Or maybe it started with all the books I have that I want to put in the armoire. Egg, chicken, you decide.
Nevertheless, last Monday, Buddy and I decided to go get the armoire out of storage, clean it up, and put it back into circulation. But the house (being designed by a certain member of the Scat family who shall remain NAMELESS) is a logistical nightmare when it comes to maneuvering furniture through it. So, we decided it was best to take it in the "back way" which entailed getting through this twist of vines, brambles (seriously, not just because that's my name), nettles, and what-have-you. Then, past the sand box (and across the Sahara my kids have made) and through the back entrance to the West Wing as I jokingly call it. Easy, right? Just need to trim back the vegetation. No problem.
I didn't think it mattered what color my thumb was or anything like that. I had shears and I was on a decorative mission! So, in the interest of interior design, I grabbed some garden shears and went postal on the foliage blockade. I chopped a nice armoire-sized passage and went about my way. I had a few scratches, but that was nothing compared to what I'd done to those plants, ha-ha-ha!!!!
So, Dad and I hopped in the truck and sped off to the storage building only to find one of those "ha ha you didn't pay your bill" locks on it. Sped home only to hear from NAMELESS that "Oh, yeah, I haven't paid that in months!"
I think I made some scrunched up face with a little eeked out noise, but I can't be sure. It just sounded like waterfalls pounding in my ears and I lost contact with the real world (it had been a VERY long two weeks) for a second or two and came to very quickly when it was suggested that I call the storage owner and "try to work something out." Me??! No-no. I organize, type, count, balance, and general provide a good target for poop-flinging. I don't bargain with the local flora and fauna. NAMELESS pull the deaf card on me. *ooooy*
So I tried. And the whole time, my right arm was a little itchy at the elbow. Found out two things: 1) We were, in fact, several months late on our rent, and 2) The owner was out of town and his 2nd "in charge" would go ahead and unlock the locker when he could get around to it. Translation: Pay me my money and I'll let you in on my own sweet time. In his shoes, I'd probably have said that very thing, but he was, to his credit, in fact, very accommodating, polite, and helpful.
Nevertheless, I was and am and probably will be without armoire until.....well....until I am no longer capable of making these decisions. But I was getting itchier by the minute.
Tuesday and Wednesday passed in a minimally itchy state, but I was goin' nuts...by Thursday, all the scratches from all the work I did outside and under the house had (and STILL have) raised, clear blisters with pink around the base and this stuff gets anywhere that arm touches. It's not like poisons ivy, oak, or sumac and I found nothing in the remaining vegetation that resembled either of the three. Thus exhausteth my knowledge of poisonous or irritating Texas plant life.
I barely made it through the Leadership Summit on Thursday and Friday...this speaks to T's awesome plant oils that she hauls around and the excellence of the summit. But now? Now I'm considering amputation and chuggin' Benedryl like it's sugar pills...got an oatmeal wash that helps for about 20-30 min after a wash (and I think it's helpful in preventing the spread), topical Benedryl, and hydrocortisone....thinking of crawling my little itchy self over to T's for a Claraderm spray (whatever the heck that is). AAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!
I WANT TO SCRATCH AND I WANT TO SCRATCH NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (and I want my armoire)
You can look, but you can't touch,