If you want me, I’ll be on the couch under the blankets. It’s raining. My throat is closing up. I’m going to make Mr. Hot bring me hot tea and honey all day. Naps are good. Who am I kidding? Naps are freakin’ excellent!

Before I go down for the count, though, here’s the weekly Save-The-Boobies Update. We’re up to $80 from the Hotfessional family to the Susan G. Komen foundation. Remember, you can still get in on the prizes by linking and/or donating before October 29. I’m drawing the lucky winners (3) on the 30th:

Cupcake
WhyMommy
Kim
Sherry
Shelly
Phil
Jennifer
Mouse
Lys
Zoot
Ben
Sherry
Karen
Marianne
Kristabella
Dani

Join the club! You could be a winner!
Email me (reereep[at]gmail[dot]com) if you linked to me and I missed you! Seriously, I found Dani’s link through sheer dumb luck. (Hi Cole’s mommy!) If you care enough to link, I want you to have a chance to win.

Don’t be like this guy:

You’re saying, “Ewwwwwww, Hotfessional, TMI, seriously, dude”. Well, blame Mr. Hot - I tried to get out of town without the germs attacking, but apparently, as usual, I was late.

Now, though, I’m thinking I’ll have to search for a new book to read between naps this weekend since apparently that’s all he did while I was in Chicago. Shoot me for not getting my wireless router set up last week so I could read blogs in bed.

Speaking of Mr. Hot. He provides me with blog fodder on a semi-regular basis. I’ve mentioned him here, and here, and here. He’s a wonderful husband and a terrific father. He’s the only reason I’ve been able to do things like this. Buuuuuttttt. (C’mon, you knew there’d be a but, didn’t you? Since when is there not a but when you’re talking about your spouse? )

Anyway, BUT….

He.Quizzes.Me! Like.A.Freakin’.Fifth.Grade.Teacher.

You’re shaking your head. I see you! You’re saying, “But Hotfessional, the man puts up with your shit. He understands when you go to the city and have dinner and copious amounts of wine with men. He doesn’t complain about bright yellow bras and purses.” (Well, not the bras anyway.)

Yes. True. Every word of what you say. The man is amazing.

Except. He. quizzes. me.

About sports figures.

Now, I love sports. I think it’s well documented. Football, Basketball, Baseball. Yes, yes, and yes. Hockey? Meh - just the original six. Actually, just Toronto. And they suck.

However! Do I care where so-and-so went to college? Or high school? Or where their aunt’s second-cousin’s brother’s best-friend’s dog was born? Not too much.

Mr. Hot: “Where did Plaxico Burress go to school?”
The Hotfessional: “Um. Michigan State?”
Mr. Hot: “Yes!”

Mr. Hot: “Which Piston went to Jackson State?”
The Hotfessional: “I didn’t know there was a Jackson State.”
Mr. Hot: “……..” (looking at me, expectantly)
The Hotfessional: “Hell, I don’t know. Jason Maxiell?”
Mr. Hot: “No, think older.”
The Hotfessional: “Um, Nazr Mohammed?”
Mr. Hot: “No, he was with the Pistons before; they traded him; then he came back.”
The Hotfessional: “Holy hell. Lindsey Hunter.”
Mr. Hot: “Yes!”

(Do I start to feel like a 5th grader at this point? Yes!)

Mr. Hot: “Didn’t Jevon Kearse go to Michigan State?”
The Hotfessional: “I don’t think so.”
Mr. Hot: “I think he did.” (Leaves room to go Google it)
——- 3 minutes later ——-
The Hotfessional: “Did he?”
Mr. Hot: “No, he went to Florida.”
——- 3 weeks later ——-
Mr. Hot: “Where did Jevon Kearse go to school?”
The Hotfessional: “U of M?” (Why, why do I let myself get suckered into playing this? Oh yea, I love the man.)
Mr. Hot: “No! Florida. Remember? I thought he went to State.”

Sigh.

So, when he said “The Lions could have picked up Jammer in the draft and passed on him” while we were watching some game a couple of weeks ago and I came back with “Quentin Jammer?” - the look of complete and utter pride on his face? The look that said “Damn. I raised this woman right”! Made all of the failed quiz grades I’ve received absolutely worth it?

Yep.

Oh yes.

—- So tomorrow begins another 48 hours of “Does The Hotfessional Know?” I better go study.—-

…I may not have gotten out of Michigan in time. I woke up this morning with the sinus headache from hell. My ears are so plugged up I think the alarm had been going off for a full 20 minutes before I heard it. (Um, gee, I hope the person in the room next to mine wanted to get up at 5 a.m.) I have on a long-sleeved t-shirt UNDER my turtleneck and I’m still freezing.

Of course, the best part is, (and by best, I mean, it sucks dongles) I’m 300 miles from my bed and I have to sit in a bunch of meetings today. Plus, get on a plane and try to make it home. Please Gawd, don’t let it be like August’s trip. Or September’s for that matter. Give a girl a flippin’ break.

I’m giving you all a break from my whining because Lys tagged me for a meme. Here it is - I’ll try (no promises…no guarantees) to be brief.

The Rules
1. Link to your tagger and post the rules. Um,?
2. Share 7 facts about yourself, some random and some weird.?
3. Tag 7 people at the end of post and list their names.?
4. Let them know they were tagged by a comment on their blog.?

If you’re tired of hearing weird things about me, feel free to leave now. Otherwise, I feel I’ve done my duty and warned you. Kinda like the Miranda Rights - Hotfessional version.

1. There are television shows that I never, ever saw when they were on, but have seen every episode in syndication. These include (but are probably not limited to) - Sex And The City, Friends, Seinfeld, and Everybody Loves Raymond. They were before Tivo and DVRs and Mr. Hot doesn’t believe in watching commercials. Or in laugh tracks. So, my guilty viewing pleasure is parking myself in a hotel room in Chicago on business trips and watching hours and hours of syndicated sitcoms.
2. I have freckles. One on the inside of my right calf, one on my upper lip (right side), and one on the bottom of my right foot. Oh, and one on the inside of my left ankle. These are not little bitty blend-in and only come out when you’ve been in the sun freckles. These are dark, lady-bug sized freckles. I believe that any of them could be used to identify my body in case of a freakish accident or a bout with amnesia. (Just in case, y’know, you are called on to identify me!)
3. Ever since Lord of the Rings and her role as Galadriel, I’ve had a massive Girl Crush on Cate Blanchett. Seriously. Big. Crush. Sigh.
4. I was painfully shy growing up, and very awkward. Sometime when I was a young-ish adult, I made a conscious decision to become more extroverted. Once I tried, I found that people thought I was funny. It made me happy. It gave me more confidence than I ever thought possible. I tried to make sure it never turned into arrogance. I like to think I’ve succeeded, or at least that I’m fairly successful at it. I know, though, for a fact, that if I wouldn’t have made that decision, I wouldn’t be where I am today. Not even close. It was worse than you would ever believe.
5. I don’t like fruit pie. It gives me the willies. I cannot eat it. Not even with ice cream. Not apple, not blueberry, and oh.my.holy.hell. NOT CHERRY. But cream pie? Yum. Banana Cream Pie? Can you say “orgasmic”?
6. I tried wearing contacts when I was a Senior in High School. I have fairly unusual green eyes, and I wanted to get out from behind the glasses. In 1981, though, there were no soft contacts that worked for people with really bad astigmatism in their left eye, dammit. So I had to wear hard lenses. I tried. For a full year. Then went back to glasses. I’ve never tried again.
7. In my fifteen years working for this company, I’ve had twelve different bosses. No, I’m not kidding and I’m not exaggerating. Their initials were D, G, G, P, G (again), M, S, J, J, G, M, J, and R. One year, I had 4 (the M, S, J, and J line). The longest tenure? Four years. The shortest? Two weeks. Eleven men. One woman (the one that lasted two weeks). Two in Michigan, 10 in Chicago (my home base has always been Michigan). Only the last three are still with the company. Two were fired. Seven quit (no, not because I worked for them! snort.) When I say that I am very adaptable and capable of working for nearly any style of manager, I well and truly mean it.

Now, I guess I’m supposed to tag 7 of you. Amy, Marianne, Amanda, Meghan, Alyndabear, Shelly, and L Sass. Also, of course, whoever else wants to play. And if I’ve tagged you and you don’t do memes? That’s okay, too, because I’m just following the rules today. I don’t do it often, but every once in a while, I become this conformist that I don’t recognize. If YOU want to break the rules, feel free!

—- Now, I’m going to find out if taking cold medication that expired in March can kill me. Please refer to # 2 above if anyone calls you from Chicago about a tall brunette that needs to be identified! —-

I can’t believe I just typed “hardware dongle” into an email. Then I tried to use it again and again just to get it out of my system. dongle, dongle, dongle. Snort. Every sentence. “So the dongles are used for…” and “Price per dongle is not …” Hee! Oh, sorry. You probably really don’t care.

So, I’m no longer a blog-date virgin. (Do I look different?) Last night, I met Kristabella and Marianne for dinner and wine and as much as I’d like to post photos - I didn’t have the Poopy Puppy to block for me. So, um, yea - sorry again.

Marianne is a cute little pregnant mama to be. (No, she didn’t have wine, I had her share.) And sweet. Sweet and pregnant. And funny. And likes sports - and the Tigers. Even though she’s from Illinois. I want to take her home.

Kristabella is gorgeous (seriously, beautiful skin, beautiful hair - obviously I’m not drinking enough wine if that’s what it does to your skin). But y’know how you always have a preconceived notion of what someone will look or sound like? And then they are completely different? I’ve seen pictures (and by the way? The wine stains around her mouth? weren’t there last night) so I knew what she looked like - but she doesn’t sound like I thought she would. She has a much more girly voice than I imagined. Not squeaky…just lovely.

And then today! I’m telling y’all - I’m feeling so freakin’ loved. Look at what Marie gave me.

and

She thought this post was funny enough to give me two(!) awards. I’m just sitting here basking in the glowiness.

And tonight I get Italian in Chicago. And! More wine. I am one lucky lucky girl. Plus I picked the week that Mr. Hot is sick with a cold and sore throat to be out of the house - this can only be a good thing. Either I’d get sick, too, or I’d have to listen to the moaning and groaning that is the “just kill me and get it over with” version of Mr. Hot. Neither one would be my choice.

—- Now, I’m going to go see if I can figure out new ways to use the word dongle in business emails. To all of the men that I work with. Because you know it makes them abso-effin’-lutely crazy! —-

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 —-