The Guano is Just a Sweet, Sweet Bonus

Mosquitos are the bane of my existence. Apparently I emit some sort of mosquito-friendly beacon that designates me one big walking snack. Those bastards are Floridian senior citizens to my early bird buffet, yet they turn their speared, pointy noses up at other humans. I don't know what unique power I hold over them, but I've spent a lifetime trying to lose it. I have failed.

Last year the Sparkles family vacationed for a few days at Mammoth Cave National Park in Kentucky, because we are giant dorks who opt to spend precious vacation time stumbling around dark moldy caves examining the patterns of water droplets on rocks instead of frolicking on the beach like normal people. But one of the things I learned during my time there was that bats eat approximately eighteen frillion mosquitos every day. I felt a light from heaven illuminate my world as I realized that these flying mammals were the answer to all my insect woes.

I knew then that I needed to start my own personal bat colony. In my quest for knowledge I interrogated the park ranger, who clearly had better things to discuss than where Joe Citizen can procure baby bats and whether or not they like to eat carrots. I researched the finer points of building bat homes, only to be met with the devastating news that they gravitate toward caves and other natural accommodations. But I knew deep down that if I could blend the fun, the funky, and the functional, they'd happily relocate to the bat house I was going to build for them in my backyard.

When I was a little kid I went to visit relatives in the Midwest. Several of my cousins were there too, and after we got far too irritating for an old lady to stand, my great-grandmother instructed us to take some old pieces of rope and go outside to hit the bats that were beginning to flutter around. Naturally, we were delighted. She might as well have told a thirteen year-old boy to go watch porn for a couple hours.

We tore out of the house, armed with lengths of very dirty rope, ready to knock the hell out of some bats. We stood in the yard, pretended we were Zorro, and whipped the air. The occasional bat would flit by, but they were much more concerned with keeping the neighborhood bug-free than the dumbass kids spazzing out in the grass beneath them. Eventually, one of my cousins managed to make contact with one of the bats. Considering our lack of skill, the only reasonable explanation for this is that the bat was stoned. The poor thing spiraled to the ground and landed with a thud. We circled around, stood, and looked as it lay there, dazed. I think someone poked it with a stick to see if it was still alive, but it was about that time that I started crying and ran back into the house. I sniffled and snotted and watched my great-grandmother peel potatoes. I heard hooting and hollering from outside, whimpered some more, and caught her sneaking disgusted glances at me. She was probably hoping I had been adopted.

I don't know for sure what happened to that bat, but I think it's safe to say that it never made a family after that day. That potential bat family could have migrated from Wisconsin to Tennessee, made a home in my sassy new bat house, and spent their evenings happily devouring the bugs that torment me. Every time I notice another mosquito bite, I'm going to think about my cousins and how they have totally ruined my outdoorsy life.

I'm Going To Turn This Mother Out

Mister Sparkles in en route to England to play some cricket. He will tour the British countryside and sip -- pinkies up -- the occasional Pimms while wearing his crisp white uniform. Once on the field of play, he will unleash wicked googlies upon his hapless opponents. Because that is how he rolls.

So that means I'm on my own for the next several days, and I've begun planning my exciting activities. I'm going to do all the things people do when they're alone; things they spare their partners from witnessing. Things like eating those horrific concoctions that only you can stand, probably because they were fed to you before you were old enough to find them objectionable, or watching TV shows that you know are crap but simply have to watch when you know no one is looking.

In keeping with my free-wheeling single-girl-for-a-few-days spirit, I will make a big batch of Spaghetti Red (pasta, kidney beans, and ground beef, all doused in ketchup... yeah, I know), and watch as many Brady Bunch and Little House on the Prairie reruns as I can find. To spice things up a bit, I think I'll scoot to The Teeter and grab some Raid so I can assassinate the industrious wasps who are busily working on a nest. Normally I'm a live-and-let-live kind of girl, but wasps in my kitchen window? Oh, hell no bitches!

About this time tomorrow you will find me splayed out on the sofa with drool and snot caked on my face, fragments of kidney beans in my unwashed hair, one hand clutching a can of Raid and the other on the remote control, desperately searching for some Golden Girls reruns.

In closing, I'd like to answer the question you're all asking: No. I could not be any more glamorous.

Where Did I Put That Eye of Newt?

The glorious internets have afforded me the opportunity to trace the Sparkles Plenty ancestry. Or, more correctly, they have afforded my father the opportunity to do so, because I'm far too lazy to do things like "research" or "look up crap online."

I still don't know much about my mother's side of the family, except for the fact that some dude, in a spectacular example of Darwinism, died while peeing on an electric generator. Mother Sparkles' family roots remain shrouded in mystery, since very few things were written about the hardscrabble existence of Midwestern farmers, unless of course you're talking about that poor bastard who met his maker by taking a whiz while standing beside an electric substation. On the other hand, my father's family is a well-documented bunch, chock full of prominent businessmen, war heroes, patriots, and... a witch.

My great-to-the-eighth-power grandmother was Susannah Martin, a woman condemned of witchcraft during the Salem witch trials but whose only apparent transgression was that she was a crotchety, sarcastic old skeezer. All I can say is that I hope the criteria for witchcraft conviction are much more forgiving in forty years time, because I'm careening down that crotchety skeezer highway at breakneck speed, and dangling by my neck while townsfolk pelt my lifeless body with overripe produce is not the way I choose to be remembered.

In the event a group discussion turns to ancestry, I'll parade around the lines "Thirteen of my forefathers fought in the American Revolution!" or "My great blah blah great grandparents came over on The Mayflower!" or "One of my relatives was the Secretary of the First Continental Congress and signed The Declaration of Independence!" These statements are met with blank stares, the occasional yawn, and a polite smattering of "That's interesting," "How nice!" or similar innocuous acknowledgements. But as soon as I bring up Susannah the witch, they'll perk right the hell up, eyes bright, and far-too-enthusiastically proclaim, "Oh, I can believe that!" Lively conversations will follow, almost always including something about family resemblances, inherited traits, and nuts not falling far from trees.

Bitches. As soon as my cauldron comes out of the dishwasher, I'm totally putting a hex on their asses.

So Weary Of It All

Generally speaking, I steer clear of writing about politics primarily because I value my attractive blood pressure, but also because no one really gives a good goddamn what I think about the state of the union anyway. But I am particularly lippy this evening, so I'm about to break my own rule. I do believe I'll blame it on the booze.

Any American who isn't living in a cave knows that politics is a polarizing force, but I think it's even more divisive nowadays than it has been in a very long time. It's unfortunate to see the animosity among countrymen who, by and large, are on the same side on most issues. But I guess that's why they call it politics and not the county fair. Speaking of county fairs, I sure could go for a nice crispy funnel cake right now.

But back to the point: People disagree, the occasional tempers flare, and individuals seek solidarity with like-minded folk. That's all well and good, and that's what makes ours a dynamic society. But I've gotta say, if I get referred to as a "moonbat" again in the near future, my ever-present grace and poise (shut up) will go out the window and I'll be looking for the nearest groin in which to plant my foot. I'm sure those who stand on the opposite side of the political fence are equally tired of the name-calling.

I read a great quote once. I'm paraphrasing here, but it was something along the lines of, "When a man resorts to name-calling he is admitting that he's run out of good ideas." Amen, person whom I cannot name and am far too lazy to look up.

The day we, as a collective citizenry, can discuss the pros and cons of the issues without relying on the sloppily lobbed political epithet will be a day that we can make some progress and gain some understanding. I hope that day comes during my lifetime, if for no other reason than I really don't delight in kicking people in the crotch. But don't test me, because I totally will.

The Price Is Right. Gloriously, Magically Right.

Generally speaking I am not a fan of television game shows, unless the show in question is The Price Is Right, in which case I’m a total whore. I’ve been like that since my childhood, when I used to scramble up the hill to our next-door neighbor’s house to watch it, drink Frescas, chomp some Juicy Fruit gum, and conduct deep discussions as only a four year-old could regarding the madness of someone’s gross underestimation of the retail value of fabric softener. My Price Is Right viewing was disastrously curbed once that whole education nonsense started, but in my heart I remained a loyal TPIR gal through and through.

Once I got to college I met two like-minded individuals, and we were forever bonded by our love of this spectacular game show. If we’d had our way, we would have watched TPIR every single day of our collegiate lives. Unfortunately our game show of choice aired at 10am and, as any dedicated scholar can tell you, that is prime college class time. A person can get their classes out of the way without being required to wake up too early or be in class late enough to interfere with beer-drinking. But at Belmont, no classes were scheduled for 10am on Wednesdays because that was the time appropriated for chapel. Luckily for me and my pals, I made the acquaintance of a fella who knew the person who took roll at chapel. As I was delighted to learn, roll was only taken on certain days. The unwashed masses didn’t know when these roll-taking days took place, but, because I was not above being flirtatious with certain calculus classmates, I had the chapel attendance record hookup. So every Wednesday morning shortly before 10, my two compadres and I would hoof it to the designated building and I would scour the area for my informant who would indicate with a thumbs-up or thumbs-down whether or not attendance at chapel would be recorded. On the days that roll wasn’t being taken, my girlfriends and I would haul ass back to the dorm room in preparation of an hour of game show bliss. We’d make a quick stop at the vending machine, grab some Combos, Little Debbies, and Dr. Peppers, and then sit in reverence in front of the television to watch The! Price! Is! Right!

We would arrange our snacks and beverages in a semi-circle around us, sit cross-legged on the floor, and stare at the television with love and adoration. We would hear Rod Roddy’s “Come On Down!” and shout along, spraying pretzel crumbs around the room. We’d cheer when Plinko! came on, and groan when that stupid mountain climber in the lederhosen made an appearance. But the culmination of all these pricing games was the Showcase Showdown. It is the Holy Grail of game shows, and we were devoted disciples.

If you watch enough TPIR, you’ll notice that there’s usually one clunker tossed into the showcase mix. They’ll have trips, furniture, cars, or boats, and then they’ll slip in something like a dune buggy or a hanglider. After seeing all the showcase had to offer, the contestant could either bid or pass, but invariably they’d pass the showcase to the other contestant in order to unload whatever piece of crap the TPIR producers were trying to palm off on them. The three of us always dreamed of a more instantaneous reaction, though. We wanted to see someone start shouting “Pass! Pass on the dune buggy, Bob” as soon as the lame prize was unveiled.

Rod Roddy: Your showcase begins with… a trip to London, England!

Contestant: Oooh, I’ve always wanted to go there!

Rod Roddy: To make traveling a breeze, here’s a brand new set of… Samsonite luggage!

Contestant: Well, I do need some new luggage, that’s for sure.

Rod Roddy: After you return from your trip around the world, unwind in your… very own hot tub!

Contestant: Fantastic! The wife and I have been talking about getting one of those!

Rod Roddy: After you’re all rested, take a spin on your brand new… hovercraft!

Contestant: …

Rod Roddy: ...

Contestant: Pass!

Rod Roddy: Enjoy riding over the waves as you—

Contestant: Pass! Pass on the hovercraft, Bob.

Rod Roddy: …can be used on both land and—

Contestant: Pass!

Eventually we began to live vicariously through our fantasy TPIR contestants, and every time they’d whip out an old-fashioned popcorn wagon or a player piano we’d shriek “Pass! Pass on the crappy prize, Bob!” between bites of Little Debbie snack cakes. Of course it didn’t stop there. At meal time in the cafeteria it was, “Pass on the chicken a la king, Bob,” and when figuring out next semester’s schedules it would be “Pass on the 7am Botany, Bob.”

Just a couple weeks ago I was doing some grocery shopping. As I picked up some produce to examine it more closely, I got a whiff of something bad and a couple gnats flew out from inside the container.

“Hoo boy, pass on the blackberries, Bob.”

In a beautiful example of the power of TPIR to unify total strangers, an elderly gentleman was standing nearby and heard me. He gave me a look of confused understanding, as though he knew exactly what I meant but couldn’t figure out how.

I’ve got twenty bucks that says he’d pass on the hovercraft, too.