Just Call Me Benedict

In 1992, I moved back to Michigan from West By-Gawd Virginia. Brought Mr. Hot and Shortman with me. We arrived on an August afternoon; the sun was shining, the birds were singing, the mosquitos were biting. (Like, immediately, we were covered. WTF?)

I remember settling in at MomandDads while we looked for someplace to call our own. Mr. Hot had an idea.

Him: “Let’s go look around in Ann Arbor!”
Me: “Why would I want to live in Ann Arbor?”
Him: “College town. University of Michigan. The BIG House.”
Me: “So, what part of ‘I went to Michigan State’ did you miss during our brief but oh-so-wonderful courtship?”
Him: “I know, but it’s not like you graduated from there.”

Oh my holy hell. Stop the presses. The man almost died at that point.

(Oh, and by the way, thank you U.S. government for refusing to grant me any more student loans after my freshman year.)

I kindly and respectfully reminded him that I feel much the same way about “M Go Blow” as he does about the West Virginia University “MountainQueers”. After he recovered from the many blows to the head, he apologized.

Him: “Um, can we at least go take pictures for my brother? And maybe pick him up a t-shirt or something? You know he’s a huge Wolverine fan.”
Me (feeling just a bit guilty because, y’know, he did have to move to the Midwest): “Yea, sure. We can go walk around town. Take pictures. They’ve got some great used bookstores.”

And so we did. We walked around, looked at the buildings, visited the Natural History Museum, and bought little bro a t-shirt. I thought we were done. For-Ever. Well, I was mistaken. (Huh. Who would have thought?)

We went back to walk around campus on September 19, 1992. Why? It was the morning of the first home football game of the season. We watched the band march from the practice field to the stadium. Mr. Hot took rolls and rolls of film. I puked in the back of my mouth. But, I love him. And it wasn’t like I was going to have to set foot in the stadium. That, truly, would be over my his dead body.

[--- Fast Forward 15 years ---]
Did I mention about how last year I moved out to the Ann Arbor area to take this great new position? (And no, for those of you who are curious, I DO NOT have an Ann Arbor mailing address. Uh uh. No way. )

So, tomorrow? Where will I be? At The Big House. For the home opener against Appalachian State. I have succumbed people. Maybe it’s because I actually attend classes at U of M. Maybe because I’ve bought into the hoopla and the hype that is Michigan football. Maybe because it’s going to be a beautiful beginning of Autumn day and there is nothing like the first college football game of the season.

Or maybe it’s because Mr. Hot and Shortman begged me and? I got no balls where those two are concerned. They went last year and I stayed home. This year they want me to go, too. So I’m going.

But y’know what? Here’s where I’ll be some other Saturdays this fall:

Michigan State vs. Bowling Green
Michigan State vs. Pittsburgh
Michigan State vs. Northwestern
Michigan State vs. Indiana
Michigan State vs. Michigan
Michigan State vs. Penn State
Eastern Michigan vs. Western Michigan
Eastern Michigan vs. Bowling Green
Yep. Bleeding Green and White. With seasons tickets to MSU and a couple of filler games for Eastern. Now, if only my beloved Marshall hadn’t left the Mid-American conference.

---- I’m seriously thinking about getting this shirt since it’s a line from my favorite movie. and because, y’know, it would be just soooo wrong to wear it to the grocery store next week! [cue evil laughter] ----

Love, Forty-four

I’m a fairly competitive person. (Okay, so that’s an understatement). Athletically inclined? Oh Hell No. While I was growing up out in the sticks, I rode horses and did some running, but I was never involved in actual team sports. I loved volleyball and tennis, but since I was the oldest and my parents both worked, I never participated in anything while I was in school.

At Michigan State, I played on an intramural volleyball team. One of the girls called me after the season ended and asked if they could borrow my shirt for a tournament they were going to play in (um, obviously, I wasn’t asked to actually play in the tournament with them…..). I never saw my shirt again. I think I once subbed in a softball game for my dorm.

After I left State, my athleticism was limited to skiing. Which? You all? I hate the freakin’ cold. Hate. With all my might. Every fiber of my heat-and-humidity-loving being. Cold weather is good for one thing. Cuddling on the couch with hot chocolate (peppermint schnapps optional), a really good book, a soft blanket. Mr. Hot next to me watching football. Because isn’t that what winter is all about?

Then…I had Shortman. Soccer at 4. Baseball at 5. Football at 9. The only reason he didn’t get into hockey? I put my foot down. I was not (no way, uh-uh) going to cart his butt over to the ice (people, ice! doesn't that say it all?) arena and sit in a freezer for practice and games.

Aaaaannyway. (I know, I’m doing it again) – Mr. Hot and I coached soccer. For the first year or two, it was fine because we actually were more coordinated than the kids. After that, we decided that if we were going to coach, we better be able to play. (Stop. Laughing. Shush!)

I played soccer, competitively, for the next 8 years. Gave it up when we moved here, because I couldn’t find an Over-30 team. There’s a big effin’ difference between playing people against people who are over 30 and playing people who are over 25. Twenty-five year olds? Run like the wind. They grew UP with soccer balls. I never kicked one until I was 32.

I know, you’re wondering where I’m going with all of this. Competition. Athletics. Remember? Snort.

Off and on over the past 16 years, Mr. Hot and I get out and play tennis. He’s really good. Me? Not so much. Yesterday, we decided to go play a couple of sets. The last time I actually beat him? I was 5 months pregnant. It was 1991. I think he had the flu or ebola or something.

Last night? At one point, I actually used the excuse (as the ball went past my racquet for the third or fourth time), “It’s the bifocals. I know I’m keeping my eye on the ball, but when you hit into my bifocal spot, it’s not there!” Apparently, his bifocals don’t have the same ability to change physical laws.

Does it bother my competitive nature that I cannot, for the life of me, beat this man playing tennis? Sure. Do I celebrate each time I manage to hit a drop shot that he just can’t reach? Abso-fuckin-lutely. Do I love that he plays against me like a true opponent? More than anything else. I never want to be given anything that I haven’t earned. In life or in my career.

---- I collapsed to the court after my overhead smash hit directly into the damn net. He said “Hotfessional, here’s your ass.” And handed it to me. On a silver Wimbledon platter. 6-0, 6-1. (I only won that one game because I made him play left-handed.) ----

Come to My Window

You all? Sorry about not posting yesterday, but y'know work? Was busy. Going all Big Brother-ish on my staff. (Kidding! I've never even seen Big Brother. So I can only guess that it was something like what I was doing. Y'know, checking up on them and shit.)

Seriously - they asked me to put together their vacation days taken vs. left...since the group is smaller now, a lot of the priority days - like Christmas and the day after Thanksgiving have opened up. Ha! They think they're getting those days off? Power, thy name is Hotfessional. Snort.

When I ran my department like the dictator than I am managed 40 employees, I had to determine what the vacation policy was going to be. There's one in the employee handbook, but the key line there is "Or at Manager's discretion." Discretion? Me? Huh?

Here's my policy. For the first month of the year, we follow seniority. If you get 4 weeks of vacation, and you can plan out your vacation for the year, and you have the most seniority? GOLDEN. You get what you want. But (there's always one, right?), if you don't submit your vacation by January 31.....it's first come, first served.

(Hey, I was low man on the totem pole for a lonnnng time. I always thought it unfair that I couldn't get Thanksgiving Friday, even if no one else asked for it until October. So, y'know. January 31st guys. Or you're s.o.l. and your s.o. is pissed because s/he made plans to go to their mother's for dinner and it's in Timbuktu, and how are you going to get back for work on Friday????)

Annnnyway. I do so get off track. Oops.

Seniority rules for January. Then, 1st come, 1st served. But, what happens when half of those people who were here when the calendar got created are gone? Things get fucked up. And have to be recalibrated. But hey - I moved UP two spots. Snort.

So, anyway, I spent part of the day doing that - which was not easy considered we have 3 or 4 different tracking mechanisms, and we've all changed cost centers three times this year, and the most reliable system only reports in Sunday to Saturday weeks, not individual days.

And the other parts of the day? Conference calls and requirements meetings. But these guys came to visit:

Ever wonder what the underside of a grasshopper looked like?
Sorry about the quality (or lack thereof...camera phone y'know.)

The goose, I'm sure, is thinking, "Dinner!" Yum, now, come follow me my little six-footed friend...."

And already this morning some sort of buzzard flew overhead. (No, it was not anyone I knew).

I do love being in the office early though. And before everyone else is here. I get to sip my coffee, watch the wildlife wake up, and plan my strategy for the day.


---- And no, said strategy generally doesn't involve torturing employees. Actually, they rather like me. I'm a softie when it comes to those of us who are left here. We've survived some tough times together. And y'know? I cook Thanksgiving dinner. I don't need Friday off. ----

Splat & The Randomness That is Monday

Today was my buddy Cupcake's first day of school. I can't wait to hear her tales. Especially since I've been seriously considering getting a teaching certificate after this transition is over and I get my ass unemployed I hang up my Hotfessional hat. If I can piss off an entire classroom of teenagers the way I can piss off Shortman in our kitchen?!? How cool would that be? Besides, there ought to be some reward for minoring in math.

---

I forgot how much I love Fresca. Remember Fresca? It comes in flavors now, too. The Black Cherry Citrus is my favorite. Unfortunately, no Fresca in the vending machine, only Diet Squirt. Diet Squirt, however, tastes like butt. Well? It does. Fizzy butt. Ugh.

---

When you're drinking Diet Squirt, because, you know, no Fresca? And taking Spironolactone because your gynecologist gave you a prescription after you complained about Oh.My.God.The.Perimenopausal.Bloating. Which is a constant....My pants never fit except when I'm ON my period....how much fun is that? Oh, wait. That's every 14 days, by the way. Yea, Mr. Hot loves it too. Aaaaaaanywaaayyyy. Spironolactone? = PEE. Lots. I'm wearing a path from my office to the bathroom. Other people are beginning to talk, I know.

---

By the way, I hate the toilets that flush themselves. Because? They don't. At least not in our building.

---

Susie Sunshine has not posted in far too long. Although her Anna Ikea post lifted my spirits a bit, I miss her. I want to hear about her new job. (hint, hint those of you that know Susie!) She's actually one of the reasons I have a blog. Some gardener site I was reading pointed to one of her posts, and I sat, transfixed and laughing like a fiend. I followed her links over to Jennsylvania, and Miss Doxie, and then, because I have delusions of grandeur, I decided to join the crowd. I was never a popular girl. I need a lot of validation. Why do I have these delusions then, you may ask? Because I also lie to myself often. (snort - and I laugh at my own jokes!)

---

My 18-month old plasma television broke while I was in Chicago. Yes, it was 42", and beautiful and a special treat for the Hotfessional family because we bought it instead of going on a vacation to someplace warm and luxurious. We figured the television would last longer than the memories of a week in the Bahamas. Um. Again. Wrong. So fucking wrong. It had been behaving a bit funny for about a month, but I never imagined that I would get a phone call from Shortman saying "The TV looks like someone shot a red paintball through it and it splattered on the screen."
Yea, something like that apparently. Behold. I pull out the receipt with the additional THREE YEAR EXTENDED WARRANTY. Vengeance is mine! And they're actually honoring it. Some guys came over the other day and picked it up to take it to their shop. They said they'd call with the diagnosis on Friday. Okay, so they didn't call until Monday, but they called. And said it would take a couple more days to get the digital board that it needs. Then they'll bring it back. (They will, won't they? And I won't have to write a big check?)

But you know the sweetest thing? Every morning, Mr. Hot brings me a carafe of coffee and I sit in the bedroom and drink it down and watch Infomercials the news. (Yes, I need the entire carafe before I can face myself in the mirror). This morning, I got out of the shower, poured my first cup, glanced at the dresser where the bedroom TV usually sits (it's now down where the broken [sob] one was). Shrug. Okay, so I miss my Bun & Thigh Roller fix for the day, no biggie. I read instead.

When Mr. Hot heard the undie drawer slide open, he came in and gasped. (No, it was not my nekkid ass that made him gasp, thank you very much!). "You didn't have the tv this morning!" I assured him that it had been fine. I drank my coffee and read and I could focus well enough to not shove the mascara wand into my eye.

That wonderful man, (who obviously wants something.....possibly sex), offered to carry the television upstairs the next two mornings and then back down after I leave for work so that it's there in the evenings. Fourteen stairs, y'all. Uphill. Can you believe it? I honestly sometimes don't know what I did to deserve him. (Yea, he definitely wants sex. And maybe will get it.)

---

The race that we were going to on Saturday got rescheduled for September 22nd. If you're a gambler? Bet rain. I'm just thinkin' here.

---

I realized that August 24th would have been my 22nd anniversary if I'd have stayed married to Practice that was husband #1. I was a baby. There would have been no Mr. Hot, and no Shortman. I'm so glad I grew up.

---

I also think that Helen of I Forgot Where I Was Going With This is super special sweet. And so is Mouse. And I have to apologize to Mouse because I had a typo in her URL before I updated my links this weekend. Mouse, I sorry. And Mom On The Rise told me she loved my blog!

Because that delusions of grandeur thing? Comes with low self esteem. I am a walking anomaly.

---

And, simply to bring this full circle. Because Cupcake asked:

Which of the Seven Deadly Sins are you? Lust Click Here to Take This Quiz

Quizzes and Personality Tests

---- Hmmmmm. Apparently Mr. Hot rigged the test. ----

Hotfessional Lust

As promised, although a week late - my favorite Hotties have been updated. Take a look.

If you link to me and I missed you, or you know someone I missed, let me know. I love my commenters and want them to get the recognition they deserve.

And the others? Well, I just lust after them and their blogs. So they're stuck with me!

What? You think they'll get a restraining order?

OMG - Snort!

Back later. Working on promised link updates. Took a break and found this.

It's Like a Law or Something....

Three tickets for International HotRod Association Tickets (IHRA) = Rain.All.Effin.Day.

Let's take a journey back - Michigan International Speedway for the Indy Racing League's Firestone 400. Rain. Five hour delay.

Last weekend's NASCAR race. Cancelled. Two days in a row. The day I leave for Chicago, the race starts four hours late. Shortman and Mr. Hot sent me pictures.

Today? Planned for leaving at 10 this morning, picnicing and enjoying being outside. People watching (always fun at these things, and usually good for a story or two). Instead, they're downstairs playing PS2 Drag Racing, and I'm sitting up here watching black clouds stream by and listening to the grass grow.

Mr. Hot blames the Ann Arbor News. It hasn't stopped raining since they ran a story about local farmers and the drought. Don't get me wrong. I love me some fresh fruits and veggies. I've spent a fortune on flowers and landscaping and hate to see everything brown and dried up. But why can't it rain on the weekdays. Weekends for Hotfessionals are supposed to be sunny and rainbows and unicorns and kittens. NOT frogs and watersnakes.

Shortman goes back to school in less than two weeks. He's fifteen and there aren't that many more opportunities to have him hang around with his old fart parents.

---- I'm growing moss on my north side. ----

Snnrrskkkkxxxx

Tired. So very, very tired.

After my adventures yesterday trying to get back to Michigan, I finally fell asleep around midnight.

At 3:38 a.m., I sat straight up in a complete panic because I knew I had overslept and missed the 7:15 flight.

At 4 a.m., I woke up and checked my clock.

At 4:24 a.m., I woke up and checked my clock.

At 4:38 a.m., I woke up and checked my clock. And decided there was no good reason to try to stay in bed for another 12 minutes, because, if I did? Sure as shit, I would have slept through the alarm.

I made it to O'Horror O'Hare by 6:10, and had a gigantic cup of coffee. Apparently, they had started cancelling flights yesterday at 4 p.m. and had rerouted a bunch of people. There were seventeen names on the standby list. I think they all got on the flight.

More tomorrow. I'm too tired to think today.

---- And I got my upgrade. I didn't even have to dance naked. ----

Can't Eighty-Mile-An-Hour Gusts be Great Tailwinds?

Oh my holy hell people. So, I knew there would be tales to be told today. I knew. But, y'know those shirts "I Am So Blogging This"? Yea. That would be me.

I posted the earlier entry just before I left for O'Hare. I packed up my bags, shut down the computer, and left "the closet". Decided to stop on the floor to say bye to some people. That was when I heard that there were tornado warnings for Chicago. Not watches. WARNINGS. Meaning, "Get thee to the cellar Dorothy, the cows are gonna be a-flyin."

So, what do we do? We go stand by the windows on the 18th floor to see if we can actually sight the funnel. (Well, what do you expect when a bunch of geeks hear that there's a tornado on the way?)

After we see the Chicago Sun-Times box fly by .... (kidding, but there was something that shouldn't have been up 18 floors whizzing through the air), I went back to check my flight status. Still scheduled for 7:23 p.m.

Then I called the travel agent. She confirmed that it wasn't just a slow update...the flight was still scheduled for 7:23. It was about 4 o'clock. I was on the fence, but figured that I'd check on the status of the next day's flights anyway. "Joyce" told me that the first flight with available seats was 9:50 PM (yes, PM) Friday night. Well, that would put me home sometime Saturday morning. Damn.

She kindly (seriously, she was very helpful, I need to send her a card) informed me that I wouldn't get a flight credit if I changed this flight because I had already checked in. Being the corporately responsible Hotfessional that I am, I told her I'd go ahead and head out to O'Horror O'Hare and take the chance that I'd actually make it home. I said my goodbyes, and headed out. The guys laughed. Evil-like. I so owe them.

Now - one thing that I've learned. Cab drivers in Chicago? Are masochistic sons of bitches. Or are they sadists? Anyway - they do 70 for 200 yards, then screech to a halt because of the flippin' traffic jam in front of them. Over and over again. For 20 miles. To see me turn an extremely appealing shade of puce. I travelled in India. Never got carsick. In Chicago? Every time I plant my ass in the backseat of a cab. So, I'll get in a cab long enough to go from the office to the Blue Line. No more. It's five or six blocks. Then, it's 50 minutes on the train to O'Hare.

So, I get in the cab. "Washington & Dearborn please." Five dollars later, I'm standing at the entrance to the Blue Line. A woman looks at me, looks at my suitcase and says "No northbound trains."

O'Hare? North. Fuck.

I had just gotten out of the cab. Apparently, the only cab that was available. In the entire freakin' city.

I tried to hail a new cab for 15 minutes. Along with every other person in the Loop. Then I decided to go ahead down to the station to see if anything had improved. Asked the CTA representative, "Is the line to O'Hare running?". "Oh yea", was his answer. I looked at my watch. I still had 3 hours before the flight was scheduled to leave. I'm cool. Like a popsicle.

Thirty minutes later, there's still no train. Then I hear the announcement. "Track damage has shut down all but one track for the Blue Line. Trains are running with significant delays." Another passenger walks by. He says, "They said that it may be an hour before a train even gets here, and then who knows how long delays will be on the trip."

Sigh. Heavy Fucking Sigh.

I heave my suitcase back UP the stairs and try again to get a cab. I figure, I only have $20 cash on me, but I'll bribe the guy to stop at an ATM. Surely a Chicago cabbie can be had for an extra tenner?

I finally get a cab to stop. He rolls down the window and as I'm waiting for the trunk to open says, "Where are you headed?" (This shows you how gullible I really am - [sob]) I say, "O'Hare." Next thing I know, I'm standing there looking at skidmarks where the cab was. And it's raining again.

(You guys? A $35 fare to O'Hare from the Loop? Spare change. When it's raining and the trains aren't running, these guys can make triple that in the same time just taking people on $5 and $10 fares around town. They don't want to waste their time going to the airport. And the sad thing? I KNOW THIS. I've been here in blizzards. They see a suitcase? They're not interested. Unfortunately, I was too busy screaming "BAAASSTTTAARRRD" after his exhaust pipe to catch his cab number.)

Now I'm screwed. I have no train. I have no cab. It's 2 hours until scheduled departure. I call Joyce back.

"Joyce, it's the Hotfessional. I really need your help. The Blue Line isn't running. I can't get a cab willing to go to O'Hare. Can you get me Boston Coach?" (B.C. is a car service that we use for clients. I figure it'll still be cheaper than me rescheduling a flight and staying another night. See, good corporate citizen. Told ya.)

Joyce got Boston Coach on the line. Asked me where I was (33 North Dearborn Building for those of you who may know the area). Then she said "Oh. Wait. Your flight has been delayed until 8:40 pm."

Well, that's only 70 minutes late. Not a big deal. Really. Chump change in the Chicago<->Detroit commute.

Joyce goes back to arranging my transportation. She comes back on the line. "Hotfessional? Flight 2360 has been delayed until 9:20 pm".

At this point, I'm still under the impression that I can't get another flight out until 10 pm the next night. But, y'know? A two hour delay? That really sucks. So I ask her, "Can you find out if they have any rooms available at the PreferredHotelThatICan'tName? If I can't get on a flight, I'll just have Mr. Hot come get me or I'll rent a car and drive the 5 hours home."

She said she could get me a room. And! There's a seat on the 7:15 a.m. flight. Should she book it?

Um, yes. She should book it. And she should tell the pilot that I'll dance naked for him if I can get an upgrade, too.

Then, the phone calls start. First to Mr. Hot. "My flight is delayed at least two and a half hours. I can get a room tonight AND be out on the first flight in the morning. I'm going to rebook my flight. I'll be home in the morning."

He understood. He knows I'm a bitch if I sit in the airport eating Cinnabons and drinking too much Starbucks. Too much caffeine and 297,300 calories of gooey mess = BITCH. AND A SIDE OF ATTITUDE.

Then I called one of my 14 ex-bosses who is flying back to New York tomorrow. "Have you gone to dinner yet? I'm stuck here. I'll meet you."

He named a restaurant that (thankfully) was within walking distance of the PreferredHotelThatCan'tBeNamed. I beat him there. Ordered a vodka/cranberry and heard my Blackberry buzz.

"americanairlinesflightnotification: Flight 2360 ORD DTW Scheduled Depart 7:23 pm Gate K3 Arrive 9:35 pm Gate B CANCELLED"

Cancelled! Y'all. I made the right decision. The freakin' cab driver saved me. The tree trunks that fell across the Blue Line tracks? Got me a salmon dinner and two glasses of Pinot Grigio. I would have been sitting at O'Hare, with nothing to eat, and nothing to drink, waiting for a flight out in the morning. Instead? I'm blogging. And drinking a mini-bar bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. (Probably $20 added onto my over-priced hotel room, but who give a shit right now? Corporate-fucking-responsibility can be so overrated).

---- It's still raining. But, free internet. And wine. And Law & Order SVU. But no Mr. Hot. Or Poopy Puppy. A 4:30 a.m. wake up call. But no crowds trying to sleep in the airport. Mixed blessings. ----

Heading to the Airport

If past experience is any indication, I will have something to post while I'm waiting for the plane. Until then:

What candy are you? JellyBean You're unpredictable and multifaceted, thats what makes you interesting. Click Here to Take This Quiz

Quizzes and Personality Tests

---- Hmmmmm. But I hate jellybeans! ----

Closetphobia - Thinking Inside the Box

On May 17th, I posted this. The boxes I packed? Are still here:

because I don't have an office here in Chicago. Anymore.

Apparently, when the facilities group decided to restructure my old floor, they hadn't laid out where my new office would be. (Sigh.)

And then, a moratorium was put on any new office moves. In order to save money. (Um? Employee facilities personnel moving boxes from one office to another? How much can that cost? Or, wait! It must be the unplugging of the phone from Jack "A" and plugging it into Jack "B" that costs so much.)

And then, the new buyer came in and took over all of the empty office space to do their assessments and house their executives. So, I'm squatting sitting in a closet:

No windows. Can't lock the door (or any drawers). Each time I've been back since May 17, my chair and phone headset have been gone.

I don't know about you all, but I keep some personal stuff in my office. You know - tampons, makeup, toothpaste/toothbrush, vibrator personal massager. With FAA regulations, it's a pain in the ass to cart that shit back and forth when I'm here so often. The one time in the past 8 years that I've checked luggage for a domestic flight? And I checked in 2 hours early? Of course. I made it. My clothing stayed in Detroit.

So, does it make me nervous that 3 months have past and these boxes are still sitting out here in what is, essentially, an open closet in an unsecured hallway? Um. Duh. But you know what? It serves them right if they go snooping around. I think that maybe I should add a pair of crotchless panties and fishnet stockings.

No one has lifted my Mardi Gras beads yet.

---- And I'm seriously considering putting this out as my new nameplate. ----

The Best Laid Plans

Rain. It doesn't rain all freakin' summer and then the weekend that we actually have plans? God says "Let the sky open up and oceans fall". We were going to go to the NASCAR race yesterday. For the first time in 30 years, it was postponed - until today.

I sent a message to my boss. Told him I was going to take a vacation day to go to the race on Monday.

This morning I sent him a note that said "Never mind." I've decided I'll work from home - and if we get a window to scoot over to the track - at least I'll be here. The mud is sliding down our road though. I can't even imagine what the campgrounds and parking areas look like. When we were there for the IRL race a couple of weeks ago, it was a sea of mud after about 3 hours of rain. It's been raining here for almost 3 days now.

And so, I'm working from home. For those of you that do this on a regular basis, how do you shut out all other distractions (i.e. husband listening to BBC online while sitting behind you? or teenager out of school for the summer playing World of Warcraft?) Do you have your own office? I can usually do okay for some period of time, but then I start getting that "on edge" feeling. Like I want to yell "Look, there's a reason I go to the office every day....I need some time alone!"

It's raining harder. Mr. Hot is carrying on a conversation with the BBC presenters. Luckily, it's far too early for Shortman to be awake. I can feel my teeth starting to clench. I have to pack - it's back to Chicago tomorrow. This is a sad little post. Maybe I'll have something to write about later. Or tomorrow.

Underground Silence

As the granddaughter of a Pennsylvania coal miner, my heart goes out to the families in Utah. The families of the miners. The families of those who gave their lives trying to rescue the others.

---- May God watch over your souls. ----

Not Everyone Can Be Me

I walked out onto the deck last night, with the Poopy Puppy trying to follow on my heels, as usual. Instead, I body blocked him. Sliding open the doorwall (excuse me, those of you who don't live in Michigan....are you familiar with the term doorwall?), I caught the distinct aroma of Monsieur Pepe LePew.

The dog? And the skunk? Reminded me of a particular work day from last fall. Let me tell you about it. (Because I just know that the crap that happens to me stops you from thinking about the crap that happens to you. And I'm nice that way.)

One of the things you get to do as a financial business Hotfessional is speak in front of groups. It may surprise you that this doesn't bother me. I know that some people would rather tell their father about their first sexual experience or lick the underside of a car than stand up in front of 100 people, but me? Not a problem.

(Do you think there's a correlation between that and the fact that I started a blog?)

So. I was scheduled to drive about 60 miles to perform present our new Strategic Plan. I was delivering the muckity muck's senior executive's-view portion, which really meant that I would introduce videos and read power point pages, but at least I wouldn't be a sobbing puddle of goo on the floor at the thought of standing up in front 45 Vice Presidents. People tend to stare at the deliverer of the message instead listening when that happens.

My game plan was to go to my usual office (the one that is 2.2 miles from home), pick up my presentation materials and attend a quick conference call, and then head up the road (did I mention? 60 miles?).

That morning, I woke up as usual. Stumbled to the shower. On the way back to the bedroom Mr. Hot handed me my cup-the-size-of-Rhode-Island of coffee. I sat on the bed to watch the news. And try to become coherent.

(Yes, this is my daily routine. )

About 20 minutes later, it dawns on me that the dog isn't in bed. I haven't been nose-bumped or rabbit-dream kicked. I haven't spilled coffee all over myself when he decided to change positions and ram his butt into my elbow.

Hotfessional: "Honey? Where's the dog?
Mr. Hot: "Oops. I left him outside. I'll get him."

Five minutes later, I am drenched in coffee as 32 lbs of Chocolate Lab-trapped-in-a-Daschund's-body jumps onto the bed.

Hotfessional sniffs. "Oh. Oh fuck no!"
Mr. Hot: "What?"
Hotfessional: "Do you smell skunk?"
Mr. Hot: "Now that you mention it, yes. Must be out front."
Hotfessional: "No, come in here. Smell the dog. Do you smell skunk?"

The smell was so strong, so heinous and horrible, that my eyes should have been watering and the dog should have been wet. He should have been dripping with eau de funk. But, no watery eyes. I tentatively stretch out my hand. No wet dog. Sticking my nose into the dog's fur did nothing to increase the smell. Gave the dog the evil eye look. Didn't look at all remorseful.

We finally decided that someone must have hit a skunk in the road in front of the house. Just then. With all of the windows open, the smell was really strong, but no stronger ON the dog than IN the house.

Shortman had driver's training that morning, so while I continued on with my routine, Mr. Hot used my car to take him to school. The dog went too. That dog sure does love a car ride. Oh yes he does.

When Mr. Hot got home, I kissed him goodbye. "Did you see the skunk?" He hadn't thought to look, but it smelled really bad while they were driving. Yep.

I got in the car, and turned the blowers on full blast. It was a little chilly on that fall morning. I could still smell skunk, but, obviously, since I had the vents open, there was a reason. Just a poor little bit of roadkill someplace nearby.

I walked into the building. People turned to look at me. Then they moved away, quickly. I moseyed on over to my desk, grabbed my presentation materials, looked at the clock, and knew I had to dial into this one, quick, call. At the time, I had no office. I was cubicle-bound, having just moved to this building. I couldn't close the door.

Someone walked by and finally said it out loud. Announced it, like.

"Do you smell skunk?"

Like a prairie dog poking up from its hole, I popped up and glared at the loudmouth. I feigned outrage at the volume of his question and pointed at the headset I was wearing. Mouthed "I'm on a call, please be quiet."

An eternity later (okay, it was 30 minutes, but when you stink? y'know? and are supposed to be a leader?) I grabbed everything and RAN out the door. My 4 minute drive home took 2.37. I flew through the door, pulling off clothing as I climbed the stairs to the shower. Screaming at Mr. Hot:

"It's the fucking dog. I'm covered in skunk. And I have to go do this presentation in two hours! Take this! (throwing the Febreeze at him) and spray my car!"

After the fastest shower known to womankind (at least this particular womankind, who can easily empty a hot water tank), I am drying my hair (again), putting on my makeup (again), and getting dressed (again). The dog, the whole time, has been in my bedroom where the closet door has been standing open.

(My friends. Do you feel my pain?)

So, I get in the skunk-stanked car. Drive the 60 miles with the damn windows open. On the Interstate. In Michigan. In October.

When I got to the office, I pried my frozen fingers off the steering wheel, grabbed my presentation materials and walked into a room full of men in suits who wanted to watch my every move, and hang on my every word. And I stood up straight, and smiled and said

"Welcome to the Presentation of the 2007 Strategic Plan. I'm Hotfessional, and I'm a senior manager for the I.T. company. I'm so glad to see all of you here today."

And they all smiled and looked at me. And I said,

"Please, do let me know if any of you are at all offended by any strange odors in the room. And if you are, please feel free to come up here and spray me."

As I took out my bottle of Febreeze and put it on the podium next to my notes.

---- Because, you know, I am the Hotfessional, and the show, must go on. ----

I Apologize in Advance. Rambling at its Finest.

As I've been reading all y'alls blogs (like this one, and this one), I am amazed at the number of schools that have already started classes. I remember when Michigan schools started the last week of August (I was in High School - in the 181980s) - and then, a couple of years ago, the powers that be decided to go back to starting the Tuesday after Labor Day. Why? So that families could take that one additional week travelling to "up north" & spend money in the Great Lakes State, therefore promoting tourism.

This means that kids don't get out of school until mid-June. (Families apparently don't travel before June 17th. huh.)

Kinda like cutting off one end of the blanket and sewing it onto the other? Yea, that's what I thought.

---

One of my goals for this weekend is to update my link list - since I started this blog and have been reading others, I've found so many wonderful writers. People who make me think, and laugh, and even, from time to time, shed a tear or two.

(Yea, I know, shut up. You wouldn't think that someone whose name brings up this image would cry over touching prose. I stick my tongue out at you. I am deep and mysterious).

Aaaaaannnnnyyyway. That's for this weekend. After I'm done, if I miss anyone that links to me, please let me know. There are people out there that shouldn't be overlooked.

---

Her Bad Mother asked readers to help her raise awareness by posting this.

Please read her post about her darling nephew Tanner and think about donating to Parent Project Muscular Dystrophy.

---

And at the risk of overlinking and overasking, here's something all women should know (click on the pic):

Breast Cancer is a horrible and insidious disease - I've touched on the topic here before, but Inflammatory Breast Cancer is something I hadn't heard of until I read about WhyMommy. Please. Read. Be Aware. Pay attention to your boobies.

---

Speaking of boobies. (On a lighter note!) The package from Vicky's Slutwear came yesterday. Mr. Hot looked at the yellow bra and said "Hmmm. Interesting color." This morning, when he came in the bedroom while I was getting dressed, (I swear this man hears my undie drawer slide open and suddenly HAS to know my opiniion on today's weather and traffic report. Even though he doesn't drive anywhere.) he wanted to see how it looked on. Right. Mr. Fashionista (snort - it makes me laugh to even type that!) wanted to check the color against my skin tone. Did I tell you about my bridge that's for sale? But, considering that he just pix-messaged me with the beautiful salmon fillets that he's going to grill later on, I guess he deserves a peep at the perkiness. (snort again. perky. snort.)

---

There is something rather interesting going on outside my window right now. About 15 birds (swallows, I think, but the glass is UV coated and they're really freakin' fast) are flying loop-the-loops and have been for the last half-hour. Several have hit the windows, although thankfully there are no casualties at this time. I don't know if it's the weather (warm and humid, although not as hot as it has been), or if there's a food source they're after (every once in a while, I get a really nice view of the underside of a tree frog attached to the glass), but it's starting to give me the willies. I never got over Alfred Hitchcock's little movie.

---

Oh, remember those 17 forms that I was soooo pissed about the other day? (See, I'm just taking you everywhere with this one, aren't I?). The people who actually set up the access? Notified me today that the requestor used the wrong fucking version of the form. We always (like one-hundred-fucking-percent of the time) are supposed to get the form from the website because there's NO notification when the form changes. If you use a copy that you downloaded last month (hell, yesterday for that matter), it could be "the wrong version". But hey, I'm sure it was an honest mistake. No, really, I'm sure it was.

---

Okay, one more thing and I'm off. This is way too much rambling. Even for me. Last night, I read an article in More ... the magazine celebrating women 40+ (uh hem. Would you stop snickering? I've told you before I'm old.) about this woman who decided to stop dyeing her hair.

She put a profile out on Match.com (with her husband's permission) for 3 weeks with a picture of her with gray hair. She got over 300 hits and 7 or 8 winks (I can't remember and don't have the article with me). Then, three months later, she put the same profile, different name up with a picture where she photoshopped her hair brunette.

Again I don't have the exact numbers committed to my ever-fading memory, but it was something like 1/3 of the hits, and less than half of the winks.

Notice my avatar over there? Yep. I have gray hair. Have had gray hair since I was 35. I am finally vindicated.

---

---- Okay, If you've actually managed to survive this post, explain to me how he can hear when I open a drawer? Is it like a cat-and-the-can opener thing? ----

No Time. Blood Pressure Rising......

...... and I have so many rants today. But no time to make them readable. So, Cupcake didn't actually meme me, but I thought I'd participate anyway because this morning I actually got to read her before ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE.



So, when I Google - Image - Searched my name, this came up:

Gee, whowoulda guessed?

And this:

And I dedicate it to Jen - Pit Bull Fan Supreme.

And this:

Seriously. A Red Rectangle?

---- More tomorrow. When I'm not threatening to go all ballistic on a bunch of people around here. ----

Monday. Dammit.

Back to work today.

This is the first of 6 pages of emails that greeted me.

And then of course, we have the multiple attachments that came with them. And faxes. And assorted other crap.

One gripe, and then I have to go. Answer emails. duh.

As a hotfessional, I have to get to approve a lot of system access to different applications for a bunch of idiots employees and contractors. On some systems, only one approval is necessary. On some, two. Then, of course, there's the big mother-honker. That system that requires the approval of everyone up the ladder of command. Including the guy who will decide if I have a job next year - Mr. President & CEO.

Since this all comes back to me if someone is granted access to a system that they shouldn't be able to hack into use, do you think I LOOK at these requests? I mean, really look? You bet your sweet, sexy ass I do. If Mr. P&CEO is going to see my name on the freakin' form, it better be right.

So, knowing this? And knowing that I can take you down with a glare, sucka and make your day-to-day existence miserable, don't you think that maybe, just maybe you'd double check, oh say, the spelling of my name? Or my boss's phone number? Or the damn cost center your access is going to be charged to? When this information is all readily available - with just a simple touch of your fat little fingers on your keyboard?

Or would you? With the intelligence God gave my stuffed March of Dimes giraffe, decide to send me 17 forms to approve, while I'm on vacation, (therefore I know that you have at least 5 days to make sure the forms are right, because no-fucking-way I'm approving them without actually seeing what's on the attachment with my own 4 eyes) and not check any of this information?

Yes, that's right. 17 forms. All with incorrect basic information. And unfortunately, this isn't the first time this person has made this little error.

---- Floppy and Girard know better than to cross me on a first-day-back-after-a-week-of-vacation Monday. Too bad the requestor-formerly-employed-as-a-well-paid-contractor doesn't. ----

The Rescue

Last day of vacation. It's been fine - nothing too spectacular, but very relaxing and 'homey'.

We went to see the Indy cars race and got really, really wet, went shopping, cooked out, read lots and lots, visited Momanddad, picked veggies, cut grass, saw movies, ate far too much and drank even more.

Yesterday, Mr. Hot and I got the bikes out and went riding on these country roads. We used to ride all over the place when we lived in town - even, once, going from Royal Oak to Metro Beach Metropark - about 27 miles each way - on the hottest day of the year. It wasn't smart (I have a stripe, to this day, where I missed sunscreen above my shorts and below my shirt), but we had a great time. We carried water and food, Shortman stayed with a friend, and we rode our asses off.

Unfortunately, since our move out "to the country" last year, we haven't ventured out - it's scary riding on two-lane blacktop roads with no shoulders and cars zooming past at 55 or 60. But, it was a nice morning, andwe really missed riding, so off we went.

You guys!?! Seriously. This is hill country. Guess what? We lived in flatlands before. The biggest thing we needed to climb was the piece of the driveway from the street to the garage. Now, we have hills. Big, mother-honkin' hills. And you better hope that you go down one before you go up the other, because that's the ONLY.WAY. you're getting to the top. If you don't get enough speed, you're hikin' it. There's few things more embarrassing than walking your bike up a hill while the locals zoom past in their pickups.

And curves? Blind curves? Country road blind curves? You might see a tractor around the bend. Or a tomato stand. Or you might run over road kill. (Who knew that racoons got so big?)

Aaaaannnnyyyyway. So, we peddled along, stopped at the top of the biggest hill into town and watched the Classic car parade (we didn't even know it was going on) while we sucked down bottles of water and checked out the best route (the one that had the fire stations, and therefore paramedics available) to get back home.

After another half mile or so, we stopped (oh the shame of being so out of shape) and admired the house that we originally wanted to buy (So, maybe it was just an excuse to stop. Shut up. Those hills are big.), drank more water, and started for home.

That's what I heard Mr. Hot - "Damn it. Damn it to hell." (He does have a way with words)

He had a flat tire. A really, really flat tire. And there was no way that thing was going to hold enough air - and the thought of walking the 6 or 7 miles back home along those roads? Had me thinking about calling a cab. (hee hee. Like a cab could find us out here.)

He looked at me. "So, do you trust Shortman?"

I knew what was coming. He was going to have our son, the new (brand-spanking-new, not even legal [shhhhhhhhhh. it was desperation time]) driver come pick us up.

I gulped. "Of course I trust Shortman. I'll be scared shitless, but I trust him."

"I'll make sure he takes the back roads. There won't be so much traffic", was Mr. Hot's response.

So, my darling husband dialed the phone, and at home, in front of the computer, the Gamer, the one you can't pry away from the machine with a crowbar, answered (That was a miracle in and of itself). Mr. Hot explained our predicament. Told Shortman where we'd be standing, while I got down on my knees and prayed (well, not really, but you know - ), and told him to be careful.

After Mr. Hot hung up, I looked at him. "So, do you think he knows to bring the truck? You didn't tell him, explicitly, to bring the truck. You should call him back and make sure he knows that we need the truck. Because two bikes are not going to fit into baby car."

Mr. Hot looked at me like I was nuts. "Of course he knows to bring the truck. I told him I had a flat tire."

"Okay, but I think you should call him back just to be sure."

Just then Mr. Hot's phone rang. I could only hear Mr. Hot's side of the conversation: "Yes, the truck. We have the bikes." [Snort.] I know how Shortman's mind works.

We stood in the shade, and I asked "Is that him?" for every vehicle I saw in the distance. Note: a 1995 Ford F-150 looks nothing like a 1967 Chevy Corvette on its way to the Classic Car show. Mr. Hot felt the need to point that out. Ass.

But Shortman did fine. He drove like a pro, parked in front of us on the street, helped us load the bikes (well, no he didn't, he just sat in the driver's seat like he owned the road, while Mr. Hot and I did the hard work) and got us home. In one piece.

---- With a huge shit-eatin' grin on his face the whole time. Beware - there's soon to be a new driver on the roads of SaltNotFlatCountry Michigan, and he'll be alone behind the wheel. ----

Hungover in the PowderRoom

I almost drunk dialed all y'all last night. (I have to remember to stop at 3 vodka/cranberries.) Really though. I was gonna. I had to tell you all that I'm going to re-do my 1/2 bath. It's my fall/winter project. This is what it looks like now:

Over the sink - if you look in the mirror, you can see the single window on the other wall - it looks out onto a huge forsythia (that Mr. Hot is threatening to do away with).

The black shelf thingie is over the toilet. The wallpaper is little flowers with a border of English herbs. It's the "girly" room in the house, but it's the first room you come to when you come in through the garage.

The sink and toilet. They'll stay, I'm not getting too crazy with this whole thing. Mostly it's just the wallpaper that has to go. And yes, the toilet does have one of those wooden seats on it. (shut. up. it came with the house and matches the floor. it does!)

So, I'm trying to figure out colors and shit. I don't want to replace wallpaper with wallpaper, so, really it's just the "theme" I'm looking for. Thoughts are welcome.

And did I mention that it's also the cats' bathroom?

---- "I'm just staying in this box until she's done. I hate change. I like the little girly flowers, makes me feel like I'm out in nature. I can come live with you?" ----

Vacation - All I Ever Wanted

I have no work stories because I haven't been to work. All week. However, a sneak peek at my Blackberry tells me that I have over 300 emails waiting when I get back. Shit. Over. 300. Well, I know what I'll be doing Monday.

You may wonder - since I have a Crackberry - why I don't just go through and read some of them or delete some of them (like the ones that tell my how many hits a particular database table got [yes, seriously, I get emails with this information - sad, I know]). Well, it's mostly because I told myself that I would abso-fuckin-lutely NOT check email this week. Other than personal email (where is that Vicky's Slutwear that I ordered?) and my GMail account (because I love it when I hear from you!)

So, what have I done during this vacation? Not. A. Damn. Thing. except read (2 Dean Koontz books and Thomas Harris' "Hannibal Rising") and eat lots of veggies from the garden and sleep until 9 am every day. Oh wait. Saw Momanddad on Monday (they had to see the new baby car) and took Mr. Hot and Shortman to see Bourne Ultimatum yesterday.

One day, I'll put fingers to keyboard to write about Momanddad, but until then I just have a sample - from Monday.

I called as I was leaving to tell them I was on the way. I get there and walk into the kitchen - no one is around. So, I go yelling through the house...."Hello, I'm here". Finally, Dad walks in. Singing the song from the Dodge Avenger commercial (which I've never seen). Mom comes out of the bathroom. Small talk for 3 minutes and then Dad says "So my truck is ready at the dealership, can you run me over there so I can pick it up?". Being the good daughter that I am, I reply "Of course".

Then he says "Can you also run me by the pool store so I can get this sample tested?" and holds up a jar of pool water.

I say "Sure".

Mom and I had already made plans to run by Target (the evil store of everything), so I figured we'd take Dad, drop him off and then go shop.

... In my dreams ....

The dealership my dad took his truck to was 25 miles from their house. I passed 3 GMC dealerships in the first 5 miles. And another 4 before I got to the one that had his truck. I figured the problem must have been something that only this dealership could handle, right? No. Ohhhhh. No. It was a leaky air-conditioner hose. A freakin' hose! Twenty-five miles to replace a hose!

An hour later (this is not 25 miles on the Interstate...this is 25 miles in 'light on every single corner, construction has this down to 1 lane, at 1 pm on a Monday afternoon lunch traffic' traffic), we leave Dad at the dealership and mosey our way BACK 25 miles (me, with a grin plastered on my face - oh my jaws did hurt) to Target.

---- Where I only managed to get a t-shirt and a new pair of shoes before I had to get back to go out to dinner with my guys. But cute shoes, don't you think? ----

A Day at the Races

Sunday, we had tickets and pit passes to the Firestone 400 at Michigan International Speedway. This is what the locals call the "wine and cheese" race at MIS - it's the Indy cars - and people like Ashley Judd show up to watch their husbands run 220 miles an hour around a 2.5 mile track.

The plan was that we would get on the road by 8:30 a.m - we live 34.3 miles away (seriously, there's a sign at the end of our road that says "Michigan International Speedway - 33 miles". Add the mile and a bit to get to the sign? 34.3 miles.) With traffic, we should be able to be there within an hour, park and take the tram to the track and be in the pits by 10 a.m. That gives us an hour to roam around and ogle the cars (Mr. Hot and Shortman) and drivers (me) before the pits closed at 11 and the race started at Noon.

Well, that was the freakin' plan.

Mr. Hot was nice enough to let us sleep in because, you know, of the rain. The pouring rain that comes the one day we actually have expensive tickets to something that can't happen in. the. rain. So, we slept in, got up, had breakfast - and wandered around the house for a while. Mr. Hot sat glued in front of the Weather Channel watching the radar to see if maybe, just maybe, there would be a break in the sheets, (sheets!) of rain that were drenching us.

Suddenly, there was a "Hot! Come here." With dread (because I knew I was going to have to 'give my opinion on the weather'), I stood next to him in front of the television.

"So, look at the end of the rain there. No, wait, let me back it up (the wonders of DVR), there, see there?"

"Yes, Mr. Hot, I see. Looks like the end of the rain for a while."

"When do you think we should leave? It looks like it's going to go right over the track."

"Um, I don't know." (Don't commit too quickly, then you're solely to blame if, you know, it decides to keep raining).

"No, really, what do you think? Should we start packing up to go?"

"Shortman is still in bed."

"What time do you think?"

--now, I'm wondering how I get out of actually making a decision here--

"Um, about an hour?"

"Yea, that's what I was thinking - between 11 and 11:30 - so 11:15 it is."

For the next hour, we woke up Shortman, packed lunches, got rain gear, and drove (in the rain) to the track. By the time we got there and got parked, the rain had stopped. We stopped by our seats, admired the view, and then walked over to the Pits, knowing that the cars were still under tarp and the drivers were most likely napping (like I should have been) in their mobile homes.

They were.

And then the rain started again. The skies opened up, and the rain jacket I was wearing was no match at all for the sheer volume of water that was pouring down on me. So, we pondered our next move.

And decided to take the tram back to the truck and eat some lunch. And then we drove home the 34.3 miles to change and watch the Weather Channel some more.

Forty-five minutes later (including the drive), while we were still drying off, Mr. Hot is glued to the radar. He yells, "Hurry up and finish changing, we're going to leave in 10 minutes. It's clearing up."

Well, this time, it did clear up, and we got to watch the race. It started with 20 cars, but by the end, there were only 7 in the chase. Two single car wrecks, 4 broken cars, two more in a single wreck that happened right in front of us (which we missed) and 5 in the biggest crash - it took out the first five cars. There were, I think, about 8 cautions, and the race that was supposed to start at noon, didn't start until 5, ended at 8 pm.

Tony Kannan won. Congratulations Tony.

We dragged ourselves back out to the truck and drove home. But not this fast:

---- Next time you want to guarantee an all-day rain in southeastern Michigan? August 19 - the day we have tickets to watch NASCAR run at M.I.S. ----

Musings

Took the Poopy Puppy to the vet for his rabies booster.



He was not happy with me.



I hate you mom. Hate. You make me get shots. I cry.



Stopped at the Farmer's Market


The reward.

Today, we're supposed to be at Michigan International Speedway to watch the Indy Racing League


It rains. No racing in the wet. We sit and wait.

----The first weekend of my vacation? I see naptime in my future. ----

Clearance Prices? Ha!

So, around the end of each season, I go on over to the Vicky's Slutwear website and surf their clearance pages. I usually fill up my shopping bag, see the total, and then shut down the browser without going any further. Today, though, I weakened -$200 and I hit the "Purchase" button. But! 2 pairs of pants! 5 tops! My very favorite bra - in bright yellow!

I have completely lost my mind.

I'm taking next week off for 'vacation'. We're not going anywhere (yea, purchasing a car, a truck, and $200 worth of clearance merchandise in a week....like we can afford a fucking real vacation), but I obviously need a mental break from this craziness.

Evidence? A bright yellow bra.

---- I don't think there's much more to say. ----

Wastes of Time and Energy

Today at work? Spent 4 hours attempting to find $107.58 worth of expenses that weren't paid for my on corporate card. Found $31.58 in denied breakfasts (three days worth) because I forgot to mark 'international' in my report. Apparently the fact that charge was in euros and the name of the report was "Amsterdam" and the charge came from "The Hotel Pulitzer" didn't matter. Sigh. For the other $76? I have no fuckin' clue. All of my $76 car service charges seem to have cleared okay. I went all the way back to January 2000.

My choices are to either

• Pay up, bitch! Meaning I write a personal check to pay off the $76 that obviously was a recurring amount between January 2000 and um, last month - and 927 of them were approved, but one apparently wasn't - or
• Ignore it for right now since I have so many expenses and payments that cross each other on this card it's always got a running balance (although never delinquent). Eventually, they'll walk my ass out of this place and at that point? They can either dock my severance check for $76 big ones or write. it. off. - or
• Scam through 2 expenses that total $76 (becuase I have to have a receipt for anything over $75).

Now, after 4 hours of going through expense reports back 7 years for a lousy $76 - time which I will never, ever get back, (and for which they pay me WAY MORE than $76) which option do you think I intend to select?

See, you all know me too well already!

---

Tonight there is nothing planned in the Hotfessional household. Monday was pick up the car and go to the grocery store [yawn], Tuesday was the Gin Blossoms, and last night was Shortman's final baseball game of the very long season. They lost. They lost every. single. game. Three games they did NOT get mercied. It was, by far, the worst team Shortman ever played for. He was a city All-Star every year (9 of them! no shit.) in our old league.

Last night? He ended up pitching 6 innings of a 6 inning game - with no second baseman. The left fielder dropped 2 fly balls (they hit his glove! unfortunately, it was closed at the time). The first baseman? He dropped 4.

Shortman ddddrrrraaaggggeeedd his big self (he's 6'2", 210 lbs) to the car after playing in that heat...and said "Worst. Season. Ever. " We told him that he did fine, couldn't expect to strike out everyone, every time, and unfortunately, they were playing shorthanded, and he didn't have a lot of defense behind him. Poor baby.

Of course, we didn't mention his strikeout or his popup to the first baseman. Or the fact that he refuses (refuses!) to wear his glasses to play. Which he needs. Can you say it with me? Blind. As. A. Bat. Because, he's now bigger than us we are nice parents - we just glossed over those things. No use getting hurt making him feel worse.

So, tonight I'm going to go home, sit on the back porch with my cranberry and vodka (ooooh, remember to call Mr. Hot and make sure we still have some!) and read more of "The Kite Runner." I'm only up to Chapter 8 (they're short chapters), but Kristabella recommended it after this post, and she was right.

---

Now I have a favor to ask of you other Blogger users. You know who you are! So, I'd like to answer your comments personally, or at least send you thanks, but as far as I can tell, the only way to respond is either back in comments (which means you have to go back to the post you already responded to, and see if I acknowledged your comment....how many times does that happen?) or I have to go to your site and comment. But! I get emails directly from some people I comment to. Is there some sort of special setting thingie in blogger?

If you can help me out with this little thing, let me know. You can put it in comments. I'll thank you - personally - if I can make it work. You can even tell me if I'm an idiot (probably) and it's staring me right in the face (like the pickle jar in front of Mr. Hot last night).


---- The power in our building was finally restored at 7 am today - after the tree trimmers took us and half the area out yesterday morning around 10. It was 97 degrees out there yesterday, and the air conditioning is just now making this office tolerable. I bet they saved at least $76 in electricity. ----

Rocker Chick or Mellow Mama?

The Gin Blossoms were fantastic last night. We were at this little place called "The Ark", which seats about 500, so there are NO bad seats. The concert lasted about an hour - with most of their set coming from the most recent album - "Major Lodge Victory". They also performed "Hey Jealousy" and "Follow You Down" and "Allison Road". It really was a great time.

For the first time in a while, though, Mr. Hot and I were not the oldest fucking farts in the joint. The last concert we went to was Buck Cherry. With a bunch of 18- and 19-year-olds. We were old. And it was Halloween. Everyone had great costumes. I went as 'rocker chick grandma'. Sad, I know.

Before that? Hmmmm. It had been a while. Chris Duarte (great blues guitar - he's been out of the game for a while, but he just released a new CD - Blue Velocity - that I'm looking forward to listening to). And Jeff Healey (you may remember him from the movie "Roadhouse" with Patrick Swayze?). I lost my original wedding ring at this one. It just fell off my finger. No takers for the reward either - and it was only a white gold band - no diamonds.

Been to see Dwight Yoakam a couple of times. And Cheap Trick. (Yes - we're old. We know. )

Probably one of the most memorable concerts I've been to though was Motorhead. I'm not a head-banger. But I love my husband. So, okay. I'll go to this dive in Detroit (people!, there was a drive-by shooting...while we were in the bar...at the hospital behind the bar....where my car was parked...the chalk outline was one. row. over!) - with a bunch of people that I was not allowed to hang around with while I was in High School - who scared the eeee-mortal crap out of me - because, Mr. Hot, I love you.

And then he took my arm and walked me down to the Mosh Pit. And I nearly died. Well, I thought I was going to anyway. (Shhhh. Hush up. That counts. It does.) To this day - 15 years later - if you ask him about any of our 'dates', this is the one that he will bring up.

Mr. Hot: "Hey, Motorhead is touring this summer. Wanna go?"
The Hotfessional (in a fetal position, whining): "Of course, honey,
whatever you want."

---- I'll fully admit to my wimpiness. But, I wonder about the couple who sat next to us at the show last night. Remember? The Gin Blossoms? Pop music from the 90's. Not scary. Old people all over the place. These two people didn't smile, clap, or chair dance through the entire hour. They were the old fucks last night. ----