The mosquito that has taken up residence in my bed the last couple of nights is one lucky bastard. Neither I nor Dwayne “The Rocco” Johnson is of a petite stature. The bounty of our two bods probably sent the mosquito into seizures of anticipation. Then he went and recruited twenty million of his closest relatives.
I woke up yesterday morning looking like the Lumpy Bumpy Bar I’d eaten for lunch the day before. (Note to self: never ever EVER go to Trader Joe’s hungry – especially if you’re by yourself and will need to carry all the groceries up the three flights of stairs solo.) It would be downright comical if these bitches didn’t itch so much.
This must have been one big ass bug, too. Not one of these bites is smaller than a quarter. Most are closer to a Sacagawea. The back of my right hand looks like it got hit with a softball. I keep waiting for some bizarre insect larvae to crawl out and take over the world. C’mon, weirder things have happened to me.
I’ve got another doozy right on my wrist bone. Every movement I make causes my watch to slide, reigniting the itch-a-thon I’m trying to curtail. Every fifteen words or so I have to pause and sit on my hands – not terribly conducive to typing, mind you.
Pre-chemo, should a bug take up residence in our bedroom, Rocco would manage to sleep through the night unscathed, unbitten, and well-rested. I’d toss, turn, and swat all night long and awake to find my appendages covered in red polka dots. As a general rule, the Lonon clan are known as a rare delicacy in hematophagous circles. At an evening BBQ and worried about getting bit up? Screw citronella and bug zappers, just strategically place Lonons around the perimeter of the party and your guests (excepting the Lonons of course) will enjoy a bite-free evening.
I seem to be slightly less tasty these days, or perhaps the mosquitoes are also feeling the recession and don’t want to be wasteful. I’m no longer the only one to awake looking like I’ve been hit with buckshot. I can’t imagine these veins of mine are worth sucking anymore, but clearly I’m wrong. Maybe I’m like a twinkie, lots of chemicals, highly processed, but somehow tasty all the same. Does that make Rocco the “organic” dining selection for the blood thirsty insects? I find that thought high-frickin-sterical for some reason. Maybe it’s because I know he ate two of his Fat Bastard* Specials last week.
As we waited for August Osage County to start last night, we compared battle wounds. We were pretty neck and neck (and yes our necks were covered, too) until I pointed at a gigantic red mound on my cheek. “I’m pretty sure this is one, too.”
“Does it itch?” he asked. “‘Cause it kinda just looks like a monster zit.”
“Yes,” I spat at him while mauling my face with my finger nails.
“And does itching it really help?” he scolded.
“Obviously!” I retorted as he pulled my clawing hand away from my cheek.
“Yeah, that looks much better now…”
Fucker.
We spent the rest of the show smacking each other any time one of us started scratching again.
*Author’s Note: The Fat Bastard is one of Rocco’s culinary triumphs. When he’s working at one of the lighting shops out in Jersey, he often is left to forage for food off “the truck” because his wife is not so great about packing his lunch. Ever seen a restaurant called The Truck? No, and there’s good reason. How appetizing does that sound? So anyway, on said truck, there’s a smorgasbord of dining selections, none of them particularly healthy. Rocco first purchases both a McChicken sandwich and a Quarter Pounder with Cheese. Then he looses the bottom buns of each sandwich (’cause he’s watching his carbs, ya know) then smooshes them together to form the double-decker-delicacy know as the Fat Bastard (copyright pending).