Scritch

I haven't spent much time outside lately. Haven't walked through the woods. Haven't explored the rural expanses beyond the suburbs. How, then, did my usually smooth, rounded, sun-dappled shoulder wind up mottled with a nasty, bubbly, itchy rash?

Despite the smokin hot Jessica Rabbit lookalike from the Batman series, there ain't a damn thing sexy about Poison Ivy.



"Did you do any yardwork this weekend?" asked the too-cute pharmacy girl in her little white lab coat. She blinked at me over her wire-rimmed glasses.


"No."

"Take your dog to the lake?" I thought about Mister Puffy Pants... he's not a lake kind of dog.

I haven't had much of a chance to get outside since coming city-side.

I eyed the librarian pharmacy girl. I know exactly where I picked up contamination from the noxious weed. The boytoy's been working with a contracting crew lately, tearing out an overgrown greenhouse near the old downtown district. I told her so.

"Maybe you got it from him?" she said. "You should wipe down your car seats and any surfaces in your home he may have touched. He may have had it on his pants or work boots or something."


"... or under his nails," I smirked.

Her eyes popped and a sweet blush spread across her cheeks. She stumbled through a recommendation for hydrocortisone cream and Benadryl, and I chuckled to myself.

I'm currently laid up on the sofa, sipping a cream soda and watching television, laying on a towel so as not to infect the furniture with the oils from the rash. At this point, I'm definitely open to suggestions on how to clear up a feisty bout with the lady in green.