Tired. So very, very tired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

O’Hare? North. Fuck.

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

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

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

Sigh. Heavy Fucking Sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, that’s only 70 minutes late. Not a big deal. Really. Chump change in the ChicagoDetroit commute.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quizzes and Personality Tests

—- Hmmmmm. But I hate jellybeans! —-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one has lifted my Mardi Gras beads yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Yes, this is my daily routine. )

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

Hotfessional: “Honey? Where’s the dog?
Mr. Hot: “Oops. I left him outside. I’ll get him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you smell skunk?”

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

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

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

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

(My friends. Do you feel my pain?)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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