An itch…

Five years ago I was digging and planting. We were in our new house with new challenges, but I took to the gardening chores with the same gusto as I had in our earlier home. Of course, the significant increase in acreage, not to mention the fact that the builder has barely conditioned the yard, made it a significantly more challenging task.

And it still is, though I’ve learned a bit about the battle with the yard over the last few years.

Anyway, five years ago I encountered a strain of poison ivy or one of its relatives that climbed a couple of trees near the road. As someone who gets really bad poison ivy whenever I come anywhere near the vile stuff, you’d think I would have been able to avoid it. No such luck.

Now I shouldn’t complain. Poison Ivy is one of the few things I can say I am truly allergic to. I know other people who have terrible hay fever and seasonal allergies. I know people who are terrified of dust mites and require specialized allergy bedding. I don’t even want to contemplate the medications and shots some sufferers must endure.

So I try not to complain much when I get a good solid bout of poison ivy. But man, it is a miserable thing. And five years ago was no exception. I had that ugly, itchy rash all over the place, but it was centralized on my calves. I’ve seen photos of people with advanced leprosy that was far more palatable than this. Forget about flu shots and all that, somebody give me an itch vaccine. I’ll be all over that bad boy.

Love Potion #9

Alright, now that I’ve made my wiseass anniversary post, I feel compelled to be straight. At least a little. So, no jokes about hair loss treatments for women or naughty bumper stickers for a moment.

So here it is. I am pretty lucky. My wife is my best friend (and not just because she’s my only friend…that’s not really a joke so I’m still keeping my promise) and she makes me laugh. She’s a great cook with some odd specialties like tacos and Indian dishes (especially for a Polish Princess). She has even become the grillmaster, so much so that I do little more than light the ancient Char-Broil (I have less hair at risk when the propane flares up).

She’s a wonderful Mom and all three kids love her. And she has a sense of humor about it. She understands that talking about baby defenestration is not only normal, but therapeutic. She is also irritated by hypocritical fundos and understands the core message of every major religious and political figure of worth throughout history has been this: Be nice to people.

She’s a looker and a hugger and she makes the fire on cold winter mornings when I want to stay in bed.

Yeah, I like my wife. She’s pretty swell. That mentally handicapped guy who stopped and chatted with us in the middle of his bike ride when we were on our first date…he was right. We are a great pair.

Let’s have a high five for Billy!

Cloud Nine

It’s my anniversary today. Nine years. Nine long, hard, blending together in a dark cloud of confusion and occasional gastrointestinal distress.

Just kidding.

Actually, it’s been a pretty good ride and I’m a lucky guy. A really lucky guy  seeing as how I can get away with a joke like that on my ninth anniversary with my gross anatomy intact. In fact, Carol is probably laughing right now, reading this. Laughing and sharpening the straight razor.

Ha ha ha
<metallic ring of metal on strop>
Hee hee hee.

And I know I’m no peach to live with, always talking about the best slimming pill and vanity license plates. What a bore. Then again, if she hasn’t figured out how much better she could have done after all these years, well, maybe we were meant for each other.