Wednesday, October 28, 2009

The Glitter Diaries, Chapter One

A month ago, I caved and bought a bottle of Fire Opal glitter because it winked at me and cooed enticingly and flashed its glittery wiles my way. I did it in a fit of crazed denial, knowing full well that somewhere on my person are the remnants of my last glitter encounter even though that was in 1983. Glitter must be the only substance on the face of the earth made of tiny, tenacious specks that don't wash off, won't wear off and have a half-life longer than plutonium. Even if I'm 110 when I die, there will STILL be a stoopid piece of glitter stuck to me somewhere, winking away as they close the casket.
But all of this was nothing more than a hazy memory when I gingerly lifted the cap off that bottle of glorious, intoxicating Fire Opal glitter. And "what if. . .?" was the farthest thing from my mind as I gently tipped the bottle sideways bit by bit and watched those first captivating flakes of fiery light cascade toward the waiting cushion of glue on the LO I'd been working on for three full weeks.
Not that thinking ahead of time about "What if. . . ?" would have prevented the weird things that happened next.
Just as the first bits of Fire Opal glitter started to pool on my LO, the glass globe behind me suddenly crashed down into the kitchen sink, sending bits of glass everywhere. And before I could even grasp my reaction - a mere split nanosecond later - the chair I was sitting on suddenly broke, sending me crashing to the floor. My first cogent thought was "Yippee! I still have the glitter bottle!" because there it was, clutched firmly in my little hand attached to my now horizontal body.
Except it was empty.
I looked around and there - like some crazy explorer's map - were stripes of glitter in all directions. I couldn't have glittered my kitchen better if I'd been hiccuping and had the shakes. There was glitter on the stove, glitter across the curtains and glitter on the microwave. The doggie treat jar was glittered, and so was every cookbook I owned. I looked at the glaringly naked bulb above my sink, trying its best to glow with an air of innocence, and it had glitter on it. I looked at the chair lying in pieces underneath me and each part had glitter on it. (I also made a mental note to speak to POK about his furniture gluing talents. Or the lack thereof.)
You have no idea just how far a little, spice jar-sized bottle of glitter can go until you have to empty your sweeper bag three times in 10 minutes. Or until your panting puppy's little spit bubbles are coated in glitter. Or until you go to the dentist weeks later and he finds glitter between your teeth.
What could I say?
I just told him it was overflow from my sparkling personality.

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