Sunday - very hot.
Humid, sweaty, don’t move hot.
Fruit beer, football, porch.

Monday - holiday.
Bike riding in Milan, Mich,
then Vodka and book.

Tuesday - first school day.
Mythology, Forensics,
Favorite classes.

Wednesday - ran again.
Six a.m. is too early
to try exercise.

Thursday - meetings day.
Dealing with the same old shit.
Vodka and Limeade!

Friday - Groceries.
Done with work at 4 o’clock
Maybe wine tonight?

Saturday - To Do.
Football, visit Mom and Dad,
Real beer this time.

—- For a four-day week, it’s been a hella long one.  Here’s to:  sleeping in this weekend, the cooler temperatures of Autumn drifting in, finding a good book to read, naps,  no meetings for two days, peace and quiet in the house right now, Marshall beating Wisconsin (we can hope) and fuzzy cat bellies. —-

Images courtesy of www.slashfood.com, www.milanchamber.org, Mr. Hot, unknown, www.rumcocktailrecipes.com, www.tcbusinessnews.com. www.leiniecraftbeer.com.

The definition of Autoimmune Diseases (courtesy of WebMD) is: “Any disorder in which loss of function or destruction of normal tissue arises from humoral or cellular immune responses to the body’s own tissue constituents; may be systemic, as systemic lupus erythematosus, or organ specific, as thyroiditis.”

There are over 100 different disorders associated with these “immune responses” - some deadly, some treatable, some curable, some just damned inconvenient.

If you’ve been around here for a while, you know about me and my own personal battle.  Alopecia  is not one of the deadly disorders.  It’s also not treatable nor curable.  No one can tell me for sure what triggers an episode, or why, after being in remission for 12 years, it’s suddenly back.   It is a fucking pain…because I never was very good at putting on makeup, and now I have to deal with painting on eyebrows, too?  Oh mah holy hell, whose idea of some grand, cosmic joke was this?

Yea, well, they can bite me.

But there’s one thing that I know with 100% certainty.  I can lead a normal life with no hair.  I can go run.  I can hold down a job and have a family.  I can hug my friends and my pets.  No one has ever died from being stared at in the grocery store (believe me - you may want to … but it’s just not worth getting upset over).  And y’know? I can take a shower, get dressed, and be out of the house in the time it used to take me to wash and condition my hair.  Sometimes “extra time” is a gift.

Then, there’s little Ivy.  I learned about Ivy from Veronica.   Ivy’s mom is mom to seven children.  Two sets of twins (!) and one singleton.  She also took custody of two nephews.  This is a special woman - who has a very special little girl.

Ivy also suffers from an autoimmune disease.  It’s called Pemphigus - (not pretty if you click there, but very, very enlightening) and the medicine that Ivy takes to keep this horrible disease under control suppresses the rest of her immune system.  She’s unable to fight off any kind of infection.   Which places her in the hospital for things that your children or mine would fight off with a quick dose of an antibiotic.

The thing is - there is a treatment.  From Veronica’s site:

It’s called IVIG (intravenous immunoglobulin) and it is a transfusion of immune cells that would bolster Ivy’s own immune system and help her fight infections in a normal way.

Unfortunately, the officials at the Australian National Blood Authority have denied the request for Ivy to have this treatment. This treatment that could very well keep her out of hospital. So far, all appeals have been in vain.

Um.  Excuse me, Australian National Blood Authority?  WTF?  WT-OMHH-F are you thinking?

So, for those of you who think that this sucks and that beautiful Ivy deserves to live life outside the hospital - playing in the playground, going to school with her friends -  will you spend two minutes of time and please GO HERE!!!!  Sign the petition that is up.  Let’s help this family with our power.

And for those of you who have stuck around with me, helping me get through my own little crises - here’s MY treatment.  Three-hundred-dollars and two hours of my time got me hair.  Ginger-brown “Ellie” from Rene of Paris - a little eyeliner, eyebrow pencil,  and a long-enough arm to point my camera and you get to meet Ree’s wig.

Ready?

—- Now, go sign that petition, okay?  Ivy deserves it.  —-

My head is ready to explode.  We’re on day seventy-fuckin-eleven thousand of discussing The Process From Hell.  Out of today’s 6 meetings, 4 of them are about things that should have been decided in April.

No. Seriously.  Are you amazed that I haven’t been arrested for murder yet?  I am.   (Mr. Hot is just grateful, because he’s the only one close enough to kill.)

It’s 1:54 pm - late enough to bring the vodka and the ice bucket to my office, dontcha think?

Luckily, between banging my head on my desk, flipping the bird to my phone, and pushing the mute button to scream “ASSHOLE”, I’ve been able to look through my list of new commenters for August.  They’re the only reason I’m still sitting here at my desk - otherwise, I’d be in my car on the way to Chicago to smash some heads together.

So, if you’re on this list - thank you.  You saved some lives today!

• Jason from The Jason Show, is apparently obsessed with belly buttons.  You MUST read his story.
• The Vaguely Vegetarian, Teeni, has beautiful barefoot sandals in her gift shop.  She’s sharing her breast reconstruction in a special series.
• Jenny’s favorite roses are pink.   She also writes and shares her travels with us over here.
• Soleil in her little corner also writes a pregnancy blog!
• Making me hungry every time I stop by, the Skinny Fat Chick is also a book fanatic.  Great book list!
• Karen shares life on the road as a Fab Grandma.   Associated Content thinks she’s fab, too.
• The immortal Claudious at Lucid Reality gives us beautiful stories.
• The Angel Forever is a stay-at-home-mom with two little boys.  And the only one I know whose son asked this question!
• Daisy at Compost Happens talks about weeding, coffee(!), 3 bunnies and 2 kids.  She highlights her creative writing here.
• My neighbor girl Tuli (who I’m demanding be my next blog meet-up) tells us how she picked her “Defective Typewriter” name.
• Morningside Mom Caroline is another liberal mom with my worries.  She wrote a great job description!
• Whiney Momma is a woman after my Pino Grigio-loving heart.  I loved her confessions.
• Now Jenn, on the other hand, hates wine.  But likes green.  And she recently hit 100 posts.
• Fiesty Charlie is an artist on canvas and with words.  She was featured in this amazing book.
• Sally is a great grandmother!  Sharing her 7 things.
• Brie knows Crown Vintage shoes.  Pssssst - I think she makes jewelry.
• Completely unique Melissa wrote her mother a beautiful letter.
• Fishing Around is spending the best years of her life in the middle of nowhere.  #41 here cracked me up!
• New Mexican redhead, Elise, is living an adventure.  And her Etsy shop is going to get me in trouble.
• With an entire category devoted to vaginas, Kim provides laughter along with her delicious recipes.
• FH, the Fashion Hobo rants about fashion, but she has awesome taste in shoes and purses.
• Mel is a new haiku-er.  On a Mission.
• Shopgirl is stalking Playboy bunnies (or being stalked by them?).  Her real name is Jill and her dog is Daisy.
• Curlatini, Esq. is officially Incorporated.  And fully aware of how annoying Admins can be.
• kouji is writing a haiku every day.  This one sings to me.
• I guess I’ll have to believe Elizabeth when she says my cancelled flight isn’t personal.  She can out-run me, but I’m stealing her running playlist.

—- And then there’s Whiney Sooky Laa Laa - who swears she hasn’t commented before and deserves some props.   I say she needs to get way more creative than that.  —-

Y’all know I’m a country-ish type girl, right?  Although my youngest childhood was spent in the city where Dad was a cop, it was only because that city had a residency rule.  As soon as the “city-residency” mandate was changed to “county-residency”, we moved to the county border.

Five acres - enough to have farm animals.  At some time or another, we had everything.  Horses, sheep, goats.  Chickens, geese, ducks.  (Everything except pigs, that is.  No can eat - no will feed.)

The first year after we moved in - Dad decided it was time to raise our own beef.  Oh mah holy hell y’all.

We weren’t completely dimwitted.  I know that’s not the best looking spot for that poor little Angus steer.  It was a temporary holding pen (also known as the chicken coop) while his much larger cohort in crime was being unloaded.   The much larger cohort?  Not shown.  I have no pictures of his mean ass.

Their names?  “Meat and Beef” or “Sooner and Later”.  Take your pick.  (Dad has a morbid sense of humor sometimes.)

We’ll stick with “Later” for this story though.  “Sooner” was in the freezer within a couple of weeks.

Annnnywayyyyy, “Later” and that Pekin duck were only temporary roommates.    Which is a good thing for the duck, because that little black cow was nuts.

For the very short time that he was in our lives, he kept things exciting.  This story centers around the time the vet came out to castrate him and turn him from a full-fledged (albeit young) bull to a steer.   Knowing nothing about large-animal veterinary medicine, Dad called the vet and told him he had an Angus bull that needed to have his balls removed.  (Sorry guys - but I think those were Dad’s exact words.  You can move your hands now.  No really, I promise, your balls are safe.)

An appointment was set up for that week.  The vet would come out and do the deed.  He just asked that, in the interest of saving time, please make sure that “Later” was in the barn.

Now, Dad does nothing half-way.  He figured he’d not only have the cow in the barn, he’d have him completely ready.

Picture this.  Ready?

Our barn wasn’t a big old-fashioned barn.  It was a garage-looking building, made of cinder-blocks, with a center hallway and stalls on either side of that hall.  The rafters were open straight up to the roof (there was no “loft”).

Just before the vet is due to arrive, Dad leads “Later” into that hallway.  He ties a rope around one of that poor cow’s front feet.  He has it in his mind that this cow must be on his back - with his four legs apart - so he’s going to swing that rope over the rafters and then attach it to the other front hoof.   Then he’ll do the same with the back legs.

(Seriously, y’all.  I couldn’t make this up.  Dad grew up in Dearborn - what did he know of castrating cows?)

About this time, “Later” decides he doesn’t like this shit.  Not at all.  He tries to escape.  All 350 pounds on four hooves start bucking and tossing Dad around.   Dad, meanwhile, is trying to throw the rope up over the rafters.  Five minutes go by.  Then ten.

It has now become a battle of two of the most stubborn mammals on earth.   B. taurus versus Dad.  There’s mooing.  There’s cursing.  There’s laughing (my mother… watching the entire thing - I still can’t believe I wasn’t there to witness this fiasco).

Fifteen minutes.

“Later” is having none of it.  He decides to run.  Dad, luckily, has closed the barn door - the door that “Later” decides to plow into anyway - with Dad still attached to the rope.  A little dazed, the baby bull shakes his head - pausing just long enough to allow Dad to toss that line up over the rafters and flip “Later” onto his back.

With a quick tie-off of the other front leg, “Later” is effectively subdued.  A repeat with the back legs and Viola! - easy access to all of the necessary (well, unnecessary, obviously) dangly parts.

Now, you see this in your mind, right?  Three-hundred and fifty pounds of young bull - on his back on a cement floor - legs in the air.  My Dad, dripping sweat and standing over “Later” - grinning and muttering, “Take that motha-fucka“.  My mother - standing inside one of the stalls - doubled-over, clutching her abdomen, snorting with laughter and looking for something to wipe her eyes with.

Okay, that’s the scene that the vet sees when he walks into the barn.

His jaw hits the ground.  “Um…Mr. HotDad?”

Dad looks up.  “Yep, that’s me.  He’s all ready for you.”, he says as he steps back and sweeps his arm towards “Later” as if he’s displaying the grand prize on a game show.

The vet walks over and snips “Later” and helps Dad untie him.

“So, Mr. HotDad - did it take much effort for you to get him into this position?”, the vet inquires.  My mother, standing back, tells the vet the whole story.  By the time she’s finished, the vet has tears streaming down his face.

The vet tells Dad - “Y’know, if you lift a cow’s tail and bend it up over their back, it acts like a saddle block.  We just stand behind them and snip.  As long as they’re in a stall or someone is holding their head, it only takes about 10 seconds start-to-finish.   Just in case you ever get another one of these animals.” 

We never did get to enjoy steaks from “Later”.  He escaped was stolen not long before he was scheduled to meet his maker.  Don’t ever let anyone tell you cows are dumb.

—- In other news, it’s launch day for the new “Blissfully Domestic” - please stop by and see!  It’s a wealth of valuable information for everyone.  I’ll be writing over there about Working from Home in the Family Bliss section, so check in often, eh? —-

I know! You’re wondering, “Where is The Past in Polaroids”?  Well, y’all, I forgot it was Monday.  I was lucky to remember my name after the sucky beer and then Rock Band with Shortman and Mr. Hot.   (Shoot me if I drink fruity beer ever (EVER) again.)

And I have to do the August new commenters.  (Hi y’all!  I haven’t forgotten, promise!)

And show you pictures of my new hair.  (Picked up this morning while massively hung over.)

Shortman starts school tomorrow.  (So do the boys across the street.  Hmmmm.)

We still haven’t heard what’s going on with C (although 24 is over at his house now).

The Blissfully Domestic relaunch (look for my words of wisdom under “Parenting” - although I’m writing about Working from Home) happens tomorrow.

Oh yes, it’s September.   (Sob.)

—- Now, I’m going to answer emails.  It’s going to be an early night tonight. —-

…so far, with my Labor Day weekend.

Friday night?  Grocery shopping.  Can someone please (for gawd’s sake) tell me what it is about standing in a checkout line that causes people to completely forget the personal-fucking-space rule?  Honestly.  I could feel this woman’s hot breath on my neck.

I turned around to see if she was someone I knew, but no.  She did comment, though, “Your cah-art loo-ooks exactly li-ike mi-ine.”  Maybe I was still fuming over the whole ‘dealing with Mr. Hot’s ex-wife’ thing, but this woman talked with that same West-by-gawd-Virginia twang and it went right through my body.

I smiled nicely, and nodded, then went back to watching my groceries going slowly (ever so slowly) down the belt.

As I was putting the wine boxes on the end (yes, boxes, plural, shut up), I backed up a step (a single step!!) and bumped into her.  WTF?  I grabbed the divider and pushed the now-empty cart up to Mr. Hot - waiting patiently to load the reusable, cloth (!! yay us !!) back into it.

I looked at him.  “Was she close enough?”, I asked.  He said, “Not only that, but she kept shooting you some really dirty looks.”  I told him it was because I didn’t take her up on her “best friend” offer.

But hey, I got a pretty new toilet seat for the upstairs bathroom!

Saturday morning, we took Poopy for a walk, dropped him back off at home, and then went for a run around the park. I have no idea how FAR we actually ran, but people. There were hills. THEN, when we finished, Shortman wanted to play tennis.  After he beat me, 7-5 in the first set of the match, I pleaded death - and the imminent arrival of 24 and “C” - meaning I had to get home and make sure my poor attempt at decorating and cleaning was up to the Queer Eye standards.

(Hush up.  I can say that.)

So I fluffed couch cushions and wiped down the kitchen counters.  Mr. Hot decided to install the new toilet seat.  I heard screaming and gnashing of teeth and determined that getting too close was NOT a good idea.  Except that he called me in there.  (Hint.  Getting in the way of an angry male wrestling with a toilet seat?  Consider yourself doomed.)

After a few creative uses of my favorite word (associated with the bolts holding the seat to the toilet), he looked at me.   I made a suggestion about some cap thingies (which, by the way, ended up to be spot on…), and 405 minutes later, the new seat was installed.

Then, I took a shower, put on makeup and my prettiest scarf, and sat down to catch up on the doings of my favorite interwebs peeps.  The door opened, and it was 24.  Alone.  He said something about “B” coming over (Um, B does not equal C, right? I have college degrees, and I think I’m 100% right with that one) and headed down to his room.

Mr. Hot and I looked at each other.  “Who the hell is B?”, I say.  “I was going to ask you the same thing.”, was his response.  We shrugged and I went back to what I was doing.

Mr. Hot yelled downstairs.  “Hey 24, are you on the phone?”  “Yea”  “Well, when you get off the phone, will you come up here?  No big deal.”  

24 comes up the steps.  With the phone plastered to his ear.  “I said, when you’re done on the phone.  It’s no big deal.”

24 goes back down the stairs.

Mr. Hot looks at me.  “I was going to ask him who the fuck is B?”

Of course, 24 didn’t get off the phone until B pulled into the driveway.  They hung around here for a bit, then left for the night.  B had W-b-g-V plates on his car, so at least THAT mystery was solved.

But, no sign of C.  Not yesterday.  Not today.   I should know that whenever I think I’m going to have blog fodder, something throws a wrench in those plans.  (Mixed metaphors much?)

This morning (well, technically, it was morning - it was 10 a.m.), I got out of bed and around noon-ish (heat of the day…stupid right?) played tennis AGAIN.  You would think I actually like sweating, wouldn’t you?  That would be, um, no.  But I like when Shortman wants to leave the computer and get out with his mom - especially with only two more days before school starts…so I caved.

Luckily, this time he pleaded “a rash the size of Texas” from the heat, and again, we called it after a set.

I told him where the medicated powder was.

Mr. Hot and I sat on the deck and drank beer (um, if you can call Michel0b Ultra Pomegranate Raspberry - oh mah holy hell, this stuff sucks - beer).  It’s 61 calories per bottle, that’s why, okay?

Oh, and, um…U of M lost, MSU lost, Eastern won and Marshall won their opening football games of the season.  For those of you who don’t know that I am a HUGE College football fan, that translates to:

Good!
Bad!
Good!
Good!

so I’m at 75% for yesterday.

—- The Michel0b Ultra orange and grapefruit version?  Even worse.  Don’t go there.  And this is why I don’t pretend I have a life.  —-

So glad it’s Friday.
This week’s complaints and whining
Wore me the fuck out.

Unnecessary
though that f-bomb really was
it felt so damn good.

That’s about as much creativity as I have today.  And since I hate to be one of the whiners that wear YOU the {insert gratutious f-bomb here} out, I’m going to try to keep it short.

Mr. Hot’s ex-wife.  Tuition.  Hate.

People. Who. Still. Want. To. Argue. That. Damn. Process. Massive Hatey-hate.

Kid down the street.  New driver.  New-to-him truck.  Fifty miles per hour down our little dirt road.  Hate.

Zits. Wrinkles.  At 45. Double hate.

Okay, short enough?  Now for some good stuff, okay?

…..

……….crickets…….

Oh, wait!  I don’t have to work Monday!  Yay!

And…um….

Eastern Michigan won their football opener last night.  And I was there!

And…sigh…

I really am completely brain dead today.  So, I leave you with this:

more graph humor and song chart memes

—- Oh mah holy hell.  Mr. Hot just informed me that we’re meeting 24’s significant other tomorrow. I guess I’ll have a post for this weekend after all! —-