To the driver who took me to the airport this morning:

Dear Lurch’s Younger Brother:

I understand that it was raining pretty hard this morning, I really do. But doing 48 mph on eastbound I-94, even at 5:45 a.m., probably isn’t the safest thing to do. The freakin’ tanker trucks and 18-wheelers were passing us on the right dude.

Love, the Hotfessional

To the idiot passenger who screamed at the American Airlines gate agents at 6 a.m.:

Dear AirTran Passenger:

Seriously you nutbag. Why would you possibly assume that the AA women boarding the plane going to Chicago at 7 a.m. would know where in the effin’ hell the AirTran gate agent was? Different airline? Duh. Oh, and the signs that say “Be at your gate and ready to board at least 10 minutes before your scheduled flight”? Usually mean just that. So, my guess is that the gate attendant was probably on the jet bridge making sure that everyone was boarded and that the plane was going to take off on time. Which meant she wasn’t behind her stand. Oh and let me guess - you’re also the jerk that screams at everyone when your plane is late and you’re on time. Asshat.

Love, the Hotfessional

To my darling husband:

Dear Mr. Hot:

I’m so sorry that you’re not feeling well. I know that head cold and hacking cough are combining to make you one miserable man. I know that you couldn’t sleep last night because I couldn’t sleep last night. But darling? When I roll over for the 20th time between 10:30 p.m. and 2:30 a.m. - wide awake - and then at 3:00 a.m. I notice you’re awake? The “I haven’t slept a wink” statement is NOT an invitation to feel me up. Not when I have to wake up at 4. I know you’ll be a darling and get up with me and fix me coffee - and believe me, I do appreciate it, but you? Can go back to sleep after Shortman leaves for school, whereas I? will be on a plane, then in a train, then walking 10 blocks to the office. I will get to sleep sometime around 10:30 pm tonight after one of those hella shitty days. Please know that I cherish you with all my heart and soul.

Love, the Hotfessional

To the stick-thin woman on the Blue Line from O’Hare that got off at Clark & Lake:

Dear Model-Wannabe in the Size 0 pants:

Love the hair. Love the sunken cheekbones and the pointy stiletto heels. I even love the fact that you’re reading one of my favorite books, “Into the Wild” by Jon Krakauer. But honey? You have your cardigan on inside out. Maybe it’s a new look? Funky-Giselle-style? I don’t know, but I’m just saying? It kinda ruins the whole ensemble.

Love, the Hotfessional

To the Chicago Sewage and Street Sanitation Truck at the corner of Washington and Halstead:

Dear Stupid-Idiot:

See all the cabs and busses and other somewhat heavier and somewhat deadly vehicles that are filling the intersection? See the thick white lines with the crossy-ones inside of them? That’s where we walk, you dumb-fuck. Seriously. And since you’re also blocking our view of the walk/no walk sign? We have to squeeze between those two honkin’ busses and hope to Gawd that one of those taxis doesn’t decide to follow your lead and scream around that Lexus honking his horn. I know you didn’t truly mean to put our lives in danger? Or that there may be an ulterior motive to your actions. Those brushes under the truck look mighty handy for sweeping the bodies off the street. Next time? Stop! before! the! White! Line! Kthxbai.

Love, the Hotfessional

To the orange and white tabby that I rescued from certain death and doom last winter:

Dear Frac-the-loudmouth:

I know you like to find new toys to play with. You’re so much more inventive than your sister, who is perfectly content to bat around the little plastic balls that I bought for you both when I brought you home. She’ll even make due with a bit of aluminum foil rolled up (and we both know how she loves [loves] if a fly makes its way into the house. That can keep her entertained for hours). You, though, my boy - sweet and cute and cuddly though you are - had me really wondering about the pieces of black rubbery plastic that kept showing up throughout the house. A new mystery!

Until this morning. When I put on my sexy black boots to wear this week in Chicago. And wondered why the heel on the left one felt funny. I was standing in the security line waiting for them to come through the x-ray machine. And then I noticed. The black rubbery plastic stuff? It’s the bottom of my freakin’ heel. You little shit. You chewed the bottom off my heel. Now I’m standing like I’m bowlegged. Just wait until I get home. Mama Cat is not happy.

Love, the Hotfessional

—- But Mahm - Tasteee —-

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