Revenge of the Iron Fairies
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where foot-long icicles co-exist with poison ivy blisters! Oh well. C'est la vie. Drip, drip, drip. What you gonna do?
I am reflecting upon how I contracted a case of poison ivy on the coldest weekend of the season, and I've concluded that it's the fault of faeries. Iron fairies, to be exact.
A year ago Christmas, my daughter The Heir gave me an item from a store in New York City called Iron Fairies. Everything in the store is made from iron, and most of the merchandise is fairy statues.
At first I thought "iron fairies" couldn't exist. The whole nature of the fae is that they're light and airy, ethereal, wingy thingies that hardly touch ground. But then I reflected that faeries are elemental, and iron is an element. So of course some faeries could be iron.
Flawless logic like this is what got me where I am today.
One evening when I felt the Heir to be in danger, I took the gift bag from the store, The Iron Fairies, shoved treats in it, and put it in my garden. Then I dedicated my garden to the iron faeries.
As I was pruning my shrubs and pulling out ivy (mmmm hmmmmm) last Saturday, I was musing idly on how the iron faeries would react to having their woodland cleaned up a bit.
Guess they didn't like it.
My back is up, though. I've been leaving offerings for those doggoned iron faeries since last summer: candy, wine, chocolate, trinkets, you name it. And this is my reward. An armload of blisters just four days shy of the East Coast Vulture Festival!
Maybe the iron faeries are jealous of the Sacred Thunderbird. But why? I haven't yet given a buzzard a glass of wine or a trinket.
You would think something as immortal as a faerie would realize that, no matter how one prunes a garden, it's just going to get overgrown again.
Gosh, I pity the fool who ever makes a concerted effort to tame this little piece of ground behind my house! It's a mistake I won't make again. Trust me.