I don't think Brad Paisley is a bad guy, like in a true sense of "evil", but I will say I think he should be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law for this song about sensually checking a lover for a tick infestation!!! AH FUCK NO. It's like skeleton Jerry Garcia crooned - every silver lining has a touch of gray. In this case - Spring is the silver lining to the Winter that provided the icing to the shit-cake that has been the last year or so of my life. I've been craving Spring and the green and renewal with every inch of my body. So I was obviously overjoyed when, after Monday's snowstorm, we took the express elevator straight into full-blown Spring, baby! Sure the trees haven't bloomed yet, but I can see buds on them! I swear! We are SO. CLOSE. to everything being lovely again. Which is beyond fantastic. But you know what comes with that loveliness? The "touch of gray" if you will? Its the fact that along with flowers and apples and bumblebees and crisp brooks and swimming holes and creemes and all the fucking Anne of Green Gables Quaint Summer Fun™ you can conjure up here in New England, there will always be unwelcome guests crashing your plans. And those guests are fucking TICKS!!!!!! TIIIIIIIIIIICKS!

You know how Indiana Jones hated snakes? That was his thing - he was hot and hated snakes. And no matter what he did, those fucking snakes somehow found him, right? Thats me and ticks. I hate ticks so much. To be fair, I hate all parasites and creatures that wants to embed any part of themselves inside of you and extract some sort of life-force. Its RUDE on top of being unsanitary. And I've hated Ticks since I was little - when, after a glorious day riding ponies on the prairies of East Texas, I got home to find that hideous ticks had decided to crawl into unmentionable areas on my body and burrow their heads in my young flesh as they leeched off my blood. I was disgusted and traumatized and if I could've self-immolated right then and there, I would've. I don't give a fuck how old you are - 5, 10, 20, 800 - If you find a tick buried in your flesh, having access to assisted suicide is the only appropriate response. And after that experience, I decided that, next to Raven Symone, my archenemies would be ticks. And due to that, I've spent a fair amount of my energy and resources trying to avoid them for the rest of my Godforsaken life. And, I have to admit, I've done a pretty good job. But it's not that there haven't been some hairy situations, thats for sure.

For example: After college, I moved back to Texas. Which was really, really stupid. Ticks not withstanding. See, I had avoided going home as much as possible while in Oregon, and then in a moment of weakness, brought about by having no clue what to do with my life, I got homesick and moving back to NE Texas seemed like a good plan. It was a bad plan. Anyway, needless to say, it was a weird time in my life. Made weirder by the fact I was casually dating a guy who later went on to be the interim mayor of my hometown Just call me Jackie O. Anyway, dating back home was tough because there weren't and aren't a ton of options, so you have to improvise and work with what ya got. And in this case, the dude decided to embrace that redneck aesthetic by surprising me with a romantic date...Dove hunting. As one does. Pro tip: Don't do that. Don't throw someone in your jeep and drive them to the middle of nowhere with rifles jangling in the backseats, all while you refuse to tell them where you're taking them. Even the bravest of souls begins to wonder which one of her friends Keith Morrison will interview first for her inevitable Dateline special (Amy it'll be you). Anyway, we get to the land, and it is just acres and acres of waist-high brush and grass. It's a fucking Tick haven. I start to panic. I haven't even had time to wrap my head around the idea of blowing a symbol of peace and love out of the sky with an assault rifle, ya know? Thats literally the least of my worries. At this point, I can't even imagine getting out of the Jeep. Because any drop down from the jeep means I'm gonna find ticks buried under my bra strap and bikini zone and I can't do that again. And I'm trying to be cool and not whine, but it is fucking hard, man. I start sweating and want to cry, but because I'm good on my toes, I immediately come up with a plan, which is thus: I needed to get to the hatchback portion of the Jeep to access the cans of Off! I knew were back there next to the bullets. The issue, the middle section of the Jeep Cherokee was inaccessible to crawl through - thanks to tons of rifles and ice chests full of beer. Because, Texas. And since opening the door and walking the short distance through the waist-light grass to the back was too risky (Lyme), I did what anyone would do - I opened the window, crawled up and out, grabbing ahold of the ski racks on the roof, dragged myself along the side of the Jeep, not letting my legs graze the grass, like I was on a Hillbilly episode of American Gladiators, and then flung myself into the open hatch. ONTO RIFLES! It's legitimately the most athletic I've ever been and I I left like a stunt double in GI JANE! Once I was in the back hatch, I was able to spray myself with TWO FULL CANS of Off! Then I still had to get out near the pond so we could slaughter innocent birds. The best way to accomplish avoiding as many ticks as possible, was to run, full force through the weeds, using a method that could best be described as "RIVER DANCE meets HITLER'S GOOSESTEP". Basically, it was a series of quick leaps through the weeds, swinging my arms for momentum, and high kicking my way to safety (the pond where my date slaughtered birds). Did I look insane? YUUUP. Did the dude stop calling after that? YUUUP. But you know what? Jokes on him - I got nary a tick on me! And there was an added bonus from using that much OFF!, too, it pretty much seeped into my skin and kept me mosquito bite free for months! Score!

Once I was in LA, I pretty much forgot about ticks and directed all of my hatred towards Raven Symone. Which is healthy and normal. .Sure, I had to keep an eye out for sharks in the ocean, and rattlesnakes while hiking, and I was always a little concerned about being crushed to death in the Beverly Center parking garage during an earthquake, but fuck, at least I didn't have to worry about ticks!! I really didn't think about them again until I moved to the East Coast. My last boss had a house in upstate NY which required me to travel up and handle his meetings at that property. The estate was truly gorgeous. It was also truly in tick fucking country. We would have to traverse from the barn where the "help" worked to the pool house where the meetings were, and between those locations was a 10 min walk though T I C K H E A V E N. But, the upside was that we had a suped-up golf cart, because you don't want the normals interacting with the famous, and said cart could burn rubber over those tick colonies and leave our extremities free from unwelcome attachments! RAD! But then I came to Vermont. And Vermont is basically a state that''s population is 80% ticks and 20% people who look like Michael Gross. Ticks are everywhere in Vermont and they are fucking mean. Ticks here know they're operating with slim pickings - everyone they're attacking has diabetes blood from all the maple syrup and at least 60% are up to their eyeballs in homemade opioids. And the ticks, the ticks are not happy about that, so they're coming after anything and everything here en force. Humans? Toast. Deer? Fuck em. Moose? Who care. The Ticks in Vermont are out to destroy lives.

Last Summer, after bleaching my hair white (the sign of a mentally unstable woman in her 30s needing to MAKE *CLAP* A * CLAP* CHANGE *BABY*), I came up to Vermont to make some bad decisions - specifically entering into a life of isolation and celibacy. Which again, kids, don't follow my lead and uproot your life due to watching Nancy Meyers movies. Learn from my mistakes. Anyway, I came up to Montpelier to look at some houses, and in the process, I was put in touch with my best friends extended family, who happened to live a few villages over. So before heading back to Brooklyn, I drove over to the town to meet my friends cousin. The cousin, by the way, is an incredible woman - well traveled, interesting and beyond hospitable. When I met up with her she said she had heard that I liked to photograph old barns and lonely places, so we, obviously, drove straight to the local cemetery.For the record, I was stupidly wearing loose cropped pants and sandals, and like a giant dummy had forgotten to douse myself with highly toxic bug spray before embarking on this adventure. I thought we'd be having a cup of Joe and instead I was reenacting some Little House on the Prairie nonsense. I just wasn't thinking. So, as we started traipsing through these revolutionary war era cemeteries - where the Green Mountain Boys are buried and friends of Ethan Allan (hero, not the mid-range furniture company) were interned, I started to sweat. Hard. I was walking through GRASS. IN THE SUMMER. WHERE TICKS ARE KNOWN TO FREQUENT. Panic was setting in, but I figured, it wasn't super high grass. They mow a lot, and I'm sure the ticks are more interested in the cattle or deer in the area more than little ol me! I mean, I haven't done anything to wrong the ticks!! When the tour of rural Vermont made it to a pond and then a field, I really started to worry and all I could think about was the Kathleen Hanna documentary about her battle with Lyme disease. That truly seemed awful, and like, she at least had the hot Beastie Boy to be her nursemaid. Me? I've got two garbage dogs. I don't want Lyme!!!! But I kept it together. Even as the panic welled up inside me, I kept it chill and very normal. Because, if there's anything I've learned in my 38 years, its to just push down worry and fear. Push it so deep down that it becomes part of your DNA. You'll never, ever stop obsessing over your worries. But on the outside? You're cool as a cucumber, baby! So, when it was suggested that we tour a barn that an old hermit owned, I was on the outside like, "Sure!" and on the inside it was fucking Hiroshima.

The Hermit's barn tour took, and I shit you not, hours. First let me say, his barn was amazing. It was from the 1700s and he was restoring it by either finding replacement parts of the era, or making them in the exact way they would've then. It was painstaking and amazing and also very, very, very boring. The dude was super cranky and kept asking questions assuming I was a dummy. Bummer for him, I was raised in the country and I love fucking pioneer shit, so I was ready for his nonsense. Every question he asked - "What is this?" - Me: "Is that a rudimentary cooling system"....was answered with a quiet and angry..."YES". Because I'm a fucking genius. Every correct answer unlocked another chamber and level of this barn. It was like an incredibly lame version of Super Mario Bros 3. Instead of fighting King Koopa, I was able to see the attic space and the replica cross ties. Cool. Anywho. This tour lasted forever, but I was game...on the exterior. On the inside? Well, I was wearing gladiator sandals. And this barn was a Tetanus Farm. Every step was fraught with old rusty nails and toxic things. The Haunta Virus lurked everywhere! That sickness is what you get from mouse poop, btw. It kills ya dead! I was a nervous wreck and this tour was never-ending! When we finally reached the end, I let out an incredible exhale. I felt like I hadn't just dodged a bullet, I bobbed and weaved on the beaches of Normandy, motherfucker! I was a golden GOD to come out of this unscathed. I proudly did my Lord the dance goose step towards the Subaru , ready to escape, when they decided I should get a tour of the PASTURE! THROUGH TALL GRASS. I couldn't say no. This woman was my ride. The cranky hermit was oddly proud I answered his troll riddles correctly. I had to go. And I thought maybe I was overreacting. They wouldn't let me embark on a suicide mission after all that, would they? And about 10 steps into the mile walk, they said - "Oh, be careful, sweetie. There are so many ticks out here. They'll go on the bottom of your feet and between your toes!"....

I wanted to puke. I wanted to cry. I wanted to self-immolate. Instead, I begrudgingly walked along. I was stoic. I was angry. I was rigid with worry. I was a Pilgrim. And even I surprised myself with my outward reserve when the man plucked a deer tick of my sleeve. I wanted to die. Instead, I walked, very quickly, ahead and made it to the car. I don't remember the ride back to pick up my car from the little town because I was game planning. I had a can of Deep Woods Off! in my car - the shit thats basically DEET. And my plan was this, to douse myself in this bullshit. I figured, If the ticks hadn't attached yet, I had time to poison them off. To scare them into retreating into the night. When I said goodbye to the cousin, I threw myself out of the car, and took off towards my can of Deep Woods Off! like Steve Fucking Prefontaine. I made it to the car, slid-in, and, for some reason decided to spray the entire can on myself inside the car. With the windows rolled up. I wasn't thinking - I was reacting from fear - and thats how I made a crucial mistake. I bent over to spray my feet and basically ended up inhaling an entire can of Deep Woods Off! After it ricocheted off my body and the toxic mist overtook my rental car. I panicked but tried to convince myself that people have been inhaling DEET for years. The asthma attack that followed my inhalation did nothing to squelch my nerves, but I chalked it up to me having gimp lungs. It wasn't until I pulled over next to a Sugar Shack to puke that I worried I might've inhaled something I shouldn't. My ears started to ring. I couldn't stop coughing. I had a headache and, the puking. I made it back to my bed and breakfast, stripped, placed my tick clothes in a garbage bag that I knotted and took a scalding shower. I plucked a tick off the bottom of my foot and screamed the scream of a woman who has been beaten by her enemies (and possibly has brain damage from Off!). I decided to walk up to the restaurant around the corner after my shower, and while dry heaving for a portion of the walk, I realized what needed to be done. I relied on years worth of training and protocol. I turned to the one person I knew could help me in my time of need. I turned to my savior and forever boo...I turned to:

My Poison Control Daddy, Mr. Yuk!

As a child of the 80s, I was inundated with PSA's. McGruff the Crime Dog, Louie the Lightning Bug, Smokie - all of these sexy daddies told me to be safe and careful. You better play it safe around power lines. Take bite out of crime. I was potentially responsible for any and all forrest fires. I listened and I heard. But only one Daddy, Mr Yuk, really drove it home. Drove it home so much that some 35 years later, I knew that after puking up OFF! smog on the side of Main Street in Montpellier, I knew I needed to call the Poison Control Center. So, I, a sad woman who just toured a Hermits barn because she was leaving a terrible career in film, stood outside of a gemstone store in downtown Montpelier on a Friday night and frantically called Mr Yuk. The answering center calmly took my call, asked what I had ingested (Deep Woods Off!), how much (a solid large can) and how I was feeling (on another planet. A planet run by Ticks) and then told me that this happens quite a bit. Apparently I'm not the only one freebasing Off1. And the best way to get through it was just to ride that DEET-INSIPIRED FOG! He said I'd be hacking and sneezing for a solid day, but the head fog and nausea would end in a few hours. And as expected, it did. But what was worse than the deet vomit was knowing I was more scared of finding a swoll-ass tick embedded in my bikini zone rather than potential poisoning. Such is life I guess? I slept off that nightmare and made it back to Brooklyn and forgot about the experience.

That is until today. When, after my bosses dog came to visit, I found a giant ass tick crawling, suuuuuuuuper casual like, on my jeans. Reader, I jumped up and launched my laptop across the room and screamed, "IS THAT A FUCKING TICK". It was a tick and the boss calmly grabbed it off my leg like it was nothing. Like I wouldn't be throwing everything I was wearing at that moment into a funeral pyre the second I got home. Like I wasn't subjecting myself to SILKWOOD showers from here on out - hoping to scald off any unwelcome ticks. She acted like this was NORMAL and I'm sorry. Ticks behaving badly will NEVER be normal. But here I am, on the cusp of Spring and going on hikes. It doesn't matter how much OFF! I have, these dickfuck Ticks will find me, just as the snakes found Indy. Theres nothing I can do other than spray myself down, have Mr Yuck on speed-dial and pray that some amazing Vermonter with better, more appealing blood is always next to me so that the Ticks choose them over me. Thats my game plan. May God have mercy on my soul.