I’ve been fantasizing this morning.
Not about being a mommy.
Not about warm tropical sun-kissed beaches.
Not even about warm tropical sun-kissed Matthew McConaughey showing up at my front door carrying pizzas. (Lord I do miss me some pizza.)
Instead, I have been fantasizing about various methods of scratching the poison-oak-covered skin from my arms. I have a fairly high tolerance for pain and discomfort. I’ve even had 2 doctors comment on it. But this poison oak is kicking my butt. The itching is so intense that I can feel my heartbeat in the itch. Oh, and have I mentioned that it’s also on my stomach and brea*sts? How did THAT happen? Kill me now. Really, just someone come over here and smother me with a pillow.
Coll*odial oatmeal, Cala*dryl, Bena*dryl cream, ice, scalding hot water, you name it, I’ve tried it. Several people have recommend Clo*rox, but said “be prepared to be scarred”. Umm no, YOU prepare to be scarred. Clo*rox eats holes in my towels. I am not going to willingly apply it to my skin. Thanks anyway. O has made a pharmacy run this morning in hopes that some magic cure lies in the “itching and scratching” aisle. He’s a good man.
My pharmacist cousin recommended using some medication that O has for eczema so I’m giving that a shot. That’s supposed to dry it up, but it doesn’t address the itching. All I need is five minutes . . . just five short minutes with some sandpaper.
Oh well, on to other topics. My “out of my head, out of my house” plan continues. Yesterday I “planted” 18 fieldstones and made a pathway from our back patio out to our storage shed. It took all day and was heavy dirty work, but there’s something about having your hands in the soil that’s good for the soul. Today, mulching! So very glamorous.
I took my last pro*metrium a couple of days ago so now all that’s left to do is replenish the food supplies that seriously dwindled whilst I was taking it and wait for the arrival of AF.
And last but not least, Happy St. Patrick’s Day. I’m raising a virtual glass of green beer (which is the only way I'd get near the nasty stuff) to my Irish g-g-g-g-g-g-grandfather who came to America with his two brothers (there are always 3 Irish brothers in every early American Irish family) and fought in the Revolutionary War. Little could he have guessed that some 250 years later he’d have a g-g-g-g-g-g-granddaughter who was an infertile, poison-oak-covered, landscaping maniac.
Erin Go Bragh! Now pass me the cala*mine lotion!
Not about being a mommy.
Not about warm tropical sun-kissed beaches.
Not even about warm tropical sun-kissed Matthew McConaughey showing up at my front door carrying pizzas. (Lord I do miss me some pizza.)
Instead, I have been fantasizing about various methods of scratching the poison-oak-covered skin from my arms. I have a fairly high tolerance for pain and discomfort. I’ve even had 2 doctors comment on it. But this poison oak is kicking my butt. The itching is so intense that I can feel my heartbeat in the itch. Oh, and have I mentioned that it’s also on my stomach and brea*sts? How did THAT happen? Kill me now. Really, just someone come over here and smother me with a pillow.
Coll*odial oatmeal, Cala*dryl, Bena*dryl cream, ice, scalding hot water, you name it, I’ve tried it. Several people have recommend Clo*rox, but said “be prepared to be scarred”. Umm no, YOU prepare to be scarred. Clo*rox eats holes in my towels. I am not going to willingly apply it to my skin. Thanks anyway. O has made a pharmacy run this morning in hopes that some magic cure lies in the “itching and scratching” aisle. He’s a good man.
My pharmacist cousin recommended using some medication that O has for eczema so I’m giving that a shot. That’s supposed to dry it up, but it doesn’t address the itching. All I need is five minutes . . . just five short minutes with some sandpaper.
Oh well, on to other topics. My “out of my head, out of my house” plan continues. Yesterday I “planted” 18 fieldstones and made a pathway from our back patio out to our storage shed. It took all day and was heavy dirty work, but there’s something about having your hands in the soil that’s good for the soul. Today, mulching! So very glamorous.
I took my last pro*metrium a couple of days ago so now all that’s left to do is replenish the food supplies that seriously dwindled whilst I was taking it and wait for the arrival of AF.
And last but not least, Happy St. Patrick’s Day. I’m raising a virtual glass of green beer (which is the only way I'd get near the nasty stuff) to my Irish g-g-g-g-g-g-grandfather who came to America with his two brothers (there are always 3 Irish brothers in every early American Irish family) and fought in the Revolutionary War. Little could he have guessed that some 250 years later he’d have a g-g-g-g-g-g-granddaughter who was an infertile, poison-oak-covered, landscaping maniac.
Erin Go Bragh! Now pass me the cala*mine lotion!
