It's a "Faerie" (with an "E")

It was a hot and humid weekend here in College Town, giving us a perfect taste of summer during Amelia’s softball double-header Sunday.

By the end of the first inning, the late afternoon sun had induced a heat-coma of sorts. I found myself less interested in the game before me and more interested in the world around me from the top row of the relentlessly uncomfortable metal bleachers.

In particular, a merry band of 8-year-olds, led by a darling brown-eyed, brown-haired, little boy I will call Henry, just as his mother did.

As my thoughts drifted from a mental inventory of the cereal in our pantry to Zack’s last name in “Saved by the Bell” (anyone?), Henry’s enchanting little chatter caught my ear.

“Look what I caught!” he exclaimed to his buddies. “It’s a Sprite!”

I glanced down at the gang on the ground behind me to see Henry, his eyes wide and bright, carefully cradling a 2-inch-long dragonfly in his little hands before a half-circle of boys and girls, all in awe of the find.

“How do you know?” asked one little skeptic, a girl.

Henry gingerly placed the dragonfly/Sprite in a plastic container marked “Sprites I Found” and closed the lid, pre-cut with air holes, on the container. He then pulled out a book, Spiderwick Chronicles: The Care and Feeding of Sprites, and opened to an illustration in Chapter One.

“See?” he said, pointing to the dragonfly-like creature on the page, “it shows it right here. It’s a faerie [I looked up the correct spelling], a magical creature called a ‘Sprite.’” He began to quote, “’Bright, clear eyes; unbroken wings; an even number of appendages.’ I’ve been hunting for one for WEEKS!”

“Do you think it can breathe okay in there?” asked the skeptic. I looked at Henry’s plastic container and the knife-blade-sized slash in the top. I concurred with the skeptic; it looked very humid inside to me. But I was not about to argue with Henry, a clear expert in the field of Sprites, who had dedicated weeks to hunting one down, apparently even carrying a “Sprites I Found” container with him at all times. Just in case.

Having captured and correctly indentified a real-live Sprite, Henry flipped to the page that referred to the feeding of Sprites and soon had his co-keepers searching the concrete grounds for drops of water and tiny green leaves.

Desperate not to let the faerie down, the children called out hopefully to Henry, “Would it like the rest of my Ring Pop?” and “Can it have Gatorade?”

After gathering an assortment of possibilities for the Sprite to choose from, the children once again circled around Henry on the ground behind me.

“Open it so it can come out!” they whispered, “Let’s see if it will eat!”

A series of “ooh’s” and “ahh’s” filled my ears as I turned back around to watch the game. Memories of hanging out in the cul-de-sac as a kid flooded back to me, letting our imaginations run wild with the games and stories that used to fill our summer days.

Just then another breeze rolled in, bringing a few mosquitoes with it. I looked down at my leg and smashed one, then reached around to brush one off my back.

It felt pretty big.

It seemed to have long, wispy wings that crumpled up under my touch.

The happy chatter of the happy children behind me came to a sudden halt.

“AAAAACK!”

I slowly turned around, still reaching for my back, to see Henry catch the mangled dragonfly falling from my shoulder blade, staring up at me with the eyes of a child face-to-face with a monster.

Apparently, it was not a mosquito I had brushed away, but a faerie. With magic powers. None of which involved self-preservation.

So much for the “unbroken wings” and “even number of appendages.”

I looked at Henry and apologized profusely for squishing his Sprite. He was too horrified to speak.

The skeptic spoke for him.

“THAT LADY KILLED YOUR SPRITE!” she declared for all to hear, pointing at me with conviction and distain.

I smiled and tried again to apologize.

The children ran away, screaming.

(Thankfully, Henry’s mother burst out laughing.)

And for the next two hours I endured the nasty glares of children who had seen the face of evil and lived to talk about it.

Will Eating Mentos With Pepsi Really Kill You?

Congress has been hard at work this year with one stimulating package after another (did I say that right?), but there is one area in my life still in need of a massive bailout: my email’s inbox.

I propose we ask Congress to pass a law making it illegal for mass emails to be distributed without verification, punishable by a 2-week ban from their “forward” button and mandatory community service involving mending broken novenas and assisting 4th graders with their school e-projects.

I thought by now we would all be street-wise enough to know when we’re being e-duped. Unfortunately that is not the case, as I’m still sorting through piece after piece about – among other things – the likelihood of Mountain Dew lowering my husband’s sperm count (I wish!).

So, as a service to you all, I’m giving you the truth about the current Top 10 mass-distributed emails according to Snopes.com:

10. Baby Carrots Aren’t Really Babies, AND They Probably Cause Cancer: “Baby Carrots” are baby carrots. “Baby-Cut Carrots” are grown-up carrots that are whittled down to look like baby carrots. (Think Brad Pitt in “Benjamin Button.”) They ARE cleaned with chlorine, as are all fresh-cut veggies that we eat, and the chlorine is then washed away. And they are infinitely better for you than pork rinds.

9. New Dollar Coins Are Godless: No, the new dollar coins have “In God We Trust” encircling the coin around the outer rim. Trust me. God’s not going anywhere. (Though, FYI, He is not mentioned anywhere in the Constitution, and only "Nature's God" is referenced in the Declaration of Independence. Let's start a petition!!)

8. Asparagus Will Cure Cancer: Scientists have not been able to prove this. But I’m pretty sure they have been able to prove it will make your pee smell funny.

7. Jesus is Hitting the Silver Screen in Drag: Okay, maybe not drag, but the email states that Jesus will be portrayed in an upcoming film as a homosexual. Although there is an amendment to our Constitution that would allow this and nothing that would force anyone to watch it, we can all breathe easy. For this rumor is, as it has been for the past 25 years (yes, it predates the internet) unfounded. False. Not gonna happen. Which means “Gigli” still ranks as Hollywood’s #1 atrocity.

6. Obama Will Pay For College if You Quit Going to Church: Nope. But if you are a college student who would like a little financial assistance in exchange for doing a little volunteer work, the GIVE Act is for you. And you can still go to church.

5. Lemon Fresh Joy and Listerine Will Kill Mosquitos: No. But, used properly, they will clean your dishes and freshen your breath, respectively.

4. Breast Cancer Patient Protection Act: This one is true. And if you love boobs, whether you are an owner or just an admirer of them, you should contact your senator and representative to be sure they are handled with care.

3. (Insert Company Name) is Giving Away (Free Stuff): Sony is not giving away laptops, GAP is not giving away gift cards, Bill Gates is not paying you to hit forward, and every time you send this email to your friends, the terrorists win.

2. Mars is Coming! Mars is Coming!: That one is soooo August 27, 2003, when Mars actually did come breezing by within mere millions of miles of the earth. Sorry if you missed it. If it makes you feel any better, the “glowing red circle” was the size of a pinhead, and it will likely happen again in 15 years.

1. Telemarketers Will Call Your Cell Phones: False. They will, however, still call you while you are eating dinner.

Furthermore, Snopes has debunked the effectiveness of all mass-boycotts, so if you want to join a movement to lower your fuel bill, ride your bike. Also, there is no promise that pushing any poem, prayer, picture or prose will prompt prosperity, so please… don’t burden your buds with such bull. And, for the love of all that is good and holy, please get it through your head that no one is trying to give your Social Security Benefits away to illegal aliens, and Aunt Edna is probably not qualified to spread any information about any of it.

That said, should any of you come across anything that resembles the truth about Jon and Kate swinging with Brangelina or anything at all related to a possible Facebook fee, PLEASE forward!

Dear Zac Efron

Dear Zac Efron,

I am sorry to be writing to you like this, but I am afraid we are going to have to break up.

No, no, the “cougar” stigma doesn’t bother me, and this has nothing to do with what people might be saying about us in the tabloids. I mean, ever since Demi and Ashton, couples like us really aren’t news anymore.

And, truly, it’s not you, it’s me.

Well, it is a little bit you, but nothing that is technically your fault.

I mean, you can’t help it that you’re only 28... 25... 21, and I’m 28... 35... old enough to know what a 21-year-old has to offer. And that, my darling tot, is why we must part ways.

Oh, sure, we had our good times. Remember HSM the original? Your flirty head toss would transport me back in time, when I used to date the singing, dancing, basketball star. I was lured in with your perfect teeth and the promise that, if I got my head in the game, we could bop to the top, because we were all in this together. You made me feel 17 again.

(Oh, and, sorry about the bad reviews. I never saw it, so I cannot judge, but I can assure you that, even though I’m closer in age to Matthew Perry, that movie has nothing to do with our break up.)

No, the root of our problem has nothing to do with the cute way you wink or tousle your hair (please don’t ever slick it back again like you did at the Oscars, even though we’re over now).

The problem is, after watching a boat-load (literally) of your kind play on the lake this weekend, I can no longer consider taking in a 21-year-old boy toy.

Granted, there was a time when a hot young thing joy-riding on a speed boat named “Board Me,” wearing nothing but swim trunks and a beaded necklace purchased in some Rumpleminz-infested Spring Break town and yelling “Who farted?” in Spanish (over and over and over) would make me swoon. Those were the days I saw nothing at all wrong with a guy who could sustain himself on a diet of Taco Bell and Natural Light and knew every episode of “South Park” by heart.

But watching the party barge pelvic-thrust to Kanye reminded me that I have dated 21-year-olds before, and I do not ever need to do that again. Thank goodness. Because I am just not up to training another one.

So, while I find your flashy smile and dreamy blue eyes positively charming, Zac Efron, I am afraid we must part ways.

Though I do wish you had stuck around for “Footloose.”

(sigh) I must go now. It is time for me to move on to a celebrity crush who I know won't be tempted use me for the cheap rental car insurance.

Which reminds me, do you have George Clooney’s cell number?

Mom Gone Wild

I am assuming the court order against me ever wearing my swimsuit in public in the city of Wrightsville Beach has now expired, as Homeland Security did not seem to bat an eye when I booked tickets last week for our family to return to the sun, sand, and surf this summer…

Two summers ago, Wrightsville Beach, North Carolina, home of Trolley Stop hot dogs and Boombalatti’s ice cream (I assume God serves this in heaven), I was boogie boarding with the family. On a family vacation. With family values. At a family beach.

Our kids, typically landlocked here in Midwest College Town, were having a blast playing in the ocean for the first time, and their parents were having a blast playing like kids. In fact, Dave and I had taken to watching each other ride waves in on the boogie boards, offering a 1-10 rating based on style, distance, and duration.

It was my turn. With an agreed upon three waves per turn, we quickly learned to choose wisely. Too much crest and the ride would be over before reaching sand; too little crest and the crash could end up waterboarding the wave rider.

After a few hops in the water, I spotted my final wave for my turn. I checked the beach to make sure Dave was watching. He gave me a thumbs-up. I waited, watching it roll and grow to the perfect size, with the perfect speed, and made a perfect launch into the oncoming wave.

It carried me with increasing velocity, faster and faster toward dry land. I could feel the broken up seashells grazing my knees and the water beginning to swell all around me, but I stayed steady on the board, riding that wave onto dry sand with one final push from a second wave behind.

Water splashed all around my face as I came to a stop. Stumbling up and staggering to a stand, I could see Dave down shore about 20 yards, thumb up and smiling as I wiped the salt water from my eyes.

I waved back, wiping more water out of my face, trying to keep my contacts from falling out.

Dave motioned to me, pointing to his chest with pride, as I pulled my wet hair back from my face with both hands.

I had never seen that signal before.

I was pretty sure he had just given me the highest score ever for boogie boarding.

Finally my contacts cleared up enough to see what he was doing. He was still vigorously pointing to his chest with one hand, and with the other hand, he was pointing at me.

I looked down.

My right breast was hanging completely out of my push-up tankini. I was Janet Jackson, and the ocean was my Timberlake.

(Gentlemen, do not get too excited and/or disappointed that you missed it. I am a 34 A. That’s “A,” as in, “Awww… isn’t it so cute that she can fit back into her Jr. High bra after breastfeeding four kids?”)

I immediately tucked the little runaway into place and ran to Dave, who was laughing so hard he had started to cry.

“No one saw,” he tried to say with a straight face. “No one except that guy,” he pointed to a man a few yards behind him who turned his head as soon as I glanced his way.

“I want to go home,” I cringed.

“You can’t go home,” Dave said, “you just made his day.”

I looked again, and the man raised his plastic tumbler to me.

Awesome. I just hope he isn’t expecting a repeat performance this summer.

Nothing Good Ever Happens After Midnight

Walking through the kitchen near midnight en route to bed not too long ago, I was startled by a series of high-pitched cackles and screams coming from outside. It sounded as though a band of child gypsies was setting up camp in our front yard. But when I made it to the window, there was no one in sight.

I continued up to our room where Dave stood smirking, “I caught a bunch of boys trying to T.P. our house, but I think I scared them away,” he said proudly.

[For those of you not living in the Midwest, “T.P.” stands for toilet paper. When used as a verb, it means “to decorate a house belonging to someone of the opposite sex with toilet paper.” Midwestern vandalism, essentially.]

But the boys were not about to retreat. And they were not about to keep quiet, either. Soon we heard outbursts of laughter followed by shushes and hushes, the kind of ninja-like approach that only a six-pack of preteen boys could master. I stealthily opened the door from our 2nd-story bedroom outside to our little deck upstairs, sending a crew of young vandals heading past our neighbor’s backyard and one stray running, toilet paper in hand, through our neighbor’s front yard.

While Dave hustled downstairs, wearing nothing but boxers and a farmer’s tan with our ferocious labradoodle for back-up, I decided to enlist the most frightening force of all, our sixth grade girl.

I snuck out the front door with Ellie while Dave headed out the back. (Dave and I have watched enough “24” and were familiar enough with the schematics to execute a CTU-like operation.)

Ellie and I tiptoed around to find the garage door, front window and stone had been covered with about 500 neon post-it notes; there was shaving cream on the driveway and TP in the shrubs. Unfortunately though, all of this décor was on our next-door-neighbor’s house, not ours.

“You idiots!” Ellie cried out in the night, “You got the wrong house!”

The boys screamed from behind the bushes and scattered.

As Ellie chased one up the street, I briefly reminisced about my short stint driving the getaway car for the Platt twins when they tried to hit a teacher’s house in high school. But a conversation in our backyard between the remaining felons and Dave, whom they believed to be Ellie’s next-door-neighbor, quickly caught my attention.

“Give it up, guys, you’re too loud!” Dave called into the dark from the back porch, obedient dog by his side.

“But, but, sir!” one brave hoodlum pleaded, pointing to his buddy, “This guy’s girlfriend is in that house!”

At this point, Dave realized these boys did not know he was “this guys’ girlfriend”’s dad. He looked down at our killer labradoodle and commanded, “Sic ‘em!”

Fortunately for the boys the dog had no clue what that meant, giving them enough time to run to their getaway car before getting caught in the treacherous jaws of our slow-to-learn guard dog. (“No Child Left Behind” does not apply in obedience school.) But Ellie had beaten them to the car followed by her mother who came bearing bad news.

“Sorry, guys, you got the wrong house,” I said, “Next time try being a little quieter.”

“Yeah, and check the address too,” Ellie huffed in her purple satin American Girl PJ’s and bare feet, fully capable of handling the situation herself. “You guys sucked!”

Turns out she didn’t need the guard dog after all.