I think I am allergic to Virginia. I have been twice dosed with poison ivy over much of my body. I am eating benadryl like Chocolate Skittles, and slathering my itchy patches with strange concoctions of ointments and unguents that "should work" and "might help." Should and might are not words that I want to hear from a pharmacist, I want to hear "THIS STUFF WORKS SO GREAT OMNOMNOM I USE IT WHEN I GO ROLLING IN THE IVY!!1!!"
The sad thing is that I made it through four years of Boy Scouts without much more than a square inch or two of poison ivy rash. I know what this stuff looks like, and I know how to avoid it. But someone has to pull it out of the flower beds, and it damn sure isn't going to be the pretty one in the relationship.
These large patches of itchy skin are the reason why I am sleeping in the living room on an air mattress. The Latinos have a saying, that I can't remember en Espanol, but it means a sleeping body can't be blamed for the things it does while sleeping. Like farting under the covers. Or scratching like mad at my crotch which was the epicenter of this outbreak.
I only pulled up a sprig of ivy that was maybe six inches long, using my left hand, and then immediately washed both arms in special poison ivy oil destroying soap. This is really not fair. I am learning new definitions of the words suffering, agony, and pain. I try to endure without complaint, and without scratching. I don't always succeed.