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

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

Gee, whowoulda guessed?

And this:

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

And this:

Seriously. A Red Rectangle?

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

Back to work today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I gulped. “Of course I trust Shortman. I’ll be scared shitless, but I trust him.“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I say “Sure”.

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

… In my dreams ….

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

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

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