How is all started: My Life with Poison Oak Part I

  

      When I was a kid, and to this day, Poison Oak has been the bane of my existence. Once my arm was so badly swollen that I wasn't able to wear long sleeved shirts for two weeks. I am so allergic that I don't even have to touch the stuff to contract it. It can be from the air or the touching something that has touched the deadly and toxic oil. The first notable "Gigi Nasty" occurrence was when I lost a 5th grade boyfriend because of my dreadful allergic reaction to my arch-nemesis: Poison Oak. 

  

        I grew up in a small town with a lot of open space and forest to play in. In my backyard Poison Oak was king. One day, while exploring in the forest with my friends, we I found a secret "waterfall" (probably an open sewer line.) The "waterfall" was hidden underneath brush and surrounded by Poison Oak. I thought that it would be okay if I entered the entrancing atmosphere as long as I took a shower and avoided the plant. Boy, was I wrong. The next morning I woke up screaming because my eyes were swollen shut. I looked liked the guy from that movie Mask with Cher.

 So, obviously, I didn't want my boyfriend, whom we all affectionately called Burrito Butt, to see my morphed appearance.

        The next day was Burrito Butt's birthday. It was common knowledge around our neighborhood that if you were "going out" with someone that you had to supply them with a gift. Before my disfiguring, I had gone to the quaint music store in my small town, and purchased the single of Whitney Houston (R.I.P) singing the National Anthem at the 1991 Superbowl. My Mom said it was a good gift. But, deep down, I knew I should have bought Pearl Jam. 

        Despite my unfortunate disfigurement, Burrito Butt insisted that he visit me, and we both knew that "going out" rules clearly state: birthdays are sacred and a gift must be delivered on the exact date of birth, or else the relationship is null and void. I tried to reason with Burrito Butt, but upon my better judgement, I relented and said he could come over; he would receive his cherished prize.

        When I opened the door, and he was bombarded with my disfigured melon, his eyes widened. I realized how horrible I looked when I saw his expression and I quickly dropped the gift bag into his hands, shut the door, ran into the bathroom, observed my horrible reflection in the mirror, and clutched my face while screaming.  

       He called me twenty minutes later and told me that we should probably stop "going out". Was it the fault of Whitney Houston's rendition of our National Anthem cassette or my face?  I wonder if I could ask him on facebook, or would that be too weird? I dunno, maybe he's reading this right now and can put an end to my tween curiosity. 

Oh, Whitney:

(I was always fascinated with the sweat that collected on her upper lip. Maybe it was because of all that crack she was smoking. Too soon?)