My Life as a Hotfessional

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.”

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.) —-

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. —-

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.

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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.

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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.

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

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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!)

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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.)

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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. —-

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?

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

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. —-