How the French and the Fire Ants Stole Saturday
>> Saturday, March 12, 2011
I considered telling this story earlier, but thought it to be slightly tactless. After writing about the stick-on bra fiasco of 2011, I figured to hell with tact. It was never really that fun anyway.
It was a Friday.
I had gotten off work early and decided to drive up where the Baby Mama (remember the big bay mare I was breeding to Sir Sinclair, the super stud? That one.) was living. As you all know, baby mamas get fairly upset when you don't see them often, and since my little bundle of joy's well-being(and price tag. ahem.) depends on a good personality, I figured any time convincing Baby Mama that I was awesome was time well spent.
So, I took the hour drive, music blaring and windows down. I enjoyed the sun; I enjoyed the peace. I turned the music up so loud that I couldn't hear the tiny alarms going off inside my head..
Now, if you've ever had anything horrible happen, you know that sometimes there's this voice in the back of your mind going, "Hey, you up there! Remember this? Hey! Seriously, man, you missed the turn!"
(I do not have this voice for directions. Not in the least. You can ask my father, who will promptly tell you that he tracks me for a reason.)
And in the back of my mind that day was that itch..
At one point in my life, I had something clipped out of a magazine that read: My mound of dirty clothes will never grow higher than the average garden gnome. That day, I had not only beaten the average garden gnome by several feet but had also grown my pile large enough that it would not have fit in the largest person's fattest fat pants.
I needed to wash laundry. Bad.
I don't think I had in about three weeks, and I'm 90% sure my dirty clothes pile had become a clubhouse for every creepy crawly critter in a thirty foot radius. Which for those of you living in clean suburban houses isn't so bad, but for those of us who - oh, I don't know - live in a CAMPER next to a BARN, a thirty foot radius includes at least a trillion species of multiple-legged foreign delicacies.
Yum.
Now, if you've been reading, you know that the barn dogs suckered their way into Clark. Well, the dogs took to the giant laundry pile like fish to water: wallowing around, sighing contentedly, enjoying the aroma of sweat-soaked socks and dirty shirts. They'd get particularly miffed when I'd break out the Febreze in an attempt to avoid going to the laundromat.
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
But despite the looming mound of laundry, I was enjoying myself in perfect weather on a perfect Friday afternoon. And then I sat down.
I sat for a second before I felt the first sting. I brushed my hand over the spot.
Then I felt the second sting. "What the-?"
I jumped up with the third sting, and I think the sudden movement made them all decide to grab hold. All 1,945,321 fire ants. (Just a rough estimate of the bites that ranged from my ankles to my lower back..)
I have never dashed for a hose so fast. I turned it up as high as it would go and began spraying those suckers like the last scene in a gangster movie. I would have done the mobster laugh, but unfortunately, I'd been reduced to a flailing, squealing mass.
"What.. Are.. You doing??" Baby Mama's owner stepped from the barn to find me, dancing around while spraying water at a breakneck speed down my shorts.
In the midst of pained squeaks, I managed feebly. "Fire ants.."
She turned inside to get some paste to take the sting out. (Which is a lie. None of those things work. None.) By the time she got back, I had washed away my little red buddies and had finally reduced myself to just twitching when I thought I felt the quiver of six legs dashing up my thigh.
Now, I'm pretty tough. Broke my elbow, no tears. Been trampled, kicked, stepped on, bitten. I'm scarred, permanently bruised, and I have nerve damage in various body parts. I'm here to tell you:
1 hour + a gazillion fire ant bites + driving home = Not fun.
On every bump, dip, and turn, the bites would scrape across Kent's all-of-a-sudden bristle sharp seat. The bugs had transformed my driving into that of a ninety year old woman. I think I got honked at twice, and not because I looked pretty.
At home, I toddled into my camper, swallowed some medicine, passed the laundry pile (I swear something croaked hello at me..), and collapsed into my bed. From ankles to back, I was swollen fatter than a well-fed tick.
The mass amounts of allergy meds helped me slip into a slightly uncomfortable slumber. I think I dreamed the creatures in my laundry mutated into giant mega-flamethrowing ants, but I can't be certain.
I woke up in a cold sweat.
Now, I did the morning feeding every Saturday, so I pulled myself from bed. I downed more medicine and rubbed myself down with more itch-calming ointment. (It really does reduce the itching.. You're so busy trying to figure out how to scrape it out of your now stinging wounds that you really don't have time to scratch.)
Then I did what every liberated woman this side of the Mason-Dixon line would do. I found a giant pair of basketball shorts stolen from my 5'11 brother years earlier (You know I love you if I have at least one article of your clothing), and I pulled them on with a giant t-shirt and one of the aforementioned holy bras. (stolen from someone else.. The shirt, that is... Not the bra.) That's right. No panties. Judge if you want to, but I know that:
Fire ant bites + panties = not a smart idea.
It was not a fun feeding. It wasn't horrible, or else I would be able to remember it with a cringe and a cuss word. But I doubt it was good.. You try feeding 20 something horses with a smile on your face as your bug bites compare notes.
"Yeah, I'm really annoying her! Life rocks!"
"No, no, no, dude. I'm the more annoying one. Getting in her joints was a gnarly idea!"
"Listen, bros... She can't sit down without thinking about me."
"Hells yeah, man. That's rad."
So, yeah. Not a happy camper. I finished feeding and crawled back into Clark, wondering if it were ethical to take Nyquil at 9 in the morning. Can't be miserably bug-bit when you're in a cough syrup dream.. Kidding!
Kind of.
Well, my morals (and I promise they're in there, deep down) got to me, so instead of drifting into a nice sleep, I lay there trying to ignore the bug bites and the little voice reminding me I needed to get my laundry done. Around noon, I got sick of being completely pathetic and not having anyone to whine to (teenaged, obviously), so I wandered back up to the barn, trying to look as pitiful as possible.
I blame my dad for this. He LOVED taking care of my brother and I when we were/are sick.. Soup, medicines, playing video games... I swear, the man knows more about medication than your local pharmacy, and with the help of Google, he's practically a doctor. So naturally, my brother and I both play up that sick card like Munchausen patients and expect someone to lovingly dote on us.
It only took one bout of stomach sickness to clear up that being sick away from home SUCKED royally, and having half my body ravaged by little poison factories was no different.
The Boss Mare was riding the Princess, a lovely 4 year old by Contucci, and boarders were popping in and out to watch. I grabbed a chair and gingerly eased myself into it. "Girl, you want to try her?"
Um, YES. Without a second thought to my nasty bites, I sprung from the chair and quickly made my way back to the camper to change. I found a pair of clean riding tights, a not-so-giant shirt (OCD about how I look in the mirrors.. I like my lines to be perfect, and my shirts tucked in.), but as I began to change, I realized I needed one thing.
Underwear.
I began digging through the camper for a clean pair, and after about five minutes, all I could find were a pair of frilly French panties. Now, the first time I saw these, I loved them. My best friend had just gotten home from Europe and had brought me chocolate from Belgium and my choice of real, authentic French underwear. No girl passes an opportunity up like that. The first time I held them up, I remember thinking how grown up I was, with my fancy and sophisticated underpants.
I stared at them, with their lace rear end and the pretty bow. The same sophistication didn't hit me. I didn't feel grown up or awesome or even mildly pleased with myself. I did, however, feel the sinking sensation that this was probably not going to be an absolutely pleasant experience.
For once in my life, I was right.
I made my way back to the barn, walking kind of funny in my tight riding pants and my lacy underthing. "Want to switch saddles?" I called to the Boss Mare.
"No, just ride in mine." I paid no mind to this. Frankly, I was too busy blocking the feeling of lace against my bug-bitten derriere. That tends to be distracting.
I got on the mounting block and swung up on to the Princess. The minute I hit the saddle, I realized..
I was in the Boss Mare's tiny saddle that hugged me in all the wrong places. My rear, thighs, and calves were all rubbing against the saddle. And worst of all, crammed in between the tiny saddle and my fire ant bites were a pair of lace panties that could only be compared to some kind of human flesh grater by this point.
Oh, wait. That's not all.. The horse is a four year old, 17.2 mare. Which, for you non-horsey people, means she's giant and still a "baby".
If you listened to the people watching, the ride went well. The horse settled nicely, connecting to the bit and working easily. I did not.. I tried posting; I tried sitting. I tried deep breathes, imagining unbitten skin and a world free of fire ants. A world where my comfiest granny panties were always available, itch creams actually worked, chocolate was calorie free, and I was no longer trapped in the French knickers of doom and despair.
In other words, heaven.
Later that day, I peeled off the tights and hell panties. (literally peeled. I think my bites tried to glue my clothing to my body...) With a groan, I flopped back into bed yet again, unable to sit at the kitchen table. Unwilling to dress up and go out.
As I lay there, I finally heard the little voice fussing about my rapidly growing insect metropolis, otherwise known as the laundry pile.. Still not washed.
The moral of this story is always do your laundry like you might sit in a fire ant hill, still want to ride, and desire not to be rubbed raw by the French torture panties of doom.
If you don't.. Listen to experience talking.
It's a hell of a ride.
-- Girl
(NOTE, cartoons coming soon.)
(SECOND NOTE, hyperbole is alive and well on this blog!)
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