Poison ivy is evil. Evil!

My husband warned me when I went gangbusters on an enormous cluster of weeds in our landscaping that I was sure to get a poison ivy reaction. But these weeds finally had driven me beyond all reason. They had to go. To my credit, I did check for leaves of three. But some must’ve been hiding behind other weeds, and I did not leave them be.  

An hour later, our landscaping was a tamed beauty.

“You better wash off,” he smugly warned.

“I will. In a minute.”My best friend.

All day yesterday, nary itch nor bump. That is, until we sat down to dinner. Suddenly my arms were on fire! Angry red flares streaked along my forearm. My fingers curled and all willpower went from resisting dessert to not raking my arms.

“Uh-oh,” I said (which means, in marriage speak, “You were right.” Being married means you never have to actually say “you were right.” Right?)

Now I could string this poison ivy into a metaphor about writing.

I could go on about how sometimes an idea strikes me and my fingers curl into typing position before I make it to the computer. About how napkins, receipts and the back of my daughter’s homework all have fallen victim to the itch to write down ideas.

I could mention how I once stayed up until dawn satisfying the urge to write. I could share the shameful moment that I missed school bus pick up because I was lost in a pivotal point of a manuscript.

But I won’t delve into that now. It’s 3:48 a.m. and it’s taking all human effort not to scratch my arms.

OK, I’ll say it. My husband was right.