Tick, Tick, Tick

Yesterday, as I was getting ready to take The Pony to see Land of the Lost, I was nearly driven crazy by an intense itching on the top of my ankle-foot. You know, where the shoe ties. It had been ongoing for a couple of days. I pulled down my sock for one final scratchfest before sitting socially acceptably at the movie for a couple of hours. Guess what I found? Again, I commend your psychiatry. Or maybe that would be psychic abilities. Yep. It was a freakin' TICK.

So now I've had three ticks in a month. I don't even go outside, people. I merely walk on the porch to the sidewalk to the garage. It's not like I'm out rolling on the lawn, wrestling possums. No. I'm inside the Mansion or Newmentia or The Devil's Playground or Kerasotes. Note that none of my family has had a tick yet. Farmer H gallivants about Hillmomba from the time he arrives home until his bedtime at 9:00 p.m. He fiddles about with the dumb chickens and the caged rabbits and the cats and dogs. And an occasional wild boar that turns out to be a pet potbellied pig. No ticks for Farmer H! No ticks for The Pony, a chicken's best friend. No ticks for the #1 son, who rides his new used 4-wheeler hither and yon. Only me. I am the tick's choice. Grade A Prime Hillbilly Mom.

I am the Wagu beef of tick meat. On their Wednesday night parties, they serve ME.

I am the Cristal Champagne of Tick Cribs. MY blood is their elixir of choice.

I am the flame to the tick's inner moth. They flock to ME in droves.

I am the Tick Buddha sitting cross-legged on the front yard of the Mansion.

I am the Beluga of Tick Caviar. No toast points are necessary--just pure, unadulterated ME.

I am the Pied Piper of Missouri ticks. They would follow ME anywhere.

My mom says the guys bring the ticks into the Mansion on their clothes, then the ticks find me. I am not honored.