My Life as a Hotfessional

THE LAST DAY OF NOVEMBER
by The Hotfessional
(with thanks to Clement Clark Moore)

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The last day of November, Na-Blo-Po-Mos done,
Not a blogger stopped writing, it was lots of fun;

The keyboards were dusted and vacuumed with care,
In hopes that Eden’s email soon would be there;

The bloggers were reading, not snug in their beds,
While visions of blog-prizes danced in their heads;

And Mr. Hot in his armchair, and I on my couch,
Were amazed that the writers did not even slouch,

When out in the kitchen there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the couch to see what was the matter.

The damn stupid kittens knocked over my wine,
That nectar of gods, that fruit of the vine.

The puddle of Merlot on my countertop
started running toward the edge, it just would not stop.

I cleaned it up quickly so I could return
To my blanket and couch, and my laptop to learn

More about all of ya’ all, so lively and smart,
You’ve burrowed your way right straight to my heart.

More rapid than eagles to the seat my butt came,
And I scrolled down, and shouted, and called you by name;

“Now, Miz S! now, Candy! now, Amy and this Jen!
On, Heidi! on Cupcake! on, Lisa and Helen!

To the top of the post! to the top of the scrawl,
Now write away! write away! write away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild Ann Arbor winds fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

So up to the tip-top my fingers they flew,
Refreshing my Bloglines, and Google Reader too.

And then, in a twinkling, my browser refreshed
Adjusting my blanket so I stayed enmeshed,

I just scrolled down the screen, and was lifting my glass,
Laughing while reading Encyclopediasass.

You all have such talent, from your heads to your feet,
And receiving your comments has become such a treat;

A bundle of love I have witnessed right here,
Beauty and joy, lovely photographs, sometimes fear.

Your posts — how they tickled, your pictures how merry!
Your news was uplifting, LawMom Kim and you Sherry!

My dear friend Amanda is pregnant you know,
And Marianne, and Meghan; Squirrel too, and there’s mo’;

You listened while I cried about Shortman’s teeth,
And joked about the yellow bra worn underneath ;

You had a broad grin and clapped for dear Shelly,
Bitched about peanut butter with me, (not jelly).

You all kept on reading, my virtual dears,
And I laughed right on with you, in spite of some tears;

The Wink, Just Because and witchypoo as well
Bye Bye Buy, Cripes Suzette, oh and Life of Elle;

They spoke not a word, but blogged about their work,
This Sue is a gas, Lacey Bean is a Perk,

Sweet Nancy Marie was a neighbor before,
And Kristin and Bossy have stories galore;

I can’t go on now, my brain has gone to sleep,
If I haven’t linked you, please don’t cry, moan or weep

You are all my dear friends, I’ve enjoyed every site,
NaBloPoMo is done, and to all a good-night.

—- Y’all are truly great! Despite the bitching, I’ve had loads of fun this month. Now, I’m off to find my NaBloPoMoBadgeOh!—-

Back when I ran out of things to say mid-NaBloPoMo, I threatened to randomize Kristabella’s 201 things and write a story about her.

Today … is the day y’all. Because tomorrow? You’re getting fluff. Or fashion. Or fluffy fashion. And NaBloPoMo will be OvOMoFos.

Heaven help me, but Random.org puked up “188″.

And that entry is: “188. Remember that boyfriend from No. 120? He made horror movies“

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All Hail Sparky
It was a dark and stormy night. November’s clutches tightened around the Windy City. Lake Michigan’s waves were cresting and white-capped and the wind was blowing to beat hell. The clocks had been changed back to Central Standard Time and it was already fuckin’ dark by the time Kristabella made it back to her apartment. She was hugging the bottle of Cabernet she picked up; trying to make up her mind whether to finish reading that book for damn book club (which she joined mostly for the free wine) or to kick back on her couch and watch a little reality television.

Walking the streets of Chicago, in November, in the wind, takes a certain heartiness. In the dark? It takes more than that. A “tough girl” strut and attitude-plus come in handy. But the clicking of her bootheels on the concrete combined with the howling gales coming from between the buildings prevented Kristabella from hearing the footsteps of the guy in the black leather jacket and skin-tight jeans walking behind her. Had she heard him, she would have quickened her step more. Had she knew who he was, she probably would have cracked him over the skull with the wine she was carrying. It was the guy she had once thought was “the one.” The asshat who had broken up with her on her mother’s birthday. During Grey’s Anatomy! Fucktard.

When she let herself into her home, Simba and KittyKitty were waiting for her. They were pissed that she was late. They had contemplated using her Jim McMahon jersey as a litter pan liner, or her “What Would Bacon Do” wheel as a scratching post. But in their evil little cat hearts, they loved her and knew that she would never intentionally leave them hungry. She might pass out from the wine, but she always came home (albeit sometimes a bit bruised). Simba was quick to remind KittyKitty of that fact.

Her mind made up and her cats fed, Kristabella put on her duckie pajamas, poured herself a tumbler of Cabernet (’to hell with the fancy glasses’, she mumbled to herself. ‘I’m just going to read a couple of chapters and get my butt to bed.’) and plopped onto the couch.

The book drew her in. The clock ticked and the wind gusted outside her windows. She poured another tumbler. And then another.

What she didn’t know is that the guy in the tight jeans and black leather was standing outside her front door, trying to talk himself into knocking. He’d hurt her before. He hadn’t meant to, true, but such was his life. Always screwing up the best things about it. He had been thinking about how beautiful her skin was, soft and luminous. He had loved it when she decided to darken her hair. But, asshat that he was, he didn’t see it until he’d fucked it all up.

He was back with a proposition. He wanted to make her a star! A star in his new horror show. Maybe he could win her back. She would be the gorgeous marketing executive who discovers the victims of a psychotic football player and then becomes the target of the linebacker’s rage. He thinks, “C’mon Dickhead, just knock on the door already.” And then he does, three raps. Tap, tap, tap.

Kristabella puts down her book, takes another swig of wine, and walks to the front door. She looks out the peephole, but can’t really trust her eyes. She’s blind, but afraid of Lasik. She figures it’s wine blindness this time though.

“Who is it?”
“Asshat” a voice answers that she recognizes. She may be blind, but her ears work just fine.
“What the hell do you want?”
“I want to talk to you about a movie I’m making. I think you’d be perfect in the starring role. C’mon, let me in.”

Against all of her better judgement, (but again, y’know, the wine) she opens the door. She’s surprised that she really doesn’t feel much at all. Of course, that, too, could be the wine. She lets Asshat in. Simba and KittyKitty look at him. Simba hisses. KittyKitty does the humpback cat shuffle.

Kristabella stands, with her hands on her hips, while he hems and haws about “Nice to see you.” and “How’ve ya been?” He thinks about leaning in for a kiss of her wine-stained mouth. She, on the otherhand, thinks about the Cubs bat in her closet. And her Arizona State Sun Devils pitchfork leaning against her wall. And about how she really just wants some more Cabernet.

But, because she’s one of the sweetest, friendliest people in town, and she’s been hurt enough by shitheads and pompous asses in her life that she doesn’t want anyone else to feel badly, she invites Asshat to sit down. He sets his video camera down on her table. She wonders, “Why the hell did he bring his camera? ” just as he begins to explain that he wanted to show her some of the footage that had already been shot for this new horror flick he was making. She smiles politely and starts walking towards her drink.

Just then, KittyKitty darts across the floor. Simba chases, jumps up onto the table and somehow manages to flip the camera switch to Record. Kristabella, slightly tipsy, tries to jump just as KittyKitty runs between her feet. It was not her most graceful move. As she fell, ass over teakettle, her arm hit the lamp on the table where she’d been cuddled up earlier reading. Before Asshat walked back into her life and wanted to make a damn movie. The lamp teetered. Tottered. Finally tilted just far enough to brush against that Arizona SunDevils pitchfork leaning up against the wall.

The handle of the souvenier had been down, the fork part in the air because she didn’t want the sharp metal tines to scratch her floors. It hadn’t looked like much of a brush from the lamp, but the pitchfork fell. It fell just as Simba jumped on Asshat’s back and caused him to lurch forward.

Pitchfork and Asshat met. They met at chest height. The camera continued rolling.

Kristabella silently toasted Sparky the night she won the Academy Award. Her Sun Devils managed a win that night.

—- The End. Mah Gawd people. Tomorrow you are sooooo getting fluff. —-

I’m just Part 2′ing all over the place the last couple of days. Kristabella kindly informed me (she did, it was kind, she wasn’t snarky at all!) that there were 10 more items on that Meme when she did it. Damn. That’s more than I did the first time! Let’s see if I can get some of the others. I’m nothing if not anal competitive thorough.

Favorite Animal:

Horse. Arabian.

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Town Where I Live:

Yes. Home of the Wolverines. Small puke in the back of my mouth.

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Name of Past Pet:

He was a Siamese cat.

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Name of Past Love:

I still watch “Above the Law” whenever it’s on. Oh, and he shares a first name with a past love. (8th grade, sigh)

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Best Friend’s Nickname:

+ Face.

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My First Name:

I had no idea.

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Bad Habit:

Yes, I know. Three per day. That’s all. But I like it. I’ll quit when I’m ready.

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First job:

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Grandmother’s name:

And her middle name was Cecilia.

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College Major:

—- Fat lot of good that major did me. Actually, I think the second set was easier than the first 8 I did. —-

First, I have to tell you that my stepchildren, the NYO and TYO (which used to stand for nineteen year old and twenty-three year old) are now twenty (will now be blogged about as “20″) and twenty-four (new blogname “24″), respectively. Yes, Mr. Hot is the father of three, and they are four years apart (actually, they are 3 years, 48 weeks and 3 days apart. exact.ly. to.the.day.) Let’s just pay 12 consecu-fuckin-tive years of college tuition, okay?

Okay, so we’re down to the bitter end of NaBloPoMo. I’m stealing the newest meme. Because it looks like fun. I’m sure I’ll change my mind by the time I get to the end.

1. Age at next birthday:

Shhhhhh. I figure that since I feel thirty-five and act twenty-five, I can admit that chronologically, I’m effin’ old.

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2. Place I’d like to travel:

Prague. I fell in love with it when I first saw a documentary on Czech architecture.

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3. Favorite place:

Amsterdam. Canal Houses. The one I stayed in while there in 2005 was built in 1620. Again, the architecture got me.

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4. Favorite objects:

I had a whole collage thing going for this one, but when I made myself narrow it down to a single thing? Books. I couldn’t live without books.

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5. Favorite food:

Cedar Plank Grilled Salmon. Heaven in my mouth.

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6. Favorite color:

Forest Green.

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7. Nickname:

Believe it or not, that’s a Ree.

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8. Place you were born:

But there’s also places like this:

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That’s it. I’m not tagging anyone. It wasn’t too terribly hard, but it wasn’t as easy as I thought either.

—- Oh, and Happy Birthday 24! We all miss you. Wish you’d call us back. Your card and check are in the mail. Love, your Stepmonster. XXXOOO —-

Okay, you asked for it. But, to get you in the mood, you have to go look here:

It’s mah posse!

(The site is getting a lot of hits today apparently, so if it doesn’t load the first time, try pasting this link http://www.elfyourself.com/?id=9617793428 into your browser later. And there’s sound, so if you’re at work or the baby’s asleep, turn down your speakers)

Hee! Aaaaaanyway….

When Mr. Hot, Shortman and I moved back to Michigan, we found a basement garden view apartment in Royal Oak. It was a cheap nice place for the three of us - it had no vermin! a fireplace! And a patio with sliding glass doors that led outside from the livingroom. Lots of wood trim and a great neighborhood was the icing on the cake. It was 1993 and our whole lives were in front of us.

Here’s the layout of the main living area. Bedrooms and potty down the hall. Marvel at my drawing skillz!
Shortman was only two, and we moved over Thanksgiving weekend. This would be the first time in our married life that we weren’t poor students. We wanted to start our own traditions and make memories for our sweet little one. We had great dreams. And what better time to start pursuing them than during the holidays?

I took Shortman to Frank’s Nursery and Crafts (which is now, sadly, defunct - at least in Michigan) to pick out a tree. He bounced around in his little snow suit - going from tree to tree to tree. “This one? Twee? Kissmas Twee?” I was trying not to throw up at the prices that were hanging on these sickly looking things.

We finally found one that was only bare in 2 spots fairly full and about 6 foot tall. It was reasonably priced (dinner for three at Pizza Hut). I asked the high school kid working the tree lot to help me load it into my car.

He shaved off the bottom of the trunk so that it could suck up water and last three days until Christmas. He put it through that netting machine and hauled it over to the Cutlass I was driving. We loaded it into the trunk (yes, it fit, do you know you can hide a body in the trunk of an ‘88 Cutlass Supreme?) and Shortman and I drove home. That little boy was sooooo excited about his “Kissmas Twee”.

Mr. Hot was doubtful. “You spent how much on this tree?” “The trunk is twisted.” “It’s not going to fit.” Damn Scrooge.

I was not deterred by his pessimism. Hottie-Blue-Skies, I always see the glass as being half full (especially if there’s vodka in it.) I offered him sex cookies if he would only put it in the tree stand. I would do all of the decorating after Shortman went to sleep.

Not one to pass up a blow job cookies, he put the stand on the tree and set it out on the patio so that the branches could settle. Meanwhile, Shortman and I hung the stockings on the fireplace and the wreath on the front door. I read him “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” as his bedtime story that night and got him settled in so sugar plums could dance in his dreams.

After that, I brought the tree inside and hung our ornaments. The crystal stars with minimal damage. The bells that only had small cracks in them. Mr. Hot stoked the fire (in the fireplace first….). We were snuggling; talking about how much fun it was to be done with school; to have new careers. We were giggling while we imagined Shortman’s reaction on Christmas morning. How excited he was going to be about his Thomas the Tank Engine (pre-lead-based-paint) track and lunch box for daycare. Dozing in each other’s arms.

Okay, now please scroll back up to the picture (marvel some more while you’re there, please). See the fireplace? See the green circle with the red box around it (that’s the tree). See the space in front of the fireplace where you can imagine Mr. Hot and I enjoying the pretty Duraflame fire? (Yes, I so could have made that a “log” reference, but I didn’t. Okay, maybe I just did. Snort.)

The next thing I knew, I had the fuckin’ tree on my head. That twisted trunk? It was a bit of a problem apparently.

Once again, I picked up the tree (after crawling out from under the damn thing) and quietly opened the sliding door. I put the tree outside. I did not throw it (contrary to what the other participant Mr. Hot may say). I closed the door and sat on the couch and cried. Nothing like shattering my dreams AND the rest of my effin’ ornaments.

Mr. Hot, being the superhero that he is, went into the kitchen junk drawer and found some wire. He brought the tree back in, propped it against the glass and tied the wire around the top. Then he nailed the wires into the ceiling to stabilize the tree. Nine years later, when we moved out (and eight years after we switched to an artificial tree that was only 4 1/2 feet tall) those nail holes were still in the ceiling and the tops of the walls.

But he managed to salvage my dreams and Shortman’s surprise the next morning. I mean, wouldn’t that have sucked? Shortman gets up and sees his Kwissmas Twee laying out on the patio? And never once did I hear “I told you the damn trunk wasn’t straight.”

—- So, there you have it. The second time I fought my Christmas tree and lost. I don’t even walk through evergreen forests around here. I stick to deciduous trees whenever possible. —-

The laptop that is. And I am posting from the mutha. Windows XP installed. Wireless card installed. Security-freakin’-installed.

—- I AM a goddess. —-

Go check out Sarcastic Mom’s rack.

Go check out what happened to Miss Puerto Rico.

I’ll wait. I’m just gathering my thoughts about what to write here today. I think the story is evolving, but you need to give me a minute.

Ok? Cool.

Tonight, I get to re-image an old laptop. I’m going to wipe it completely clean, re-install the operating system and the appropriate drivers. Note that it may include cursing (not, in and of itself unusual, I know. shut.up.) and throwing things. I have done this once before. It was not pretty. It was not this same laptop. It was a desktop that got a virus from some shithead gamer that sent Shortman an email. About 3 years ago.

I’ve had this laptop sitting on the desk waiting to be re imaged almost that long. The horror of that exercise has prevented me from popping those XP setup cds into this nice IBM Thinkpad. It runs. It connects to the internet. But, you can’t install anything new on it, and it has really old, old versions of Adobe and Mediaplayer. We can’t upgrade it.

Why? you ask? (Well, you probably didn’t, but I’m going to tell you anyway.) Because it was a ‘hand me down or throw me out’ computer from work that was set up with no administrator rights. Therefore, I can’t administrate new software onto it. And now that I’ve got the house rigged for wireless, I want to have a computer in every room. Because, y’know, I’m sick that way. And a nerd.

So, with much whining and snarking and grimacing, I’m going to take on that little sucker this evening. Be glad you’re not in firing range.

Now, here’s where the story evolves. (And another view into the Hotfessional mind - watch the hairpin turns and trackbacks and mudslides, and eeeeeeeeek! there’s a cliff.) Picture those wavy-flashback-television-sitcom lines.

I have a mean streak when I can’t get something to do what I want. (Like, say, I want that computer to actually work after I get through with it. ) Generally only inanimate objects must fear my wrath; people are fairly safe.

Here’s an example (and oh Mah Gawd, it’s happened twice. Two different husbands, though, so [shhhh] Mr. Hot has only been subjected to it once):

I fight with Christmas trees.

Yep. This is why I no longer have a live tree for the holidays. They hate me. Yes, it’s personal. Don’t pretend it’s not.

The first time (with the Practice Husband), I was having a holiday luncheon for my boss (The Uppity Southern Bitch) and co-workers (3 other women - yes, we worked in H.R.) Practice and I had just finished putting a hardwood floor in the huge family room. It took us (yes, just the two of us) - 6 weeks of pulling up piss-scented carpeting, scrubbing concrete, laying vapor layers and cushioning layers and oak planks then sanding and staining and varnishing to get that floor down. (Amazingly enough, that was not the cause of the divorce!) It was a beautiful room, and I wanted a 9-foot tall live tree to be the centerpiece. I didn’t believe in artificial trees.

We found the tree, unpacked all of my beautiful ornaments - handed down from my Grandmother (who had died that summer) and MomandDad (who weren’t having trees anymore since we were all out of the house and Dad is a Muslim). I took hours and hours to make it just.right. - hanging crystal hearts and bells, tying bows, re-arranging bulbs and tinsel and lights. It was my dream tree. The tablecloth (hand-made by me) and the advent candle centerpiece on the table completed the look.

I slaved over the food - cucumber sandwiches, crab dip, fruit salad, little weiners on sticks, petit fours - all very Southern ladylike (in my mind anyway). I had Christmas carols playing softly in the background. I had never hosted a party without lots of vodka and beer before! This was a historic occasion. Champagne punch in beautiful fluted glasses was available for those who chose to imbibe.

One of my cohorts in crime (another transplanted Michiganian, even) came early to calm me down. We did a walk through to make sure TUSB couldn’t find fault with anything. I think maybe we also had a cigarette and a shot on the back porch to get us ready.

When TUSB and the other guests arrived at the appointed time (fashionably 7.5 minutes late, I’m sure), I helped them with their wraps and directed them to the family room where, I hoped, they would be awestruck by my decorating prowess and my spiritual festivity.

Instead, they were greeted by 9-fucking-feet of Norway Spruce tipping over and spilling hundreds of hand-blown crystal ornaments onto the kiln-dried and varnished to a high polish oak floor. What didn’t fall to the floor and splinter into millions of pieces fell onto the beautifully decorated table with all of my fancy-fucking-finger-foods. (Bonus use of fuck there due to the sheer horror the memories bring back.)

I calmly walked over to the tree. Picked it up by the trunk and dragged it across the floor to the sliding glass doors that opened onto the deck. Pulled that sucker outside and up-ended it over the railing to watch it go crashing from the second story family room (this was a split level house) into the snow below. I walked back into the kitchen and had another shot.

Then I picked the ornaments out of the crab dip and offered champagne punch to my guests.

The ornaments that survived the hardwood floor also survived the fall into the snow. After TUSB and the others left, Eva (my fellow shot-chugger) and I rescued what we could. I had Practice re-cut the bottom of the tree so that it would stand up and we got toasted while we redecorated.

—- I’ll save the second story of Hotfessional vs. The Tree for another time. Until then, here’s the view outside my window today. Snow. Sigh. This can only mean that I’ll have to live that moment again when I unpack the ornaments in a few days. —-