In Which I am Bested by a Plant

Oh Internets, I have contracted the poison ivy.

(I'll give you a minute for the full suckiness of that sentence to sink in).

Apparently, unbeknownst to me, it was hiding out in my hydrangea bed, waiting to ambush me when I planted my newest little hydrangea bush that I had received for Mother's Day. (Which, can I just say, is really heartless and cruel...attacking me on my very first Mother's day like that. But then poison ivy has never really been known as a thoughtful and sentimental plant, has it?)

I didn't even realize it at first because I've never had poison ivy before. I just thought I had a mosquito bite on my wrist. So I ignored it. Then the next day, I had three more itchy spots on my arm. Then two more the day after that. It was about that time that I figured that these were no ordinary itchy bumps. So I studied them carefully and jumped to the obvious diagnosis- a deadly brown recluse spider was living in our bed, and I would have to have my arm amputated immediately.

(Sidenote: I have an completely irrational fear of brown recluse spiders. One, they are spiders. Two, they love to live in things like dark corners and under bedsheets. Three, they have a potentially deadly hemotoxic venom that rots away your flesh when they bite you, and four...did you read that part about the rotting flesh? I rest my case).

Anyway, after stripping the sheets and checking the mattress and having a heart attack over every spider-shaped dust bunny that I came across under the bed, no such arachnid was found (which is good because if I had, I would take my husband and child and MOVE. AWAY. I wouldn't even bother to pack. We would just vacate the house immediately. The end. Spider wins). But there wasn't a spider. (Thank the good Lord in heaven). And instead, the mystery itchy bumps kept appearing.

It wasn't until I was digging around in the medicine cabinet for some anti-itch creme that hadn't expired, (mental note: clean out medicine cabinet. Some of the stuff in my first aid kit is now old enough to vote) when the words "relieves pain and itching due to burns, insect bites, poison ivy, oak and sumac" caught my eye and I thought, "Oh you know what? I seem to recall a nefarious looking three-leaved vine from a few days ago. I bet that sucker got me". And it did. Who-boy, did it ever.

Of course, wasting precious days looking for imaginary spiders instead of immediately washing everything that could have possibly had the ivy oil on it means that I am positively COVERED in the stuff. Apparently I had it under my fingernails or something, because I have transferred it EVERYWHERE. (Either that or I temporarily took leave of my senses and rolled around naked in the side yard, but I do not recall that, so I'm going with the oil under the nails theory). As a result, I have scrubbed the top three layers of my skin off, cut all my fingernails back as far as they go and transferred every piece of fabric that I have come in contact with into the washing machine using a pair of salad tongs, which I then boiled for good measure.

But here's the kicker! Because I'm breastfeeding, I can't take any sort of antihistamine like Benadryl, because it can get into my milk supply and affect the baby. So I'm limited to crappy 1% hydrocortisone cream, which is so ineffective that I think the poison ivy actually looks forward to me smearing it on each a hydrocortizone massage. Other than that, all I can really do is wait it out for the 14 to 21 days that it takes to run its course.

So feel sorry for me, internets, for I am one giant ball of itch. And by my count, I still have roughly 9 days to go.

I may not survive.

Trumpet for the Lord

So we're sitting in church on Sunday (in the last row in the back because our church doesn't have a cry room and the Quirklet hasn't quite mastered volume control yet), and the priest is in the middle of the scripture reading. And we're right in the middle of the book of Matthew, and the whole church is quietly listening to the reading about Jesus on the road to Jerusalem, when the Quirklet lets out this massive MASSIVE wet baby fart.

It was classic.

And you know the whole church heard it. A couple of people in the row in front of us did this kind of quarter turn thing like they were going to look around but then caught themselves and stared straight ahead instead. The priest did this started throat clearing thing. And a 7 year old boy four rows over was turning purple from the effort of not laughing out loud. (Actually I was pretty impressed by his stoicism, because my internal 7 year old self was snickering like crazy).

But what can you do? Babies just don't hold it in. I wanted so badly to yell, "That wasn't me! I was just holding her!" or something along those lines, but alas, it could not be done. Instead, I just made a big production of gathering up her diaper bag and heading to the changing area. Let the people put two and two together.

And then I ran home to blog about it because 1 )baby gas is adorable, even in the middle of church and 2), I'll need something to mortify her with when she's about 14 years old.

This story ought to do nicely.

Suddenly a sound like the blowing of a violent wind came from heaven and filled the whole house where they were sitting. - Acts 2:2

The Trial of the State Vs Yours Truly in the Unlawful Barbecuing of Her Husband

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I beseech you today to listen to my tale of woe, for while it is true the I am culpable in the spontaneous combustion of my husband, there were extenuating circumstances that, if you only knew, would no doubt help you to understand why I did what I did.

Now granted, my husband is a wonderful person. He works hard to bring home a paycheck, he is good with his daughter, and he is kind and loving to me. Sometimes he even helps out around the house. Any woman would be lucky to call him her own. But occasionally, just occasionally, he forgets his wonderfulness and reverts back to his base nature- being a man, and therefore clueless.

Plus you must also understand my state of mind. It may or may not have been a certain "time of the month" as they say. I'd cut down on my chocolate intake in an effort to drop the rest of this baby weight. And on top of that, I had just taken the baby for her 2 month vaccinations earlier that day, and she was fussy.

Very fussy.

As in, she had been crying for the last NINE HOURS.

(I'm sure anyone who has had to console a crying baby for nine hours will sympathize with me. But that is not why I fricasseed my husband).

I did not do it because he was late getting home from work. Or because he had a hockey game and couldn't relieve me of mommy duty for 5 freaking minutes so that I could go to the bathroom and wash the spit-up out of my hair.

It was not because when he did come home, he didn't say anything about the house being cleaned and vacuumed, even though I had to do it all with only one hand while the other one held his inconsolable child. (Although a "Wow honey, the house looks great!" would have been nice. In fact, I would have even settled for an "Oh good. You cleaned the house. Another day or two and the health department would have shut us down"). I didn't even roast him when he came in, kicked his boots off in my nice clean foyer and tossed his bag down on my nice clean table.

Although he may have begun to smolder at that point.

Nor did he notice that all the dishes had been gathered up from where he leaves them scattered around the house, washed, dried and consequently put away. In fact, I did not say a word when pulled one of those nice washed, dried and put away glasses down from the cabinet, fixed himself a drink and then left the empty glass sitting on the counter AGAIN.

I did not burn him to a crisp when he failed to mention all the clean laundry that had suddenly and magically converted itself from crumpled heaps of dirty clothing into nicely washed and folded stacks of clean clothes.

Or that I had changed and washed the sheets on the bed.

Or put away the 60 billion towels that he uses when he insists on showering two, sometimes three times A DAY.

(Okay, I admit that the towel thing may have had him smoking like a chimney as he entered the bathroom for his second shower, but I swear there were no actual flames yet).

As I recall, the flames may have come when I asked him how his day was and he forgot to return the favor by asking me about mine.

And he was certainly ablaze when he didn't notice that I had run all the errands, done the grocery shopping, ordered more flea medication for the cats and written a thank you note to his mother for some outfits she had sent for our daughter.

(Does he think this stuff happens on its own? Magical fairies with to-do lists live in the basement?)

But ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you may be saying to yourself, "So he neglected to notice all the hard work his wife had done. And all he's really guilty of is taking off his shoes, having a glass of water and taking a shower at the end of a long day. Is that really so bad? Did he deserve to burst into flames over that?" And I say to you, no. No, he did not. But none of that was why I barbecued him.

Sadly, it was when the phone was ringing, the cat was throwing up on my clean carpet and the baby had a dirty diaper that he made his fatal mistake. I handed him his screaming child with the simple request to change her diaper and he said...

"Jeez honey, isn't it your turn to do this? I had to work today".

And that, honored members of the jury, is when the laser beams shot out of my eyes and turned him into instant charcoal right there where he stood.

I knew you'd understand.