Poison Ivy.

I’ve had a run-in with Poison Ivy today. And me without my Batmobile. I was cutting branches, tons of branches, and then the three-leaft Ike Turner emerged. And it was everywhere. It owned the branches. And now, potentially, my arms and legs. And maybe an eye or two.

The bad news is, I may, within 24 hours, be a plague victim. On the up-side, I’ll live. And may be so heinously covered that I can lie in an oatmeal bathtub with a small bell, ringing only for comforting re-fills and Toddlers and Tiaras synopses.

I also battled some wasps today. For some odd reason, there were some flies – what I can only imagine to be the same size as Justin Beiber – zipping around this poorly placed wasp nest. We all know real estate is about location, location, location! So don’t start a nest on the side of the shed where I keep animal food. You’re bound to be found out. And today was their day. I used some oven cleaner to start their demise. But, like a Blackhawk rising from the desert sands, I saw one coming straight for me. So I ran.

I later returned with large buckets of dishwater soap. It works. Sadly, I think it dissolves their outer skin or something. But it worked and the wasps are no more. But now, the Beiber flies think they own the shed. And I can’t kill them. Their haircuts are too stylish.

And so I’ve lived through the hazards of Mother Nature today. Poison Ivy may cut me down, but won’t take me out. And the wasps are now my minions – like the flying monkeys with those wheels for hands. But water won’t melt me. It’ll take more than that to bring me down! More something like a California Merlot or a midling chop suey sauce.

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