family art is comfortably resting in the basement, where the pictures of Old World ships, pilgrims, and sleighs will stay until I can pawn them off on distant cousins. Or sell them on Ebay.

One of my favorite images of all time is this Wegman photo, but it's damn hard to integrate a Weimaraner lounging in a metal chair into your home decor. Better Homes and Gardens doesn't have a section on this shit. Which is unfortunate, because you just try to tell me this isn't one of the coolest photographs you've ever seen in your life:
I've long since given up on having a magazine cover home, though. Which is probably why this large, framed print is prominently displayed in our house:

Anything that uses the word "hosed" is my idea of great art. I'm totally sophisticated that way.

Embarrassing Confessions: #273

2007-10-25T21:47:00.000-07:00

The other day, as I was sitting in traffic and flipping through the radio stations, Backstreet Boys' I Want It That Way came on. I sang along. At one point there were even jazz hands.

I'm pretty sure I'll never be able to take myself seriously again.

It Probably Feels like 109 Years For Him

2007-10-16T20:59:00.000-07:00

About a week ago a strange white cat began hanging around our house. He seemed like a pleasant enough animal at first although he had kind of an inbred look to him. I know this because I have personal experience with inbred animals, and no, I'm not talking about my family. When I was a little kid we had a dog named Beasley who was procured by my uncle from a cardboard box outside a grocery store. Because in my family we are all about planning, forethought, and research.

Anyway, Beasley was a very sweet puppy, but as he matured he became a bit, er, flighty. When I was about two or three years old he started to display some aggression toward me. He never touched me, but he'd growl from time to time for no particular reason. There I'd be in the backyard in my plastic pool, splashing and rolling around in my hot little toddler bikini, and Beasley would be standing in the corner of the yard, glaring at me with his tiny mongrel terrier teeth bared.

Needless to say my parents were less than pleased by this, so they carted Beasley off to the vet to see if there was any sort of physical problem that might explain his sudden change in temperament. The vet examined him, asked some questions, and informed my parents that Beasley was probably inbred. I have no idea how he knew this. Perhaps that was his stock answer. Hair falling out? Inbred. Tail crooked? Inbred. Doesn't like Alpo? Eh, inbred. Of course, given what we knew about Beasley's box-in-front-of-a-grocery-store provenance he could very well have been descended from a long line of brothers and sisters.

Anyway, long story short (too late!), my parents found Beasley a new home with no other animals or small children and he lived out the rest of his psychopathic days in peace, happiness, and harmony. But I still remember The Look he'd get before he lost his shit, and this new neighborhood cat definitely had that look. Inbred? HE MIGHT BE!

The first day the crazy white cat started hanging around I thought he was a bit forward, since he traipsed around our deck and backyard like he owned the place. I found that a bit presumptuous, but then I noticed that he had a petunia stuck to his butt, and how can you not love that? Apparently he'd been rolling around in the plants between our house and our neighbors' and as a result he had a blossom festooned on his bottom. It's pretty hard to be all big, bad, and fierce when you've got a flower dangling from your ass. So I gently shooed him away lest he upset the two feline princesses we have living in our house, and he contentedly trotted off.

Fast forward a couple days to Saturday. I was standing outside on the deck with Gloria who was lounging around in the early morning sun while Maggie was still inside the house crunching on her breakfast. I noticed the crazy white cat out of the corner of my eye but didn't pay too much attention. Not until he stormed the deck and started attacking Gloria. I managed to grab a nearby broom and raced over to him before he was able to inflict any injuries. I started shrieking things about fuckers having to go through me if they wanted to get to her, waving the broom around, and tripping over my flip flops as I chased the psychotic animal off the deck and into the backyard. I stood guard there for a few minutes, broom in hand, making sure the white menace didn't come back up on the deck. About this time our next door neighbor came outside to observe the situation. Either that or he wanted to get a close up of my awesome striped seersucker pajamas, which is a definite possibility. They are pretty sweet.

He asked if one of our cats had had a run-in with the white cat, and I told him what had just happened. He said that he'd posted notices on the neighborhood listserv in an attempt to find a home for the cat, and that he and his family had been feeding the stray. They'd even let him inside their house with the intention of keeping him permanently, but he'd violently attacked their existing housecat and no amount of acclimation seemed to be working. The neighbor had given up and made an appointment with Animal Control to take the cat in.

Later that afternoon after The Mister got home I told him that the white cat had been back and up on the deck again. Blah blah. My husband reacted with mild interest until I told him that Gloria had been jumped. Oh, the fury! I might as well have run up to him and kicked him in the shins.

Later that evening as we were leaving the house (with the cats safely inside) I saw the white cat coming up the steps of the deck. I pointed it out to The Mister, who proceeded to grab a croquet mallet and set off in search of The Fucker Who Tried To Hurt Gloria. (Yes, we have a croquet set, and yes, we play croquet. I've made no bones about the fact that we are tremendous dorks. I don't know why you're surprised so quit looking at me like that.)

I started to shout something about just scaring the white cat and not hurting it, but it was like standing in the infield of the goddamn Indy 500. It was dizzying. I saw a white streak go around one side of the house and emerge on the other side a few seconds later only to be followed by my husband swinging a croquet mallet furiously over his head. My man can move, y'all.

I'd like to say here that it was precisely nine years ago today that my husband and I walked into the courthouse in Columbiana, Alabama to get married. We had no rings, no witnesses, no nothing -- aside from the can of Country Time lemonade that I brought in with me because I was so damn thirsty. We got married in the A/V room of the courthouse by a Judge Judy lookalike who was named -- wait for it -- Judge Judy.

So it's nine years later and every day of my life I'm still reminded of how lucky I got. There are any number of reasons why I did better in the spouse department than I deserve, but when I see my husband running around the house with a croquet mallet helicoptering over his head, hissing and shouting profanities at a mentally unbalanced cat, I know somebody or something is looking out for me. Fate totally did me a solid.

I Should Totally Have My Own Cooking Show

2007-10-05T21:05:00.000-07:00

I have discussed -- in rather agonizing detail -- my fascination with the phenomenon that is Sandra Lee. For the uninitiated, Ms Lee has a show on the Food Network called Semi-Homemade Cooking With Sandra Lee, which consists of her opening a few cans, dumping the contents into a bowl, and calling it dinner. Sometimes she stirs things. Oh, and she also has a big rack:
Anyway, I watch her show from time to time just to see what sort of culinary assault she has planned for that day. Very often I'm reduced to crippling fits of squealing laughter, but once that subsides the bitterness begins to creep in. How is it that this fool is making a fortune when some nice girl like me who actually knows how to cook is relegated to a life of having to rely on skill and/or hard work in order to make a living? Is there no justice?

I'm no longer content to be a hapless victim. If this clod can create a mini-empire doing this shit then what's stopping me? Nothing, that's what! So I'm going to put on my worst bra, tightest sweater, and submit my proposal to anyone who will listen. Here's my can't miss, surefire menu:

Bavarian Snack Twists

Ingredients:
One bag store-bought pretzels

Preparation:
Empty pretzels into a bowl.
Serve.

Creamy Shrimp Bisque with Savory Flatbread

Ingredients:
1 can creamy shrimp bisque soup
1 sleeve saltine crackers

Preparation:
Empty soup into a pan and heat on the stove. Until hot. Maybe stir it once, too.
Take crackers out of wrapper.
Serve.

Succulent Roast Chicken with Homestyle Mashed Potatoes and Haricots Verts

Ingredients:
1 rotisserie chicken from the supermarket
1 box instant potatoes
1 can green beans

Preparation:
Take chicken out of container.
Dump box of potatoes into a saucepan and add water or whatever the hell the side of the box tells you to.
Open can of green beans and empty into a pan on the stove. Turn the stove on. The beans will get hot eventually.
Serve.

Grandma's Blue Ribbon Double Chocolate Cake

Ingredients:
1 box chocolate cake mix
1 container chocolate icing

Preparation:
Put contents of the box of cake mix into a large container. Many people use cake pans, but this is negotiable. Add some eggs and some milk or maybe some water. Possibly some oil. Mix it all up and then put it in the oven. Remove when done, whenever that is.
Open container of icing and smear on the cake.
Serve.
When in doubt, dress up as Cher. Nothing emphasizes your cooking prowess quite like a big ass headdress and a plunging neckline.

So there you have it. It's only a matter of time before I am a world-renowned lifestyle expert. Do not fret though, my people. I'll remember you when. And I'll even prepare some Bavarian Snack Twists for you.

You Can't Take Me Anywhere

2007-09-26T20:36:00.000-07:00

I believe I've mentioned before that my husband plays cricket with a group of local mens. They are quite passionate about the sport and host an annual cricket match between a Nashville team and a British contingent. Each time the English group comes over for a tournament there is a semi-formal dinner/reception hosted by a socially prominent member of the Nashville cricket club. I say "semi-formal" because although evening gowns and tuxedos aren't required attire, I can assure you this is most definitely a pinkies-up type of affair. Big ass house, valet parking, fully catered dinner, open bar... you get the idea. And if you're thinking that this sounds like my type of scene then you have obviously never met me and the sweatpants that I wear everywhere I don't get paid to work.

I don't know what the opposite of a social butterfly is, but I am it. I like to sit in corners by myself. It takes a very deliberate, painful effort on my part to interact with strangers. I am notoriously bad with names. I'll meet someone named Charles and within thirty seconds I'm calling them Wilhelm. I don't know how I manage to do it. It must be some sort of gift from above designed to ensure I remain a social pariah for the rest of my days. And just when I think I have embarrassed myself in every way possible I find a new, more innovative way to bring shame to me and, in this case, my husband. Case in point: a recent cricket reception with the British squad:

Me: That was a good dinner!

The Mister: Yes, it was. I'm glad you liked it. I didn't think you liked Indian food.

Me: I don't, really. It tends to make me gassy. But that's probably better discussed at another time.

TM: Yes, preferably when I'm far, far away.

Me: Eh, whatever. Anyway, where did Earl go?

TM: Who's Earl?

Me: The dude I was sitting next to during dinner.

TM: Uh, you were sitting next to Jimmy.

Me: No, I was sitting next to Earl. I paid special attention when we were introduced. I wanted to make sure I knew the freaking name of the person I was sitting next to during dinner. I may only be able to remember three names at a time, but I know that I got his name right. Anyway, he was really nice and we had a good conversation!

TM: I know who you were sitting next to. His name is Jimmy.

Me: Quit yanking my chain, buttmonkey! I know his name is Earl because that's how were were introduced and I called him that all during dinner and he answered me each time. If that weren't his name he would have said something. So quit trying to make fun of me because I know this time I got the name right.

TM: Are we talking about the same person?

Me: He was the tall guy in the blue shirt sitting to my left during dinner. Nice looking guy... strawberry blonde hair.

TM: That's Jimmy.

Me: Give it a rest. He was introduced to me as "Earl something-or-other." I KNOW it.

TM: Oh... oh. Ha!

Me: What?

TM: Did you two have a nice conversation?

Me: Yes! We have the same birthday!

TM: Did you call him "Earl"?

Me: Duh, of course I did. That's his name.

TM: [snicker]

Me: He seemed quite entertained by me, if you'd like to know. Especially when I asked him what was shaking. I think he found my candor refreshing!

TM: HA!

Me: Oh, whatever. What's so funny?

TM: His name isn't Earl. He is an earl. His name is James, Earl of [somewhere-in-England].

[...]

Me: Oh, sweet Jesus.

TM: Ha! Ha ha!

[...]

Me: Do you know the coat closet in the library?

TM: Yeah, why?

Me: Come get me before you leave.

TM: What are you going to be doing in there?

Me: Lying on the floor in a fetal position sucking on a bottle of tequila.

I Wield Some Mean Canned Goods

2007-09-16T19:14:00.000-07:00

Earlier today I noticed that Maggie the cat's left eye wasn't quite right. It was red and the little internal eyelid thingy was halfway covering her eye. (What's that thing called? In reptiles and amphibians it's called a nictitating membrane. Is it the same for cats? Clearly that biology education has paid off handsomely!) She's had that happen before, but the vet gave me some ointment to put in her eye and it cleared right up. Unfortunately I no longer have that ointment, so after keeping a close eye on her today and noting that her eye didn't appear to be getting any better I decided to take her to the emergency vet clinic.

Shortly after arriving I began to feel like maybe I'd jumped the gun. I saw a dog who had been attacked by bees, one who was on the losing end of a skirmish with a lawnmower, and one poor little fella who had suffered a stroke and could barely stand on his own feet. I dejectedly surveyed the carnage while Maggie rolled around in her carrier, enthusiastically batting around her catnip mouse.

Once my name was called and I took Maggie in to see the vet I immediately began to apologize. I said I was pretty sure I'd overreacted and normally I would just swing by the vet tomorrow, but I had jury duty and I figured they wouldn't be too sympathetic to my cat's optical needs if I decided I had to leave court. I didn't want to wait until Tuesday and let a potential infection develop, but if they wanted me to go so they could move on to the more serious injuries I would totally understand. The vet said that wasn't necessary, so I stood and stewed in my guilt while he took a gander at Maggie's eye. He asked all the questions about vaccinations, blah blah animal stuff, and said that it might have been caused by a minor trauma of some sort.

I should probably explain here that Maggie, as sweet, lovable, and wonderful as she is, has all the grace of a three-legged camel. I have never seen a clumsier animal. She will stretch with a little too much gusto and roll off the chair she's lounging on or get so excited running around the house that she skids and crashes into a wall because she can never stop in time. So when the vet mentioned the "minor trauma" diagnosis I chuckled and said that she'd probably walked into a door or something. As soon as the words left my mouth I heard the echoes of stories I'd heard about battered women trying to protect their abusers by blaming the cause of their cuts and bruises on falling down stairs or walking into a door. I couldn't believe I'd made that stupid comment, so I blurted out, "I promise I don't beat my cat!" The vet just looked at me for a moment, furrowed his brow, nodded, and went about his business.

Funky-eyed Maggie and I left shortly thereafter, complete with some eyedrops that she is going to LOVE. I imagine the veterinary staff called the Cat Protective Services hotline as soon as we left.

On a related note, how cool would it be to work in the disciplinary division of the Animal Protective Services that exists only in my mind? There's no way I could be one of the people who actually rescues neglected and abused animals, because I would be reduced to a sobbing snotty mess if I saw that kind of bullshit firsthand. But if there were a group that doled out the punishment to the fuckheads who do that stuff? Oh hells yeah, where do I sign up?!?! I'd tie the offenders to a chair and tell them that they were going to get a beatdown for a few minutes and to shut the hell up about it because I didn't feel like listening to their crap, and after I was done I'd throw a can of pork and beans at their head and then run like hell.

That would be awesome.

What I Did Tonight, or Why My Cats Will Hate Me

2007-09-10T20:31:00.000-07:00

You are probably wondering how I spent my evening. I can't say that I blame you, because my life is pretty exciting. In between the cat-feeding, the television-watching, the salt shaker-filling, and the walking around trying to figure out where that other tan sock went-ing, it's one nailbiting moment after another here at Casa Sparkles.

I did try to catch a little bit of Supernanny when it came on, because for reasons I will never understand that show is like crack to me. I don't have children, I don't like children, I don't even want to be around children (I'm a real peach, huh?), but I so enjoy watching the parenting shenanigans that are chronicled on that show. There are few things I enjoy more than sitting in pompous judgment of complete strangers in distress.

For the most part these poor overwhelmed parents are battling situations caused by some bad habits that have snowballed out of control and now they're unsure how correct the problem. I can relate to that, as I think most people can. But every once in a while there's a priceless nugget of complete idiocy, and those are the moments I live for.

"I just don't understand why Little Danny doesn't want to go to sleep at bedtime. I'm at the end of my rope!"

"Did you feed him before bed?"

"Yes, I always give him a box of Oreos and a two-liter of Mello Yello. Is that bad?"

Unfortunately Supernanny only occupies one hour of my Monday evening life, so I was forced to find other places to focus my laser-sharp attention. Naturally I began looking for Halloween costumes for my cats. I whittled the superfab selections down to three, which I present to you here:

Birthday Cake Kitty:

Princess Kitty:

Pirate Kitty:
I still haven't made up my mind, but I'm leaning toward Princess Kitty and Pirate Kitty. Whatever decision I make though, one thing is clear: I am a menace to society and must be stopped for the good of civilization.

I'm Incapable of Avoiding Humiliation

2007-09-06T19:14:00.001-07:00

For some reason I got the old Eddie Murphy-does-Buckwheat skit from Saturday Night Live stuck in my head recently. I tried everything I knew to get it out, up to and including the dreaded "It's A Small World" approach. If you've still got something buried in your head after singing about how it's a world of laughter and a world of tears, you're in some deep shit and you aren't getting out any time soon.

So there I was in my office, rooting around in a filing cabinet, belting out my own personal version of Fee Tines A Mady when I looked up and saw the owner of the company standing there looking at me as if I were wearing a diaper on my head. I'm here to tell you it's tough to talk your way out of something like that.

On the plus side, at least he wasn't there to hear my rocking rendition of Wookin Pa Nub. I'm focusing on my successful aversion of that crisis. I'm trying to keep positive about this, because at this point that's all I've got.

A Study in Contrasts

2007-08-31T20:37:00.000-07:00

Now is the time for us to discuss the most splendid time of year: the start of college football season. The Mister and I are both rabid football fans. Because of our ~~irrational~~ passionate love of the sport some people would call us insane, but they are just haters and we will not waste any time discussing those fuckers.

My husband, despite his Australianism, is quite the student of the game. His commentary usually has some basis in strategy or some such bullshit. I prefer relying on hexes, personal threats, and voodoo.

For anyone lucky enough to spend an autumn Saturday at the Sparkles Plenty household, you'll hear something like this:

The Mister: Why the screen pass now? That makes no sense.

The Mister: What kind of formation was that? What was the offensive coordinator thinking?

The Mister: What? That's not pass interference! The ball was uncatchable!

Me: KICK HIM IN THE NADS!

I Am A Valued Employee

2007-08-28T15:26:00.000-07:00

At some point on Sunday I began feeling a bit under the weather. It didn't feel like anything serious but I was unable to bounce back from whatever it was that was afflicting me. I am sure that's because of my exceptionally dainty constitution. As I believe I have mentioned before, I am delicate like a rose petal.

Anyway, I ended up staying home from work yesterday. I spent all day on the sofa with my trusty pals Ritz and Ginger Ale, watching more Matlock reruns than I am comfortable admitting to. My highly technical self-treatment worked though, because I felt better enough this morning to go back to work. I was still experiencing spells where I felt lightheaded, queasy, and dizzy, but it's not like that was too much different than my regular demeanor so I didn't think anyone would notice.

About an hour after I arrived at work I was sitting in my office going through my email when another "spell" hit me, so I leaned back in my chair and let my head loll around as though I'd lost all musculature in my neck. I'm pretty sure my tongue was hanging out of my mouth, too. It was at this exact moment that my boss, The Man, came in.

The Man: Are you stoned?

Me: No, I'm just a little dizzy and lightheaded. I do look like I'm stoned though, don't I?!?! Hahaha!!!

The Man: Eh, ok. Anyway, did you get my email about my proposed change to [company policy]? I need your input on that.

Me: Yes, I got it. I wanted to talk to you about that. I must not be understanding correctly because if we do it the way you described it it's going to cost a fortune and be a logistical nightmare. And, uh oh... dizzy again.

The Man: I don't understand.

Me: Well, here are the numbers I came up with earlier. Are these the changes you referred to?

The Man: Yes, but... hmmm.

Me: I've put together a spreadsheet for you to look at. I think it might make it a little clearer and... arrwwwaghh... [head lolling with tongue slightly poking out]

[...]

The Man: I don't believe this shit.

Me: Well I've done the math twice, I'm pretty sure my calculations are correct... warrppttthh...

The Man: It's not that.

Me: Huh?

[...]

The Man: I cannot believe it took an insane stoned woman to explain it to me before I understood.

Me: [wiping drool from chin] Dude, that's why I'm here.

Mexican Prison Life

2007-08-20T23:08:00.000-07:00

Ron Mexico is headed to prison.

If I were a better person I would only hope that he'd gain enlightenment and learn the error of his ways, never to commit such despicable crimes again. But I am not a better person, because I'm too busy hoping he's assigned a sociopathic cellmate named Big Daddy with a penchant for brutal anal sex.

Anyway, the Pentagon has gotten back to me: Mr. Mexico is the biggest douche in all the land. And I'm pretty sure that's why God gave him The Clap.

Flies Like To Get Busy In Baked Fruit

2007-08-13T21:03:00.000-07:00

After a recent grocery shopping expedition I was faced with the horrendous task of trying to make room in the refrigerator for the most recent acquisitions. This was no easy feat because my husband and I horde condiments, dressings, and sauces as though they were spun out of gold. We have enough bottles of various hot sauces to choke a horse, as well as a half dozen almost-empty containers of salad dressings that are months old. Because you never know when you'll need a teaspoon of organic sundried tomato, lemongrass, and tofu dressing.

In order to make room for our latest groceries I had to dispose of a few items. One of these was an almost-empty dish of blueberry cobbler, which I placed on the kitchen counter in an out-of-the-way place so I could load the refrigerator with more salad dressings and hot sauce. Conventional wisdom would dictate that I toss the remaining bit of blueberry cobbler down the garbage disposal and stow the empty baking dish in the dishwasher, but anyone who knows me can tell you that conventional wisdom rarely applies where I am concerned. We have no garbage disposal since our house was built around the time some guy named Moses trotted down the side of a mountain with a couple stone tablets, and even though it's been on our To Do list for ages, we've never actually installed one.

So anyway, the covered dish with the cobbler was put in a corner. I didn't want to put it all in the garbage since we'd just taken out the trash and it didn't seem like a good idea to have that goop sitting in the bin for the few days it would take before the trash was ready to be taken out again. I figured since the dish was covered and had just come out of the refrigerator it could hang out for a day or two until I could throw it out into the full garbage and dispose of all of it.

Long story short, that dish was pretty much forgotten. I know that sounds like we are used to a kitchen that is littered with moldy, dirty dishes, and while my housekeeping skills aren't what they could be, I'm not quite that bad. Besides, with these 57 poodles I have living in the house it's hard to keep track.

Earlier today all the forces of the universe aligned: the trashcan was full and in need of emptying, the dishwasher was filled and ready to run, and I encountered the blueberry cobbler dish that had been tucked away between the mortar and pestle and the stack of cookbooks. I removed the lid to throw it out and noticed some movement. Ye gods. Little white globs were wriggling around in there and after a few seconds I realized they were maggots. I ran outside, yelping and whimpering the whole way, dumped the contents into the trash, and jumped up and down in the driveway frantically shaking my hands in a stupid attempt to remove the contamination. While I was wondering where a Silkwood shower was when a girl needed one, a neighborhood resident walked by, saw me and smiled, and started running in place in a very exaggerated, animated fashion. Apparently she thought I was doing Jazzercise in my driveway and wanted to join in.

My body and the kitchen surfaces have been scrubbed, but oh, the trauma remains. There is one good thing that may have come out of this horrifying experience though. For years I've been trying to convince my husband that we need to hire a part-time housekeeper, and I think this whole maggot episode may have tipped the scales in my favor.

I Heart Him So Much

2007-08-06T22:09:00.001-07:00

Contrary to what many of my employees might say, I try very hard to be a fair, compassionate boss. The overwhelming majority of the people I've supervised over the years have been honest, hardworking people and it's been my privilege to work with them. But, as always seems to be the case, there have been The Others. Like the person who informed me that she had sprained her toe and would be restricted to bed rest for eight months, and no she didn't have any medical documentation but what kind of coldhearted cow could I be to deny her FMLA when her pinky toe was in so much pain? Or the dude who complained to everyone who would listen that he was hungry but broke; the same dude I found not five minutes later with his fist stuck inside a ragged hole in the front of the vending machine and a pool of shattered plastic at his feet, only to profess that he hadn't done anything wrong because one time a few months ago his potato chips had gotten caught in the machine and he'd been out forty cents. Or maybe the lady I walked by one day as she was on the phone mumbling unintelligibly to a client. I noticed a spoon sticking out of her mouth, but she quickly hid it when she saw me approaching. I spied her customary paper sack full of mashed potatoes (I'm not joking) and asked her if she'd been eating while she was speaking to a client. She turned around in her seat and, with all the righteous earnestness she could muster, informed me that no, she would never do such a thing because that would be wrong and her momma taught her better than that. Unfortunately the little pile of oily mashed potatoes on her nose told a different story. Not to mention the greasy paper bag under her chair.

Despite my occasionally volcanic Irish temper I have always managed to take these occupational incidents in stride. But there is a small, ugly part of me that really wants to let people know that while they think they're all shrewd and shit there isn't anything they can pull on me that hasn't already been tried or that I haven't thought of myself. I can't say those things. I bite my tongue, nod, smile, and offer the occasional raised eyebrow even though my internal dialogue is shrieking like a harpy, urging me to tell these people that I'm not nearly as stupid as I look (and I do look pretty stupid, admittedly) and to please quit insulting my intelligence. The unbalanced part of my psyche really wants to unload on someone when they try to feed me a load of bullshit.

And that is probably why Gordon Ramsay rocks my world like a San Francisco earthquake.

I Am Pathetic and Behind the Times

2007-08-01T21:06:00.000-07:00

Oh my gosh you guys, I have a new favorite song! It's Crazy by Gnarls Barkley. Those of you who haven't been living in a cave for the past year are probably thinking, "That song has been out for almost two years, you dumb whore." And you are right! I am both 1) a dumb whore and b) hopelessly out of touch with current events in the musical world. (I hear there's a craze called disco that is sweeping the nation! Stay tuned -- I'm picking up a new 8-track tomorrow and I'll let you know if it's any good.) But last month when I went to visit Pops Sparkles I was driving to Pennsylvania on my way to the airport when the radio DJ announced the upcoming song was from Gnarls. I'd heard great things about the band but had never heard any of their songs. Within ten seconds of its start I had the volume turned up as loud as the craptacular sound system in my rented Chevrolet would go and was bouncing up and down in the seat like a two year old who has had way too much sugar.

I had A Moment then. It was a cool, drizzly morning and I was driving with every window down on a bumpy two lane highway through a tiny New England town in New Jersey, surrounded by orchards, cornfields, and the smell of wet asphalt. I knew as I listened to the song that every time I heard it from that point forward I'd think of that exact moment. So this morning when that song came on the radio it wasn't surprising that I smelled just-rained-on concrete in my head. (No, I don't have a concrete head. Shut up!) It all came back, as I knew it would.

It's strange to me that certain songs can bring you back so perfectly to a particular moment in time. Every time I hear Champagne Supernova I recall the exact way I felt one time when I drove through some dark, steamy fields in northern Alabama on my way to hell... er, Birmingham to the corporate apartment where I was staying. The same apartment where I would sit the next morning on the cheap, crackly floral bedspread, surrounded by the stale smell of the cleaning supplies the housekeeping staff had used the day before, listening with my head in my hands to the Cowboy Junkies' Sweet Jane on the clock radio, wondering why I'd agreed to move to a city I detested, away from my family and friends, and being afraid of what I was in for. To this day I can't hear that song without feeling antsy and smelling Lysol.

So anyway, I have decided that I like a Gnarls Barkley song and whenever I hear it I think of cheap rental cars, bad roads, farmland, old stone houses, and the dusty smell of damp concrete. I have to get going now though, because I think Amos and Andy is coming on the home moviebox soon and I want to get my fancy congealed salad out of the ice cellar before I miss any of it.

I'd Like to be Buried in a Mountain of Middle Eastern Desserts

2007-07-27T19:06:00.001-07:00

The Sparkles Plenty workplace phone: [one ringy dingy]

Me: This is Kristina. (Please note how I answer the phone like a high-powered executive. BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT I AM, PEOPLE!) (Shut up.)

The Mister: Good afternoon! I'm back home. I got the shopping done for everybody's presents.

Me: Yay! I happened to get some shopping done too, birthday boy. I feel like I've just been prison-raped, so I hope you like your gift.

TM: I'm sure I will. What did you get me?

Me: A nice sundress and some sassy sandals.

TM: As long as it flatters my figure. So anyway, how are you doing?

Me: Fine, but I'm devastated by hunger. I haven't had lunch and I might pass out at any moment!

TM: You haven't had lunch? It's almost three o'clock. When are you going to eat?

Me: I could go to the deli downstairs, but if I have another turkey wrap I will probably vomit into my trashcan. So I'll probably wait until I get home and find some leftovers.

TM: There's that baklava we brought home from the restaurant last night if you want that.

Me: But man cannot live on baklava alone!

TM: I guess not.

Me: I think I might like to try sometime, though.

The Time Has Come For Me To Kick Some Landscaping Ass

2007-07-17T19:47:00.000-07:00

A few years ago my husband and I hired a local fella to mow our yard once a week. Our yard is not large, nor is it particularly difficult to maintain. We are just that lazy. Our trusty lawn guy did a good job, and over time he expanded his business. He now has his own bonafide landscaper's truck and a crew consisting of several young Hispanic gentlemen who don't speak much English. I suspect they are illegal residents, though I don't know for sure since I never asked to see their work credentials; they are just mowing my yard, for God's sake. Also, I am not a gigantic tool.

This past Saturday the whole gang arrived to tend our yard. I toyed with the idea of going outside to habla with them for a couple minutes and exercise what few Spanish skills I have, but since the extent of my bilingual vocabulary is the equivalent of please, thank you, and rubber band I figured they'd tire of the conversation pretty quickly. Besides, going outside would have required me to get off the sofa and thrust myself into crippling heat, prompting a whole new session of complaining from me. And nobody wants that, because I can complain like it's my job.

So there I sat in my jammies in air-conditioned comfort, remote control in one hand and corn chip in the other, while those poor bastards worked in the July sun doing a job that I was too lazy to do. But as I was flipping through the television channels I had an epiphany. There was a segment on the news regarding dirty illegal aliens and how they're taking all the good jobs away from hard-working Americans who now are reduced to sitting around eating dirt and drinking swampwater because they can't find work anywhere. Amen! If I had a nickel for every time my friends and I had discussed our burning desire to trim hedges for a living I'd have... uh, I'd have... OH, THAT IS NOT IMPORTANT RIGHT NOW.

Suddenly enlightened, I crammed a handful of corn chips in my mouth and glared out the window at the Mexican menace in my yard. Oh sure, they looked harmless as they happily worked around the lawn, but I knew better. Under that cheerful, hardworking demeanor lurked diabolical minds full of insidious plans to destroy America, one weedwhacker at a time.

I thought about what my plan of action would be, because I love America and there's no way I'm going to allow it to be corrupted by people hell-bent on grooming my lawn for an affordable price. Perhaps I should go outside and give them what-for, letting them know in no uncertain terms that I would not stand for their shenanigans. If there had been a way for me to express my fury in terms of rubber bands, those guys would have gotten an earful. Oh, they might argue that they were merely performing a service and if I felt that strongly about it I could do it my own damn self, and that would appear to be a valid point, but... OH MY GOD THAT IS NOT IMPORTANT RIGHT NOW EITHER.

As it is, I suppose I will have to maintain a watchful eye on whom I allow to cull weeds from my yard. It's obvious that some people are only out to hose us citizens and cannot be trusted. I must develop a means by which to protect the good people of America from those who want to sully its good name by providing excellent lawn care services. But if that plan involves me performing any manual labor or leaving climate-controlled comfort, that shit ain't gonna fly. Nothing is going to keep Mama from her Saturday morning cartoons, cool air, and snack foods.

Dear Sparkles, Vol I

2007-07-10T17:01:00.000-07:00

It is with tremendous excitement that I announce a new feature here in Sparkles Plenty land: an advice column hosted by none other than yours truly. I cannot tell you how desperately in need the majority of the population is of my incisive commentary. I've got an opinion on everything, and why not share it with the people who are desperate for my insight? So without further delay, let's get to it. It's time for the healing to begin.

A reader in West Virginia found Sparkles Plenty by way of a popular search engine. They wanted to know "haw [sic] can I suck my own dick?"

Ah, that is a question for the ages. I imagine that as long as there have been men on the earth they have been searching for ways to do this very thing. Clearly no one has been able to figure out an easy way to do it, because if they had then no man would ever leave the house. Also, the bitchy side of me would like to point out that perhaps you would be well-served by spending more time brushing up on your first-grade spelling skills instead of trying to figure out how to blow yourself. But you didn't come here for condemnation, and I will not judge you, my friend. I'm here to help. I have three suggestions for you:

1. Enroll in some yoga classes. I don't think yoga is the total solution to your dilemma but I'm pretty sure it's going to come in damn handy. You see, yoga will not only provide you with enhanced flexibility but with a sense of relaxation too. I think that relaxation will be especially good for you, because you seem a bit, uh, pent up, if you know what I mean. And I think you do.

2. If you're on a tight budget, fashion a device out of hammocks and/or circus trapezes. Some pulleys would probably work well here, too. I can't give you the particulars, but sit down with some graph paper and a protractor, do some sketching, and I imagine something will come to you. Make sure you design an indoor version though, because if you do this outside you'll get arrested for sure. I don't need that shit on my conscience.

3. If suggestion #2 is not feasible, go the manufactured route: the Craftmatic Adjustable Bed. I doubt the bed will come straight from the factory with a "Blow Myself" setting, but with a little creativity and a can-do attitude, you'll be your own girlfriend in no time!

I'd Let Gordon Call Me a Donkey

2007-07-09T17:54:00.001-07:00

Now is the time for us to talk about my new favorite TV show, Hell's Kitchen. How do I love it? I'm not sure I can count the ways. You've got, at it's heart, a cooking show, and cooking shows are like porn to me. You've got shallow, backstabbing bitches that I love to laugh at and make fun of. But most of all you have chef Gordon Ramsay, and he is awesome to the power of infinity squared.

He cusses at the contestants, often dropping the F-bomb 50+ times per episode, and that's the kind of communication I can relate to. He screams, he throws appetizers, he gets up in people's faces and calls them stupid donkeys. Stupid donkeys, you guys. I don't think I've ever heard a more perfect insult. It just sounds so bad. Donkeys aren't animals that you really want to be compared to, but there are a lot of other creatures that would be a lot worse. Cockroaches, for example. They are pretty gross, and I really wouldn't want to be called one of them. Donkeys are kind of cute, and there are certainly stupider animals on the planet. But you can't say the word donkey without sounding like you're trying to hock one, so you know when someone calls you one of those they think you're a big damn loser.

So there you have it. I would love to enthrall you further with tales of my favorite television viewing habits, but Hell's Kitchen is on now and I have to find out who this week's donkey will be.

Hell Has A Soundtrack

2007-06-28T18:08:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I attended a baby shower for a good friend of mine. It was all I could do to drag my cranky ass to the festivities, because I dislike children and I detest hen parties. But mom-to-be (who didn't want to attend the shower any more than I did) is a good friend and I needed to show my support. When I spoke to my good friend E earlier last week she raised the subject of the shower, and I asked if she knew who was going to be there. She said the vast majority of attendees were going to be friends of the paternal grandmother. I found this quite alarming because it meant I was going to have to act properly and behave myself. I told E that she might as well staple my mouth shut beforehand because there was no way I'd be able to go the entire afternoon without dropping an f-bomb or saying something about sucking balls and/or my butt.

Once we were at the shower I clung closely to E and our other friends (of whom there were two) and managed to sit prissily in my chair and smile politely while I clutched my glass of wine in pathetic desperation. At one point E said that we needed to circulate and socialize with the other attendees, but when I told her that I'd rather gauge my eyes out with a spork she took pity on me and dropped the subject.

At one point E and I went outside to smoke, because we are rude, nasty girls. There was nothing but sunshine outside, but somehow it started raining on us. E asked me if I knew what that meant.

"Uh, a rainbow?"

"No, you stupid whore. It means that the devil is beating his wife."

"What the hell? Oh, whatever."

"Speaking of hell, what songs do you think they play there? You know Satan has a playlist. The songs that suck so much that listening to them is pure torture."

"Heard It In A Love Song by Marshall Tucker Band. That shit gives me hives. Oh! And also that Blinded by the Light song where it sounds like they're singing about douches."

"Yes!. I think On My Own, that duet with Patti LaBelle and Michael McDonald has got to be on heavy rotation in hell."

"Definitely! And that song Green Eyed Lady? I think it's by a band called Sugarloaf or something. Any band that has the word loaf in its name has got to blow ass. It's probably in The Bible somewhere."

"And anything by Neil Young!"

[...]

"What? You got a hold of some bad crack, you dumb whore."

"Neil Young sucks, doesn't he?"

"Oh my god, E. I cannot be your friend anymore."

"What? He sings that song about riding through the desert on a horse with no name. That song can suck my dick."

"Ok, first of all, that song isn't by Neil Young. And second, I hope you learn to love all the songs we've talked about, because you're going to hell for thinking Neil Young sang that shit."

Vacation Fun With The Ponies

2007-06-19T20:11:00.000-07:00

Woot! I'm back from my visit with Pops Sparkles in New Jersey. I am sure I'll be regaling you with various related stories in the coming days, because oh my lord there are some stories to tell, but at the moment I'm just basking in the glow of being back home. The trip was great, I had fun with Pops Sparkles and Stepmother Sparkles, and being away from the office was the icing on the Awesome Cake.

Truth be known though, I'm ready to get back to work and reclaim my title of Productive Member of Society. There are many people who can do great deeds even though their livelihood doesn't depend on it, but clearly I am not one of those people. I got back into town last night, and today I spent my last day of vacation eating Crunch N' Munch and watching Agatha Christie mystery movies on tv. The fact that I managed to hoist my fat ass off the sofa to go to TinkleTown rather than urinate on the sofa was a small victory.

Anyway, there were any number of high points to my visit, but the day we spent at Belmont Park was among the most memorable. I've grown up with thoroughbred racing and have watched races at Belmont Park on television, so it was a real treat to go there in person. It's located on Long Island, and in order to get there from New Jersey we had to drive through The Bronx. On a Yankees vs Mets game day. Ugh. I've never been a fan of baseball (a fact that my once-professional-baseball-playing father finds more than a bit disturbing) but now I hate it more than ever. Sitting on the George Washington Bridge with nothing more to do than stare for 45 minutes at cars full of foam fingers and drunk face painters can do that to you.

Long story short, we made it through the city and onto Long Island to Belmont. Once there, I dutifully studied my Racing Digest, made my picks, and proceeded to lose each race. There are some bastards around there somewhere. It had to be a conspiracy, because it sure as shit couldn't be my legendary handicapping skills. (You may recall that these same legendary skills led me to select Cowtown Cat to win this year's Kentucky Derby. You may also recall that Cowtown Cat finished dead last.) Anyway, at one point I found myself with a $4 betting voucher that I didn't know what to do with. I noticed that a horse whose morning odds had been 5-1 had dropped like a rock to 14-1. He seemed to be as perfectly sound as he had been that morning, i.e. he still had all four feet and both eyeballs, so I figured what the hell. I plopped down my throwaway $4 voucher on some fool called Leadwithyourchin.

Here is a pictorial illustration of the last moments of that particular race:

There are four horses at the front. Leadwithyourchin is on the outside. I was cautiously optimistic at this point. I've been burned too many times before, and I'm no sucker. At least that's what I keep telling myself.

You can see here that my horse (#4), wearing the yellow saddlecloth, is starting to pull away. It was right around this time that I started screaming like a little girl and jumping around like I was on a pogo stick.

And this is when I wet myself.

Ah, good times.

I'm Supporting My Bitches

2007-06-09T21:55:00.000-07:00

Ok, so... the Belmont Stakes race today. And oh my sweet gravy it was awesome. Let's recap, shall we?

Known as the "Test of a Champion," the most difficult of all the Triple Crown races: Check

Grueling 1.5 mile race, longer than any other in thoroughbred racing: Check

Field consisting of some kickass horses, including Preakness winner Curlin, also known as "The Freak" due to his mad racing skillz: Check

Race that has not been won by a female horse in over one hundred years: Check

Race that was won by a female horse for the first time in over a hundred years: Oh my sweet lord CHECK!

I don't really consider myself a feminist. While I feel pretty strongly about certain issues that would probably fall under the "feminist cause" umbrella, I'm not particularly active in that political regard. That being said, when I saw the "girl" horse beat the bigger, stronger colts I felt a tremendous sense of pride. She wasn't supposed to win that race. Even though she had the breeding, the training, and the physical ability, she was a girl. And by virtue of that fact alone she was discounted by a large number of people. She was just a filly and, as a result, many people felt she didn't have a chance.

I guess those people can suck it.

On Thursday I will jet off to spend Fathers Day weekend with Pops Sparkles. He lives about 30 minutes outside New York city, and he has already made arrangements for us to spend next Saturday at Belmont Park. Even though I'm not much of a gambler I will be laying down the coins for any filly I can find. They could be blind in one eye and missing a hoof, but I don't care. We bitches have to stick together. That's just how we roll.

Some Bird Crapped On My Herbs

2007-06-06T19:12:00.000-07:00

Earlier this evening I was sitting outside in the miserable heat bitching to myself about how it's only early June and it's already hot and sticky. I wondered whose bright idea it was to not allow smoking inside the house, but then I remembered it was mine so I had to change the mental subject lest I get pissed off at myself, because that is a lose-lose situation. As I was wondering how my husband would feel about relocating to Siberia, something landed with a plop on my basil plant. Upon closer inspection I could see that a bird just shat on my herbs.

I was not pleased by this turn of events, but what can you do? So I sat and thought about the excretory processes of local wildlife, as you do, and eventually began to wonder how squirrels eliminate their bodily garbage. I've never seen one pop a squat, but obviously they do. Then I thought about the times that I've been sitting outside and felt a light mist fall, but there have been no clouds in the sky. It clearly wasn't rain; could it have been squirrel wee? Oof.

Anyway, the basil situation could have been much worse, of course. It's bird poo, not nuclear fallout. But the idea of some fresh pesto just lost a lot of its appeal.

Apparently Cats Are All I Have To Talk About

2007-05-31T20:56:00.000-07:00

When we last visited the spectacular Sparkles Plenty household, Maggie the cat was comfortably recovering from having her girly parts ripped from her tiny little body. She had the surgery last Thursday and spent the weekend lolling around the house while we presented her with a variety of pillows so she could pick which one she wanted to sleep on at that very moment.

Monday night -- Memorial Day -- around 8pm I remembered that it was time for Maggie's monthly flea medicine. I toddled off in search of her, and after some looking I found her in the basement contentedly grooming herself. I picked her up and brought her upstairs so The Mister could hold her while I applied a few drops of liquid to the skin on her upper back. As usual she reacted like I'd just dipped her in sulfuric acid, but after a couple minutes she settled down and scooted off to resume her grooming. Around this time I glanced down at my arm and found a small smear of blood on it. This was quite unusual because usually the only time I find blood on my arm is when I've been chopping onions and mangled a finger. My eyes may be burning but I cannot stop slicing because that would mean the onions have won.

After standing around like a stupid turd wondering about the blood on my arm I finally managed to add things up. I became very worried and scurried off to find Maggie. When I did, she was sitting in the bathroom on a blood-spotted rug. Upon closer examination it was obvious that her incision had come open and parts which were supposed to be inside her body were now spilling out onto the floor. She appeared completely unfazed by it and gave me a look all, "I know my intestines are coming out through my stomach, but I'm handling it."

I proceeded to freak the hell out, running around the house in circles squawking about stitches, emergencies, and my general level of inadequacy with regard to caring for living organisms. Fortunately my husband is much less neurotic than I. With his help Maggie was loaded into her carrier and then my hysterical self tore off for the emergency vet clinic like my ass was on fire. Once there I continued to lose my shit. The staff was exceedingly kind, but I have no doubt they're still laughing about that crazy lady who needed Valium like no one has ever needed it before.

They told me that Maggie would undergo additional surgery where she would be reopened, her "stuff" would be put back in, and then she'd be sewn back up. They encouraged me to go back home since there wasn't a thing I could do other than sit there and worry. They said no news was good news and to plan on picking Maggie up early the next morning. I made my way back home and then fidgeted nervously for the next few minutes. I needed to do something, so I decided to pick up where the evening had left off. I lit the grill and threw on some hamburgers. People handle stress in their own ways. Some chainsmoke, some pace the halls. Apparently I barbecue meat.

I got Maggie from the vet clinic early the next morning. She was sent home wearing one of those megaphone collars like that dog from the Nirvana video. It was one of the most pitiful things I've ever seen. But the high point was that a strip of gauze had been put through the loops at the base of the little cone helmet at neck level. The gauze had been tied in a pretty bow, making Maggie look like she was wearing a 23rd century sunbonnet.

Overall she's handling it quite well, even though the widest part of the collar is substantially larger than her head causing her to misjudge distances and crash into walls on a pretty regular basis. It's not hard to tell when she's coming because her approach sounds like someone whacking an empty milk carton against the wall. But she doesn't seem bothered by it, and in a few days she'll be free of the cosmic sunbonnet.

Hopefully after that I can resume my regular stories about elaborate plans to entice bats into creating makeshift caves in our backyard, or me getting drunk and falling off the side of the deck. I never thought I'd say it, but I miss talking about all the stupid shit I do.

All Ovaries In This House Belong To Me Now

2007-05-25T22:20:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning I was trying to drag my sad ass out of bed as my husband was getting ready to leave for work.

"Don't let Maggie outside today. She's acting weird."

"What? Is it time to wake up? Oh sweet lord please tell me it's not time to wake up."

"It's time to wake up. And don't let Maggie outside."

"Huh? Why?"

"She's weird."

"Duh."

"I think she's gone into heat."

"Oh sweet Jesus. I do not need this today. Maybe if I go back to sleep it will all go away."

"Yeah, good luck with that."

"Bastard."

Long story short (too late!), I dragged my sorry butt out of bed and walked into the next room. Miss Maggie Survivor was laying prostrate on the floor and Gloria was straddled on top of her, licking her ears. My first thought was that I had stumbled onto the set of some movie for feline Cinemax, but right away I realized that was a stupid idea. There is no such network, because if there were we would have ordered it for Gloria already.

Maggie spent the next few minutes crouched on her front legs while standing tiptoed on her hind ones to ensure that her butt was constantly in the air. She tottered around on her rear tiptoes, walking backward in circles in order to cover as much area as possible. She presented her feminine wares to every stationary object she could find, and I couldn't call the vet fast enough to make an appointment to get her spayed. I managed to get her booked that same day, and I imagine the neighbors are still talking about the squealing tires they heard coming out of our driveway that morning.

Once we made it to the animal hospital I was faced with the momentous decision of laser surgery or the traditional scalpel method. Laser vs scalpel? Oh hells yeah, it's Laser City, bitches. For someone who will get cranky with her spouse if he buys brand name kidney beans because they cost 39 cents more it's interesting that I'm so willing to drop an extra hundred bucks on enhanced veterinary surgery. But the laser procedure was supposed to be easier on Maggie, and what Maggie the Princess wants, Maggie the Princess gets. I'm very lucky that my husband is much more understanding about veterinary care than I am about kidney beans.

Maggie made it through the surgery just fine, and appears quite unfazed by it all. She's still slightly sluggish at times, but very happy to be home and able to sleep on her favorite pillow. Here she is sporting the feline equivalent of the Brazilian wax:
Gloria was a bit beside herself last night when Maggie wasn't here. Of course she will never admit to that because she tries to be tough and all, but when she sat outside on the back steps for two hours frantically looking around the backyard it was pretty clear that she was worried about her sister. When I brought Maggie home today from the vet Gloria anxiously looked on while Maggie lay on the rug in their favorite play room. While Maggie rested quietly Gloria began grooming her, licking her paws, ears, and head. After she was finished Gloria stretched out directly across from Maggie, about six inches apart, face to face. They both reclined there looking at each other for a couple minutes, at which time Gloria began slowly scooting toward Maggie. She stretched out her paw and gently patted Maggie's face, as if to say she knew exactly what Maggie was feeling. Maggie blinked a couple times and then stretched out her paw as well so that their paws rested on each others'. Then they both purred for a while and went to sleep.

It's moments like that that remind me why sometimes I like animals more than I do humans.

This Nut Didn't Fall Far From the Tree Part 2

2007-05-23T20:57:00.001-07:00

For some reason that I can't put my finger on I've been in a rather nostalgic mood lately. I've been looking at old pictures, high school yearbooks, and the size 1 Levi's that I will never, ever be able to wear again unless denim socks suddenly come into fashion. I've contemplated my family history and examined letters and trinkets that have been passed down through the generations. I'm guessing all of this means that either 1) I have a wicked case of PMS and am looking for reasons to cry or b) I'm going to die at any moment.

Throughout the course of this geneological introspection I've reacquainted myself with some of my more colorful ancestors. There was poor old great-great-whatever grandmother who got thoroughly hosed during the Salem Witch Trials and ended up being a very unfortunate statistic. There was my great-mumble-great grandfather, a captain of the Missouri troops in the Mexican American War, a man whose regal picture was inscribed with Died a Glorious Death, a man who I was sure perished in tragic fashion while defending the Alamo or something as glamorous, because Oh My God he died a glorious death! Glorious! I found out later that the poor bastard died of chronic diarrhea. No less a hero, but slightly less "glorious," I'd say.

There was also some goof who was a rather scandalous member of the British House of Lords. I have no idea what the qualifications are for such a position, and while I could research it I would rather spend my time smoking cigarettes. You guys are on your own here. Anyway, considering what's been written about him I'm pretty sure the requirements couldn't have been particularly stringent. He never really accomplished much in the capacity of legislator or representative, but this fool sure did manage to make his mark. According to newspaper clippings that I've read, one day he made his big grand goddamn entrance in the House of Lords carried on one of those fancy stretcher things (I don't know what they're called, but think Egyptian) carried by four "Nubian" gentlemen, eating grapes and wearing "nothing but a blue powdered wig." Fucker was carried into the House of Lords eating fruit naked with blue hair. God.

This is the stock from which I come, you guys. Normally I wouldn't give Mr. Nudie Blue Hair Grape Lover a second thought since it happened a couple hundred years ago, but after a few tequila slammers I'd probably do the naked, grape-eating, blue-wigged thing too. The moron thread runs deep and thick through my family tapestry. That is one of the reasons why I will never procreate. I'm doing it for all of mankind, y'all. Some genes shouldn't be passed on.

Your children will thank me.

This Nut Didn't Fall Far From the Tree

2007-05-21T19:53:00.000-07:00

Mother Sparkles and I spent Mother's Day watching The Mister and his cricket club play a match at a local farm. It's a working horse farm where they breed Percherons. I'd never heard of Percherons before I was aware of this farm, and the first time I saw the horses I almost passed out from the gorgeous. Percherons are enormous draft horses, built like brick shithouses, and, in my estimation, look like a slightly smaller version of a Clydesdale.

I have absolutely no knowledge of Clydesdales apart from the holiday Budweiser commercials so I don't know how big they actually are, but they look freaking huge on television. They manage to be intimidating, regal, and graceful all while trotting sassily to the "Here Comes The King" song. I think the only way those horses could be better is if they wore diamond tiaras, satin booties, and passed out free gasoline.

At one point during the afternoon Mother Sparkles decided to take a walk around the farm. I decided to stay parked in my seat and finish my glass of wine. How uncharacteristic of me. Anyway, after a little while she came jogging back and announced that there was a foal in a paddock down the hill. Naturally I jumped up and started running down the hill after Mother Sparkles. (Anyone who thinks I would miss a chance to see a baby horsey is out of their gourd.) I hoofed it (heh!) to the paddock, stumbling and tripping all the way. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was my inherent lack of grace. Who can say?

After arriving at the pasture where the horses were grazing, Mother Sparkles and I gazed adoringly upon the lovely setting, held hands, and took in the beautiful scene.

Mother Sparkles: Do you see the little foal? He's standing behind the big horse, but you can see his big belly and his light brown fur.

Me: YES! I can see him! Oh my gosh he's so cute! It would probably freak the horses out if I hopped the fence and kissed him on the nose, wouldn't it?

MS: [rolling eyes] I wouldn't recommend it, dear.

Me: Boo!

MS: Isn't he cute? He's so small, and they're all so protective of him.

Me: He is adorable! He's got really big ears! I guess it takes time for the horses to grow into them.

MS: Probably. And his legs are still so short! But a lot of young animals take a while before they take on adult traits, though.

Me: True! His hooves are kind of small, aren't they? The other horses have such HUGE hooves. I know they'd be smaller on the young one than they would on the mature ones, but it seems like they'd still be kind of disproportionately large. And that his ears wouldn't be larger than the grown horses.

MS: Yeah, that is strange.

Me: Yeah.

[silence]

Me: Uh, Mom?

MS: Yes dear, I know.

Me: It's a donkey, isn't it?

Too Many Drugs in the 60s Part 2

2007-05-13T21:08:00.002-07:00

Me: So Mom, are you having a good Mothers Day?

Mother Sparkles: Yes I am! It's lovely, dear. So much good food, good company... it's a wonderful day. And you're a wonderful daugher, Kristina Michelle.

Me: Awww... Mom! [sniffle]

MS: That has such a nice ring to it. So much better than...

Me: What has a nice ring to it?

MS: Kristina Michelle.

Me: Ah. 'So much better than' what?

MS: What your father wanted to name you.

Me: Really? What was that?

[...]

Me: Mom?

[...]

MS: Siggy Watercress.

I'm a Boring Old Skeezer Who Loves The Bionic Woman

2007-05-10T21:47:00.000-07:00

I had just written the most mind-blowingly brilliant entry when my laptop crapped out. It's too late and I'm far too lazy to start again, so you'll just have to take my word on how much it rocked. And it did. Ok, no it didn't. It was just like all my other drivel about the stupid shit I do, but humor me and pretend along.

I just saw on TV that they're remaking The Bionic Woman, and I'm not ashamed to say that I'm practically quivering with excitement. I hope they include a shot in the opening of the her ripping the yellow pages in half, because when you see that you know the bitch means business and you'd better back the hell off. My favorite episode was the one where the evil people (Russians? Communists? Republicans? Who knows.) built human-looking robots and Jamie Sommers was running around inside a nuclear reactor for some reason that I never understood and all these robot clones were dicking around trying to destroy America. Or something. I don't know. But I remember the scene where she ripped off the face of one of the clones and there was this robot with a big metal face and lightbulb eyes and I don't mind saying that I wet my pants a little at that moment.

Does anyone remember the tv show Emergency!? If so, you might recall the hospital they used in the opening credits. That hospital is where I was born, you guys!!!
How exciting is that?!?! Ok, it's not. Oh! And do you remember the shot of the fire station with the big doors rolling up and the truck coming out with the sirens blaring? We used to drive by that somtimes and my parents would always point it out to me, at which point I would beat my palms against the car window and shout "Rampart! Rampart!" Isn't that fascinating? No? Oh, bite me. I'm trying.

So, yeah. That's all I got. Maybe tomorrow I'll re-write my original post. But only if there aren't any cheesy 70's dramas on tv. If there's phonebook-ripping or hospital-showing I'm going to be occupied. I've got my priorities, people.

When in Doubt, Look at the Tiny Outfits

2007-05-03T21:25:00.002-07:00

Oh my gosh you guys, it's just a couple days until the most glorious sporting event in the history of forever: The Kentucky Derby! I fear I may have let you down since I haven't provided my legendary insight until now, but I'm only one woman, y'all! You're probably still reeling from my March Madness picks, and who could blame you? Feel free to peruse the Sparkles Plenty archives and have your minds blown. I believe I picked Gonzaga to go all the way. They may have made it to Round 2, but I won't swear to it.

Anyway, I have examined the field for the Kentucky Derby. I've noted their Beyer numbers and studied their fractions, histories, pedigrees, and dosage ratings. Here are my selections, and please don't hesitate to write this wisdom down:

1. Cowtown Cat - Could very well freak the fuck out when faced with the crowds and noise, but appears to have some nice tactical speed. Also the word "cowtown" is pretty sweet. I think I lerrvv him.

2. Circular Quay - Nice low dosage. If it's a fast pace that should work in his favor. Also, the name makes me think of fruity rum drinks and how can you go against that? Don't hate on the rum, people.

3. Tiago - Even lower dosage than Cowtown Cat. I love that, although it might not be a good thing in the Derby depending on the pace. On the other hand I saw him in one of the prep races and he gave me goosebumps as he started from the rear and passed the other horses like they were standing around farting in a field of daisies. I'm confident all the fillies think he's a stud, and don't ever go against the fillies.

So there are my choices. Of course the last time my Derby pick won was in 1994 so some haters might cast aspersions on my handicapping ability. And I couldn't blame them if they did since my picks have sucked butt for the last decade or so. Maybe I will revert to the system I used when I was a five year-old accompanying my parents to a day at Hollywood Park: go with the outfits. I'd take one look at the silks and inform my parents that they needed to place a bet on whatever horse's mount had colors that I thought were the prettiest. They'd indulge me from time to time, and my record was just as good as that of my dad who spent several hours poring over the Racing Digest. So if there's any jockey out there on Saturday decked out in pink and green argyle all my money is going on that bitch, research be damned. And then ya'll can eat my dust.

Yeah.

Too Many Drugs in the 60s

2007-04-29T21:08:00.001-07:00

A conversation between me and Mother Sparkles earlier today:

Me: I'm almost done setting up the account with your new ISP.
MS: What's an ISP?
Me: Internet service provider. The people who will let you get on your computer and play games.
MS: Oh! They're nice people.
Me: Yeah, ok. Anyway, I just need to know what you want your user id to be.
MS: Um, what's that?
Me: The name you'll use to login. It will also be your email address. Something like mydaughterissuperfantastic@blahblah.com. I think that has a nice little jingle to it, don't you?
MS: Uh huh. What are my other choices?
Me: Whatever you want, as long as it hasn't already been taken by someone else. But what's wrong with telling the world that I'm superfantastic?
MS: Nothing, dear. But I'd like an email address that reflects my personality.
Me: Oh, whatever.
MS: [looks skyward and twirls around a few times]
Me: [rolling eyes]
MS: I know! Rainbows flowers and trees!
Me: You want your email address to be rainbowsflowersandtrees@blahblah.com ?
MS: Yes! I do!

[silence]

Me: Oh my sweet lord.
MS: What? I think that reflects my personality!
Me: You took the brown acid, didn't you?

Introducing Miss Poops-A-Lot. Also, Ugly Dishes!

2007-04-23T17:19:00.000-07:00

Up until a few months ago I could not stand cats. As far as I was concerned all they did was lay around, shit in a box, claw your furniture, and look bored. Once Gloria entered the picture I learned that, while the shitting in a box part is true, I had been very wrong about cats in general. She is full of personality and a source of constant entertainment. When she rolls onto her back, holds her bag of catnip between her front paws and paddles at it with her hind legs like she's riding an imaginary upside-down stationary bicycle I laugh so hard I give myself the hiccups. The Mister is as fond of her as I am, and not long ago he said that maybe we should consider getting another cat in the not-too-distant future.

When I found out there was a stray cat in Kathy T's neighborhood -- presumably dumped by someone who I will kick in the shins if I ever find them -- in need of a home I contacted her and said that if she was unable to find a good home to let me know before the cat ended up getting taken to the pound. She emailed me soon afterward and told me what a sweet, friendly cat she was and that she was desperately starved for attention and affection. Kathy had been unable to locate an owner and no one seemed able and/or willing to take care of the stray. Then she mentioned that one of the neighborhood kids had taken to kicking the cat. Add that punk to the list of people who I will be kicking in the shins. Anyway, when I read that I got a lump in my throat, called my husband, and asked if we could adopt her. I didn't expect too big a fight from him, but when he just said, "Sure!" I sat there for a minute and wondered how I'd gotten off so easy. That is reason #856 Why My Husband Is So Awesome.

So fast forward a few days and Maggie Survivor (middle name courtesy of Kathy T's very lovely and astute daughter) is settling in to the Sparkles household. She's eating a crap ton of food -- an unfortunate by-product being poo of Biblical proportions -- but at least you can no longer take one look at her and count her ribs.

Maggie and Gloria are two distinctly different cats. Gloria is the same type of girl I am. If she were a person she'd spend her time drinking beer, watching sports, and cussing. Maggie would be the type who would go shopping with her sorority sisters, have perfectly manicured and polished nails which match her cute purse and kicky sandals, and drink fruity blender drinks that tell all guys within a fifty foot radius that this chick cannot hold her liquor.

The differences between the two cats became even more apparent today when I took Maggie to the vet. When Gloria is forced to contend with needles and poking she lets out the occasional squeak but sits still and waits for the ordeal to end. When Maggie was faced with shots and examination there was howling and shrieking like I haven't heard since the last time I was unlucky enough to encounter a Joni Mitchell song on the radio.

I was hoping to learn that Maggie had already been spayed, but after her little belly was shaved and there was no sign of scarring or previous surgery my hopes were dashed. When Gloria was examined for the first time she sported a wicked scar that looked like a prison tattoo gone horribly wrong, leaving no doubt she'd already had her girlybits altered. Since Maggie had no such scar I assumed she was fully intact, but the vet said that there was a possibility she'd already been fixed even though there were no obvious scars. The only way to know for sure was to wait and see if Maggie went into heat. Ah, that's swell. If it sounds like there's a Joni Mitchell concert erupting in my kitchen I'll know for sure whether she's capable of having kittens. Until then I'll continue fashioning a cat-sized suit of castiron armor for her to wear any time she ventures outside.

Anyway, despite all the poo we are happy to welcome Maggie into the fold. She is a beautiful creature and I feel fortunate to have stumbled across her. She's had a hard life but is still trusting and full of love. I can learn a lot from her.

Now, on a completely unrelated note, in a previous post I referred to the hot pink family china. (No, that is not a euphemism.) Lynnster had a hard time visualizing the horror.

Oh, alright. The dishes are not as hideous as I probably made them sound. They are not antique Pepto-pink, which is good since I think I would find it difficult to eat Thanksgiving dinner off plates that only reminded me of diarrhea medication, although they are pinker than they appear in the photo.

The family china is one of the things belonging to my great-grandparents that I have inherited. The great-grands were, from what I understand, quite wealthy people who enjoyed buying a lot of expensive crap. Despite their Catholicism they only had one child -- my grandfather -- which may be attributable to the fact that my great-grandfather was in his 60s when he married my twenty-something great-grandmother. Woot! Rock on, Grampy!

Because of the small number of their descendants I have a lot of antiques in my possession. I wonder about their provenance, how they found their way into my family. And while I'd never sell any of these pieces the tightwad in me is very curious about their worth. This is why I sit transfixed and glassy-eyed, glued to the television every time an episode of Antiques Roadshow comes on. Well, either that or because I am a monumental dork. Take your pick.

Some Buttmonkey Tried To Break Into Our House

2007-04-19T20:34:00.000-07:00

Today when I arrived home from work I was met by a rather distressed husband and a mildly agitated cat. Gloria was probably just disturbed because her filet mignon and Cristal were being delivered a bit later than usual, but The Mister directed my attention to an open screen door and a partially removed screen window. The screen door isn't technically a screen door, but a glass one that opens onto the deck from our bedroom. It hasn't been opened in a year and a half. There are plenty of windows in our bedroom so there's not much need for door-opening.

The window screen in question belongs on the window of the bathroom directly adjacent the shower. That's because there's no better way to increase the pleasure of a nice warm shower than knowing a random stranger could be hanging around watching you bathe your delicates. And since we've never replaced that totally transparent window apparently we are not opposed to the idea. Anyway, the screen had been pulled off the frame so that it dangled at a tidy 45-degree angle. Someone had clearly tried to jimmy the window lock so that they could enter through the window, tumble into the bathtub, and rob us blind. I have no idea what they'd planned on stealing, and I imagine they would have been in for a rude awakening upon entering our domicile and finding a whole lot of nothing. Sure we've got stuff, but our stuff isn't the kind that is easily burgled. It's not as though they could hide a sofa or 35-inch tv under their coat. And I doubt a robber would spot the family china and decide to go after it since there isn't a big demand for 100+ year-old hot pink table settings. Yes, I said hot pink. I wish I were joking.

My husband called the police to let them know there had been a burglary attempt. Despite his protestations they insisted on sending an officer over. After a while the officer arrived and looked around our house. She asked us a few questions, but semi-shrugged it off. We live in a typically low crime area and since nothing was stolen there really wasn't anything she could do. After giving our house the once-over, she went out to her squad car to write up her report. A few minutes later she informed us that she had just learned there had been a robbery a couple blocks away with the same MO. (Oh my lord, check out my CSI shit!) She said that someone would be over shortly to take fingerprints at the crime scene, also known as our deck.

Another officer showed up an hour or so later, complete with fingerprint kit. He had the powder and the fluffy brush and the whole deal. He dusted for prints (Oh my god I am so Law & Order!) along the bathroom window, but since it wasn't a clear, glossy surface he was a bit skeptical about the results. I directed his attention to the knob of the bedroom-to-deck door. He glanced at the "screen" door and said that the handle was too textured for him to get any good prints. I pointed out the glass doorknob of the bedroom door itself and suggested he might get a decent print off that if there were any to be had. (Yes, we have a glass doorknob on an outside door. It's been there since we moved in. And I thought I had no sense.) He managed to get a usable print from that, and I would just like to point out how lucky he was to have me there to direct his investigation.

So, as the police officer was searching for fingerprints he mentioned that my husband's and my prints would undoubtedly be found on the doorknob. For whatever reason I decided to pipe up and volunteer that my fingerprints were already on file with the FBI. The police officer stopped mid-brush to glance at me, and I hurriedly told him that I used to work in investment banking and as a result I'd been fingerprinted, profiled, poked, prodded, and subjected to things that other people would probably litigate over. He blinked a couple times, said "Ok," and went back to his business.

At that time my wiseass husband chirped that I needed to quit trying to cover up because my previous busts for prostitution, assault, and drug trafficking were only going to come out in time anyway so I needed to quit lying about it.

I hope he has the money to make my bail.

Nothing Gets By Me

2007-04-14T21:19:00.001-07:00

Earlier today as The Mister and I headed home from the local farmers' market, I reflected on our purchases.

"We got so much stuff so cheap! I wish we'd picked up some of the jams and jellies the Amish people were selling though. I'll bet it's all really good."

"What Amish people?"

"The people we bought those herbs and peppers from."

"That nice couple with the three little girls?"

"Uh huh!"

"Do you think they're Amish?"

"Oh, I'm sure they are! Did you notice how they were dressed?"

"Uh, well now that you mention it their clothes were rather plain."

"And they had a little bit of an accent, too. A lot of Amish people speak with accents."

"I didn't notice, but if you say so."

[...]

"Also, there was a sign at their stand that said Amish Produce."

"Nice detecting, Watson."

I Would Change My Name Toot Sweet

2007-04-11T16:21:00.000-07:00

I guess things are different in India.

I'm a Bozo With a Camera Phone

2007-04-05T17:22:00.000-07:00

For years I waged a war against cell phone ownership. With my last job I had to carry a pager so The Man could keep me down on my days off, and that was as easily contactable as I was willing to become. Eventually everyone hopped on the cell phone train and informed me that I just had to have one too, but I wasn't falling for it. The way I saw it, the people who carried cell phones were wankers who wanted tangible proof that they were someone people wanted to talk to. These were the same people who used finger-guns when they talked, and there was no way in hell that was a club I was going to join.

With my current job a cell phone is part of the package. I guess that's just as well because the only people who still carry pagers are skate punks who want to look badass but whose parents won't pony up the dough for a phone. But while my employment contract stipulates that I carry a cell phone, it doesn't say anything about using it. Oh, I kid. If it rings, I answer it. Eventually. It usually takes me a several seconds of "What the hell is making that noise? Did I accidentally start the microwave again?" before I clue in that someone is calling me. I am a total moron where that phone is concerned. It beeps at me for no reason, takes pictures of the inside of my purse, and tries to sell me ringtones of Ludacris songs. (But if I can find Who Let These Hos In My Room I'm totally buying it.)

[On an unrelated note, I think the dude on Survivor just said, "If I'm dead at the finish line, precipitate me!" Does he want people to wee on him when he's dead? R. Kelly, is that you?]

Every once in a while I'll find myself in a situation where I wish I had a camera. After approximately five years, I remembered there's a camera in my cell phone. A few weeks ago I set out to learn how to use it. That did not go smoothly. It was like a two-year old trying to operate an electron microscope. I'm nothing if not stubborn though, so guess what you guys! Pictures!!!
I took this hard-hitting action photo in my office at work while I was waving the stupid phone in the air trying to figure out how the camera feature worked. Unfortunately you can't see the sweet downtown view out the window. I get such a good view of LP Field that I can see Pacman Jones assault hapless passersby on his way to work!

I took these tonight. It's hard to tell exactly what they are, because my skills at photography are on par with cell phone-ology. But that's Davey, back on our freaking roof. That little turd has returned despite all my friendly and loving attempts at relocation, and now I'm afraid we're going to have to resort to more drastic measures. Apparently he's found a different route to his crib. He's obviously quite fond of it, despite the condition of the gutters.

So there you have it. I have faced my camera phone, and it is now my bitch. As a result you have seen these provocative shots of my office and our roof. You may thank me later.

The Reincarnation of Shelley Winters

2007-03-29T20:45:00.000-07:00

Earlier this evening I was standing out on the deck enjoying fresh spring air inhaled through a cigarette while The Mister was inside the kitchen preparing his dinner. I was way too busy smoking and drinking vodka to help him. Anyway, we were carrying on a conversation through the screen door, and he was telling me about one of his son's latest academic achievements. My husband, who is about ten years older than I, has two sons from a previous marriage. They are a couple of fantastic young men, and even though I've had virtually nothing to do with their upbringing I will be quick to take absolute and total credit for all of their accomplishments. I can take credit I don't deserve like it's my job. All the glory, none of the work. So convenient!

This evening we were discussing his older son, who will be turning 18 in a couple months. Eventually the conversation turned to some of the more practical matters that all parents have to contend with.

"What do you want to do? You should have some input here. You're his stepmother."

"Um, nuh-uh."

"What do you mean, 'nuh-uh'?"

"I don't think I'm really his stepmother."

"I'm his father. You're my wife. I believe that makes you his stepmother."

"He's almost 18! I'm too young, hot, and vivacious to be the stepmother to someone that age. Right? I'm young and vivacious. And hot!"

The Mister then took his dinner and left the kitchen, calling out over his shoulder that yes indeed, I was young and vivacious. I could have done without the chuckling and the snorting, but one step at a time.

Right at that moment I caught a glimpse of myself in a window. I had a drink in my hand, a lit cigarette in my mouth, and a lopsided ponytail on the top of my head. The muumuu I was wearing further enhanced the beauty. The only thing missing was a smattering of pink foam haircurlers and a can of Colt 45.

I ran over to the door and shrieked, "I'm hot, too! Don't forget the HOT, dammit!"

I'm sure he won't make that mistake again.

Why Polite People Don't Invite My Friends and Me to Parties

2007-03-22T20:47:00.000-07:00

"Do you think Rogaine works everywhere?"

"What do you mean 'everywhere?' Like, in Nebraska?"

"No, bitch. All over the body. You know, like on ball hair."

"Uh, I don't know."

"If it doesn't, I'm going to invent a drug that does. And I'm going to call it Scrogaine."

I Will Help You Become a Professional Gambler Like Me

2007-03-14T19:24:00.000-07:00

Last week a dude at work asked if I'd be interested in participating in the March Madness Bracket Spectacular he was organizing. I was skeptical at first, but once he said that money would be involved I practically choked on my tongue in my rush to tell him that hell yeah I wanted in on this action, bitch.

I've mentioned before that I'm convinced professional gambling is my calling in life, and this NCAA nonsense is right up my alley: no skill or knowledge required. It was like a gift sent from heaven, all wrapped up in angel kisses, unicorn love, and $10's and $20's.

Earlier this evening I gathered all the necessary materials (paper, pen, cocktail) and examined the matchups. The universe was sending me any number of signs regarding whom to select, and because I am full of love for you people I will share some of my knowledge so that you too can be a master prognosticator. You will probably want to take notes.

- Belmont University: Belmont is my alma mater, so one might think this would be a no-brainer. Well, it would be if they were playing Miss Clara's School for the Blind, but since they're facing Georgetown that changes the complexion a bit. We all know that I'm pretty stupid, but I'm not that stupid, so obviously the smart money is on Georgetown. I predict this will be an extremely close game, however. Until tipoff, and then all bets are off.

- Kansas: My dad is from Kansas City, so this would appear to be another sign. But when I think of Kansas all that comes to mind is a bunch of pasty white crackers with spindly little legs throwing basketballs granny-style at the hoop, so they are out of contention.

- Wisconsin: This is the native land of Mother Sparkles, but for our purposes today it's like Kansas except more white and spindly. With cheese.

- UCLA: I was born at UCLA hospital, so how could this not be an obvious selection? Here's how: Until those bastards erect a monument designating that hospital a National Treasure as my birth site they'll get no love from me. You're hearing it here first: they won't make it past round one. Also, they can go blow themselves.

- Duke: Ever since my pretend boyfriend Christian Laettner left, they're dead to me. Count them out.

- Winthrop: That sounds like the name of some dick who would wear an ascot. No way.

- Oral Roberts University: The name says it all. It's a shame for the players, because they've worked hard for this. But that's the risk you run when you attend a college founded by a giant assmonkey. I'm pretty sure God is sick of Oral's "If I don't get four million dollars by Tuesday I'm gonna die!" bullshit. We all know that The Almighty spends the majority of his time dictating the outcomes of various athletic contests, so this does not bode well. Expect them to exit early.

- Gonzaga: Now this one I like. I don't know what a Gonzaga is, but it sounds like a variety of Himalayan mountain goat, and you can't go wrong there. Mountain goats are pretty awesome. They will go far.

So, there you go. The next time I write I'll be buried in the mountain of cash I'm going to win, but don't be hating on me. I have a gift from above.

Free to a Good Home: One Seriously Pissed Messiah

2007-03-07T20:21:00.000-08:00

A little over ten years ago I accepted a job transfer from Nashville to The Shithole of the American South. You may have heard it referred to as Birmingham, Alabama. Anyway, moving expenses were included in my relocation package, which meant that I got to sit around in my underwear sipping mimosas while a couple poor unsuspecting bastards boxed all my crap up, drove it to B'ham, and lugged it up three flights of stairs in the Alabama heat.

Once I emerged from my drunken haze and began the arduous process of unpacking, I quickly realized that I had far too much stuff for my cute new apartment. Several boxes -- many unopened -- were unceremoniously stuffed into closets and storage sheds so that I could forget about them and spend the rest of my precious leisure time laying around drinking more mimosas and watching Judge Judy.

I met my husband during my tenure in Birmingham, and after a few years we were able to escape that shitheap of a city and make a break for Nashville. Unfortunately for us I had to quit my job in order to leave, and that meant that we were going to have to move all our crap ourselves. In order to pack up, The Mister had to unpack some of the previously stowed boxes. He uttered some words about "packrat" and "I cannot believe you still have this shit," but I was too busy thumbing through my special commemorative Duran Duran issue of Rolling Stone and trying on my pink and green argyle socks to pay much attention to what he was babbling about.

At one point he pulled a framed Jesus picture out of the rubble. Since I am decidedly areligious he found this strange and asked if I wanted to keep the picture. I took one look at it and told him that it wasn't mine and didn't know where it came from.

"How did it get here?"

"I don't know. I swear I've never seen it before."

"Was it your Grandma's? Maybe your mom put it in with your stuff or something."

"Grandma had lots of Jesus pictures, but that definitely wasn't one of them. Look at it! He's sneering and frowning and pissed off. This isn't a loving, forgiving Jesus. This is a I Cannot Believe You Assholes Crucified Me! Jesus. I would have remembered seeing this. This is NOT mine."

We decided that the picture must have been mistakenly placed with my possessions by the company that moved me down to Alabama, so Cranky Jesus was placed in the Garbage Pile along with the shoebox full of notes from junior high and pink pleather shoes that I last wore in seventh grade.

After arriving in Nashville and unpacking, a horrifying discovery was made: The Scary Jesus picture.

"Did you take this out of the garbage pile?"

"Hell no I didn't. I don't want that. It disturbs me."

"It was in the trash pile. We don't have anything else that was in that pile, so how do we still have this?"

"I have no idea, but put that fucker in a closet. It'll give me nightmares."

A couple years later we moved again, and once more we put Angry Jesus into the trash pile. Predictably, when we unpacked in the new house there he was again.

"I don't know why you want to keep this picture."

"I don't! I hate it and I thought we threw it away."

"Well someone wants us to have it. We've thrown it out twice. It keeps coming back. It's like Michael Myers or some shit."

So here I sit in our house, preparing to move again. I know that somewhere down in the basement Scary Jesus is lurking in a corner, waiting to be thrown into the trash pile so that he can escape again and freak us out some more.

I don't know why Pissed Off Jesus follows us everywhere. Maybe somebody somewhere is trying to send us a message. Unfortunately for us I'm pretty sure that message involves the words "burn" and "in everlasting hell."

I'm Still Waiting for the Roller Derby Episode

2007-02-28T19:31:00.000-08:00

Dang, it's been a long time since I've typed any of my stupid bullshit. Normally I'd blame it on laziness since that is a recurring theme in my life, but I've actually been quite busy with work. For a reason that continues to escape me, those clowns are operating under the misapprehension that they're entitled to expect some labor in return for my salary. I've told them on more than one occasion that they need to go easy on me because I am delicate like a rose petal. Apparently they do not consider that a compelling argument.

Anyway, the only real exciting development in Sparkles Plenty Land is the discovery that old Charlie's Angels episodes are being televised weeknights at 9pm. For all I know this has been going on for years, but it's hard to keep up with television schedules when you're busy drinking vodka.

I've spent many a recent evening watching Jill, Kelly, Sabrina, Kris and all the pseudo-Sabrinas (I will not even speak of the Tanya Roberts era, because, oh Aaron Spelling, how could you?) jiggle their way through southern California, embarking on adventures, fighting crime and apprehending villains, all while sporting tight pants, perky cleavage and some seriously fluffy hair. I delight in these spectacles for twenty glorious minutes, at which time I promptly fall asleep.

I've suffered from insomnia all my life. I've tried all the tricks and tips. I've stopped short of taking sleeping pills because 1) I am wary of them for some reason that I don't fully understand and B) I want any pharmaceuticals I possess to constitute a felony, because I go big or I don't go at all, people! But, after all these years, I've discovered the answer to my sleeping problems. There is nothing like a lame, badly acted 1970's crime drama to make me snooze like a baby.

On the surface, this is a fantastic development. But as Poison so poignantly informed us, every rose has its thorn. I fear this may be a gateway show, because lately I've found myself, cold and clammy, desperately searching for reruns of Barnaby Jones.

Dead Mouse: 1, Me: 0

2007-02-17T19:18:00.000-08:00

Feeling a soft "plop" on your chest, opening your eyes to see a dead mouse which has been carefully placed on you by your industrious cat, frantically scrambling to brush the rodent off while jumping out of bed, getting your foot caught in the sheet, tumbling out of the bed and landing face-first on the floor is a helluva way to start the day.

Damn.

Don't Hate Me Because I Am a Global Warmer

2007-02-09T20:43:00.001-08:00

Last weekend The Mister and I embarked on our annual pilgrimage to the Smoky Mountains. We holed up with about a dozen other degenerates and spent our time discussing how we could still totally throw down on some MadDog 20/20 and Boone's Farm like we did 10 years ago, and if you didn't believe us just wait until we finished our bottled water and then we'd show you how badass we still are.

At one point during the weekend I was the designated driver, so I had the unique privilege of driving a bunch of drunk assholes around who decided to discuss why their 80's high school hairstyles were superior to others. "You can call a mullet whatever you want. You can say it's lame or stupid or tacky. But I will forever call it this: Fucking AWESOME!"

I listened to these drunken testaments to feathered bangs and home perms and chuckled, secure in the knowledge that I had masterfully navigated the minefield of 80's hairstyles. Oh sure, I had some fluffy bangs and all, and I had been known to employ a can of Super Ultra Hold AquaNet from time to time, but that was a requirement of the time. If your hair didn't crackle when touched then you didn't mean business. Those bitches who just used the Super Hold AquaNet were pikers. Regular Super Hold. Ha! Losers.

This morning I received an email from an old boyfriend. He's been scanning old photos and sent me one that he took of me sometime in 1989. I almost choked on my breakfast (peanut M&M, because I'm all about the health, people!) when I saw it. Apparently my hair acumen wasn't what I thought it was. I give you Exhibit A:

Oh, the humanity! First of all, why in the hell does my nose look so big? Sweet Christ, it looks like a flesh-colored banana but it is actually stupidly small. But back to the point, it looks like I have a cinnamon breakfast pastry glued to my head. Those bangs wouldn't budge in a tornado. That's some serious AquaNet there, people. And somewhere in the atmosphere there is a hole in the ozone with my goddamn name all over it.

Sorry, people of Earth.

The Raccoon Chronicles: Part Eleventeen

2007-02-01T15:54:00.000-08:00

We've decided that Davey the Raccoon must go, and go now. The Mister said I should just call Animal Control, but I was adamant that another option be found because I was afraid they'd euthanize Davey. This statement convinced my husband that I was a lunatic, which is quite funny because after almost ten years together it's hard to believe he'd require further proof. He assured me that they wouldn't kill Davey, that they'd find a nice happy place for him to frolic and roam. I don't know if he honestly believed that or if he was just trying to placate his insane wife, but I said that I'd find another way anyway, thank you very much. I was certain that the folks in charge of relocating wildlife didn't have the time or resources to drive around in search of Happy Raccoon Land where there's nothing but overflowing trashcans and horny girl raccoons.

I decided to check with a guy from work who wears camo into the office, because obviously anyone who does that would know what I should do. Per his advice, we wrapped a thin metal sheet around the pole that Davey uses to get onto our roof and into his penthouse apartment where he sips Courvoisier and watches wildlife porn. With this metal wrapped around the wooden post he wouldn't be able to get a grip to climb up, and after a little while he'd go find somewhere else to live. It sounded like the perfect solution.

Last night as I headed out of the house for a night of boozing with a bunch of other degenerates I heard the telltale rattle of the trashcan. Gloria the cat was on her way out of the house as well, because apparently she's got better things to do that sit at home on a Wednesday night too. Somehow I managed to get her back into the house by blocking her path outside with my leg, which is surprising because every other time I've tried to do that she's given me a look like "Come on, lady. I can just jump over your foot, you fool. God." Sure enough, right then I saw Davey scramble onto the deck and up the pole. The pole with the metal sheeting around it. The pole that was supposed to be unclimbable. I don't know how, but he managed to hoist that big fat body up to the roof despite the slippery metal band. He's like the fucking Lance Armstrong of raccoons.

Unable to admit defeat, I sat today and thought long and hard about how to make this whole thing work. What would Jack Hanna do? If Marlin Perkins were here, what would he say? Actually, I know what Marlin would say. He'd be sitting in front of the fireplace drinking a whiskey while telling Jim Fowler to go stick his head in that rhino's mouth already, and quit whining about it little nancyboy.

After much consideration I knew what I should do. In the tradition of brilliant naturalists everywhere, I went outside and sprayed that whole freaking metal sheet with Pam. Let that little bitch try to climb it now.

On a related note, if anyone from Mutual of Omaha is reading and would like me to host a new show, my number is listed.

It's Time To Cut That Hair, Lady

2007-01-30T19:51:00.000-08:00

Me: Did you hear they found that fool who hijacked Crystal Gayle's tour bus? Apparently he was kicking around Daytona trying to meet that Tony Stewart NASCAR guy, whoever he is.

Co-worker: Yes! I heard all about that story on the news. It's freaking unbelievable!

Me: I KNOW!!! Who the hell knew Crystal Gayle still went on tour?

Fine. I Give In.

2007-01-19T21:27:00.000-08:00

Every single day I am astounded by the number of people who migrate my way by searching for Sandra Lee. The most popular search phrase is "Sandra Lee cans," and don't think for a minute that I don't know which "cans" it is to which you refer, you bunch of reprobates. But it's Friday night, I've had some cocktails, and I'm feeling particularly generous, so here you go:

It's a good thing she has nice cleavage, because this bitch is out of her gourd.

So, that is all. I hope you all have a fantastic weekend. And if the person is hanging around who visited Sparkles Plenty by way of a Google search for "Sandra Lee semi-homemade birth," you intrigue me. I am dying to know what a semi-homemade birth entails, because I think I might be up for that.

Those Marsupials Can Really Get Funky

2007-01-11T17:16:00.000-08:00

I have no idea how it happened, but at some point during the past year the local wildlife designated our backyard as their own personal Studio 54. It appears to be their favorite meeting spot, and it's not unusual for me to walk outside and see them congregating in little clusters around the yard. One of these nights I fully expect to see that all the raccoons and opossums, wearing lots of crushed velvet and gold chains, have fashioned a sassy new dance floor out of some old cardboard boxes, illuminated by the Christmas lights we still haven't taken down. That one rabbit with the fluffy tail will probably be wearing her Fuck Me Pumps, because you can tell just by looking that she's got a little whore in her. (That reminds me of one of the more memorable pickup lines I got in my younger days: Oily dude: "You don't have an Italian bone in your body, do you?" Me: "Nope, sure don't." Oily dude: "Would you like one?")

Anyway, I've written before about the raccoon that's been hanging out in our attic. When he first showed up I was none too pleased. I prefer to keep my wildlife encounters confined to controlled environments like zoos, wildlife parks, or bars. I figured I'd call animal control "one of these days," but after a couple weeks I decided he wasn't hurting anyone so I put off his eviction for a little while. Sure, I'd heard all sorts of horror stories about raccoons; stories which often ended with the evisceration of toddlers and the elderly. But I'd also heard that if I went to Mexico I'd wake up without any kidneys in an icy bathtub in a cheap hotel, or if I flashed my high-beams at someone I was actually initiating a gangland-style hit on some unsuspecting motorist.

It wasn't long after Davey the raccoon (yes, we named him) showed up that others hopped on that gravy train. I have no idea if there is a correlation between the two, but there's a part of me that believes he went around and told his woodland friends that the chick who wears the plaid flannel pajamas and stands on that deck smoking cigarettes didn't give a shit if they all hung out at her house. If they were nice, she might even make them some brownies.

So the rabbits and opossums came to our yard like there was some sort of wildlife exodus and we lived in the middle of the land of flowing milk and honey. I didn't really care, though. What kind of cold-hearted bastard do you have to be to hate bunnies? And opossums aren't exactly the most intimidating of creatures, because when your best defense mechanism is to lay so still that young child could crush your skull with a sledgehammer, you don't exactly inspire a great deal of fear.

I fear that Davey the raccoon's days are numbered now that Gloria the cat has entered the picture, however. Lord knows The Mister can take care of himself, and he actually wanted to beat Davey with the fireplace shovel at one point. Hell, he used to insert lit firecrackers into mice's asses when he was a kid. He has no difficulty serving up a big plate of wildlife justice. I'm not terribly concerned with my own well-being and would probably let an animal gnaw my leg to a bloody stump all while crying about not being able to hurt a defenseless animal and it's alright because I've got another leg, after all. But not long ago something spooked Gloria the little gray princess and, while I'm not sure, I suspect it was the ring-tailed fool living in our attic. And if he ever threatens to harm a hair on her precious little head he will be meeting his maker quicker than he can invite all his woodland friends over for a fondue party.

Hopefully we can all continue the peaceful co-existence that we've been enjoying. I don't care if they use our backyard to have their raves as long as they keep it quiet after midnight. But if I ever hear any Limp Bizkit I'm totally kicking their asses out.

I Am A Jackass

2007-01-04T17:46:00.000-08:00

For the past year or so we've received phone calls from an elderly lady somewhere in northern Alabama. The first few times it happened I cheerfully chirped to her that she'd dialed the wrong number, but thank you very much and please have a nice day. For some reason I'm notoriously polite even though I am actually a cranky old bitch. I'm an enigma, people! Anyway, on with the story: As time went on, every time I saw the number on the caller ID and was met with the oh-so familiar "Hi baby, what're ya doin'?" my patience grew shorter.

Last week when she called I'd just about had it. "Ma'am, you've dialed the wrong number again. Would you mind double-checking, please? This seems to happen a lot. Thanks!" That's what I sound like when I'm angry, so let that be a warning to any of you clowns out there who are jonesing to tick me off. I'm malicious!

Tonight she called again. I guess after a year and a half even my fuse reaches its end, so I unloaded on the old broad.

"Ma'am, I do not know you, I have never known you, and every time you call me I tell you that you've called the wrong person. This has happened once a week for the past year. What is it going to take to get you to look at the numbers when you dial them?"

"Oh, no. I beg you to forgive me. [She actually said that! Way to make me feel like a tool, granny.] I'm trying to call my granddaughter, but I'm blind and the phone has all the numbers programmed into it. They keep telling me they've changed it, but I guess they haven't. I'll ask them to re-program the phone again. I'm blind, and it's hard sometimes. Goodbye, sweetie."

God. I am such a douche.

Who Can Suck It In 2007

2007-01-01T21:07:00.000-08:00

As we say farewell to one year and look forward to another, it's time for my first annual list of People Who Can Bite Me.

In no particular order, following are the asses who I hope fall off the face of the earth in the next year:

Jessica Simpson - I don't know how this fool has parlayed being stupid into a marketable skill worth millions, but she needs to go the hell away. I suppose I shouldn't fault her for sacrificing her dignity for some dinero; after all, it's her dignity to sell. But her very appearance on my television screen makes me dumber, and I don't have any IQ points to spare.

That Dude Driving The Hummer Who Pulled Out In Front Of Me The Other Day - You'd been sitting there for a good ten seconds, and you saw that I was the only freaking car on the road. So why did you wait until I got 100 feet from you to pull out into the street? There were no cars in front of me or behind me. You obviously weren't in that big of a hurry since you only did 30 goddamn miles an hour. After I slammed on my brakes to avoid being decapitated by the rear bumper of that ridiculous behemoth vehicle I just passed you anyway, so it's not like you got there so much faster than you would have if you'd just waited five seconds in the first place. You're a dick. And also, everybody knows that the only reason you drive that monstrosity is because you have a tiny wang.

David Spade - There was a time when he was rather amusing, but there was a time that I ate cold pork and beans out of a can and considered it a nutritious meal. I've moved on, and the world will be a better place when he does, too.

That OxyClean Guy - Quit shouting at me, dude. You're going to give me a seizure.

Britney Spears - See Jessica Simpson, only without underwear.

Anyone Who Names Their Son "Colt" - These are the same people who insist on using the term "Freedom Fries."

Fred Durst - Fortunately he appears to be well on his way out already, but I still see his fat dumb face too often for my liking. There's just something about him I find tremendously objectionable, but I can't put my finger on it. Which is probably good, because I wouldn't touch him with someone else's hand.

Sparkles Plenty's anonymous loser commenters - I've never understood the compulsion some people have to leave "Your blog is stupid and so are you" comments. Heh. Ya think? Stay tuned, because I haven't even scratched the surface of stupid. But if you've got nothing better to do with your time than tell a perfect stranger that they're dumb because of some nonsense they wrote that you didn't have to read in the first place then I'm not the only loser in town.

That concludes this year's list. I could go on and on, because I can sit on my fat ass and pass judgement on people I've never met like it's my job. Unfortunately that job doesn't pay well, so I have to get some sleep so tomorrow I can perform the job that does.

I hope everyone I approve of has a happy, healthy, and prosperous 2007. All the rest can just suck my left nut.

Happy New Year, bitches!

I Just Laughed So Hard I Think I Peed on Myself

2006-12-20T20:18:00.001-08:00

Since it is the season for giving, I'm going to share with you the funniest goddamn website I've seen in I don't know how long.

Knowing my ignorant self, this site is probably well-known to everyone in the world but me, but in case any of you are as ill-informed as I am, do yourselves a favor and check it out. I honestly cannot remember the last time I laughed this hard.

Anyway, here's the story: A male writer who lives/lived in New York posed online as a fourteen year-old girl named Amber and proceeded to royally screw with the pervy assclowns who contacted "her." Suffice it to say that hilarity ensues.

If you're offended by sexytalk and salty language, you'll probably want to steer clear of the site. Come to think of it, you'll probably want to steer clear of this site too. But since I am unfettered by the constraints of polite society I find the whole thing hysterically funny and thoroughly enjoyable.

It is my sincere hope that the repugnant shitheels who did their best to e-seduce little Amber someday get what they so richly deserve. In the meantime I'll content myself with these stories and hope that if I laugh so hard that I pee on myself again I'll at least have the decency to do so in the privacy of my own home.

The whole site is awesome, but if you only read one, let it be this one.

This Is My Legacy, and It Rocks

2006-12-17T22:09:00.000-08:00

I celebrated a birthday last week, and as a result I received a number of gifts that kicked total ass. Mother Sparkles gave me some lovely things, and The Mister totally outdid himself, providing with me with assorted dandies that brought me much joy, including a rocking knife that was so sharp I almost needed stitches after my knuckle came in contact with the blade when getting it out of the package it came in. The bleeding stopped about an hour ago.

E and her husband sent me a card that made me spew grape soda out of my nose, and I was reminded yet again why I love those fools despite the fact they drive a minivan:Some other friends of mine got me some coasters. They found them in a shop somewhere on the Atlantic Coast when they were on vacation, and I am far too old to remember where exactly it was that they went last summer, so that's as specific as I can be.

At any rate, as soon as they saw this some sparks erupted over their heads and they bought them for me because "they screamed Kristina like nothing ever has before."

Click to enlarge

I've never been so proud. My work here is done, people.

There's a Right Time to Bust a Move

2006-12-13T19:59:00.000-08:00

Dear Raccoon That Lives in Our Attic,

For about a year now I've looked the other way and let you happily reside in the upper story of our house. After all, I'd rather eat paste than go up in the attic anyway since the only way to get there is to climb a handmade "ladder" precariously nailed to the wall next to the stairway leading to the basement. To the eight year-old who made that contraption sometime in the 1930's: I salute you. It's still there, leading to a ragged hole in the ceiling and begging to be climbed so it can disintegrate into dust as soon as some poor and soon-to-be-injured bastard is foolish enough to step on to it.

When you first moved in and I heard faint scratching noises coming from somewhere in the house when I was the only one home, I tried hard not to totally lose my shit. Had my home been infiltrated by some malevolent otherworldy presence? Was I was being tormented by a demon from hell as payback for all the bad things I had said about Dick Cheney? I coped in the most sensible, well-planned manner I could: I adopted the ostrich approach, turning off all the lights, sitting on the sofa, and covering myself with a blanket. I realize of course that no being -- supernatural or otherwise -- would have been fooled by this maneuver, because everyone knows that the first thing they teach you in demon school is to look for a giant blanket-covered whimpering lump.

When you came up on the deck one night, sat at my feet, and looked at me all, "You gonna help a brother out and make me a sandwich?" I did my best to remain calm, even though I was certain you were a rabid beast hell-bent on my total and very messy destruction. I went inside, left you to your raccoony devices, and watched you scramble up to the roof so you could go home, fix yourself a cocktail, stretch out on your Barcalounger, and check out the latest episode of Montel. I'm a lover, not a fighter.

It's when you start hopping around at 4am practicing your favorite Backstreet Boys dance moves that I have to put my foot down. Do that shit after dinner like I do. When I get woken up prematurely because you're feeling punchy and in the mood to scamper you're taking your life in your paws. Mama isn't a very nice person in the morning, and no matter what kind of sweet raccoon-fu moves you can lay down, when you hear some skeezer with a terrible case of bedhead pound the wall and yell words that start with "f" and end with "ucker," you should stop the dancing and lay low for a while. If you don't, you'll be practicing your hitch kicks with the squirrels in the backyard. And those bitches have no rhythm at all.

I Almost Had a Stroke Today

2006-11-30T19:59:00.000-08:00

I am a ridiculous freak for any number of reasons, but one of my more idiotic characteristics is my pathological aversion to certain words. There are many that occupy prominent places on my list of words that I cannot hear without cringing; succulent, nestle, and juicy come to mind. But at the top of the forbidden words list is "fixins," which isn't really a word at all and is just stupid. Unfortunately for me that "word" is essentially unavoidable this time of year. "Turkey with all the fixins," or "I'm bringing the salad, they're bringing the fixins." Oh my god I feel queasy just typing it.

Anyway, another thing that will make me nauseous and generally pissed off is the use of superfluous apostrophes. I freely admit that I'm not perfect when it comes to punctuation. I have a tendency to throw in commas where they don't belong and I often use hyphens or semicolons when I feel something is necessary but I can't figure out what the hell it is. I have been known to split the occasional infinitive, and don't even get me started on dangling participles. Don't get me started because I don't know what the fuck one is. I majored in biochemistry. I spent my time mixing shit up (oooh, split infinitive!) in beakers and cutting up dead animals while other people were conjugating verbs and discussing the finer points of gerund usage. But I did manage to pay enough attention to know what a fucking apostrophe is used for. Not long ago I saw a sign that said "Shoe's for sale" and it was all I could do not to find the person responsible and kick them in the shins.

Today I was sitting in the waiting room at the dentist's office thumbing through a magazine when I saw an article titled "The Best Turkey and Fixin's!" Oh my sweet lord. I sat there muttering to myself, feeling dizzy and doing my best to stave off an apoplectic fit and ensuing stroke.

You non-word-using, apostrophe-loving bastards are going to kill me.

I'm No Sissy, and "Titanic" Was On Television By Accident

2006-11-26T21:50:00.001-08:00

Despite all appearances to the contrary, I have not been consumed by a fiery pit of hell due to my salacious and scandalous lifestyle. Yet. My employer foolishly expected to get some work out of me after two weeks off, and the Thanksgiving holiday provided a much-needed break after a few days of backbreaking labor. I should probably note here that I get paid to sit in an office all day and order people around. But don't let that diminish your sympathy for my horrendous plight.

The Mister and I managed to emerge from our cocoon of leftover poultry and casseroles to attend a football game today, where we were able to witness the Tennessee Titans thump Eli Manning like the little bitch he is. The highlight of the experience had to be that we were fortunate enough to sit next to an inebriated gentleman who took great pleasure in proclaiming the opposing team members' proclivity for sissyhood. Throughout the game we were delighted by his cries of "Hey there number 41... You're a SISSY! Don't let the bench bruise your little SISSY ass!" When the defense took the field we were regaled with cries of "Look at the little SISSY boys out there, trying to find a ball to intercept!" After the referree announced a penalty for an ineligible receiver we heard "Ten yards for having an illegal SISSY on the team!!!"

Initially I thought his taunting was rather sophomoric and unoriginal, but by halftime I decided that he was the most hysterical fucker I'd ever had the good fortune to encounter. The skeptics among you may say that was because I was well on the way to inebriation myself, but I will maintain that it just took me half a game to appreciate his genius.

Anyway, I promise to try to do better with this whole posting nonsense. I'm slowly digging my way out from the work, the laundry, and the leftovers. In the meantime, I'll leave you with one of my favorite pictures from our Australia trip, taken in Fitzroy Gardens in Melbourne.

Peace out, bitches!

This Drink's For You, Betting Australian Public

2006-11-15T00:15:00.000-08:00

The good people of Australia are breathing a little easier today, as The Mister and I evacuated their country yesterday and left them to their happy, beer-drinking devices. About twenty-four hours after leaving Melbourne we landed in Nashville, tired and cranky, but none the worse for wear. As an added bonus, we didn't leave the great country of Oz any worse off than it was when we arrived, either. Just a little drier.

I took approximately eight frillion pictures, many of which I will be sharing with you lucky bastards in the next few days. Because there's really nothing more thrilling than viewing the vacation photos of a total stranger. I know, I know; you can thank me later.

On a rather exciting note, I am well on my way to making my living as a professional gambler. Shortly after arriving I tried my luck at the slot machines, or "pokeys" as they are known locally, and within ten minutes I had managed to win about $25. Not bad considering the fact that my high-rolling ass was sequestered in the $.02 section and had invested less than twenty cents in the whole endeavor.

A couple days later, The Mister informed me that I had to place a bet on the Melbourne Cup, Australia's equivalent of the Kentucky Derby. I hemmed and hawed, reviewed the racing form, and made my expert pick: Tawqeet. Since I was only betting $2, I decided to live dangerously and place a throwaway bet, too. I saw a horse named Delta Blues and figured I owed it to my homeland to toss some dinero this loser's way. He didn't have a chance at winning, but I was a proud American Southern girl and it was the least I could do. I considered it a form of patriotic charity.

One of my picks won the Melbourne Cup, and if I need to tell you which one it was, you have grossly overestimated my abilities. Somehow I managed to earn money by sitting on my fat ass playing games and picking ponies, all while drinking some nice, healthy cocktails.

Working is for suckers, bitches.

There Is Medication For It, and It's Called Vodka

2006-10-25T09:40:00.000-07:00

One week from today The Mister and I will jet off for Australia. We will spend about two weeks there, during which time I will spread my delightful brand of American joy to everyone whether they want me to or not, and my husband will snarf up as much vegemite as he can possibly stand since it's now illegal to bring it into this country. I would have thought they'd outlaw that stuff on the basis of it being an affront to each of the five senses, but they opted to use some harebrained idea instead about it containing too much riboflavin or something. Whatever the reason, I'm just relieved I no longer have to examine my food with a magnifying glass to make sure my beloved didn't slip any of that swill into dinner without my knowledge.

For the most part the preparations for this trip have gone quite smoothly. We booked the hotel rooms online. Easy peasy Japaneesy. (Is that racist? I honestly don't know. If it is, I'm sorry to all my Asian friend. Don't email me, people!) We made the airline reservations online as well, and in so doing were able to take advantage of one of my favorite features of traveling during the age of the internets: picking your own damn airplane seat from the comfort of your home. The only way they could make that better is if they included a bio of each of your fellow passengers. Toddler in seat 32A? Pass, Bob. Middle aged bachelor in who still lives with his mother on his way to a Star Trek convention in row 14? Uh-uh. New age hipster who travels with her good luck crystals and delights in passing them out to others in an attempt to ward off bad karma while fostering airplane harmony? Oh, hell no, and please get me as far away from that nutbar as possible.

Unfortunately we do not have that knowledge at our disposal, so we can only make our best guess as to what constitutes prime airplane real estate based on the pretty pictures and diagrams provided. We selected our seats on the flight from Nashville to LA with no problem, as well as for the flights from Melbourne to LA and LA to Nashville when we return. But when we tried to make our seat selection on the LA to Melbourne flight we got a big angry red message saying that that option wasn't available. Uh oh.

To most people this wouldn't have amounted to a blip on their stress radar, but to a person like me who is prone to irrational and crippling fits of anxiety, this was a disaster of biblical proportions. The average person would have shrugged and been all, "Well, I guess we'll just get our seats when we check in." Clearly I am not the average person, because this particular turn of events set off a series of internal dialogues, each more horrifying than the last.

"What if we get to the airport and they put us in different seats? What if our seats are on opposite parts of the plane? It's a freaking 747! And it's a sixteen hour flight! What if I'm stuck next to someone who won't shut up and let me sleep? I'll be jetlagged as hell when we arrive as it is, I can't make it worse by not sleeping on the flight! Oh, wait a second... it's an international flight and that means FREE WINE!!! After I pound down a couple glasses of vino it wouldn't matter if I was sitting next to Bill "Assface" O'Reilly. I'd just go to sleep and I probably wouldn't even punch him in the face. Now that's mellow."

Oh come on. You know you can't drink without wanting to fire up a steamer. There's no way you'd be able to down enough wine to make you sleep in the face of such discomfort without wanting a cigarette. And have you forgotten? Sixteen freaking hours. You are going to go out of your gourd. Just face it now. You're going to be sitting by yourself in the corner of the plane, surrounded by screaming kids and people who keep trying to tell you about their grandchildren and what they're going to do every minute of their cruise to Sardinia and how much they love living in Miami this time of year, and you're just going to have to sit there and take it.

"Surely there's a way around it. I mean, would anyone really notice if I smoked a quick one in the lavatory?"

Haven't you heard all the speechifying about how tampering with a smoke alarm is a federal offense?

"Oh, they squeeze that in between the tutorial on how to operate a seat belt and the instructional video demonstrating how you can turn your seat cushion into a flotation device. Nobody pays attention to that anymore."

Maybe not, but I doubt the air marshals would be amused if they had to break into the bathroom only to find your dumb ass puffing away on a cigarette surrounded by the shattered remains of smoke alarm at your feet. If they're confiscating disposable lighters and hair gel, they'd probably shoot down the damn plane if a fool like you got hold of the electrical system.

"But it would kind of be the airline's fault for not letting reserve my freaking seats in the first place, wouldn't it?"

Uh, no. But nice try, Whiney McBlamerson.

"Shut up, internal me."

So, for the next week I'll be thinking about how the inability to reserve my airline seat in advance will set off a chain of events culminating in the fiery deaths of hundreds of people.

And people wonder why I drink.

Well On My Way To Crazy Cat Lady

2006-10-22T14:57:00.000-07:00

Things have been rather boring in Sparkles Plenty Land, but I didn't want my three readers to think that I've been neglecting my duties. I regret that I have no stories of bugs biting me on the ass or me getting drunk and falling down stairs, but bear with me because it's only a matter of time before those things happen.

In pseudo-exciting news, Gloria The Cat is now a part of the Sparkles family. I'm not sure how it happened, because I was damn determined that I would never be A Cat Person. But somehow she wore me down and now she's one of Us. She's quite lovely and has a wonderful personality, but I think I reached my breaking point when I went to the pet store to buy a carrier to take her to the vet so she could get her shots and be scheduled for a spaying. In a moment of stupefying weakness, I decided to browse the feline fashion accessories. I found a pink collar with a pink plaid bow and a little pink bell, and naturally I had to buy it for Gloria. My heart isn't made of stone, people! Anyway, I came home, put the collar on her, and almost passed out from the cuteness. I knew then that I was a goner.

She's been with us ever since, and even when she's walking across my face at 5am in order to get to her favorite spot on the bed I feel warm and happy inside. My heart skips a little when I feel her warm breath on my ear and hear her loud diesel engine purr. And when I think about how she has a warm place to sleep now instead of living outside in the cold foraging for food, I know we made the right choice. Even if cleaning out that litter box is a total bitch.

Embarrassing Confessions: #188

2006-10-09T20:19:00.000-07:00

I like to eat toothpaste.

When I was a kid I always swallowed what was in my mouth (dirty!) after brushing my teeth. Once I was old enough to read I discovered that the ingestion of toothpaste was hazardous to my health. After the kind folks at Proctor and Gamble informed me that I had been poisoning myself on a nightly basis I spent many nights anxiously clutching my stuffed snake Periwinkle, convinced I was going to die of excessive fluoridation. What a way to go. "Sure she had nice teeth, but the fool was eating toothpaste. Good riddance!"

I no longer swallow the post-brushing toothpaste because I am a grownup. But sometimes I'll squirt some on my finger and "chew" on it for a while. Old habits die hard, I guess.

I don't know why I decided to share that, but you are welcome.

There's No Fringe In Boxing

2006-10-06T20:40:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I flounced into the living room and discovered The Mister watching a boxing match on television. Because I consider boxing to be little more than a couple men trying to punch each other in the face while hopping around in a satiny square, I was less than enthused. Now, I realize there's more to the sport than what I see, because if it were just a couple random people putting on gloves and getting into bitchfights, and being paid millions of dollars to do so, every bonehead in America would be getting in on the action. I know there's timing and jabbing and shucking and jiving and God only knows what else, but to me it's still just a couple of dudes wearing some fancy shorts and puffy gloves jumping around and swinging their arms trying to see who can get the other bloody first.

However, I am incapable of watching a competitive activity without selecting a side to cheer for. I could be watching Canadian transsexual bikini logrolling; it doesn't matter. I am compelled to cheer for somebody, no matter how disinterested I may be in the contest itself. So when I saw the boxing on television I had to determine who was going to be the lucky recipient of my goodwill. There was no clear underdog in this fight, so I had to pull out the heavy artillery: Their outfits. One of the boxers was wearing rather nondescript trunks. They were tan and black with the words "2 pound" on the waistband. Eh, not spectacular, but I could accept it. But when I laid my eyes on the other fool in the ring my choice was clear. His trunks were bright green with gaudy tangerine fringe dangling around the waist and down the side of each leg. As if that weren't enough of an affront to athletic fashion sensibilities, there were tassles. Tassles, people. His trunks looked just like the drapes my parents had in their bedroom that matched the orange shag carpet. In 1977.

My choice was clear. I announced to my husband that I was cheering for 2 Pound.

"Which one is he?"

"The one who isn't dressed like the goddamn New Years Eve buffet table at a Bangkok whorehouse."

All I Ever Wanted Was Some Sassy Manhair

2006-09-27T22:03:00.001-07:00

Years ago when primordial ooze was still, uh, oozing, I attended a concert featuring The Cult. When I wasn't swatting pterodactyls away from my face I was adjusting my goth slut dress, lest I expose myself to the masses attending the show. Since the dress was made of a translucent cotton gauze material and I was wearing no undergarments there was no real reason for me to fuss over the position of said dress, but for some reason I was working hard to exhibit some semblance of propriety. My mother would have shriveled up into a shamed little raisin of a woman had she been aware I even owned such a garment, but I was one cagey little bitch. I left the house dressed like a Quaker, carrying my objectionable wardrobe in a backpack along with my chemistry book.

Anyway, I was about fifteen years old, dressed like a whore, and chemically baked within an inch of my life. When The Cult came onstage I practically wet myself with excitement, but a great deal of their performance is a blur. I do remember at one point that Ian Astbury dropped his pants and stood there naked, but I was too transfixed by his hair (on his head... not that hair) to pay much attention. He had the most beautiful locks I'd ever seen.

Thus began a love affair with his hair that continues to this day and defies logic or explanation. On a mission to duplicate that follicular perfection I have tried dyes, egg yolks, beer, and mayonnaise. I would have smeared my head with Alpo if necesary. Ian Astbury hair was my aesthetic holy grail, and I would not rest until I had hair like that.

I'm still not resting, dammit. And I'm really thinking about that Alpo thing.

It's Official: I'm Now The Crazy Neighborhood Lady

2006-09-20T20:23:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, as I was sitting on my happy butt at home watching some variety of televised nonsense, I looked out the window and saw The Guy Whose Dog Craps on Neighborhood Lawns standing in our yard. True to form, his dog was taking a gigantic dump on the grass next to our house. This is not an unusual occurrence in a neighborhood full of dog-owning people, but everyone else carries little poopscooping baggies with them so that they can remove the dog turds and deposit them into the trash can. This guy, on the other hand, is a notorious canine shit-and-runner. I've seen him do it numerous times, but since I am normally one to look the other way and just bitch about it to myself I've always chalked it up to his being an inconsiderate asshole and let it go.

But on that particular day, for whatever reason, I was not content to let it go. I stood up on the sofa, banged on the screen, and screeched out the window that I didn't appreciate the fact he didn't clean up after his prodigiously shitting dog. He looked at me, smirked, and started walking off. Undeterred, I ran out the front door, stood on the porch, and informed him -- finger waggling all the while -- that I thought he sucked. Never let it be said that I am not creative with the criticisms, people. Sure, he was laughing as he walked away from the crazy bitch yelling at him from her porch, but we all know that he was sick with guilt on the inside.

I felt better after my little outburst. There was couch-standing, screen-banging, and porch-shouting. I imagine half the block heard the screaming harpy carrying on about dog shit, grass, and the pursuant decline of polite society.

I do believe my transformation into Boo Radley is all but complete.

Why American Civilization is in the Crapper: Reason #372

2006-09-17T21:42:00.000-07:00

Tonight I made the stupid mistake of tuning in to VH1's Flavor of Love. For the uninitiated, the show revolves around a group of women vying for the affections of one Mr. Flava Flav. In order to gain some terrifying context, feast your eyes on the "prize:"

I'm well aware that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but I'd really like to crawl inside the mind of those beholders who consider Flava to be a prime piece of ass, because they are in desperate need of an introduction to reality. To be fair, I know there were days when ol' Flava was about as cool as cool got, and there were times that I used to get my groove on to Public Enemy. Those were the same times that I wore a size 0. One look at my hips will tell you that those days are long gone.

At any rate, Flava Flav is living proof that one can't smoke crack for extended periods of time and remain in their right mind. But as whacked out as that fucker is, it's the women on the show who provide the most horrifying glimpses into American culture.

Some aspects of the show bother me more than others. Women bitch-slapping each other over a rapping has-been who wears the same clock around his neck that I used to see in my elementary school cafeteria? Troubling, but I can handle it. Women in ill-fitting bikinis trying to throw another woman over a balcony by grabbing her by her cheap hair weave? It's a shame, particularly since they ought to know better; girls with cellulite should to be more deliberate regarding their swimwear fashions. Women who allow themselves to be called names like "Deelishis," "Nibblz" and "Payshyntz?" That just makes me want to curl up into a fetal position and sob on the floor.

That being said, I'm already psyched about next week's episode. I'm betting Krazy is going to get all up in Bootz's grill and try to stomp her pansy ass like an overripe grape.

If you think I'm going to miss that spectacle, you bitches are dreaming.