A Face Full

My face itches.

I don’t know how many things you read that start with that statement, but there it is.

Some time back, I wrote a post about our new house, and I mentioned very briefly about how the yard was somewhat overgrown.  That may have been an understatement.  Apparently the previous owners of the place were trying to reestablish some natural wildlife habitat or something, although I have no idea what sort of wildlife could inhabit thirty foot vines and inch-long, flesh ripping thorns.  Bigfoot, maybe.  You know, since he has all that thick fur.

Anyway, we’ve been working to clear away the jungle that is our yard.  It’s hard, hot, dirty work.  But we are just doing some every chance we get.  Hopefully it will all be done some time before my grandchildren inherit the place. (No bitterness, really.)

I tend to be somewhat accident prone, so I was pleased that at the close of business yesterday I was still unharmed.  A few scratches, but nothing to sweat over.

Then I brushed my teeth.

As I was watching myself brush my teeth in the mirror (why do we do that?), I noticed an odd little puffy place under my left eye.  I thought maybe it was a mosquito bite or something.  It wasn’t.

I have poison ivy on my face. On my FACE! ON MY FACE!

It has slowly spread all day long, first all around my eye, then down my cheek onto my jaw, on the side of my nose, up over my eyebrow, and even a little in my left ear.  Here’s a little fun fact for you about poison ivy, in case you didn’t know.  It itches.  A lot.

Some might think having poison ivy on the south end may be worse, but at this point I’m not so sure.  Right now, my whole life is revolving around the fact that my faces itches.  Seriously, I’m only writing this post to distract my hands from digging my face.  Oh! And I just LOVE when people tell me, “The worst thing you can do is scratch it!” Really? I mean, this seems to me about the same as standing and watching something burst into flames and then saying, “The worst thing you can do is put some water on that.”

I tried to explain to my husband the science behind my itchy face. You see, when a foreign substance gets on your body (for instance, your face), your body produces a chemical known as a histamine.  A histamine is a hateful little chemical that sends a signal to your brain that says, “Your face itches!” This triggers a response from you to scratch your face.  The histamines hope that, by scratching, you can remove the foreign substance from your body.

My husband gave me a very sour look and made a rude remark.  Obviously, you can’t discuss science with lay people.

So anyway, here I am, with my itchy face, trying not to think about my itchy face.  Or that it itches.  My face, I mean.  You know, because it’s itchy.

The only solution so far has been to take a Benadryl.  Even now, as I’m typing, my brain is shutting down.  If the zombie apocalypse happens, I guarantee Benadryl will be behind it.  I don’t know if it stops the itching, or if it is just that unconscious people can’t scratch.

Well, I guess I should quit before I fall right over on the keyboard.  Plus, I think I can hear those histamines again.

Resort (not so) Casual

Greetings! I missed you!

If you have never given yourself a vacation from Facebook and other various digital distractions, I highly recommend it.

I had many adventures during Lent.  Well, okay, maybe that’s overstating it.  Mostly, I had all of my normal adventures.  You know, like laundry and dishes and cleaning and all that fun stuff.

However, I do have one noteworthy experience to share.  I got to see how the other half lives.

Uncomfortably.  That’s how they live.

My husband and I got to spend a weekend at a very exclusive resort (paid for by my husband’s employer–duh.) Now, in case you didn’t know this about me, exclusive resorts aren’t my usual hangout.  Even in Hawaii, I managed to find a Best Western for $89 a night.  The closest thing I’ve ever come to a “resort” are the resort state parks we have here in WV.  And what that means is that the park has a lodge and a golf course.  Really.

Anyway, I was excited at first, because obviously we would never have the opportunity to stay at a place like this on our own.  Then my husband forwarded an email to me which germinated a seed of doubt.

It was a dress code.

Now, I appreciate appropriate dress.  I think people’s body parts should be covered in a modest fashion with clean items that fit properly.  I learned, however, that there is a whole universe of phrases like business casual, evening attire, business formal, evening business formal attire, business afternoon casual formal, and sort of dressy but still business professional.

So you see why I was worried.

The seed of doubt sprouted into full-blown panic when I read the following actual statement from the resort’s dress code: “Denim is welcome in the resort for horseback riding and other outdoor activities.” Subtlety is not lost on me, and I can read between those lines.  In case you missed it, that means “no jeans allowed.”

What I was expected to wear during my daily ramblings was something called “resort casual.” I had no idea what that meant.  I subsequently discovered that it means “really uncomfortable shoes.”

I wear jeans everywhere.  I love jeans.  Also, I love slip-on, scuffed, wide-toed shoes.  My idea of looking “nice” is wearing darker jeans and a tee-shirt that doesn’t advertise an alcoholic beverage.  I don’t own a pair of khakis or a belt.  I think I may have a button down shirt hanging in the closet, but I have no idea if it even fits.  Cotton is the primary fabric in most of my clothing.

So you can imagine how well I blended in with the resort casual crowd.  I staggered around on my dress boots (usually reserved for funerals) praying that I could make it back to the room before my ankles gave out.  The whole time I felt like I had a sign floating over my head that said, “This woman buys her underwear at Walmart.” In fact, I think that should be the name of my dress code:  Walmart Casual.  Pajama pants welcome.

For all of that, I did have a good time.  Matt’s colleagues are nice people, and free wine is enough to make any time a good one in my book.  But I was continually fascinated by the thought that there are people who live that fancy, resort casual life all the time.  I could pick them out, walking along expertly in their heels and silk scarves and shawls (yes, apparently shawls are back.  Who knew?) I even saw a woman in a fancy poncho.  They are resort casual all the time.  They must have really strong ankles.

The room was nice, although, between you and me, I think the big price tag had more to do with the location than the actual room itself.  It did have a nice big closet, and we actually had turn-down service. (Apparently rich people have trouble getting the comforter and sheet folded down just so.)  Everyone was super accommodating–I had my first ever bell-hop.  There was even a fuzzy robe provided for lounging around the room.  But I didn’t use it.

I lounged around in my jeans.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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