Scratch

Some one (was it you?) has given me poison ivy.  The first signs appeared on Tuesday after Memorial Day.  Now, I wear the welts around my neck like a necklace, with scratch-shaped lines across my chest, belly, and hips.  My Beloved is incredibly allergic to the stuff; stories of his afflictions are legend in our family (the time his face swelled shut, the time he duct taped mittens over his hands, the time he tied his own hands behind his back, etc.).  Today, he spied the tell-tale blisters on his leg.

I swear by the use of fels-naptha soap to get the oil off my body, but with the spreading to my better half, today was a hot-water-and-bleach laundry day.  A colleague recommended tea tree oil to help with healing and I could kiss her for it.  It has soothed the itch better than any concentration of calamine/caladryl/cortisone I've ever tried.  Unfortunately, I can only apply it to my neck, lest the salve stain all my clothes.  Of course, in this unholy, Godforsaken Pennsylvania heat, it's tempting to forgo clothing altogether.  However, we have to keep the windows open in hopes of catching every breeze and rather enjoy the amity of our neighbors, so no freak-shows allowed.