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better off than the worm
Jul. 28th, 2009 07:45 pm( See this picturesque ivy-covered tree in my front yard? )
The picturesque ivy is poison ivy, and I've tried to eradicate it in every way that doesn't involve coming within ten feet of it -- that's not much, actually; I regret to report that there's pretty much no way to kill the vine without going near it -- but it loves everything I throw its way and in the past three-plus years has thrived. I've managed to avoid coming into serious contact during that time, though. Until last week, when I either hit a sprig growing loose in the yard with the mower or let the dog get too close (he loves this tree because I don't let him near it, and tends to head straight for it when we're in the front yard); as of last week I have the most raging, misery-making case of the stuff I think I've ever had. It's bad enough that it's slowly spreading outward; much worse is that we have achieved that apotheosis of infection where every nerve in my body feels sort of exposed to the air, and if I so much as touch any of it, with anything, clothes or skin or, trust me, anything, not only do I get this nearly unbearable itch, but also burning pain. Woo!
So for the past week or so, I've felt like burning, and thus even more Ralph Wiggum-y than usual, but I keep reminding myself that in the pantheon of my shitty odd-numbered summers, this is nothing. There's been no death to report, no real horror stories to tell, and it's already July! Summer is well underway, so I'm counting myself lucky and counting the minutes between nightly Aveeno baths and Benadryl doses. I'll live; I'll look like a character from Shaun of the Dead when everything's said and done, but I am totally willing to live with that, as long as everyone else lives too.
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The picturesque ivy is poison ivy, and I've tried to eradicate it in every way that doesn't involve coming within ten feet of it -- that's not much, actually; I regret to report that there's pretty much no way to kill the vine without going near it -- but it loves everything I throw its way and in the past three-plus years has thrived. I've managed to avoid coming into serious contact during that time, though. Until last week, when I either hit a sprig growing loose in the yard with the mower or let the dog get too close (he loves this tree because I don't let him near it, and tends to head straight for it when we're in the front yard); as of last week I have the most raging, misery-making case of the stuff I think I've ever had. It's bad enough that it's slowly spreading outward; much worse is that we have achieved that apotheosis of infection where every nerve in my body feels sort of exposed to the air, and if I so much as touch any of it, with anything, clothes or skin or, trust me, anything, not only do I get this nearly unbearable itch, but also burning pain. Woo!
So for the past week or so, I've felt like burning, and thus even more Ralph Wiggum-y than usual, but I keep reminding myself that in the pantheon of my shitty odd-numbered summers, this is nothing. There's been no death to report, no real horror stories to tell, and it's already July! Summer is well underway, so I'm counting myself lucky and counting the minutes between nightly Aveeno baths and Benadryl doses. I'll live; I'll look like a character from Shaun of the Dead when everything's said and done, but I am totally willing to live with that, as long as everyone else lives too.
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