I have no fewer than, count 'em, one... two.. THIRTEEN mosquito bites under my right arm pit. There must have been a wedding party for Mr. and Mrs Bloodsucker last night, and my pit was the most happenin' place in town (ew). Of course their cousins made stops at knee-pit, ankle, thigh and waist band as well, so Tour-de-Kim was complete to every curve and crevasse. But the pit? Really? Is Secret Ultra Dry really that delectable? It certainly didn't make the table at OUR wedding buffet (between the little smokeys and potato salad).
All this despite the fact that every night Patrick battles the flying vampires with our mosquito tennis racket (think bug zapper designed in the form of a bad-mitten racket). He can ZAP enough mosquitos in one swipe to create an orchestra of pop and crackles worthy of a 4th of July hurrah!
I'm bring sexy back. There is nothing hotter than a sweaty 30-something clawing her pits to death fighting the histamine flair of 13 inflamed bites. I think its time to dust off the Chloraquin.
No really, come to Haiti. Its lovely. But don't forget the DEET.
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