I'll be your stand-in blogger for today. Ev's been a little preoccupied. Between slathering on a cornucopia of mostly useless poison ivy creams and potions and tearing at her flesh, she's been too busy to do much of anything else.
It would almost be easier to name the places the rash isn't.
Last night, as she crawled into bed doped to the eyeballs with rash remedies, Benadryl and Xanax, I asked her if there was any place it might be safe to give her a comforting pat. She directed me to the soles of her feet.
This is what comes of yard work, and it's only one of the reasons I'm staunchly not in favor of it. It's hot out there, and there are things that are not your friend. At best you'll end up sunburned, dirty, blistered and drenched in sweat. At worst you'll end up covered in a red, raw, itchy rash that defies all intervention and makes you pray for death ... or at least a two week coma.
I've looked out there. From the safe vantage point of the raised deck, I've observed that there are standing dead trees, bramble bushes, gargantuan garden slugs, a variety of frogs and toads, and mile upon mile of poison ivy vines. It's a jungle out there
Inside it's a comfy 74 degrees and the scariest thing I encounter is the litter box.
Kwach
3 comments:
You know, I seem to remember this same thing happening last year. I believe I mentioned Burt's Poison Ivy soap for washing up after a day in the north 40. I realized last year this time you thought I was a boil on the butt of humanity, however, since this year you can tolerate me on some miracleous level, how about getting the damn soap?
(I know miracleous is not a word, but I like the way it sounds. Sue me.)
You're such a pestimist.
Last year we were quite vigilant about avoiding poison ivy. Ev was being the perfect Southern Illinois Spirit Guide and pointing it out to me everywhere we went.
It was chiggers.
Kwach
Every time I lament living in a concrete village (which is not often), I will return to this post and remind myself why I choose this city life.
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