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.  —-

Yesterday, Scott Kalitta, a Mount Clemens, Michigan native died in a qualifying crash in New Jersey.

Image courtesy of Detroit Free Press

The Hotfessional family’s sympathy goes out to Scott’s wife, Kathy, his sons Corey and Colin, and the Kalitta Motorsports team.

—- Kalitta Motorsports is our local team. Their headquarters is no more than 5 miles down the road. As drag racing fans, we know that these guys put their lives on the line every time they go down the track - for the love of speed and sport. Be safe y’all. —-

Here’s a contest for you to enter. A book. Hot (ha! Hot!) off the presses. Over one-hundred bloggers!

The Cover

{Blush}

Look Mahnee!

Tugging those heart strings as usual

I bought two copies. One to keep and one to give away. None of us made any money on this book - all proceeds from the sale go to Warchild, the international child protection agency for children in war-afflicted countries.

Now for the contest. Between now and June 29th,

1. Post about the book on your site and
2. Link to Peach’s info about the book
3. Send me the link to YOUR post

–OR–

If you don’t have a blog:

1. Send an email to a friend and
2. Copy me on the email (I promise NOT to send your friend nasty notes about you!) at reereep*at*gmail*dot*com
3. Include the link to Peach’s info about the book in your email.

On June 30th, I’ll draw 1 name.

We really want to get the word out about this book - so far, over £800 have been raised (more than $1500 U.S.) !

—- Now, how easy is that? You know it’s a good cause. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll help children! —-

Go here and read.

—- I’ll be back later. —-

Before I go getting serious on y’all, I have to get this out of my system.

To the guy in the Security Line at DTW this morning:

Contrary to what you may believe, attaching yourself to my hip will not make me move faster. I still must take off my shoes, take my laptop out of its case, pull my plastic baggie of liquid-type-shit out of my carryon, and take off my jacket. I can do this in under 30 seconds. I’ve timed myself and I am an expert.

So when you decide that there’s far too much room between me and the person in front of me, nudging me repeatedly will only make life worse for you. Believe me when I say this. And when you decide to cut around me, so you can get through security first? Remember that karma – she is a nasty bitch and will bite your ass.

But I’m sure that having your luggage unpacked and searched was much less delaying than waiting for me to untie my freaking shoe.
Love, and Have a great trip!
The Hotfessional

There was my funny for the day. Oh, there may be some humor-ish-ness in the rest of the post, but for the most part, I just want to tell y’all a little something. So, if you’re looking for snark…it may be buried in here - because I can’t take anything too seriously anymore. If you’re looking for the sexy? Probably not. (Unless you have some interesting ideas of sexy….in which case, I think I love you. Come sit in the corner and we’ll neck.)

Sometime around 1996 or so, Mr. Hot was brushing my very long, very thick hair. I loved the feeling of the brush going through the strands – it was more relaxing than a massage - excellent foreplay– and it was a great prelude to my making him cookies, so he was happy to oblige.

He stopped brushing and said, “Ree, you’ve got a bald spot here,” and rubbed the top left side of my head. “About the size of a quarter.”

I felt it. Yep. Bald. Not just thinning, but smooth as a baby’s ass. I figured it was some weird side-effect of birth control pills or a little too much tension on the curling iron or something. I knew it would grow back. I am hairy.

About a week later, I was tying my shoe at MomandDad’s house. “Ree, you’ve got a bad spot on the top of your head! What happened?”

After assuring them that he and I didn’t play “Caveman”, Mr. Hot told them about the hair brushing, and looked at it himself. “Um, Ree? It’s bigger than it was.”

And so, I made an appointment with a dermatologist.

I was afraid he was going to tell me that I had some incurable cancer of the hair. Or that I had a spider’s nest growing in my scalp. (Hush! It could happen.) Instead, he told me was that I had an auto-immune disorder. Not unlike lupus, or scleroderma, or Hashimoto’s Thyroiditis. My white blood cells decided, for whatever inex-fuckin-plicable reason that they didn’t like my hair cells. (Die! Die hair cells!) My white blood cells decided to become over-achievers.

The treatment for alopecia areata (only sometimes successful, he was careful to point out) was cortisone shots. In my head. Oh mah holy hell, y’all. “I PASS OUT”, I wanted to yell. “You can’t give me injections IN MY HEAD.”

Then he told me I would need to return every.two.weeks. for shots.

And then I died.

Not really, duh. I sucked it up and Dr. Shek (no, not Shrek, but how cool would that have been?) and I became best buds. I cut off all my hair into a really cute little shag, thinking that choppy layers would make the, um, hairless spots, seem less noticeable. (It didn’t.) We had our Tuesday afternoon dates – him and his needles. Me and my tissues. I am proud to say that I never fainted. Not once.

Well meaning co-workers asked if I was going through chemotherapy. I got to the point where I could quote the Wiki version of auto-immune disorders in general, and my disease in particular (and this was before Wiki was invented!). I wanted people to stop feeling sorry for me. I wanted them to stop thinking I was going to, y’know, become deceased.

I wanted people to look at my eyes, not my hair. I wanted my mother to stop asking me if I’d like her to buy me a wig. (Sure, why not. About a $5000, human hair model…like Cher wears…not the synthetic J.C. Penney model you wore in the 60’s though, okay Mom?) I wanted to be able to wash my hair without clogging up the drain and comb it without obsessively checking the number of strands that were in the comb’s teeth.

Eventually, that’s exactly what happened. And eventually I was only seeing my boyfriend - the cute Dr. - every 4 weeks. Then every six weeks. And then, we broke up. It was time for me to see someone else – the guy who cut and styled my hair. It came back in gray. It was curly and kinky and frizzed when it never had before, but it was hair. I hated it. And I loved it.

According to my Wiki version, the active phase of Alopecia Areata is sometimes triggered by stress. Sometimes, there’s no reason for it at all. Shit happens. Some say it’s genetic. Some say if you have relatives with a different auto-immune disorder, you’re more likely to get it. Whatever. All I know is that Shit.Happens.

Ten years later? Shit Happens again. About 3 weeks ago, I was in the shower, and pulled out a clump of hair that could have covered a chihuahua. If you take your index finger and put it on your right temple, draw a line around the back of your head to your left temple, and pull all of that hair straight up? You’ll know where I’m losing it. Heres a picture. Here’s another.

I’ve told my parents that it’s back (Mom is no longer offering wigs). Mr. Hot obviously knows because of the screeching he hears from the shower in the morning. I’ve told my other best friend. Most of the coworkers from 1996 are long gone, and so I have to explain to a whole new group of people. I figured I’d practice on y’all (don’t you feel special?).

I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me - so please don’t make me cry - I spend alot of damn time on my makeup now and I don’t need to spend MORE time fixin’ it. But, if you know of someone that shares my unique ability to lose my hair, do let me know. If you have any questions - let me know. If you just want to go “Damn, girlfriend….” that’s okay, too.

And if you’ve made it this far, I’ll share one more picture with you. This is what happens when you forget to turn off the flash and take a picture in the dirty mirror - but you can see my bellybutton!

—- Okay, so I did give you a little of the sexy - because you listened. —-

as it has the past couple of days, I usually take the easy way out. I do random things, bullet points, memes. I tell you about the excitement I have at the grocery store. I send you to go read other blogs.  Blogs that are more worthy of your time than my weak attempt at humor - or because I think you’re more deserving than another bitch fest - which is what you’re likely to find when I can’t think.

This morning, I woke up and assessed my feelings about the day. Tomorrow, Shortman goes back to school. I “go back to work” (by that, I mean I use this laptop upstairs in my office instead of down here at the kitchen table). Our plans for the day included driving down to Milan Dragway to indulge in Mr. Hot’s passion. (Snirk. No - not that passion. I’m an exhibitionist, but not in front of a bunch of rednecked gearheads and my son. Well, okay, not in front of my son.)

Now, I’m as happy as the next wife and mother to spend quality time with my family on a sunny Sunday morning breathing gas and oil fumes, but as I lay there, thinking about getting up, I glanced at my closet. Full of work office clothes. Pants that had once hung neatly and been sorted by color were mixed in with the shirts. Jackets and skirts that were supposed to be hung together (since they were, y’know, suits?) weren’t. Sweaters that had once been neatly folded and stacked on the shelf were jumbled together and hanging off the edges. Was that the sleeve of the teal cardigan that I hadn’t seen in months?

I realized that this was my opportunity to actually spend some time alone in the house that I’ve owned for two years. For the first time ever. More than the 20 minutes it takes to run out to pick up pizza. Or to take the dog for a walk.

I could send my boys off to the racetrack. I could take my time over coffee and finish my book. I could reorganize my closet and clean my drawers - one of my favorite Spring Cleaning activities. Start the season right. And besides, Mr. Hot had told me at least three times yesterday, “You don’t have to come with me tomorrow. I can go alone, or I’ll take Shortman if he wants to go.”

I thought about it some more. I got out of bed, threw on some pajamas and headed down the stairs. I kissed Mr. Hot and said, “I’m going to stay home today.” He whined. I stood firm. He got himself coffee. I got mine own. He stomped around and went in the other room. I flipped him the bird when he turned the corner. Men can be such babies. (And don’t argue with me Michael, Solomon, Larry, Phil, and whoever else is lurking out there. Y’all can be.)

Shortman woke up, got dressed, and had his bowl of cereal. They left without saying a word to me. (See above. Babies.)

I poured myself another cup of coffee and finished it while I read the last chapters of my book. I went into the living room and straightened up the cushions on the couch and put away the PS2 controllers that were strewn all over. I shook out the afghans that were balled up and draped them artistically (ha!).

All without anyone standing behind me saying, “I just cleaned that up on Friday.”

I swept up the cat hair and the dog hair under the stools in the kitchen.

I walked upstairs and turned on the lights in the bedroom. Turned off the lights and opened up the blinds to let the light in. I opened the window and stuck my nose up to the screen and breathed in the air. Spring.

“Let the closet attack begin”, I thought, sweeping all of the piles from the shelf onto the floor - at my feet. I shoved aside pants and skirts and moved the short sleeved shirts to the front and center.

The wool, lined pants and the blouses got moved to the far reaches. The blazers got grouped by color. The sweaters were folded neatly and moved to the storage closet in the other room. The t-shirts for the weekends in the garden; the t-shirts from a summer of running 5ks; the t-shirts from University of Michigan basketball and Michigan State football replaced them on the shelf.

I thought about a post I want to write someday soon.  How I want to write it with the seriousness that it deserves, and yet the humor that it needs.  I figured out that I need to think about it a bit more, but that I’m close to beginning.

After the closet was finished, I moved onto my dresser drawers. Workout clothing was re-folded; I am more motivated when I have only to reach in and grab shorts and a top; when I don’t have to search through piles to find the right bra for the level of intensity I’m anticipating.  Socks were separated. (Which is as close to folding them as I will ever get.  I do not fold socks.)

My summer clothes - buried under other things that I’ve shoved on top of them - make me remember that I’ll soon be throwing on shorts and grabbing one of those t-shirts that I’ve folded to get down to the seriousness of the day. Whether it’s work related, or digging out in the yard - I’ll be able to bare my legs and my shoulders - feel the sunshine and see, finally, the grass greening and the bright yellows and purples of my perennial bed.

And as I close the last drawer, I hear the dog woof and whine. He recognizes the car pulling into the driveway - and a couple of minutes later, I hear Mr. Hot climbing the stairs. He walks in, smiles, and shows me the video he made of the bright red and white Charger, tearing down the quarter-mile track. He gives me a kiss. I know he’s realized that he came home to a wife that needed some quiet - while he needed some noise. And we’ll both be nicer to each other this afternoon.

—- And funny will be back soon because of that quiet - peace makes me appreciate the humor in everyday events. —-

Seems like I’ve gotten in a hockey groove here. Last night, we went to a University of Michigan hockey game (the tickets were one of Shortman’s Christmas presents). We watched them play Northern Michigan. (Tied, 3-3 in case you’re the least bit interested.) Y’know, NMU is where they have to snowshoe to class. Snowshoe, y’all?! I’d have never made it to a single freakin’ class. I barely made it to classes in my own dorm when I had to get out of bed at 10 a.m.

Tonight, we watched Slapshot. And now, Mr. Hot has the Maple Leafs on. Sigh. I’ve discovered that there’s a huge difference between watching men playing hockey with their baggy shorts and watching football. I love a man’s butt in football pants. I love a man’s butt in a pair of Levi’s. I love a man’s butt in a suit. A dark suit with a white shirt. And a red tie. ummmmmm. Sigh.

Annnnyyyyywaaaayyyy.

I saw one of my clients at the game last night. Well, one of my ex-clients. Since they were sold, this guy was told that he’s losing his job as of February 29th. (Do you think he should be grateful that it’s a Leap Year?) He was there with his two sons, who were very polite and shook my hand when introduced. They’re young. One is a sophomore in High School. The other is in 7th grade. I wondered, as I went back to my seat and sat down, about what he’ll do. He’s an intelligent man; he knows his line of business. Unfortunately, that business is going down the freakin’ tubes. I know his wife works - she’s in marketing - but I also know where he lives - and y’all? Ex-pen-sive homes. He bought a boat last year - I remember him telling me all about it.

I’m more concerned about my staff, my clients, and my friends than I am about myself in this horrible economy. I have skills that are, unfortunately, a good thing in these times. I have experience with outsourcing. I have restructured and reorganized and merged. I have been through downsizing. I’m an officer of a major organization and have a severance package that is lucrative, relatively speaking.

My staff get paid well. Many of them actually make more than me. (That’s what happens when you have to hire people during the I.T. boom of the early 90’s. You pay what it takes to get them, even if it means paying more than you make yourself, with years of experience.) But I also know that they’re living in the McMansion houses and driving expensive cars. They have young families. They have big families.

I don’t live beyond my means. My only debt is my mortgage. I lease my car, and although there would be a big penalty if I needed to turn it in early, I won’t need to. I have no credit card debt. Our other vehicle is paid off and in good running condition. I live in an area where taxes are reasonable. We used Mr. Hot’s early retirement payout to fund Shortman’s college account. As long as he doesn’t go to Harvard (ehem, like that’s even a remote possibility - snort.) - I’m not worried about that either.

Since Mr. Hot has been a stay-at-home-dad for 11 years, I’ve been able to take on tasks that involve travel and long hours. I’ve learned a lot about the business world. I am, if I do say so myself, damned good at what I do. And I’m lucky enough to have worked for people who recognize that. They’ve rewarded me by giving me ample opportunity to challenge myself and succeed.

I know this all seems to be rambling. I read and I cut and paste and try to organize these thoughts. But tonight, it’s just spilling out.

I’m not a political person. I tend to zone out when Mr. Hot starts spouting about what this candidate did, or that candidate said. I have too much else to think about. I don’t have time to study the positions or to hear the latest media shit. But I think I have to start paying attention.

Two days after the 2004 presidential election, I was boarding a plane home from London. I’d spent 8 days in India touring our outsourcing partner’s locations. The flight was empty. London to Detroit. Early afternoon flight. Where were all of the business travelers?

“Is this flight always this empty?” I asked the British Airways flight attendant.

“We think all of the Americans stayed home this week to vote.” , he responded.

I laughed. “And I was going to ask if I could just stay here”, I said back, thinking of how we had another 4 years of George W. Bush ahead of us. I thought the man was an idiot, even then, even now, even back when we were all looking for a leader after September 11th. I had stood in an Indian city, watching the returns of the election, thinking, “How did this happen?”

“Oh, miss”, says the BA flight attendant - in his very proper English accent, “We were told not to discuss the Presidential election with the Americans.” He smiles at me. I cringe. What have we done? What does the rest of the world think of us?

And this Tuesday is now “Super Duper Tuesday”. One-half of the electoral college votes will be decided this week. If your state is voting this week, think about the people. Think about those people who are going without health care. Who are going without jobs and are on the streets. Who can’t afford to feed their children or to send them to school.

Think about what we need, as a nation. Think about bringing our young men home from an unnecessary war. Think about the rights we have long cherished. The right to choose. The right to love. The right to speak what we believe.

—- Hockey, football, baseball. Fun and games. Our future? Our children’s future? What about their children? As many a Mom has said, “It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt.” —-