The Itch

A few nights ago the kids stayed at my mom's, so Hubs and I went to a movie. When we came back to our empty house, we both wanted--no, needed--to do it. We couldn't wait 'til we got to our bedroom. So, in the middle of our kitchen, we shed our clothes and ...

... rubbed calamine lotion on each other.

Ooooh, yeah.

Right there.

Mmm-hmmmm.

Oh, didn't I mention Hubs and I have poison ivy? Go ahead; get the "Ivy has poison ivy" jokes out of your system. Hilarious, right? What's even funnier is I don't go outside, except to get in my car or check the mailbox. I prefer the great indoors. So how in the hell did I contract poison ivy?

My malady may be one of the few documented cases of LTD (laundry transmitted disease). Washing Hubs's poison ivy-infested clothes was my downfall. As if I needed another reason to hate laundry. I'm not one of those new age loons who finds this repetitive chore soothing or cathartic. I'll tell you what it is: It's a vicious cycle (pun not intended--but fabulous, nonetheless) of

1. washing
2. rewashing due to the musty smell clothes get when inadvertently left in the machine overnight
3. drying
4. throwing clothes in a heap on my bedroom floor
5. waiting for somebody else to get so tired of hunting for underwear they fold the heap of clothes  

The laundry process is time consuming AND you can catch poison ivy doing it? Hardly seems worth the risk.

Poison ivy has revealed unsettling flaws in our marriage. Yesterday I walked in on Hubs pleasuring himself (i.e., applying calamine lotion on his rashes). I honestly felt betrayed. I mean, we're supposed to be sharing this tiny, expensive bottle, and there he was using it without me. Trust has never been an issue with us ... until now. For the sake of our relationship, we bought more of that amazing pink elixir.

This ordeal has also spurred some bizarre competition between us. Hubs feels superior because he doesn't scratch himself as much as I do. But I figure since I'm so short my rashes are more concentrated and, thus, way more intense. Seems legit.

There is a bright spot in all this: My affliction has made me more tolerant of others. Now when I see a girl whose breasts are barely contained in her top, I no longer immediately assume she's an attention-seeking skank with low self-esteem. She could be a P.I.S. (poison ivy survivor) who's wearing as little as possible to air out her rashes. I'd grocery shop buck naked right now if I could.

You can't always tell a person is suffering from a non-life-threatening-but-really-really-annoying condition. So, the next time you're standing behind someone scratching her ass like nobody's business in the check-out lane, don't judge.

My apologies to any laundry-loving new age loons I may have offended with this post. If it'll make you feel better, I'll let you do my laundry.