Poison ivy, you are not my friend.
Perhaps one of the most embarrassing, yet often-told, stories of my youth is the one when Heather and I, when we were maybe in 5th or 6th grade, thought it would be cool to get poison ivy. We had never had it before, and something about the shiny, forbidden plant was very alluring to us. So one afternoon we sauntered over to the patch that grew near the garage at her house, and, well, basically rubbed it all over ourselves. And, ah, sweet lady luck blessed us both with the itchies a few days later - and although it was initially very exciting to see the little red bubbles, we soon realized that actually having the poison ivy rash basically sucked big-time arse.
Although it was a lesson learned, since then, I have had poison ivy many times. One memorable time it was on the rim of my eye, and the next morning my eye was swollen completely shut. Sweet (and attractive!). Last summer I got a particularly hideous patch on the back of my leg - so hideous that I decided to take a picture of it and set it as the wallpaper for Greg's cell phone. You know - as a cute reminder of me and how lucky he is to be married to me.
The poison ivy is back with a vengance this season - we get a lot of it in our yard, and when the dogs come in, so do remnants of the vile plant. So far this year I've had patches on both my arms, my back (Jimmy likes to rest his arm on my shoulder when he sits on the back of the couch, and I must've have been wearing a tank top the day he brought in poison ivy dust), and now my foot and bottom half of my right leg.
I wish I could say it was exciting, like it was back in elementary school, but, alas, I f-ing hate it, and I hate being itchy, and this is why I'm blogging at 5:30 a.m. - because of the return of the itchy.