Tarzan and Jane are Not Available for Landscape Hire

My husband spent the last two days cutting down like eleventy-seven dozen trees in our yard. Don't get all Arbor Day, Save the Earth about it.  It's only because they have some weird invasive species chewing on them more rapidly than my kids devour the snacks in the pantry on grocery day. I guess it's a common problem people are dealing with up here.

So, we decided to be proactive, and cut the trees down before they were completely dead because these hungry little effers move on to a different tree when they get sick of the one they're munching on. You know, kind of like when your kids move on to the next box of cereal even though the current box is still 7/8 of the way full, leaving it to go stale and get tipped over in the lazy Susan only for little Cocoa Krispies to spread throughout the cabinet like confetti in NYC on New Years' Eve... (also, poor Susan. Why was she perceived as so lazy? Hmm. More on that another time). Anyway, it's recommended you cut these partially chompered down trees and burn the wood as soon as possible (chill. not before the burn ban is lifted....we know!) when you realize it. 

So, we (let's be serious...my husband is the chainsaw wielding tree murderer. not me.  I watch and huff and pace and get a little sweary. There is no "we" about this) have been dropping trees and hauling wood and brush in the cold, rain, and snow (yes snow. WTF, Mother Nature. It's April), up to our knees in mud in some of the wettest areas or our mud wrestling pit, I mean yard (our yard is up and coming...). I watched my husband work solo for a bit before putting on actual jeans for the first time in months (um. quarter of a year) thanks to these Social Isolation measures #corona, and I walked out there with my son's hunting boots on, mostly for moral support.  But then something magical happened-- 

I realized I was still strong AF and that I could be a lot more helpful than I anticipated. #girlpower 

In fact, I got super sassy because I realized he had chunked the wood into fantastically manageable 5 foot sections that I could deadlift onto the tractor bucket, which made for relatively quick cleanup. It sucked. But together we got through this, Hallmark-movie style. Awwwwwwwwwwww. 

Note: The growing/green season hasn't begun here. (yeah. Looking at you, Punxsutawney Phil.  Solid job on this year's Groundhogs Day. #dumbbadger #stupidsquirrel) This is an important piece of information...

Andddddd after I finished that intense outdoor workout, I came in, stripped down to my undies in the laundry room (again, save your judgement, I was muddy!) and ran back to the bedroom holding my boobs so I could get a sports bra and workout clothes on to ride an awesome Peloton class. 

And it really was an epic class. #thanksDenisMorton 

Last night before bed, I was, well, a little uncomfortable and had a very hard time getting settled. This morning I crushed another Peloton workout and I was ok, but still felt off. And then after my shower when I got dressed, my bra just felt horribly wrong. Like the metal of the underwire was cutting into me and making me itch. 

I took my bra off but kept itching, and itching, insatiably. Ugh this wire! Who made bras with wire? Did I change detergents? What the hell is crawling under my skin? Finally, after hours of discomfort, I went to the bathroom to realized that I literally had fingerprint-welted-hives all over my boobs. 

Poison. Ivy. In. The. Middle. Of. Winter. ON MY BOOBS. 

And then it dawns on me. I rushed from the laundry room to the bedroom carrying my boobs with me (I mean. there were no other volunteers! Who else was going to carry them?!) Then, I adjusted those lady tots right into the perfect position in that sports bra and finally proceeded to sweat my ass off, opening up allllll-the-pores, allowing the devil nectar of the poison ivy leaf to destroys my melon canal. #cantaloupesthesedays #imhereforthegloriousvisuals

And as I draft this, I'm currently marinating in a sea of puréed gluten free oatmeal in my bathtub (we FANCY 'ROUND HERE WITH OUR GF INSTANT QUAKER), wondering how many times in my life I'm going to forget that poison ivy doesn't go dormant in the winter. And those vines I was twirling and pulling free from those logs? Yeah. Those weren't jungle vines to swing off. My name might be Jane, but from now on my Tarzan can scoop them right up with his Kubota because I'm not going anywhere near anything that even LOOKS like a vine. Sorry Brooooseph, but the remaining brush cleanup is a solo job for you from this point forward. 

So, who's got poison ivy remedies for me? Until this clears, me and my irritated lady lumps are going to find some sandpaper or a cactus for me to hug. Repeatedly. While moving up and down. 🌵