He Cowboys Up, Cupcakes

Man. It is freakin' hard to take a picture of your own body. Well, it is for me because I really don't know anything about photography. I am not bragging, just telling you the sad truth. I suppose I could learn but then I'd never get that baby quilt done.

BUT- the reason you see those pathetic pictures of my pathetic poison ivy is because when I asked Mr. Moon if I could take a picture of HIS poison ivy he said, "NO! You are not putting a picture of these ugly arms on your blog!"
Well, okay.

Those tiny bits of rash I have there on my arm and hand?
They are driving me insane.
I've been scratching myself bloody. All day yesterday Lily kept saying, "Stop it, Mama! You're going to hurt yourself!"
"But it just feels so good," I'd say, scratching away in ecstasy.

And I don't know why, but more and more poison ivy keeps popping out on me and I have not been out working in the yard in days. This is how it works with me- exposure, rash, days pass, more rash, then more. I have no idea why. I used to believe quite firmly (because it is the medical opinion) that only the places exposed to the oils of the plants would break out. This must be untrue.

But really, I didn't come here to talk about my rash. I came to talk about Mr. Moon's rash which has covered and I mean COVERED both of his arms. And it itches. And it oozes. He had to wear long sleeves to bed and still, there is ooze down to the mattress pad. Can you imagine? If that rash were on my arms, I would be soaking in a cold bath of baking soda with a bottle of vodka, screaming in agony. I would consider cutting those arms off.

But Mr. Moon?

He says, "I'm all right," through gritted teeth, as his eyeballs pop out of his head. "No, really, I'm fine," he says, as he mops up the ooze with one handful of paper towels after another.

He hadn't slept in days until last night. When he got home from the auto auction I gave him two Benadryls and he made a drink. When I got home from the baby shower, he had a smile on his face and was nodding off every few seconds. Bless his heart.

And today, after going through his closet to try and find a shirt that would cover his arms but camouflage the ooze, he did go to the doctor. He didn't have an appointment, just went and sat in the office. I'm sure he showed the receptionist his arms and boy, did she get him in there fast. The doctor prescribed a course of steroids and he's going to take it which just goes to show how desperate he really is. Because he, like me, avoids going to the doctor and taking medications unless it is so absolutely necessary that there is almost no other option.

I'm proud of him for going. And I know he has been suffering far more than he's let on. I tell you what- my husband is no wussie. He's no baby, either. He's a MAN! Pronounced MayAN, like Muddy Waters does when he sings Mannish Boy. When he says

I'm a man
I spell mmm, aaa child, nnn
That represents man
No B, O child, Y¹
That mean mannish boy
I'm a man
I'm a full grown man
I'm a man

Of course, Muddy goes on to brag about the way he can love a woman (in five minutes time and yes, that can be a man) and how he's a natural born lovers man and a hootchie cootchie man and so forth, and yes, Mr. Moon can be all of that, too, but mostly Mr. Moon is a big, strong man who can bear a lot of weight on his shoulders, who can take the most agonizing rash I've ever seen and not complain, who can put up with me and my craziness and thank me for cooking his grouper so nicely.

And really, that's all I wanted to say today. I wanted to say that once again, I have seen my husband be stronger than I could ever imagine and once again, I am in awe of him.

I also want to say that my chicken, Red, is the world's best grape grabber and will also delicately peck the mosquitoes off my leg.
Now that's a chicken. That's a real chicken.

I'm so lucky. I have a real man and a real chicken.

Damn, my life is good.