You Deserve More Than Fluff

THE LAST DAY OF NOVEMBER
by The Hotfessional
(with thanks to Clement Clark Moore)

---

The last day of November, Na-Blo-Po-Mos done,
Not a blogger stopped writing, it was lots of fun;

The keyboards were dusted and vacuumed with care,
In hopes that Eden’s email soon would be there;

The bloggers were reading, not snug in their beds,
While visions of blog-prizes danced in their heads;

And Mr. Hot in his armchair, and I on my couch,
Were amazed that the writers did not even slouch,

When out in the kitchen there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the couch to see what was the matter.

The damn stupid kittens knocked over my wine,
That nectar of gods, that fruit of the vine.

The puddle of Merlot on my countertop
started running toward the edge, it just would not stop.

I cleaned it up quickly so I could return
To my blanket and couch, and my laptop to learn

More about all of ya’ all, so lively and smart,
You’ve burrowed your way right straight to my heart.

More rapid than eagles to the seat my butt came,
And I scrolled down, and shouted, and called you by name;

"Now, Miz S! now, Candy! now, Amy and this Jen!
On, Heidi! on Cupcake! on, Lisa and Helen!

To the top of the post! to the top of the scrawl,
Now write away! write away! write away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild Ann Arbor winds fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

So up to the tip-top my fingers they flew,
Refreshing my Bloglines, and Google Reader too.

And then, in a twinkling, my browser refreshed
Adjusting my blanket so I stayed enmeshed,

I just scrolled down the screen, and was lifting my glass,
Laughing while reading Encyclopediasass.

You all have such talent, from your heads to your feet,
And receiving your comments has become such a treat;

A bundle of love I have witnessed right here,
Beauty and joy, lovely photographs, sometimes fear.

Your posts -- how they tickled, your pictures how merry!
Your news was uplifting, LawMom Kim and you Sherry!

My dear friend Amanda is pregnant you know,
And Marianne, and Meghan; Squirrel too, and there’s mo’;

You listened while I cried about Shortman’s teeth,
And joked about the yellow bra worn underneath ;

You had a broad grin and clapped for dear Shelly,
Bitched about peanut butter with me, (not jelly).

You all kept on reading, my virtual dears,
And I laughed right on with you, in spite of some tears;

The Wink, Just Because and witchypoo as well
Bye Bye Buy, Cripes Suzette, oh and Life of Elle;

They spoke not a word, but blogged about their work,
This Sue is a gas, Lacey Bean is a Perk,

Sweet Nancy Marie was a neighbor before,
And Kristin and Bossy have stories galore;

I can’t go on now, my brain has gone to sleep,
If I haven’t linked you, please don’t cry, moan or weep

You are all my dear friends, I’ve enjoyed every site,
NaBloPoMo is done, and to all a good-night.


---- Y'all are truly great! Despite the bitching, I've had loads of fun this month. Now, I'm off to find my NaBloPoMoBadgeOh!----

Random Kristabella

Back when I ran out of things to say mid-NaBloPoMo, I threatened to randomize Kristabella's 201 things and write a story about her.

Today ... is the day y'all. Because tomorrow? You're getting fluff. Or fashion. Or fluffy fashion. And NaBloPoMo will be OvOMoFos.

Heaven help me, but Random.org puked up "188".

And that entry is: "188. Remember that boyfriend from No. 120? He made horror movies"

---

All Hail Sparky
It was a dark and stormy night. November's clutches tightened around the Windy City. Lake Michigan's waves were cresting and white-capped and the wind was blowing to beat hell. The clocks had been changed back to Central Standard Time and it was already fuckin' dark by the time Kristabella made it back to her apartment. She was hugging the bottle of Cabernet she picked up; trying to make up her mind whether to finish reading that book for damn book club (which she joined mostly for the free wine) or to kick back on her couch and watch a little reality television.

Walking the streets of Chicago, in November, in the wind, takes a certain heartiness. In the dark? It takes more than that. A "tough girl" strut and attitude-plus come in handy. But the clicking of her bootheels on the concrete combined with the howling gales coming from between the buildings prevented Kristabella from hearing the footsteps of the guy in the black leather jacket and skin-tight jeans walking behind her. Had she heard him, she would have quickened her step more. Had she knew who he was, she probably would have cracked him over the skull with the wine she was carrying. It was the guy she had once thought was "the one." The asshat who had broken up with her on her mother's birthday. During Grey's Anatomy! Fucktard.

When she let herself into her home, Simba and KittyKitty were waiting for her. They were pissed that she was late. They had contemplated using her Jim McMahon jersey as a litter pan liner, or her "What Would Bacon Do" wheel as a scratching post. But in their evil little cat hearts, they loved her and knew that she would never intentionally leave them hungry. She might pass out from the wine, but she always came home (albeit sometimes a bit bruised). Simba was quick to remind KittyKitty of that fact.

Her mind made up and her cats fed, Kristabella put on her duckie pajamas, poured herself a tumbler of Cabernet ('to hell with the fancy glasses', she mumbled to herself. 'I'm just going to read a couple of chapters and get my butt to bed.') and plopped onto the couch.

The book drew her in. The clock ticked and the wind gusted outside her windows. She poured another tumbler. And then another.

What she didn't know is that the guy in the tight jeans and black leather was standing outside her front door, trying to talk himself into knocking. He'd hurt her before. He hadn't meant to, true, but such was his life. Always screwing up the best things about it. He had been thinking about how beautiful her skin was, soft and luminous. He had loved it when she decided to darken her hair. But, asshat that he was, he didn't see it until he'd fucked it all up.

He was back with a proposition. He wanted to make her a star! A star in his new horror show. Maybe he could win her back. She would be the gorgeous marketing executive who discovers the victims of a psychotic football player and then becomes the target of the linebacker's rage. He thinks, "C'mon Dickhead, just knock on the door already." And then he does, three raps. Tap, tap, tap.

Kristabella puts down her book, takes another swig of wine, and walks to the front door. She looks out the peephole, but can't really trust her eyes. She's blind, but afraid of Lasik. She figures it's wine blindness this time though.

"Who is it?"
"Asshat" a voice answers that she recognizes. She may be blind, but her ears work just fine.
"What the hell do you want?"
"I want to talk to you about a movie I'm making. I think you'd be perfect in the starring role. C'mon, let me in."

Against all of her better judgement, (but again, y'know, the wine) she opens the door. She's surprised that she really doesn't feel much at all. Of course, that, too, could be the wine. She lets Asshat in. Simba and KittyKitty look at him. Simba hisses. KittyKitty does the humpback cat shuffle.

Kristabella stands, with her hands on her hips, while he hems and haws about "Nice to see you." and "How've ya been?" He thinks about leaning in for a kiss of her wine-stained mouth. She, on the otherhand, thinks about the Cubs bat in her closet. And her Arizona State Sun Devils pitchfork leaning against her wall. And about how she really just wants some more Cabernet.

But, because she's one of the sweetest, friendliest people in town, and she's been hurt enough by shitheads and pompous asses in her life that she doesn't want anyone else to feel badly, she invites Asshat to sit down. He sets his video camera down on her table. She wonders, "Why the hell did he bring his camera? " just as he begins to explain that he wanted to show her some of the footage that had already been shot for this new horror flick he was making. She smiles politely and starts walking towards her drink.

Just then, KittyKitty darts across the floor. Simba chases, jumps up onto the table and somehow manages to flip the camera switch to Record. Kristabella, slightly tipsy, tries to jump just as KittyKitty runs between her feet. It was not her most graceful move. As she fell, ass over teakettle, her arm hit the lamp on the table where she'd been cuddled up earlier reading. Before Asshat walked back into her life and wanted to make a damn movie. The lamp teetered. Tottered. Finally tilted just far enough to brush against that Arizona SunDevils pitchfork leaning up against the wall.

The handle of the souvenier had been down, the fork part in the air because she didn't want the sharp metal tines to scratch her floors. It hadn't looked like much of a brush from the lamp, but the pitchfork fell. It fell just as Simba jumped on Asshat's back and caused him to lurch forward.

Pitchfork and Asshat met. They met at chest height. The camera continued rolling.

Kristabella silently toasted Sparky the night she won the Academy Award. Her Sun Devils managed a win that night.

---- The End. Mah Gawd people. Tomorrow you are sooooo getting fluff. ----

Steelin' teh Memez, 2

I'm just Part 2'ing all over the place the last couple of days. Kristabella kindly informed me (she did, it was kind, she wasn't snarky at all!) that there were 10 more items on that Meme when she did it. Damn. That's more than I did the first time! Let's see if I can get some of the others. I'm nothing if not anal competitive thorough.

Favorite Animal:


Horse. Arabian.

---

Town Where I Live:


Yes. Home of the Wolverines. Small puke in the back of my mouth.

---

Name of Past Pet:


He was a Siamese cat.

---

Name of Past Love:


I still watch "Above the Law" whenever it's on. Oh, and he shares a first name with a past love. (8th grade, sigh)

---

Best Friend's Nickname:


+ Face.

---

My First Name:


I had no idea.

---

Bad Habit:


Yes, I know. Three per day. That's all. But I like it. I'll quit when I'm ready.

---

First job:

---

Grandmother's name:


And her middle name was Cecilia.

---

College Major:



---- Fat lot of good that major did me. Actually, I think the second set was easier than the first 8 I did. ----

Iz In Ur Blogs, Steelin' Ur Memez

First, I have to tell you that my stepchildren, the NYO and TYO (which used to stand for nineteen year old and twenty-three year old) are now twenty (will now be blogged about as "20") and twenty-four (new blogname "24"), respectively. Yes, Mr. Hot is the father of three, and they are four years apart (actually, they are 3 years, 48 weeks and 3 days apart. exact.ly. to.the.day.) Let's just pay 12 consecu-fuckin-tive years of college tuition, okay?

Okay, so we're down to the bitter end of NaBloPoMo. I'm stealing the newest meme. Because it looks like fun. I'm sure I'll change my mind by the time I get to the end.

1. Age at next birthday:


Shhhhhh. I figure that since I feel thirty-five and act twenty-five, I can admit that chronologically, I'm effin' old.

---

2. Place I'd like to travel:


Prague. I fell in love with it when I first saw a documentary on Czech architecture.

---

3. Favorite place:


Amsterdam. Canal Houses. The one I stayed in while there in 2005 was built in 1620. Again, the architecture got me.

---

4. Favorite objects:


I had a whole collage thing going for this one, but when I made myself narrow it down to a single thing? Books. I couldn't live without books.

---

5. Favorite food:


Cedar Plank Grilled Salmon. Heaven in my mouth.

---

6. Favorite color:


Forest Green.

---

7. Nickname:


Believe it or not, that's a Ree.

---

8. Place you were born:



But there's also places like this:

---

That's it. I'm not tagging anyone. It wasn't too terribly hard, but it wasn't as easy as I thought either.

---- Oh, and Happy Birthday 24! We all miss you. Wish you'd call us back. Your card and check are in the mail. Love, your Stepmonster. XXXOOO ----

I Fight With Christmas Trees - Part 2

Okay, you asked for it. But, to get you in the mood, you have to go look here:

It's mah posse!

(The site is getting a lot of hits today apparently, so if it doesn't load the first time, try pasting this link http://www.elfyourself.com/?id=9617793428 into your browser later. And there's sound, so if you're at work or the baby's asleep, turn down your speakers)

Hee! Aaaaaanyway....

When Mr. Hot, Shortman and I moved back to Michigan, we found a basement garden view apartment in Royal Oak. It was a cheap nice place for the three of us - it had no vermin! a fireplace! And a patio with sliding glass doors that led outside from the livingroom. Lots of wood trim and a great neighborhood was the icing on the cake. It was 1993 and our whole lives were in front of us.

Here's the layout of the main living area. Bedrooms and potty down the hall. Marvel at my drawing skillz!
Shortman was only two, and we moved over Thanksgiving weekend. This would be the first time in our married life that we weren't poor students. We wanted to start our own traditions and make memories for our sweet little one. We had great dreams. And what better time to start pursuing them than during the holidays?

I took Shortman to Frank's Nursery and Crafts (which is now, sadly, defunct - at least in Michigan) to pick out a tree. He bounced around in his little snow suit - going from tree to tree to tree. "This one? Twee? Kissmas Twee?" I was trying not to throw up at the prices that were hanging on these sickly looking things.

We finally found one that was only bare in 2 spots fairly full and about 6 foot tall. It was reasonably priced (dinner for three at Pizza Hut). I asked the high school kid working the tree lot to help me load it into my car.

He shaved off the bottom of the trunk so that it could suck up water and last three days until Christmas. He put it through that netting machine and hauled it over to the Cutlass I was driving. We loaded it into the trunk (yes, it fit, do you know you can hide a body in the trunk of an '88 Cutlass Supreme?) and Shortman and I drove home. That little boy was sooooo excited about his "Kissmas Twee".

Mr. Hot was doubtful. "You spent how much on this tree?" "The trunk is twisted." "It's not going to fit." Damn Scrooge.

I was not deterred by his pessimism. Hottie-Blue-Skies, I always see the glass as being half full (especially if there's vodka in it.) I offered him sex cookies if he would only put it in the tree stand. I would do all of the decorating after Shortman went to sleep.

Not one to pass up a blow job cookies, he put the stand on the tree and set it out on the patio so that the branches could settle. Meanwhile, Shortman and I hung the stockings on the fireplace and the wreath on the front door. I read him "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" as his bedtime story that night and got him settled in so sugar plums could dance in his dreams.

After that, I brought the tree inside and hung our ornaments. The crystal stars with minimal damage. The bells that only had small cracks in them. Mr. Hot stoked the fire (in the fireplace first....). We were snuggling; talking about how much fun it was to be done with school; to have new careers. We were giggling while we imagined Shortman's reaction on Christmas morning. How excited he was going to be about his Thomas the Tank Engine (pre-lead-based-paint) track and lunch box for daycare. Dozing in each other's arms.

Okay, now please scroll back up to the picture (marvel some more while you're there, please). See the fireplace? See the green circle with the red box around it (that's the tree). See the space in front of the fireplace where you can imagine Mr. Hot and I enjoying the pretty Duraflame fire? (Yes, I so could have made that a "log" reference, but I didn't. Okay, maybe I just did. Snort.)

The next thing I knew, I had the fuckin' tree on my head. That twisted trunk? It was a bit of a problem apparently.

Once again, I picked up the tree (after crawling out from under the damn thing) and quietly opened the sliding door. I put the tree outside. I did not throw it (contrary to what the other participant Mr. Hot may say). I closed the door and sat on the couch and cried. Nothing like shattering my dreams AND the rest of my effin' ornaments.

Mr. Hot, being the superhero that he is, went into the kitchen junk drawer and found some wire. He brought the tree back in, propped it against the glass and tied the wire around the top. Then he nailed the wires into the ceiling to stabilize the tree. Nine years later, when we moved out (and eight years after we switched to an artificial tree that was only 4 1/2 feet tall) those nail holes were still in the ceiling and the tops of the walls.

But he managed to salvage my dreams and Shortman's surprise the next morning. I mean, wouldn't that have sucked? Shortman gets up and sees his Kwissmas Twee laying out on the patio? And never once did I hear "I told you the damn trunk wasn't straight."

---- So, there you have it. The second time I fought my Christmas tree and lost. I don't even walk through evergreen forests around here. I stick to deciduous trees whenever possible. ----

It's Alive! It's Alive!

The laptop that is. And I am posting from the mutha. Windows XP installed. Wireless card installed. Security-freakin'-installed.

---- I AM a goddess. ----

Timber!

Go check out Sarcastic Mom's rack.

Go check out what happened to Miss Puerto Rico.

I'll wait. I'm just gathering my thoughts about what to write here today. I think the story is evolving, but you need to give me a minute.

Ok? Cool.

Tonight, I get to re-image an old laptop. I'm going to wipe it completely clean, re-install the operating system and the appropriate drivers. Note that it may include cursing (not, in and of itself unusual, I know. shut.up.) and throwing things. I have done this once before. It was not pretty. It was not this same laptop. It was a desktop that got a virus from some shithead gamer that sent Shortman an email. About 3 years ago.

I've had this laptop sitting on the desk waiting to be re imaged almost that long. The horror of that exercise has prevented me from popping those XP setup cds into this nice IBM Thinkpad. It runs. It connects to the internet. But, you can't install anything new on it, and it has really old, old versions of Adobe and Mediaplayer. We can't upgrade it.

Why? you ask? (Well, you probably didn't, but I'm going to tell you anyway.) Because it was a 'hand me down or throw me out' computer from work that was set up with no administrator rights. Therefore, I can't administrate new software onto it. And now that I've got the house rigged for wireless, I want to have a computer in every room. Because, y'know, I'm sick that way. And a nerd.

So, with much whining and snarking and grimacing, I'm going to take on that little sucker this evening. Be glad you're not in firing range.

Now, here's where the story evolves. (And another view into the Hotfessional mind - watch the hairpin turns and trackbacks and mudslides, and eeeeeeeeek! there's a cliff.) Picture those wavy-flashback-television-sitcom lines.

I have a mean streak when I can't get something to do what I want. (Like, say, I want that computer to actually work after I get through with it. ) Generally only inanimate objects must fear my wrath; people are fairly safe.

Here's an example (and oh Mah Gawd, it's happened twice. Two different husbands, though, so [shhhh] Mr. Hot has only been subjected to it once):

I fight with Christmas trees.

Yep. This is why I no longer have a live tree for the holidays. They hate me. Yes, it's personal. Don't pretend it's not.

The first time (with the Practice Husband), I was having a holiday luncheon for my boss (The Uppity Southern Bitch) and co-workers (3 other women - yes, we worked in H.R.) Practice and I had just finished putting a hardwood floor in the huge family room. It took us (yes, just the two of us) - 6 weeks of pulling up piss-scented carpeting, scrubbing concrete, laying vapor layers and cushioning layers and oak planks then sanding and staining and varnishing to get that floor down. (Amazingly enough, that was not the cause of the divorce!) It was a beautiful room, and I wanted a 9-foot tall live tree to be the centerpiece. I didn't believe in artificial trees.

We found the tree, unpacked all of my beautiful ornaments - handed down from my Grandmother (who had died that summer) and MomandDad (who weren't having trees anymore since we were all out of the house and Dad is a Muslim). I took hours and hours to make it just.right. - hanging crystal hearts and bells, tying bows, re-arranging bulbs and tinsel and lights. It was my dream tree. The tablecloth (hand-made by me) and the advent candle centerpiece on the table completed the look.

I slaved over the food - cucumber sandwiches, crab dip, fruit salad, little weiners on sticks, petit fours - all very Southern ladylike (in my mind anyway). I had Christmas carols playing softly in the background. I had never hosted a party without lots of vodka and beer before! This was a historic occasion. Champagne punch in beautiful fluted glasses was available for those who chose to imbibe.

One of my cohorts in crime (another transplanted Michiganian, even) came early to calm me down. We did a walk through to make sure TUSB couldn't find fault with anything. I think maybe we also had a cigarette and a shot on the back porch to get us ready.

When TUSB and the other guests arrived at the appointed time (fashionably 7.5 minutes late, I'm sure), I helped them with their wraps and directed them to the family room where, I hoped, they would be awestruck by my decorating prowess and my spiritual festivity.

Instead, they were greeted by 9-fucking-feet of Norway Spruce tipping over and spilling hundreds of hand-blown crystal ornaments onto the kiln-dried and varnished to a high polish oak floor. What didn't fall to the floor and splinter into millions of pieces fell onto the beautifully decorated table with all of my fancy-fucking-finger-foods. (Bonus use of fuck there due to the sheer horror the memories bring back.)

I calmly walked over to the tree. Picked it up by the trunk and dragged it across the floor to the sliding glass doors that opened onto the deck. Pulled that sucker outside and up-ended it over the railing to watch it go crashing from the second story family room (this was a split level house) into the snow below. I walked back into the kitchen and had another shot.

Then I picked the ornaments out of the crab dip and offered champagne punch to my guests.

The ornaments that survived the hardwood floor also survived the fall into the snow. After TUSB and the others left, Eva (my fellow shot-chugger) and I rescued what we could. I had Practice re-cut the bottom of the tree so that it would stand up and we got toasted while we redecorated.

---- I'll save the second story of Hotfessional vs. The Tree for another time. Until then, here's the view outside my window today. Snow. Sigh. This can only mean that I'll have to live that moment again when I unpack the ornaments in a few days. ----

Wheeeee Part 2

Hee! So far, I've been able to Google "Lenny Kravitz's birthplace" (Brooklyn, NY) and Canadian Football League wages (C$35,000 - 60,000/year.)

And find this - which had us both cackling:


---- Mr. Hot fears he has created a monster! Sports Quiz Nights? No longer a problem. ----

Wheeeeeeee!

I am, (are you ready for this?) sitting on my couch (yes!!!!) with a wireless connection (finally!!!). Y'all? This is. HUGE. Like - the huge-est. Oh, are y'all are so in trouble. This opens up tons of new drunken blogging possibilities.

Also, you can learn exactly what I'm doing at any given time. Oh, wouldn't it have been cool to have had this available, say, November-fuckin'-first. NaBloPoMo? I would have scoffed at it. Scoff, I tell you! Because, y'know, it takes so much energy to drag my ass off of the couch and up the 13 stairs into the office.

You will, however, probably have to listen to husband/wife dialogue ala Miz S, who claims to

"...disapprove of the practice, so treasured by bloggers, of repeating cute, amusing conversations between 2 spouses, as if it is the funniest, most adorable thing in the world. Generally, it isn't. "

Consider yourselves duly warned. Hee! I will probably only share the really crude stuff though. I know y'all. Sickos. (Kidding!! I <3 you all.)

So, other than squee'ing about my new freedom from wired connections, I'm watching the Broncos beat up the Bears. Poopy the Puppy is asleep on the top of the couch next to me.

We did manage to get the yard cleaned up. First we packed up the furniture into the storage barn, then Mr. Hot raked while I cut back the rosebush (praying the entire time that I didn't end up killing it) and piled up the mulch around it and wrapped it in burlap. Then I tied up the Anise Hyssop that is threatening to take over the front perennial beds. (Maybe I should sometimes read the labels that come on the plants.....and I wouldn't be in this mess.)

So, anyway, Mr. Hot and I need to go pick up the food (that we ordered from Ruby Tuesday's ONLINE To-Go menu, while I sat here working on this post, lalalalalalalalalala, I'm so diggin' this) that is not leftover turkey and mashed potatoes thank gawd y'all.

---- Snirk. I may be back later. Sorry y'all, but you only have our newfound respect for Circuit City to thank. ----

Aaarrrrrgggghhhh

Internet down for a bunch today. And football all over the place. It's cold and windy.

C'mon Kansas. We don't want the Mountainqueers to be #1.

But, I posted today. Somehow, someway. Besides, the queen of NaBloPoMo said this counts!

Shortman is eating his 17th helping of Mac and cheese.

Tomorrow is 'final cleanup of the yard for the season' day. Have to finish raking leaves, cut back the rose bush, and put up the last of the yard furniture. Hopefully the weather report will be right and we'll get to actually hang the Christmas lights.

---- NaBloPoMo is kickin' mah ass. But with the workouts happening regularly again, it's gonna be a cute, jeans-worth ass. ----

More Facts & 28 Questions About Meme

Candy tagged me. And just in time, I might add. Day 23 of NaBloPoMo and Ack! I've written some duds.

(Aside: just heard from downstairs, "Dad, can you come here?" and then a few seconds later after Mr. Hot tears down the steps, "My shirt is soaked." I'm betting on a rip in a bag of ice. Last night, the cats dragged one out of Shortman's bedroom and down the stairs. They were playing with a ziploc full of water....geez. Also, we're 1/2 through our 3rd half-gallon of ice cream in less than 2 1/2 days. )

Anyway, here you go.

(X) Been to Canada - In fact, my brother lives there. In Ottawa. I've been to Toronto and Ontario, but I've never been to his place. I would love to see British Columbia.

( ) Been to Mexico - Nope. But I'm a big fan of the food. And Tequila. But Tequila doesn't like me.

(X) Been to Florida - Yes. I actually had an office there for 6 months while we were closing some Audit issues.

(X) Been on a plane - Averaged twice per month for the last 11 years. Sigh.

(X) Been lost - Far too often.

(X) Been on the opposite side of the country - San Fran. Three days. Not long enough by far.

(X) Swam in the ocean - Yes. Virginia, North Carolina and Florida. Oh and The Bahamas.

(X) Cried yourself to sleep - Sigh. Yes.

( ) Played cops and robbers - No, Dad was a cop. Too much like real life.

(X) Played with a Tonka Truck - Oh yes.

(X) Recently colored with crayons - I love crayons. I do Christmas coloring books.

( ) Sang karaoke - No, and you don't want to hear me sing.

(X) Paid for a meal with only coins - Yes. Taco Bell makes this easy!

(X) Done something you told yourself you wouldn’t? - Yes, and it usually has to do with drinking or eating.

( ) Made prank phone calls - Too scared of getting caught.

(X) Caught a snowflake on your tongue - Native Michiganian. You can't open your mouth in the winter without doing this.

(X) Danced in the rain - Yep. And run through it. And stood in it. I'm not so sweet that I melt.

(X) Written a letter to Santa Claus - Most recently about 11 years ago though.

(X) Been kissed under the mistletoe - Every year starting with Gramma's house and continuing through my own.

(X) Watched the sunrise with someone you care about - Although I'm much more likely to be watching sunset than sunrise.

(X) Blown bubbles - Yep. I'm a mom.

( ) Made a bonfire on the beach

( ) Crashed a party

( ) Crashed a wedding

( ) Crashed a funeral
--- I'm obviously a horrible bore with no social life. Oh, wait, you guys knew that ---

(X) Gone ice-skating - Yes. That Michiganian thing again. Although I hate the cold.

1. Any nicknames? Yes. Ree is my nickname. Bestowed on me by my first nephew when I was 24. Took me awhile, eh?

2. Mother’s name? Barbara - (Not Barbra like Streisand)

3. Favorite drink? Coffee (black) if we're talking about driving later, vodka/cranberry juice/limeade if we're not.

4. Any tattoos? No, although I would like one, Mr. Hot is morally opposed to it.

5 Body piercing? Ears only. 1 hole each.

6. How much do you love your job? Up until February of this year? I looked forward to getting there every day and enjoyed every minute of it.

7. Favorite vacation spot? Anyplace with a beach, Mr. Hot, and Shortman. Or my backyard in the early summer.

8. Ever been to Africa? No. Europe and Asia, but not Africa.

9. Ever eaten cookies for dinner? Abso-freakin'-lutely.

10. Ever been on TV? Bozo Show. I was 6.

11. Ever steal any traffic signs? No (that DadCop thing)

12. Ever been in a car accident? Yes, but none that were my fault.

13. Drive a 2-door or 4-door vehicle? 4 Door.

14. Favorite pie? Banana cream, extra cream.

15. Favorite Number? 12. I don't know why.

16. Favorite movie? Wizard of Oz

17. Favorite holiday? Thanksgiving

18. Favorite dessert? Ice cream - Breyer's Vanilla

19. Favorite food? Cedar grilled salmon

20. Favorite day of the week? Saturday because I get to sleep in but it's not Sunday.

21. Favorite brand of body wash? Body Shop's Satsuma

22. Favorite toothpaste? Crest Lemon Ice

23. Favorite smell? Coffee, right after you open a new can

24. What do you do to relax? Read or crochet (or, ehem, meet Mr. Hot in the bedroom)

25. Do you have a message to your friends reading this? I love you guys for sticking by me through everything.

26. How do you see yourself in 10 years? In a new career (maybe teaching) - just me and Mr. Hot, because Shortman has gotten settled into his career, in someplace warm - maybe in Europe. With time to travel - a lot.

27. Furthest place you will send this message? Alyndabear is in Australia, so I guess that's about as far as I could possibly send this.

28. Who will respond the fastest? Whoever is most desperate on the 23rd day of NaBloPoMo.

I'm tagging:

Amanda,
Heidi,
witchypoo,
TxPoppet
and
Nancy

and whoever else is doing NaBloPoMo and needs something to write about.

---- Now, I'm off to go find the leftover turkey. ----

Back To the Liquor Store

I could be really sappy and saccharine sweet here and tell you about how grateful I am for my wonderful family and my friends. How I am so appreciative of the recovery Shortman is making from his surgery yesterday and that there are doctors like his oral surgeon in the world. A doctor who kindly called last night to see how he was doing and laughed with me over my attempts to change his gauze. (I've never even met this man.)

I could wax poetic about how blogging has brought me into a warm, comforting (if mostly virtual) community of like-minded, funny individuals like yourselves, people I would not hesitate to invite into my home and ply with wine (or sparkling apple juice for all of you pregnant ones out there).

I could write long paragraphs about how thankful I am to have my beautiful home and my job from hell exciting career and the opportunity to be a woman in today's modern world who has all of these options rather than being told who I was allowed to marry and what I had to do once I married them.

I could go on and on about all of this and more. But right now? I'm praising my lucky stars that it was Mr. Hot who dropped the $25 bottle of vodka onto the floor of the garage and watched it shatter into a million pieces and not my clumsy ass. Because, y'know, that would have been so damned predictable if it had been me.

---- Seriously'all? Thank you. Thank you for being part of my community. Thank you for your kind and comforting words and thoughts. Thank you for making me laugh, or cry, or simply think on a daily basis. For everyone who stops by my little piece of the blogosphere, thank you. ----

I Am a Wuss

I pass out. (And no, NOT [always] because of the wine or vodka). I'm a pain-pussy. I admit it. Childbirth was, to say the least, a gruesome experience for all involved.

(Especially when, after my epidural wore off, and they tried to put another drip into the tube in my back, and they pulled the tube out, and the drug, rather than numbing me just gave me a wet back because it poured out of the tube, and....oh mah gawd, they wouldn't believe me when I told them that I wasn't numb and then they proceeded to stitch me up for the next 3 fuckin' hours, without an painkiller...and....ah ah ah. deeeeeeeeeeeeeep breath. Yah. A pain pussy.)

Aaaaaaanyway.

In addition to being a wuss about pain, I'm also a wuss about others' pain. Even if they're not in pain.

My unconciousness, let me tell you about it.

---

The first time I passed out, I was in the pediatrician's office with my sister, Ski. We were both there with some minor ailment. I was about 10, which would have made her 4. The Doctor had Ski's shirt pulled up to listen to her heart, and noticed a little skin tag on her chest. He asked Mom if she wanted him to remove it. She told him to go ahead.

So, out comes his little scalpel; he scrapes it up against her little body. The next thing I know, Mom is picking me up off the floor. "We heard a thud, and there you were, out cold on the tile. You slid right out of the chair."

The next time I remember passing out, I was working as a veterinary assistant. We were spaying a rabbit. (Seriously y'all. I bet during the 10 months I worked there, we spayed 25 rabbits. Before that, I didn't even know it could be done.) This wasn't the first rabbit we'd spayed. And I had assisted on many other surgeries, but this time? Kerthunk. Apparently I thought too much about what was going on in front of me. Because, y'know, when you're holding a rabbit's freakin' uterus in your hands, you should think about what you're doing.

One time, Mr. Hot (who is a vitamin freak and has taken an aspirin every day since, well, for-freakin'-ever because of the sheer volume of heart-attacks in his family), had a little scrape on his face. It was between the bottom of his nose and one side of his mouth. Right......

....where that blue arrow is pointing.

And this scratch started bleeding. Y'all? It.would.not.stop. That man's blood is so thin, if he was the one that gave birth 16 years ago and got ripped like I did? He'd still be bleeding today.

As he tried, for like, 20 minutes to get this teensy tiny little cut to stop.fuckin'.bleedin'.already, I started feeling sweaty and clammy and like there was a bit of a fog rolling in. Then I got these little pin-pricky things in front of my eyes. And I watched, fascinated, at the buckets of blood pouring from his face and there was no wound. It was like a damn stigmata y'all.

So, the next thing I know, I'm picking my ass up off the deck while he's staring at me, holding a napkin to his face.

That brings us to today. Shortman's surgery was over in less than an hour. Mr. Hot called me and told me they were on their way. I fluffed up Shortman's pillows, got his television remote ready, and straightened his sheets and blankies. I moved the step stool so that Poopy the Puppy could jump up into bed with him.

When they came in, Mr. Hot and I helped the patient up the stairs and adjusted everything. Then Mr. Hot handed me the "Home Care Instructions following Tooth Removal" pamphlet. I read through everything carefully; got to the part where we must "Change gauze every 30-45 minutes up to 4 to 6 hours."

***Warning - Squeamishness may ensue.***
At the 45 minute mark, I told Shortman we needed to change his gauze (yeah, I delayed it to the very last minute, so what?). He pulled out the bloody pieces. I took them from him and wadded up the clean ones to put in his mouth. He has a horrible gag reflex, and my fingers in his swollen mouth didn't help matters any.

After 4 attempts at getting the freakin' gauze pads in the proper places, and having his blood on my hands, I realized that I was going down. And I was going to go down fast.

I looked at him and said, "Shortman, I think I'm going to faint." I sat on the stool, put my head between my legs, and breathed. Again. and Again. I finally felt like I could stand up.

He was almost grinning (well, as much as someone can grin with swollen cheeks). "Ah oo a-raht? Oo k? Wha me call Dah?" The little shit was laughing at me!

I stood up (shaky, but I did not hit the floor) and told him to open up his mouth. Took a deep breath. And stuck those damn gauze pieces right into the back of his mouth. (And tried not to look while I did it.)

---- He's eating vanilla milk shakes. The drugs are doing their job (he's very funny and not at all crabby.....like when he was 8!). Mr. Hot is going to get applesauce so we can at least pretend he's having something nutritious. I'm adding wine to that grocery list to celebrate my reduced level of wussiness. ----

Camel Jumping in Yemen

Last night, Mr. Hot and I stumbled upon "Dr. Danger" - starring Dr. Bob Arnot. Our DVR immediately got programmed to record all new episodes. Have you seen this show? This guy is effen' nuts.

During last night's adventures (in Yemen), he was climbing to one of the highest points in the country with his guide. He slipped down the ridge and dislocated his shoulder. You could see where his shoulder ball was 4 inches lower than the socket where it should have been. He had his cameraman film him while he called New York on his Blackberry and had his guide try to shove it back into the socket. (Excuse me while I puke a little in the back of my throat remembering that.....)

But, I have a question here - and it's one that Mr. Hot and I have discussed many times. Why not the Cameraman? Wouldn't you expect a Cameraman on an adventure show like this to have some medical training? Oh. Shush. You know you've wondered the same thing.

And what about the ones where "There's never been another human to step into this part of the world. So-and-so will be the only person to ever accomplish this feat!" - okay, so who the fuck is filming them?

Let's hear it for the intrepid cameramen! Yay!

(Okay, sorry, off the soapbox now.)

Aaaaaaaanyway. Interesting show. Especially if you like to learn about exotic places and don't pass out easily.

---

Then we were watching Keith Olbermann and saw this. I'm sorry, and yes, I think normally that theme diners can be fun, but there is just something wrong going on in Taiwan.

---

I managed to open my salad dressing (Dole Taco Toss , yum) today without squirting it all over my keyboard, so the week is looking up. And today's my last day in the office since I'll be working from home tomorrow and taking care of Shortman. That's good too.

---

And I managed to get in a good 35-minute weight/aerobics workout yesterday. Today, I'm reloading my mp3 player since Yahoo Music-To-Go is dead. Dead to me. Dead to the world. Mr. Hot and I had a 2-years-for-the-price-of-1 subscription (or so we thought) because he paid for it with our Mastercard. It was a promotional price - if you were a new subscriber and used your Mastercard.

Then, the beginning of October, he got notified that our membership was going to expire November 18th. "Wait a minute, here", thinks Mr. Hot. "This wasn't supposed to expire until 2008." So, he emails Yahoo.

The response he got back? Was certainly from a yahoo. A yahoo with no concept of customer service. "Since you used the 10 day free trial before you signed up for your membership, you weren't considered a 'new' subscriber, and therefore, you don't get the deal."

Seriously y'all? WTF? Use the free trial to figure out if you want to be tied to a membership for two years and they use that to disqualify you from the membership special? Dead I tell you. (And actually, they're not even offering the 'To Go' plan that allows you to copy files to your mp3 on Yahoo Music anymore. Coincidence? I think not.)

So, we've switched to Napster. I'm loading up the player in order to hit the treadmill tonight. What do they say? Twenty-one days to make a habit? That's my new winter goal. Get back to doing the kick-my-ass workouts before I scare away those of you I've bribed all my readers with my morose-ness. I can still fit in all of my clothing, but the attitude? Bitchy-Blah doesn't begin to describe me. (Well, of course it does....but I'd prefer it didn't.)

---

So, now, here - watch this excerpt from last night's episode of Dr. Danger. By the way, Yemeni men? Are like 5 ft. 3. Not. tall. Think about that when you watch them.



---- Please think good thoughts for Shortman tomorrow. I know it's just teeth, but it's the first time my baby has ever been knocked-out-cold and cut on. sniff. kathunk. ----

As Political As I'll Get

So...depress you much? Yea, that was quite a little pity party going on there yesterday. Sorry about that. I really do think I need to start exercising regularly again. I was so good for two solid years, but then moving to Ann Arbor and this job situation and everything else has zapped all of my motivation and energy. But now that it's winter (hate. did I mention? hate.) I know that I've got to do something to get out of this funk. Besides, if I do get in 60 minutes every day, I can justify an extra glass or two of wine every week! And cheese!

Plus, maybe it'll help my coordination. So far today, I've knocked my oatmeal over onto my desk for breakfast, squirted bacon/ranch salad dressing onto my keyboard (damn plastic packets) for lunch, and, while shaking my cup of soup? forgot to cover the hole in the lid. You can imagine. I have gotten the potato sludge off of my glasses and my phone - but Gawd only knows where else it's hiding. I'm afraid to walk over to the bathroom because y'know what cup-o-fake-potato-soup looks like? especially if it dries on your pants?

I'm just sayin....maybe thats what happened to that blue dress.

Beginning of Winter Blues

Not a big fan of Sundays here. The fact that work and school are rearing their heads again make Sundays, kind of, meh. It's also lazy in the Hotfessional household, which means that it's a long day. We step on each other, and are too polite for family. We're shut inside. We are unfailingly careful not to bruise feelings or get in each other's way. But we do. Sometimes we do.

In the summer, in Michigan, there's all kinds of activities - to stay busy, to stay active. Walks in the park, yardwork (yes, I like to work in my perennial beds, I even like to weed), barbecues and reading out on the deck, enjoying the sun.

In the winter (which, yes, I've finally given in...it's freakin' winter. Hate.), there's no fussing around with flowers and plants unless you want to freeze your fingertips. Walks are bone-chilling and damp. We don't have a tiny house, but it's not sprawling, either. Today, in the winter, Shortman is usually in the office, doing homework, or playing on the computer. I sit on one end of the couch, working on my latest project (a new throw for the couch - crocheted, not knitted, since I can't knit), and Mr. Hot roams. He roams the house, his ADD kicking in and making him crazy. It makes us all crazy. A glance that accidently shows me that he's scowling makes me wonder what I've done to piss him off.

I remind Shortman to finish his homework and that he needs to put gas in the truck. He stomps off; obviously I've turned from helpful to nagging without meaning to. But he's sixteen and knows best. I know only that I would like to not be the one who needs to keep track of whether he's completed what he needs to do, so tomorrow morning won't be a madhouse of "don't forgets" and "hurry ups".

DetectiveMom calls. Is impatient that I've missed an earlier call and didn't get her voicemail. When told that I was vacuuming, her response about my homemaking skills raises the hair on my neck. Too touchy today. Nerves too close to the skin because there's been no sun to warm it and deepen them to where they should be.

At the beginning of this season, when no one is acclimated to the cold and the gray, (it's so.damn.gray.) this cloud that settles over is disheartening. We don't know how to handle it, we've forgotten the dance steps, we stomp each other's feet and try to lead when we should follow. Another couple of weeks or so will pass, and we'll have remembered. We'll remember the moves, remember that the others will hold you when the dip comes.

---- But now, it's too early. It's dark too early and the day is done, but not done. It's too long. And tomorrow, it's back to work; to school. Sundays. Meh. Next week will be better. ----

Let's Go Bowling

Headed for some bowl game. Michigan State 35 - Penn State 31. I'm fuckin' freezin'. It was soooooo damn cold.

Ohio State 14 - Michigan 3. Ohio State takes the Big Ten championship.

If my Spartans end up at the Motor City Bowl, playing some Mid-American Conference team, y'all better watch for me.

Short post today. Must.thaw.my.fingers.

Go Sparty. XX

Cruella DeMomme

Shortman has to have his wisdom teeth yanked. Yes, apparently, he has the same issues that I do with the damn things. This is the x-ray that Mr. Hot mailed to my phone while they were in the consulting room. It was done with a panoramic x-ray machine. It travels completely around your head zapping x-rays through your skull. (Killing brain cells with no hangover! Sweet! But no wine-buzz. Damn.)

See the buggers there? The one on the lower left has pushed through already. He has decided to have the general anesthetic (Truly, he is my son. Pain-pussies is what we are.) He wants the surgeon to make sure that he saves the teeth - for a necklace? I don't know. I don't think I want to know. Nor do I want to see them. Because, y'know, I will probably pass out. I have been know to do just that (another post for another time!).

When the surgeon described what would need to be done (Thank Gawd Mr. Hot took him to the appointment), he specifically pointed out the tooth in the lower right corner. The one I've circled in the picture below. See it? See what the surgeon said? Must.be.sawed.in.half. Before they take the freakin' thing out.

(Did I mention that Shortman decided on having the general anesthetic? Smart boy.)
I think I will probably work from home that day. His appointment is at 8:30 a.m. I'll make sure that his bed is nice and toasty warm for when Mr. Hot has to sneak him out the back door of the surgeon's office and bring him home. Then Mr. Hot can go get his prescription for painkillers filled (Hmmmm, I wonder if his pain-pussiness will be as oblivious to Vicodin as mine was? Note to self: Tell Mr. Hot to make sure it's Percoset on the prescription.) and I can be a good Mom and fluff pillows and tuck covers and stroke his precious forehead. I'll lay in a supply of DVDs that I know he'll enjoy.

I think it's a good plan and, caring, nurturing parents that we are, we'll pamper our little patient - all 6 foot 2 inches of him - so that he knows exactly how much we love him.

What day is this all happening?

Um. Yea, about that.

The Doctor said that it would probably take him a few days to feel up to moving around or going back to school. He suggested a Friday.

We, as parents, want to make sure that there is nothing distracting Shortman from being a diligent student. We don't want him to feel poorly during classes. We want to make sure he has every advantage to take all the time that he needs to heal.

So, we looked at the calendar. Hm.

Yep, we agree. It makes sense. That way, he has two whole extra days to feel better.

Wednesday, November 21. The day before Thanksgiving.

---- I wonder what a turkey milkshake tastes like? ----

I'll Be Hanging With The Royals

The Weekly Random is taking over again.

---

Did I tell y'all that Mr. Hot and I recently invested actual money in an English soccer team? (That's The Footy for all of us, y'know, ehem, owners.)

He called me earlier in the week and asked if I had received his email. Um, no. Probably caught by the spam filter that allows "Pen!s Gr()w$ 4 1nch3s" but destroys "Make sure you enroll in your Health Benefits during Open Enrollment" (the latter, I'm not kidding, came from an internal email address!)

So, he bought us shares in Ebbsfleet United. Through this site. Hee. Maybe I'll get to meet the Queen when we win the Championship or whatever. She'll call me "Lady Hot" and I'll get to ogle our Will. Or is it Harry that's the cute one? Anyway, I'll still remember all of you when I'm hanging with Posh and Becks.

---

I told Major Bedhead that I'd send people over to take a look at her birthday wish from yesterday. (Yes, MB and my Mom have the same birthday.) Go look and learn. It's important.

---

One of the guys I work with sent me an email that had a bunch of "Mood Buttons You Can't Wear to Work" graphics. The phone call I just got off of made me wish I could wear this one while talking to the brainiac from Audit.
or this one
or this one
I just don't know how many times I can tell him that something doesn't exist. If it did exist I would certainly send it, just so he would quit calling me every hour (he even refers to it by a different name, in case, y'know, I didn't understand the first eleventy-seven times.

---

And, to end, since I started on an English note, enjoy yourselves some Lily Allen. I love the lyrics from this. Seriously, "Tesco" and "Al Fresco"? How good is that?

---

---- Okay. Now, I have to go make some calls about this phantom document that the brainiac wants me to pull out of my arse. (See, arse! I'll fit right in.) ----

aWardnesday

Today is my Mom's birthday! She's a wonderful lady - I love her to death and don't spend nearly enough time with her because I'm too lazy busy and she's got a much fuller social calendar than me. I wrote a bit about her here, and showed you her handiwork here, but you may not know that she was also a career woman. And that's what made me sure that I could do whatever I wanted when I grew up.

Mom worked for the same city where my dad was a cop. She was the Chief of Police's administrative assistant (at a time when they were still called secretaries). Nepotism anyone? Snort.

One day, she received a call from a distraught woman in the Phillipines. The woman's son-in-law had written to this poor lady that her daughter (his wife) had been killed instantly in a car accident, and she wanted Mom to send her a copy of the police report. Mom looked for the report. And looked. And looked. There was no police report.

Mom called her friends at the local newspaper and got in contact with her buddies over at the Fire station. No articles. No firemen sent to the scene of any wreck. Hmmmmmmm. Her internal 'mom alarms' started going off. Something wasn't right.

After discussing the issue with Dad and the rest of the detective squad, a search warrant was authorized for the son-in-law's home. In the garage, they found bags and bags of the missing woman's clothing and effects. (Yes, they asked Mom to tag along....cool, eh?) Those alarms were sounding again. Mom wondered why this man would have, in less than a week, packed up all of his wife's stuff? and why would he have put it all in garbage bags? Wouldn't he, if he really loved her, packed up some of the stuff and sent it to relatives? Or at least given it to Goodwill or the Salvation Army?

They continued searching and found that the incinerator was full. (Read more about when houses had incinerators here.) In this town, the trucks came and emptied home incinerators monthly. Because of the timing of the last pickup, the fact that it was full was extremely strange. Detective Mom knew this. She grew up in a home with a stove like this. She asked the cops to empty out the ashbin.

As they sifted through the ashes, the detectives found bone fragments and teeth. A home incinerator doesn't get hot enough to burn bone completely. This woman's entire family lived in the Phillipines. They were poor and couldn't have made the trip to the States for a funeral. The man had no ties to this city; no relations, and as far as any neighbors knew, no friends.

Detective Mom had solved a murder that no one knew had happened!
This is one of my very favorite stories. Happy Birthday Detective Mom! Hope your mom alarms never fail.

On behalf of this special day, I'm giving out a couple of awards that I've been terribly lax in passing along.

To Heidi at Family Adventure, to Amy, and Jen On The Edge - the


I'm Fabulous Award (because, y'know, they're fab!)And to:

Lisa at Midwestern Mommy, Lys at Just Because..., and Candy at Candy's Corner the


Brownie Point Award (because, y'know, they're sweet!)

And last, but not least - the Inaugural "Hot" Award. Created this morning.

Amanda, Kristabella, Marianne, Alyndabear and Meghan:

Because, y'know, they're smokin' hot.
---- Now, go raise a toast to my Mom! ----

The Internet Crashed

My days off are so much freakin' fun. Uh huh. Yep.

For instance - yesterday after Shortman got home from school, I volunteered to accompany him to his dental appointment so that Mr. Hot could finish cleaning the bathroom (because, y'know, I'm sweet that way. Mr. Hot hates sitting in waiting rooms.).

As we got into the car, Shortman asks if I would call the World of Warcraft administrators, since his password got hacked (again. sigh. can I tell you how much I hate that they won't let you change your "secret word"?) and he has a character that is, like, level 173,676 or something and his characters on the other account are just sooooo.booorinnggg. and he really wants that character back and...and...and. Being the wonderful mother that I am, I tell him to drive and I get on the phone.

I just get connected and am sitting there listening to the worst.hold.music.ever (which, amazingly enough, is the damn soundtrack from the game), when my purse starts ringing. I put my cell on speaker (and from past experience, I know that I could be listening to the crap soundtrack for up to 45 minutes), throw it into the cupholder, and answer my Crackberry Blackberry. One of my least most favorite clients asks me if I have seen the emails about "the whole internet being down." (Got that? I now have control over the entire.fuckin.internet. So there! I am awed by my own power.)

I assure him that I have been following the email string that he sent, that our network support vendors are working on the issue and have been in touch with the staff members having the problems. He's mumbling something about making sure the vendor is doing their job because so-and-so isn't available and he doesn't trust the vendor and y'know the entire internet is down and....and....

Y'all? It's about this time that I notice that we should be getting to the dentist, but the office doesn't seem to be where it should be.

Are you following all of this? I'm:

1. Listening to static-y hold music on speaker phone coming cup holder while waiting for WoW administrators to get to me because if I miss them taking me off of hold, I will have to listen for another 45 minutes. To static.on.steroids.

2. Listening to a client explain to me how it's my job to bring back the internet because the guy who is normally in charge of making sure that vendors do their jobs is not available because it's a holiday. (Um, yes, he had the nerve to tell me this.)

3. Wondering who the fuck moved the dentist's office and how I'm going to find it in the 10 minutes we have left to make it to Shortman's appointment on time.

I motion to Shortman to pull into a parking lot, manage to get client off the phone with a promise to call the vendor myself, and start pulling things out of my purse to see if I have a number for Dr. DisappearingOffice. The hold music is still playing. If you've never heard the WoW hold soundtrack, imagine "Ride of the Valkyries" over a loudspeaker on the verge of exploding. Then, imagine it with bits of silence and the usual "Your business is very important to us." teases. Fun!

While dialing the vendor representative, I tell Shortman to turn the car around, we must have missed the office in all the confusion. Just then the vendor rep picks up. I ask her if she's heard that the clients are experiencing connectivity issues with the network. Her answer back to me is the standard:

"Did they open a ticket? What severity is the ticket? What is the ticket number? Were the proper processes followed? "

I respond back, "I simply need to know whether you heard there is an issue going on. We have the appropriate people involved, I am asking if you are aware."

She comes back with, "No, but if you give me the information.....yadayadaydada."

Once again, we're back at the beginning of the road that I was *sure* the dentist's office was on. We can't have missed it again. Once again, I motion Shortman into a parking lot.

=Do you see how sad this is? How it's only going to get worse? =

In an effort to NOT scare all of you away, I'm going to end it here. I will tell you that eventually we:

1. Did find the office. It was on Main Street, not First Street. Thank you Mr. Hot for picking up the phone when I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown and not laughing at my stupidity. We were only 5 minutes late.

2. The internet did return. The She-Devil representative from the vendor called her contacts to see what the status was, which allowed me, once Shortman went back to the examining room, to call the client to let him know that "Yes, the vendor knows what to do to bring the Internet back from the dead."

3. The WoW administrators actually waited until we:
a) were on our way to the correct address and
b) my client was temporarily appeased that I knew what was going on
before getting to my call because "My business is important to them". They graciously reset Shortman's password with little effort.

And last, but not least:

4. Shortman's appointment took only 25 minutes and I was back home with a stiff drink in just over an hour total.

---- And the holiday season is just starting. I'm terrified, y'all. But, y'know, if the Internet goes down again? You can call 1-800-Hot-Fsnl. I have some spectacular music for you to listen to while you're on hold. ----

More MeMeMeMeMe

First off, y'all are way too cool - (thanks for the responses to yesterday's question) - I want to put you all on my Christmas list, but I don't think that would go over too well considering my possible pending unemployment and all. But! I can still give one of you presents for the holiday! L Sass and RA are doing a fantastically cool Secret Santa for Bloggers this year. Go sign up. But wait until you read some more about me. Because, y'know, Kristabella tagged me.

This doesn't have a name as far as I know, so I'm naming it the NaBloFourMoreForPoMo:

Four First Names of Crushes I Had
1. Shawn (Cassidy)
2. Andy (Gibb)
3. Mr. Hot (yes, that's really his first name....snort)
4. Matthew (McConaughey)

Four Pieces of Clothing I Wish I Still Owned
1. Calvin Klein jeans that fit perfectly (although my 515s are pretty darn close)
2. Cream colored wool skirt - lined and just the right length.
3. My cowboy boots from 11th grade.
4. A blue sweater that disappeared suddenly after we moved back north. Such a shame, it works so well with the weather here.

Four Professions I Secretly Want to Try
1. Winery owner (it is conceivable that I would drink myself out of business)
2. Jockey (at 5'9" I think this is out of reach)
3. Corporate Contract Lawyer
4. Stay at Home Mom

Four Musicians I’d Most Want to Go On a Date With
1. Chris Duarte
2. George Harrison (I know, he's dead, but it wouldn't happen anyway, so I can dream)
3. Bryan Adams
4. Bruce Springsteen (so I could tell him how wonderful Cupcake is)

Four Foods I’d Rather Throw Than Eat
1. Liver
2. Tongue (seriously, can this be considered food? There's something wrong with eating something you use to eat.)
3. Overcooked eggplant (slimmmmmmmmmmmmmmmy)
4. Green peppers (I like them, they don't like me....so I figure throwing them will prevent massive indigestion)

Four Things I Like to Sniff
1. Coffee - right after opening the can
2. Mr. Hot's neck
3. Vanilla spice candles
4. Shortman's hair after he washes it

Speaking of Shortman, he got to drive the baby mama car today to school since Mr. Hot and I needed his truck to get the lumber for him to finish the floor in the storage barn. It's really beginning to get cold here and we've got to get all of the stuff out of the yard and into storage. Since the guy they hired to do the weather because he looks cute the meterologist on the news fucked up the weather forecast yesterday, I didn't get to my original plans of cleaning out the perennial beds and transplanting hostas. I didn't get to it today, and since I can't convince my employer to declare a day-after-Veteran's Day-holiday-that-is-really-already-the-next-day, so that I can get another day off work, I guess I won't get to it tomorrow, or probably the day after that either. Mr. Hot will be getting instructions on what to cut back and what to leave alone at some point.

I'm not going to tag anyone, but if you're doing NaBloPoMo and get stuck, feel free to join in the fun.

---- Now, go do that Secret Santa stuff - I can't wait to find out who I get to stalk mess with give presents to. ----

Enquiring Minds Want to Know

First, a question.

I was telling Mr. Hot about an email I received from a reader, Candy. In her email, she said she was a big fan. (Of mine! Not, like, a baseball fan or a window fan. She did. I love her. ) I sent her back a note where I thanked her (and offered to buy her wine). Seriously, you have no idea how much that email made my day. But then I said that I was intimidated when I think that people actually read what I write. (Of course, I also suggested a date, because y'know, I'm soooo stalking her now.)

Then yesterday, when I wrote what had to have been the absolute worst thing I've ever written (and yes, I am including that term paper on Beowulf that I wrote in high school), I told him that I compared my day's work to warm milk. Because, y'know, zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

He responded that I was insulting my readers by insinuating that my writing was so horrible that it was a waste of time to read it. And I wanted to sob!

So, part one of the question is, Am I insulting you by being self-critical and self-deprecating? Ack! If so, please, please, accept my apology. I'm sorry. I love my readers more than my rye crisps and goat cheese. I love my readers more than Victoria's Secrets clearance sales. I love my readers more than beer and some wines. Gulp. I even love my readers more than at least 4 pairs of shoes I have in my closet.

Part two of my question (yes, I forgot to mention that it was a multiple-part answer I require) is Why are women so much more critical of themselves than men are? Or are they? I work with men. I live with men. Mr. Hot is critical of himself, but not in the way that I am. Shortman thinks the sun shines outta his own butt (but, okay, he's 16 and an only child...I maybe shouldn't be surprised.)

So, am I imagining it? The Difference Blog has some interesting items on self-esteem and the difference between men's and women's views of themselves and their worth. I've seen the phenomenon all my life.

My ex-husband was an expert at making sure that I felt like crap whenever I complained about anything. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I only wanted him to listen to me vent and nod his head. He didn't have to agree with me. He didn't have to slam the person I was complaining about. But ninety-nine percent of the time? He managed to come up with some way of making me believe it was my fault. Of course, he was never wrong. Ever.

When I bitched about the person I trained to do payroll who "forgot" to make the tax deposit? My fault because obviously I didn't train her well. How about when I needed to rant about my sister who teased me constantly about my inability to cook? Well, (according to the practice husband) she's right because one time I burned the cookies I was making for our housewarming party. (To this day, I don't cook because of my own fear of making a fool of myself...luckily, Mr. Hot is more than willing to feed us. Probably because I can't.freakin'.cook. See????)

Anyway, I think it's an interesting topic. My step-daughter has tons of self-confidence. I'm proud of her - we all are. I wonder if it's a generational thing? Let me know your thoughts. She's twenty. Old enough not to be a snotty teen, young enough not to be too jaded? Let me know what you think please. Comments or emails are fine.

Now on to lighter stuff.

Turn off teh lite. kthxbai.


Muv ur feet luz ur seat.


Ear cat is listening to u.
---- It was cold, windy and drizzling here all day today. The pets spent the entire afternoon asleep on the top of the couch cushions (as evidenced above). I sat thinking about what I would blog about today. I'm happy with my decision. Do let me know what you think. Thanks, love to you all. ----

Better Than Warm Milk

Okay, here's how absolutely exciting my life is. Last night, after we got back from the U. of M. basketball game (Yes I have Wolverine season tickets for basketball - Sparty that I am. I go to make fun of them since they're so obviously deficient to Izzo's boys on the court), Mr. Hot and I watched the Pistons, had a beer, and went to bed. To. Sleep. It was 10:30 pm. Sigh.

This morning, I woke up (9 am, do you think I have a problem? I sleep more than anyone I know), had coffee and toast for breakfast, and went grocery shopping. Sigh. I looked at toasters and gasped that the toaster I had my eyes on? Was $55. Two slice toaster. Fifty-five dollars.

What happened to dates and parties? What happened to movies and dinners? Poor, poor, pitiful me.

Actually, this is exactly what I want at this stage in my life. I would prefer (oh, yes, how I would prefer) that I didn't have to hear "I have 70 kazillion pages of homework that I knew for the past week was due Monday, but I wanted to play WoW instead, so now I'm going to be pissy because I don't want to do it." from Shortman. I would prefer that the dog didn't decide to carry his bone onto the couch (yuck!) so that I have to spend an hour vacuuming up pieces of Milkbone or rawhide. I would prefer that Mr. Hot would not talk to me constantly (and I do mean constantly) while I'm trying to read or write. And then get angry because "I'm ignoring him." But, hey, it's my life.

---- It's official. I've written the most boring post ever. Read this before you go to bed tonight. NaBloPoMoBorMor. Take that! ----

Jeans (not Genes)

I finally found the right style of jeans for me. Yes, I'm 44 (and a half) - and it's taken me this long to figure it out.

They're Levi 515s. The description (from the Levi's site) says it all: A bootcut jean that's not too slim or too relaxed. Sits just below the waist with a close, comfortable fit through the seat and thigh.

And it's true! I picked up two pair at Kohl's last weekend - and I see them being part of my wardrobe for the entire winter.

It's hard to fit my body. I have to find pants that sit below my natural waist and (and believe me, this is the important part) fit my ass. I don't have wide hips - they're actually pretty narrow, but my butt? Not flat, that's for sure. Baby Got Back? Yea, Sir Mix-A-Lot walked behind me one time.

I can remember being in high school and having to wear jeans and pants (y'all remember Dittos?) that gapped so badly at the waist that I refused to sit on the bleachers at football games because guys would attempt to throw things down my pants. I was a horrible seamstress (and my mother was just as bad) so making any alteration to a pair of pants? Standing up for an entire school day was less painful.

So, anyway, to say I'm excited about finally finding these jeans that.fit.me. is a bit of an understatement. It means that Casual Friday and the whole Business Casual dress code is finally within my reach. (Yay, me!) And since I can actually find the "long" sizes, I can continue to wear my heels with them without looking the fool. (Since all of the other NaBloPoMoHos are showing their shoes, I thought I'd show you mine. They're old and ratty, but amazingly comfortable. Dress Barn, circa 2003.)

Plus, I used my $10 gift card from Vicky's Slutwear to get this on sale. In red.

---- So, what are your favorite jeans? Why are they your favorite? Is it their fit? Their softness? The hole that is in just the right place on your knee? ----

What Do You Get....

And on the 8th day, she completely blanked out and couldn't think of a single freakin' thing to write about.

So, here's what she did:

1. Went to Random.org.
2. Got a random number between 1 and 100.
3. Went to her list of 100 Things.
4. Found the one that matched her random number (88).
5. Wrote a post to elaborate on the 88th thing she'd listed:

"I am Lebanese, Polish, and Slovak."
Whooo-hoo. She bets you wish she'd typed "The End" after the first sentence and called it good.

But, since she needs to be committed (to actually doing this NaBloPoMo thingie), she will bore you with more information about her. And you're probably wondering why she decided to write this in the 3rd person. Fuck if she knows, it just happened somehow.

---

Alright, that's too hard. We'll go back to first person now, okay?

Aaaaaanyway. My father is Lebanese. My mother is Polish (her dad) and Slovak (her mom). You're wondering (or maybe you're not....but hey, let me finish, okay?) - How does a nice Polish/Slovakian girl meet a Lebanese boy from the wrong side of the tracks?

An opportunity to open a trophy store with her uncle brought my mother's family from the Pennsylvania hills and the danger of the coal mines to Michigan in 1955. Mom is the fourth child of five; two girls, three boys. She's the younger sister. I wrote about my grandmother here - she was one of my favorite people in the world. I didn't know my grandfather - he died when I was 5, but I am told he was instrumental in the care and spoiling of a certain baby who lived with him for a time.

My father's dad worked in the automotive industry until he died of colon cancer in 1968. I never saw him when he wasn't bedridden but I do have a picture of him sitting on the couch in their old house; the house where he died; before he got sick. My father looks a lot like him. I was never close to my Dad's mother. She never liked my mother, and I took that to mean that she didn't like me or my brother or sister as well. She lived the longest of any of my grandparents, though and was the only one to ever meet Shortman and Mr. Hot, so, in some way, I feel that bond to her.

MomandDad's hometown was a mix of immigrants outside of Detroit. They knew each other while in high school, but didn't date. Mom worked as a secretary after she graduated and dated a guy that she thought she would marry. Things didn't work out (thank goodness! there would be no Hotfessional [snort]) - they split and she started dating Dad. Her parents didn't want a "mixed marriage" for their daughter (yes, it was the early 60's), but eventually, my father won them over (he has that way with people). Dad was in the Marines, stationed in North Carolina when they tied the knot. I was born 10 months and 13 days after their wedding (honeymoon baby? I believe so.). He was gone for the first six months of my life, so my mother and I lived with her parents, her older sister and her youngest brother. I was completely and utterly doted upon. It's a wonder I grew up as humble as I did [snort, again.]

My brother was born in 1965 and my sister was born in 1968. We're all about as different as full siblings can be. They are olive-skinned with dark hair and dark brown eyes. They're very much like my father - in their looks, beliefs and their actions. They are close to each other, but not to me. This isn't a criticism or a complaint. I'm as much at fault (if there is a fault) as they are.

They both have large families (my brother has 4 and my sister has 5 children); they travel to each other's homes on a regular basis. (They live over 600 miles from each other, so this is amazing to me. I can barely stand being in a car for an hour, much less 11 or 12 - and with children......they're either drugging the kids or themselves. I'm convinced).

I am fairer. My hair was light brown/blond when I was younger (and before I needed help from my friend Emily.....). I have green eyes. I have one child and a stay-at-home dad husband. Me? Not too traditional, not at all religious. Put me in a room with more than 5 people, and someone will probably die. Painfully. Because I can't deal with crowds. Put my brother, sister, their spouses and their children in a room together? It's a freakin' mob. A loud one.

Being Lebanese, my father's hurt by a lot of what is going on in the world today. He's Muslim, but is not fanatical. My mother, raised Catholic, follows my father's faith except when it comes to covering her head and praying. They're good people. They take care of each other; they love their children and absolutely adore their grandchildren.

So, you may wonder....what do you get when you cross a Lebanese man with a Polish/Slovak woman?

Well, other than a near-sighted lunatic with writer's block? Someone who loves pierogis and falafel and can write her name in Arabic and say "Give me a kiss" in Polish.

---- Oh, and feel free, if you're stuck, to use the above method to figure out a topic. Next time, though, I'm going to randomize from 1 to 201 and go pick one of Kristabella's topics and write about HER! ----

He Wants to Be My Superhero

Last night, I got home and Mr. Hot handed me a present! He said "Happy 1/2 Birthday!".

(Um, since when do we celebrate half-birthdays? Since last night apparently! So, y'all, on November 6th, I officially became 44.5 years old. And this is supposed to make me fuckin' happy? Can you say, officially middle-aged? And pre-menopausal? Where's the damn cake and ice cream?)

But, he got me this book - I can officially drool over Adrian Grenier and the glossy pages will wipe off!


This is my very favorite theme song. Ever.



---- Okay, who am I kidding? He's already my superhero. Y'know, the one who is 51 years, 10 months and 7 days old. The one who surprises me every single day. ----

A Bit of Randomness Is Always Good

Stolen from The Perks of Being a Jap:

The all-knowing Oracle of Starbucks Behold the Oracle's wisdom:

Personality type: Schmuck

You work your ass off because you're obsessed with money and status. You're always lying about having powerful friends. You wouldn't mind sleeping your way to the top but would miss getting to backstab coworkers along the way. All porn stars drink venti nonfat latte.

Also drinks: $15 martinis
Can also be found: Staring at self in mirror

You, too, can be humiliated and insulted for your Starbucks choice at The Oracle of Starbucks.

---

Are you wondering where and why the purple? See over there -> on the sidebar? The Go Purple for November picture? Go see Elle and find out about Sweet Hope Truffles and Adoption Awareness and all kinds of cool stuff. So, on behalf of Elle, I made some purply changes around here for a while.

---

I was reading this post from Kris and remembered a funny story from when Mr. Hot and I were first married.

A little background. Mr. Hot was married when we met. So was I. Neither one of us were going to be married for much longer - whether we had gotten together or not. Neither my marriage nor his were the 'happily ever after' type. But, then neither one of us went through an amicable divorce either. His parents refused to acknowledge my existence. His ex-wife was certain, even after we were married, that they were going to reconcile - she even sent love letters. (We all do get along just fine now. In fact I speak to Mrs. Ex-Hot more than Mr. Hot does.)

Mr. Hot's son (aka TYO) was 8 or 9 and was playing soccer. He asked us to come to the game and so we went, even though we knew that Mrs. Ex-Hot and her mother (a real piece of work) and brother were going to be there.

So, Mr. Hot and I are sitting on a blanket, watching these kids run around, and suddenly, there's a shadow looming over us. Mr. Hot looks up:

"Well, Junior, How are you?" Junior is Mrs. Ex-Hot's brother.

Junior replys, "Fine, Mr. Hot. I wanted to introduce you to my girlfriend, Snookums. Snookums, this is Mr. Hot and um, Mrs. Hot, TYO's step mother."

So, hellos and handshakes were exchanged and polite conversation occurred and Junior and Snookums left to return to the coven company of Junior's sister and mother.

As they turned to leave, Snookums looks back over her shoulder and says, "It was so nice to meet you both."

I say, "You, too."

at the same time Mr. Hot is saying, "Oh, yea, I just bet it was."

He then immediately looks at me and says, with this terrified look on his face, "Fuck. Please, please tell me I didn't say that out loud."

I, on the other hand, collapsed onto the blanket, laughing hysterically, and pulled the corner up over my head as all of these other parents stood around looking at us, slack-jawed.

---- Oh, yea. That was definitely one of the defining moments of my relationship with my husband's ex and one of the first times we thought about moving out of state. ----

The Peanut Butter Pissing Contest

I'm in a pissing contest with the cashier at our building's cafeteria. How sad is this? I'm a professional 44-year-old woman and I'm setting up for a battle with a 75-year-old cafeteria cashier that wears her stockings rolled down to her ankles and black orthopedic shoes.

Regardless of her age or the scariness of those shoes, though, I vow that I will win this fight. I'm going to crush her spirit and her ability to get away with charging me 15¢ for a teaspoon of peanut butter.

Every morning, I go over to the cafeteria and get a medium coffee ($1.74) and a small container of plain oatmeal ($0.89). I usually always have correct change, but if I don't have the $2.63 exactly, I leave the pennies in the little penny jar, or take a couple of pennies...y'know how it goes. No big deal, right? I don't carry my purse or my wallet. I carry what money I need because I need my hands to carry back the oatmeal and the coffee and be able to open doors. (Remember that I'm clumsy and tend to drop things?)

The oatmeal is regular cooked oatmeal with nothing extra added in. But! there are little bowls with nuts and raisins and dried cranberries sitting around. There are also bowls of cream cheese for bagels or butter for toast. There used to be a bowl of peanut butter and those little plastic rectangles of jelly sitting out, too.

I like to get some protein in the morning, so I always add about a teaspoon of peanut butter to my oatmeal. By the time I would get back to my desk, the peanut butter would be all melty and yummy and I would stir it through with some Splenda and a few raisins, and oh mah gawd y'all, it was as close to heaven as freakin' plain oatmeal could come.

(Yes, I would have much rather had one of those chocolate chocolate-chip muffins or scrambled eggs with cheese and a side of bacon, but to fit into my Execuhot wardrobe, y'know, I have to think about some of the crap I put in my mouth.)

Anyway, one day I walked over and lo and behold, they had changed the bowl of peanut butter to a bowl of these little containers of peanut butter. Okay? Okay. Not a problem. It was probably about the same amount of p.b. that I added every day anyway. So I grab a container and walk on up to Cashier Ratched.

I plop my $2.63 into her hand, just like I've done every day for the past six months - and just as she says "$2.78".

"Excuse me?" I say. "Did y'all raise the price of coffee?"

"No."

"Oatmeal?"

"No."

"Well then why is it $2.78? It's always $2.63."

I am truly dumbfounded. There is a growing line of bagel-bearing, spandex-clad women behind me. Cashier Ratched points at my little container of peanut butter.

"Fifteen cents for peanut butter."

"But you've never charged me for peanut butter before, I've always added it directly to the oatmeal from the bowl that was out there."

"We have to charge for peanut butter."

I am not happy, but who am I to argue? Besides, she's wearing a hair net and I have visions of her coming up behind me while I'm getting my plastic spoon and napkins with a butcher knife.

"Okay, I'll have to go get the difference. I'll be right back."

And so I go back to my desk, grab the 15¢ and carry it back to her. Now I start carrying $2.78 to the cafeteria every morning.

A few days later, I decide, on a whim, (well, that and the fact that the oatmeal looked like soup, and I cannot abide watery oatmeal) to get a couple of pieces of toast and fruit instead. I grab a container of peanut butter for my toast (no margarine for this girl) and head over to Cashier Ratched.

I watch her ring up: $2.28 for the fruit (salad bar by the ounce, yikes!), $0.75 for the toast.

"That'll be $3.03."

"You didn't charge me for the peanut butter."

"The peanut butter is free with toast."

Are y'all following this logic? Peanut butter is free with bread, but not if you take it to put in your oatmeal. I'm learning all about fuckin' cafeteria-lady logic. But, I decide to not rock the boat. Just learn the rules and move along now, eh?

Until the next time I go in and get the fruit and toast and - Yes! You got it.

"Excuse me, you charged me for the peanut butter. You said it was free with toast."

"Oh no I wouldn't have done that. We have to charge for peanut butter."

"But you didn't charge me the last time."

"Oh yes, I would have. We have to charge for peanut butter."

And the line of fried egg/hash brown/sausage sandwich plus a diet Pepsi wielding ladies behind me is getting longer.

I pay my peanut butter surcharge and vow that I will get to the bottom of this.

Last week, I saw the cafeteria manager counting tea bags while I was spooning my oatmeal into its styrofoam bowl. I walk over, holding my oatmeal and my coffee and my little container of peanut butter.

"Excuse me? Can you tell me if I'll be charged for this peanut butter?"

"Well, normally peanut butter is complimentary, but are you just getting the peanut butter? No toast?"

"No, I put the peanut butter in my oatmeal. The thing is, sometimes your cashier charges me for it, and sometimes she doesn't. It's not that big of a deal, only 15¢ but I usually come in with correct change and I get tired of her changing her mind on whether to charge me or not."

"Well, it's complimentary for something that you usually have with peanut butter, like toast, but most people don't put peanut butter in oatmeal."

Ahhhhh, the fucked-up cafeteria-lady logic presents itself again! I agree that it makes sense, and I pay my money and take my oatmeal. And we go on happily for the next couple of days, because I get toast and don't have to pay for my peanut butter because, y'know, I've figured out the logic. Go me! Am a genius.

Then, last Thursday, I get toast. And she charges me.

---- Awright bitch. It's ON. It's so ON. ----

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things

I'm just going with pics today my dears. I'm nursing my broken Spartan heart but I'm trying to get over it (seriously Hotfessional, when do they ever do anything else to you?) by remembering all that is good in my life.

The view from my front porch in the Fall.

My new cordless kettle. And my pretty blue countertops.

Sunday morning's kitchen table. Filled with newspapers, fruit and plants. Good for my soul.

My living room. Pure coziness. After years of family rooms with no windows, I love the sunshine that pours through this room. And that table in front of the couch? My Dad designed and built that for me.

Royal Gala apples. A staple in the Autumn.

A mirror from my favorite next-door-neighbors ever. Unfortunately, they refused to move with us when we came west.

My Samsung MP3 player. The best way to keep airplane stress to a minimum.

Burt's Bees Beeswax Lip Balm. My one can't-live-without product.

Shrinky-dink from Shortman's elementary school days. It has a permanent place in my wallet.


My pink fuzzy slippers. Extra warm for cold toesies.

---- How about you all? Besides raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, what are your favorite things? ----

Years Beyond My Wise

You Belong in 1962

You are a free spirit with a huge heart. Love, peace, and happiness rule - oh, and drugs too.

What Year Do You Belong In?

Considering this is actually the year before I was born, it says something about my views of the world, eh? Or my taste in television reruns. Definitely not my fashion sense though.

The menu for today's football watching feast:

Smoked cheddar cheese with rye crisps
Goat cheese spread with red peppers and wheat crackers
Buffalo wings with Bleu cheese and celery
Peach Salsa with regular and blue corn chips
Leinenkugel's Red


If you come over, I'll share, but you have to promise me to cheer for the Spartans. (Yea, we actually sold our tickets because we've all got these colds-from-hell. I'm dying at the thought of not being there, but the though of curling up on the couch under a blanket instead of being out in the chill and wind does have it's plusses.)

---- My headband is slipping and my go-go boots need to be shined up. Mr. Hot is getting all uptight waiting for the game to start. I'm going to go put Johnny Angel and Chubby Checker on the record player and do the Twist. It's so cool, man. ----

46 Inches of Shiny

Sad. So very, very sad. Way back in August (when it was hot and green and dry and I had hair that was 4 inches longer, but gray), I wrote about what happened while I was in Chicago. (Go ahead, scroll down to the big red blob in the middle of the post, I'll wait. Um, don't forget to come back, though, okay? I'll give you wine!)

So we've been watching football and Pushing Daisies and Cavemen and Dream Team on that. Up there. It does not belong in the living room. It belongs on the dresser in our bedroom where I can catch up on syndicated dramas like J.A.G. and Law & Order at 6 a.m. while I mainline drink my coffee in the morning before I drag my ass into the office that has become a sinkhole for the morale of everyone I work with skip off to the career that I love so much.

Then I wrote an update where I recounted how Mr. Hot and I were ready to firebomb a certain repair shop and a very large, well-known electronics store. (Back again? How sweet of you! Let me refill your glass with merlot. And have some cheese!)

Well, day-before-yesterday, on Halloween, our trick turned into a treat. Jeff-the-Jackass (who wasn't so much a jackass as a habitual liar and all around creep - sorry Jeff!) brought back this:


which has a completely fucked-up digital board that has been backordered for 2 months, 10 days, and 3 hours and 47 seconds. (Um, Mr. Hot did NOT take the picture with the gas cans in the background on purpose. No he did not. I swear. It just happened that way. )

And then Mr. Hot and Shortman loaded the very thin, very expensive, not even good as a paperweight piece of shit television into this:


drove it back to that very large, well known electronics store and they gave us (because of our pain and suffering the fact that we paid $298.99 for a damn 36-month warranty on a piece of shit television that didn't make it 18 months):

THIS! (And no, I don't know why Mr. Hot decided to take a picture of it while the Disney channel was turned on, since Shortman certainly doesn't watch the Disney channel. There must be things going on in my house while I'm at work having my soul sucked out of me enriching my existence that I really don't want to know about.)

Oh Mah Gawd, ya'll. Now I can spend mindless hours cheering for the Lions and the Pistons and getting quizzed* on the NFL's first round draft pick of 2003.

---- *And Mr. Hot swears he never thought Jevon Kearse went to M.S.U. - he was talking about Ike Hilliard (Florida - 1996). My bad. ----

October Perfect Post

There are some posts that tear me up emotionally and my heart breaks for some of the things my favorite bloggers have been through. I truly wonder if I could go on had these things happened to me. (I mean, mah Gawd, I whined for days over a broken television.)

These writers inspire me to be a better person, a better wife, a better mother, a better daughter, a better friend. I want to reach through this screen and take them in my arms and hug them, because I know, with all my heart, how much better I feel when Mr. Hot or Shortman give me a soul-enveloping, heal-everything, warm-away-the-fear hug.

When I read RedNeck Mommy's post about her Bug - her darling son, I broke down. Coming so soon on the news that they had been approved by the adoption agency, I can't imagine the swing of emotions that she had to have been feeling. And yet, she keeps her sense of humor - her wicked, wicked, sense of humor - believe me, y'all - you'll want to go along for the ride. Hang on tight and bring your favorite tissues and incontinence panties.

Come help me cheer for RNM. She wrote my pick for October's Perfect Post - and if you want to get in on the Perfect Post Awards, go see Kimberly and Lindsay - the originators of the Perfect Post award.