How to Build A Leprechaun Trap

A tale told with visual aides

First of all, there is the gathering of materials, first and foremost being glitter, because leprechauns adore the shiny. We used green scissors (for luck), and what building project is complete without popsicle sticks?



Second, the glitter must be artfully applied to attract the Leprechaun properly. This piece here is going to be the arch. Arches are majestic, and when you see them, especially if you have an ounce of Leprechaun in you, you MUST pass through.


This is just errant glitter, and some flotsam. See how the glitter even makes the flotsam look beautiful?



Next there is the bait: money. Leprechauns love money. But it has to be SHINY money. It helps that it has weight, because it will play a large part in the trapping of the Leprechaun.



And just in case the lure of the lucre isn't enough, what Leprechaun could resist the promise of Gold? Especially with this many exclamation points?



Seriously? If you were a Leprechaun, and you saw that gorgeous arch, with all that signage just WAITING TO BE DISOBEYED, wouldn't you have to go under that arch to grab that money?



Up above the gold, you'll notice (only because I am kindly pointing it out to you - if you were a Leprechaun, you would be too blinded by your money lust to even look up) the clever mechanism through which the rope for the trap will be threaded. Also note the signage. Leprechauns LOVE to disobey.



And for the finale, here is the completed project. With the proud builder in the background. You might not be able to see the trap itself, as it is cleverly disguised as a gigantic hovering tree (or perhaps a hairy green cloud). Anyway, once the money is lifted by Paddy, the Leprechaun (who has been visiting class all this week, making all sorts of mischief - leaving tiny green footprints, stickers and messing with traps brought in early by eager first graders), the rope attached to the trap will be released, dropping the trap onto the unsuspecting Leprechaun.



What do you do with a Leprechaun once he is caught? He wouldn't make much of a meal, and I don't think he'd be much help around the house. Any suggestions will be gratefully accepted.

Ginger or Mary Ann?

I don't know about you, but it sounds like Mary Ann might be having more fun.

Amen

I heart Anna Quindlen.

The Leprechaun Trap

Last week, Joe-Henry came home with a unique homework assignment. He has to build a leprechaun trap.

It has to be workable, and clever. So we've been gathering our materials: glitter, natch; popsicle sticks, of course; Legos, because they always come in handy somehow; string and a styrofoam cup as the actual trap. We have some cardboard stock to put it all on, and we've been decorating, because Leprechauns are very artistic. It will also have some well placed "Do Not Enter" signs, because they are notoriously naughty about not following rules.

They are also attracted to sparkly things. Which makes me wonder if perhaps I'm part Leprechaun? (I think it's written into law somewhere that I am not to be allowed anywhere near a bedazzler.) So we've been glitterizing (I'm sure that's a word, if it's not it should be) all of it, including the inside of the actual trap. I told JH that our leprechaun won't see that until it's too late, but he insisted. "Mom, just because I'm trapping him, doesn't mean I want him to be unhappy. If he's going to be there, he should be comfortable".

But don't tell Amnesty International about their future leader just yet. After working on his trap, he was playing around with his Legos, and he'd built a funeral pyre for his Lego fireman, who'd lost an arm in a grisly accident, and Joe-Henry was having a LIT-tle too much fun relaying the details to me. Of course, I think that was just because he enjoys making me worry about his future. He and his friend from next door were playing spies yesterday, using the cheap walkie-talkies I got him this weekend, and his "spy glasses". I looked over and he was holding his little flashlight like a gun and he had his bubble pipe in his mouth like a cigarette.

Weapons! Cigarettes! Let me just get you some pork rinds and heroin for a healthy snack, and we'll be good to go.

Sigh. Raising children is nothing if not interesting.

Friday

Do you suppose that cave people had a work week? Did they grunt, "Thank Rock it's Friday!"?

Or the pioneers? On those endless wagon trains, did they shout "Hallelujah, we can sleep in tomorrow!"?

Or did it all blend together, was struggle just a way of life, from day to day to day?

Probably. They were a lot tougher than me. I am a, what's that word I'm looking for? Oh, right. Pussy.

Even though yesterday, we stayed home from school AGAIN, because he had diarrhea in the morning, but nothing for the rest of the day, I am looking forward to the weekend. To a little R&R.

Of course that means getting the taxes ready and the house clean and some play dates arranged and etc, etc, etc.

But a just a little more sleep sounds sooo nice.

Gas Prices are Poking the Monkey...

... but this is worse.

For my friends in Texas. Word has it it's an oyster carnival down there.

Thanks to my sweet, funny husband for sending me the link.

Idiom Shortage Leaves Nation All Sewed Up In Horse Pies

Dangerous Music

When I met my husband, well, when we first spoke, it was doing a job together. We were both actors and were hired to do an industrial for the Pacific Science Center. We'd met before, backstage at a play he had done. I'd gone with my bad boyfriend of the moment, I'd said "hello, good show", and he walked right by me as though he didn't hear me. Turns out, he didn't hear me. So I don't wake him up in the middle of the night to argue about it all these years later. Well, hardly ever.

But on this particular occasion, he was cast as world-weary private dick (insert inevitable joke here), and I was cast as a sexy come-hither scientist (insert blatant disbelief here). I was skinny and had short hair, and had the market cornered on playing spunky orphans (Anne of Green Gables, Plum in Nancy & Plum, and Kit in The Witch of Blackbird Pond), or daffy comic relief maids in British comedies. But sexy? I never got hired for sexy.

We had a blast that day, I recall. My boyfriend had dumped me the day before via telephone from some regional theater job where he had fallen in love with some sexy young actress, and my ego was bruised, but I had mailed off a letter filled with vitriol on my way to this job. Then I walked in the door to see Charley, in a white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his beautiful forearms, and a fedora perched on his head, and I was instantly smitten. But it wasn't until later in the afternoon, after we'd gone a few rounds and done a few takes that I realized we were in a room full of people and we were the only people in on our jokes. His humor went right to my core, and it wasn't until then that I realized what I had been sadly lacking in all of my romantic forays: someone who could dish it, and take it, who had a true sense of humor, and someone who was as smart as he was sexy. I seem to recall a producer from the shoot who took me to coffee later, but I couldn't be bothered. He wore pastel argyle socks and tried too hard.

After we wrapped that first evening (that's biz talk for finishing the job), we went down the street to a happening mexican restaurant and got drunk on margaritas. The innuendo was flying, but so was the conversation. I learned that he had just broken up with someone recently too (although I won the prize for, um, recent-ness), and as the evening wore on, I could only think of one thing: I seriously, seriously wanted to kiss him. We finished our drinks, and he walked me to my gigantic old car, and he kissed me long and slow until I was up on the hood. To this day it's an argument about who kissed who first, an argument, I might add, that I always win, because I know (after years of practice) just how to shut him up. Anyway, he followed me home on his motorcycle, and we spent the rest of the night, and pretty much the rest of the spring and summer, finding new ways to annoy my neighbors.

When I think of that time, I think of us on a motorcycle, fresh oysters, cold beer, baseball & concerts on the pier. We saw
Lyle Lovett and his Large Band, and Shawn Colvin with Richard Thompson. And like all lovers, we had a song. It spoke of who we were then, or at least who we thought we were, who we thought we wanted to be. Mysterious, dark, somewhat dangerous. I can't hear this song without feeling the breeze off Puget Sound ruffling my faded cotton blouse, his leg pressed next to mine, the anticipation of his kisses. He swept me off my feet, and my life has never been the same. Now we're almost twenty years older, we're heavier, grayer and more responsible, but when I hear this song, I am 29 again, Red Molly on the back of his Vincent '52.