I Mean, I Get It

I have poison ivy.  Well, I’m pretty sure I do anyway.  As I changed into my Saturday evening jammies,  I realized I had a rashy patch on the very center of the small of my back.  It appeared quite suddenly, but of course poison ivy didn’t skyrocket to the forefront of my mind as its possible source.  I smeared some hydrocortisone cream on whatever it was, went to bed, and mercifully slept solidly until my 5:15 AM alarm broke my heart.  I love my kid to pieces–to BITS and pieces–but will never welcome a weekend wake-up call for the crack of the bat.  But I do love him like bananas, and I am at least a B+ baseball mom, so I was first one up and at ’em.

It’s driving me bonkers because I cannot quite visualize the rash even with strategically-placed mirrors, so I asked my husband to take a peek.  “Eeeeewww” is never the answer a wife wants to hear from her husband when he examines, well, I don’t know what the hell I thought he was examining.  I did however, know that “eeeeewww” was not on the Hot 100 of responses I’d hoped for.  “Looks like poison ivy,” he stated.

I’ll spare you the details, because 1) you too can diagnose me via Dr. Google, 2) I’ve shown you time and again I’m not a horror writer, and 3) it’s gross.  BUT it’s relatively small, so it could be grosser.  Google Images proved that fact  to me time and again.  It’s not a big deal, annoying to be sure, but leaves me with the musical question:  How the hell did I contract poison ivy?

poison_ivy_leaves

I mean, I get it.  I have it, that is.  I have poison ivy, so I get that it happened.  But how?  I live in the ‘hood.  I spend my days doing city things and baseball things, but I can’t for the life of me puzzle out where I may have come into contact with it.

As I was swabbing yet another calamine lotion-drenched cotton ball on my back, poison ivy and life got me to thinking about other things that I get, but don’t get.  Like I understand that these items are realities/facts/truths, but how?  The world works in mysterious ways, boy howdy.  Here’s proof:

How do you expect city electricians to work on lifts or down manholes when there’s gunfire exploding around them?  I mean, I get it.  Nighttime streets need to be lit for safety (ah, the irony), and you need guys to repair those lights, so you send them out on second and third shifts.  Electricians control the behavior of city residents not one iota, so when someone gets pissed off on the basketball courts, the pop, pop, pop of handgun is the next natural step.  Jaysus.

How do I, now forty-nine years old, need a retainer for my bottom teeth?  NOW??  I mean, I get it.  My teeth have migrated, and they need some type of anchor to keep them from further misalignment.  But really?  How did I not know in all these years that your teeth can drift back??  Technically my dentist said that as you age, your teeth move forward and down-ish.  Fucking gravity.  My childhood orthodontist used me in his grand rounds, so bad was my dental starting point and so spectacular was his work that he featured me as a before/after “model.”  Yep, fakey quotes are appropriate there.  My dentition was horrendous, and I have oft said that braces were the very best thing my parents ever did for me.  And now I’m returning to the favor to myself.  You can keep your “she’s so vain” comments to yourself.  Damn right I am gonna do what I can to keep my smile anchored in my skull, even if I was the only post-menopausal kid at the orthodontist today.
Why does my dog never leave my side?  I mean, I get it.  I’m delightful company, and rock the scratching behind the ears gig.  I’m about 83% amenable to sharing the couch/chair/floor spot with him, so it makes sense.  But why all the time?  ALL the time.  All.  The.  Time.  Yesterday I choreographed a little routine.  No lie.  I walked back and forth in every direction just to see if he’d follow each and every step I took.  He did.  *sigh*  My husband found it hilarious, and I believe even he was shocked at how committed Caleb is to not extracting himself from my behind.   (PS–I know I split the infinitive here, but it really does work better, more conversational-sounding.)

Why don’t kitchen floors clean themselves?

Why does our political landscape feel more like the grey dystopian state featured in The Hunger Games films and less purple mountainous majesty and amber waves of grainy?

Why do I still recall each and every word of Seven Year Ache by Roseanne Cash when I haven’t heard it since 1981?  My husband was genuinely tripping at my ninja name that tune, artist, year, and sing every damn lyric skills the other day.  He was flipping through all the channels as quickly as he could, and I knew every last one of ’em.  No, that’s not true.  There was some ’80s emo piece of crap that neither of us recognized, but otherwise?  As Negan of The Walking Dead would say, my skills are “freaky deaky.”  But please don’t ask me to retrieve the correct ingredient while I’m staring into the fridge making dinner.  It’s a confined space, Wendy, how hard can it be??  Pretty hard.

In a related story, why am I not on Beat Shazam?

Also, semi-related?  How can my son fail to locate a 9×13 dessert pan in said refrigerator.  It’s a confined space, which I believe we’ve already covered.  And no, son, a bowl of Jell-O is not a 9X13 pan.  Again with the Jaysus.

Why are individuals with mental health problems marginalized so?

How did I get so lucky to have accumulated this collection of wonderful, diverse friends in my life?

Why don’t I read more often?  I mean, I get it.  But this one I do not want to address.  I love reading, still read  a lot, but I want to read more.  Life provides a rich parade of distractions though.

Anyway. . .  These are but a few of the “I mean, I get it” train wrecks of thought that clacked along the neuronal tracks of my cortex.  I’ll probably remember another chunk of my random musings in the shower tomorrow morning.  Honestly, it’s where I do my best work.  I probably will struggle to remember to shampoo then condition my hair though because distractions, and I’ll probably be bummed that the really good ones didn’t make the cut in time for this post!   I really need to finish this though because I want to complete the novel I’m reading.  And apply more calamine lotion.  Because poison ivy.

For what it’s worth, my most enlightened hypothesis about the poison ivy is that Numbnuts Caleb sprinted through something at the dog park, subsequently jumped on me, and the oils thus transferred.  It’s actually a fair working theory, and beyond someone poisoning me deliberately (OK, poisoning may be a little dramatic) or the plant oils somehow finding their way to my yoga mat, it’s the theory of record.

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