Every year, without fail, I get a poison ivy rash. My yard is surrounded by the vine, and it actually used to be much worse, with vines crawling up some of the trees in the back yard.
Since I'm not a big fan of spraying chemicals in the yard, I find myself pulling this stuff every year. I cover my arms and legs and go to town. In 100+ degree heat index, this is not a fun process, and usually takes a few weekends. But then it becomes a literal juggling act trying to properly clean the clothing and gloves that come in contact with the ivy.
Last weekend, Sarah and I did some major weeding. I came in contact with poison ivy a few times, and figured I'd get some on me, so this isn't a big surprise. Boy, it sure itches already. Although, I'm tending to believe that I'm building up a tolerance, because the severity of the rash is less and less each year. That first year... boy oh boy. It looked like I had third-degree burns all over my forearms. But now it's usually no more than a few bubbles here and there. But almost always still on my forearms.
So I guess you could say poison ivy and I go way back. And that's ironic considering the fact that we're going to name our daughter Eleanor Ivy. No, I promise I'm not naming my baby after the plant that haunts me every summer, but it's funny to think about.