Hello? Hello???? Oh Mah Holy Hell y’all. There’s 4 people here today. It’s so freakin’ quiet. I can actually hear myself think. You may think this is a good thing. Not so much. Because my thoughts? They don’t stay focused or coherent when there’s not “Fuck!!!!” or “Shit! What do I do now?” or “Danger, Will Robinson, danger!” being screamed outside my office. So, unfortunately lucky for you, you get randomocity.

---

First, though, go read Bossy today. I love Bossy. I love her dog. I love her kids and her humor and her sarcasm. I love her hair that hasn’t been cut for 283 days. I’ll wait here until you get back. (Well, I hope you come back, because if you get lost in Bossy’s archives, I can’t help you. You will drown in the humor.)

---

Thank you all so much for the comments on yesterday’s question. I loved reading them - and I agree with Ali - obviously we are all way too intelligent to fall for the latest piece of “must have” bling. Jewelry is a lovely gift, if it’s personal and given with love. I’m personally hoping for a spa certificate and a Farouk flat iron. Breakfast in bed is always welcome, too.

---

Here’s a picture that shows some of the snow in my perennial bed:

It’s supposed to be 45 and rainy tomorrow. Maybe the worst of our winter is over? Snirk. Right. And there’s going to be two tickets to Tahiti in my stocking so Mr. Hot and I can go lay on the beach and drink rum and get away from teenage boy stank.

---

Speaking of teenage boy - Shortman is competing in the Business Professional’s Association regional tournament on January 4th. To add insult (getting up for a 6:45 am bus trip to a freakin’ school? on the last day of Christmas vacation?) to injury (being at said school until 6:45 that night?) he has to wear a suit. And a tie. And non-athletic type shoes.

The last time Shortman wore a suit? Was. Never. He’s never been in a wedding. (Last wedding attended? Mr. Hot’s brother’s. Shortman was 2.) The last time he was at a funeral he was 4 (Thank Gawd, but y’know….no suit). He wears khaki or gray cargo pants every day once it hits 40 degrees (shorts if it’s 41 or higher). He hates jeans. (With a blinding hatred for denim touching his skin.) Silly me, I thought this would not be an issue since I didn’t have a daughter.

There will be much wailing and gnashing of teeth in Kohl’s the day after Christmas. (Do not ask which one will be doing the wailing, which the gnashing. It’s likely to be both of us). There will also be pictures to document that Shortman’s first time in a suit is NOT at his own wedding.

---

Tonight is grocery shopping night. Tonight is the night I buy my staff presents. I wrap them up and on Monday I’ll deposit them on desks to wait for the recipient’s return. Why do I wait until the last minute to do this? Why don’t I give them out before people leave for the week? Because if I do, they undoubtedly feel like they have to reciprocate. And people don’t know what to buy the boss. And I don’t want to put them under that pressure. (Surely, just working for the bright and shiny-star that I am is pressure enough you say? Why yes it is!)

---

And I am seriously out of topics for today. So I leave you with a picture of my youngster when he was 9. And believed in haircuts.

—- Yes, he did decide to grow out his hair to cover his ears. Snort. Christmas 2000. —-

Last night, while I was sitting curled up on my corner of the couch reading blogs, and Mr. Hot was jumping around the living room screaming at officials calling phantom fouls during the Pistons game, we got into a discussion about the overabundance of jewelry ads on television during this time of the year.  (I use the term discussion lightly.)

Y’know the ones. The “Every Kiss Begins with Kay” and “He Went to Jared” and “You Can Have an Affair With My Best Friend As Long as You Come Home With A Bag from Zales” commercials.

He believes they’re demeaning to women. That they would lead someone to believe that a diamond can make a woman forget every wrong ever done to her (yes, I’m talking to you Kobe Bryant).

“Aren’t women insulted by these commercials? What is it about receiving the exact same piece of jewelry that is being advertised all over the country that is so special?”

I’ve personally never been insulted by them. I am, if anything, apathetic towards the entire diamond thing. Practice Husband used to buy me a bracelet every year. By the end of 9 Christmases, I felt like I was being shackled. I love funky (and inexpensive) earrings. I tend to pull at necklaces - a habit, which has on more than one occasion - had me crawling around under my desk picking up beads. (And once, while wearing a skirt, in a conference room with 12 men.)

My most prized jewelry possessions are my wedding rings (Mom’s originals and my Gramma’s wedding band), the garnet from when I went to India, and my pearl/moonstone/amethyst ring from Amsterdam (both one of kind and picked out and bought by me to commemorate these trips).

As for the advertisements that pop up regularly from October September through January (during televised sporting events like, ehem, Pistons games?)? I figure they’re either to

1. make men feel guilty enough to go out and spend hundreds of dollars on shiny carbon rocks to prove “you’d marry her all over again” when they treat their wives like crap the rest of the year or
2. give the completely unimaginative man something to shop for or
3. damn. I can’t even come up with three reasons.

I want to make it clear that if you are a recipient of the Journey Diamond Pendant or a 3-diamond ring (past, present and future!), I’m not necessarily implying that you should hire a private detective to tail your husband -or- that he has the creativity of a styrofoam coffeecup. Well, maybe I am implying it, but I don’t really mean to - I just don’t get it. And neither does Mr. Hot.

So, help us figure it out.

What do you think of the ads? Because it’s really the advertising that is being held up to the criticism here. You may love all of the jewelry that is advertised, and it may make you swoon and give ….. cookies! ….. when you see that little box under the tree, and that’s okay. Really. I know a lot of wonderful people (Mom) who fit that description. But the advertising. What’s your take on it?

—- Let me know in the comments. That way, when we’re watching the Pittsburgh/St. Louis game tonight, and see the guy painting his wife/girlfriend’s toenails for the eleventy-kazillionth time, we’ll have your brilliant insights to read. Which has to be better than “Helping Regular Guys since 1915” —-

Update:  Mary @ My Piece of the World gets the bonus points for Burgermeister Meisterburger, the evil “no presents” dude on Santa Claus is Coming to Town.  Yay, Mary!

I’ve always been in love with old architecture. I would wander the streets of downtown Detroit (in the daytime - I’m ballsy, not stupid) while I was working a temp job for a stock brokerage that no longer exists (Story of my life. If I ever come work with you, be afraid); with my eyes straining skyward, looking at the Fisher Building

and Mariner’s Church (where they honor the Edmund Fitzgerald’s dead crew).

Chicago, my second home, has gorgeous buildings of course. But so much of it was lost in the fire. If you’ve read The Devil in the White City you’ll know that very few of Chicago’s buildings survived. The Rookery (completed in 1888) is the oldest high rise in Chicago that is still standing.

But I’ve never, in my life, seen anything like the architecture that I saw while I was in Amsterdam. I found these pictures, and thought I’d share them. I hope you don’t mind.

The Pulitzer Hotel
From the website: Overlooking two of the city’s most picturesque canals, Prinsengracht and Keizersgracht, Hotel Pulitzer, A Luxury Collection Hotel is ideally located in the middle of the old city center of Amsterdam. Our unique hotel is comprised of 25 restored 17th and 18th century canal houses. Named to Condé Nast Traveler’s 2004 Gold List, we are unlike any other hotel. Each of our 230 distinctive guest rooms represents a small piece of Dutch history and culture. Located in the beautiful gardens, our art gallery offers multiple expositions each year.

The room that I stayed in was in a house built in 1620. I had to duck if I wore my stilettos. Well, that or brain myself on the beams.

And the view from the window? More canal houses on the other side of the courtyard. I don’t know whether it was luck or a shame that the person in the room across the way wasn’t an exhibitionist. Based on some of the other guests I knew were staying there? It was probably lucky.

Walking down the Prinsengracht, trying not to get lost in a new city (country, continent, why be picky?), I picked the highest point I could see as my landmark. I knew as long as I could see the top of Westerkerk (West Church), I could find my way back.

It was also built in 1620; the tower is over 245 feet high. Rembrandt was buried here in 1669. I only wish I’d have known at the time that it was possible to climb to the top of the tower to see the city.

As an avid reader who discovered The Diary of Anne Frank when I was around 8, the opportunity to tour the house where she and her family hid brought tears to my eyes.

Her house is in the center. The hiding place is high in the back of the house. All of the walls where she pinned up pictures of movie stars are covered in plexiglass; photos still in place. It’s small and cramped and eight people had to be perfectly silent in order to save their lives.

This statue is nearby, honoring Anne:

A walk over to Dam Square , and handing over more Euros, meant I got to tour The Royal Palace. It was originally built in 1648 as a city hall for the Burgomeister. (Why does that word make me think of this guy?)

Bonus points if you provide his full name in the comments along with the name of the show.

More Dam Square:

New Church built around 1400. (Y’all? 1400. And it’s called the New Church.)

And across from New Church? Madame Tussaud’s wax museum.

—- I could have had my picture taken standing next to Brangelina (they’re both there) or George (Clooney, not Bush - I would have had to melt his ass). Instead, I opted for a seat next to the canal. And a house speciality. Lots of Amstel —-

moar funny pictures

---

Also, thanks to my Secret Blogger Santa. She sent me a bunch of stamps so that I can keep my promise to start writing real letters (with pen and paper) to my far-flung friends. (see that little tag over there? Click on it to find out about 2007 and get excited about making sure Laurel and RA get their spreadsheets on again for 2008!)

---

And, Elle: YUM! I received my hand-made truffles yesterday. They arrived safe and sound, and are now hidden away from all noses that love chocolate.

---

Longer post coming later. I’m working on a photo-heavy post….and, coming up soon (probably next week)! Pictures of the Hotfessional past. I have my scanner all set up, now i just have to dig out the pictures.

…of snow, y’all.  Mah Gawd.  Get your minds outta there. 

So, Mr. Hot and I woke up this morning, (him, about an hour earlier than me, yes…but we both did wake up), and looked outside to find everything buried.  Mr. Hot trudged all the way down to the end of the driveway to get the newspaper.

No paper. 

Mr. Hot used to deliver newspapers in rural West-by-Gawd-Virginia.  I can remember waking up at 2:30 a.m. in the middle of winter, after an ice storm, and pleading with him to be careful in the mountains.  Like the post office, neither rain, sleet, ice, nor suck-ass snow would prevent him from making his appointed rounds. 

Our main roads are fairly flat and pretty darned clear.   But, there was no newspaper to keep me company while I ate my peanut butter toast and drank my coffee.  And I couldn’t get my fix of “Last Minute Shopping Deals.”  WTF?  Methinks the delivery guy’s tip may be a bit smaller than it would have been.  Even at 4 pm when we were outside clearing the driveway.  No newspaper. 

So, we decided to re-arrange our “office” (aka Shortman’s domain).  Since I received my Canon MP530  and we bought a new stand for it, we needed to move the corner desk, and clean out some of the stuff.  When we moved here in June, 2006, we pretty much took everything that had been in the “old” office and put it in the “new” office and called it good.

We managed to accomplish moving lots of heavy furniture with only one contusion (courtesy of desk dropped on top of my left foot) and no broken bones.  Victory!

Once that was done (enough for now, more to do), the three of us went out and shoveled the driveway.  Yes, you read that right.  Shoveled.  As in with an actual shovel.  Wooden handle.  Plastic shovely-part.  And I’m sure my back, when I wake up in the morning, will make sure I know that there was no snow-fuckin-blower involved.  Our driveway is long.  

Then we ate.  Lots.  Bean burritos.  Yum.  Spanish rice.  Yum. Yum.  Mr. Hot and I started watching football.  We watched the Lions lose again.  I started drinking.  They started the season 6-2.  They’re now 6-8.  Sigh.  The Giants are on now, losing to Washington.  I know my buddy Cupcake is happy. 

And while I’ve been sitting here, the school’s automated notification system called me to tell me that school is cancelled for tomorrow.  So, yay! I don’t have to actually wake up and check the news to see if they closed.  Shortman is dancing.  Mr. Hot will be glad to have the extra hands around tomorrow when the plows come by and pile this crap up at the end so we can’t get out anyway. 

—- I have to finish up the Christmas shopping tomorrow.  How in the hell did it get to be December 16th already y’all?  I hope you and your loved ones are keeping warm and enjoying the season.  I’m going to get the heating pad. —-

Have y’all seen ‘The Family Stone’?  Geez.  So much for the ‘comedy’ genre it has as descriptor.  Oh mah holy hell.  I just cried my freakin’ eyes out.  Not fair. 

Just sayin’. 

Mr. Hot and I are watching Hall & Oates “Our Kind of Soul” that we DVR’d.  I grew up in Motown.  I grew up listening to Motown.  I can sing every one of Smokey Robinson’s songs.  I can sing the Supremes.  Aretha Franklin?  Marvin Gaye?  Soul music?  Seriously, it’s in my blood.  I would rather listen to Classic Soul or Motown or old style Blues than almost anything.

And I loved Hall & Oates.  Sara Smile.  Rich Girl.  I Can’t Go For That. Method of Modern Love.  (sigh.  shiver.)

 But …

 Dear Darryl (Excuse me, but step back from the Botox needle!), and John,  You cannot sing Barry White.  Don’t attempt it.  No one can sing Barry White, except, y’know, Barry White. Please.  Don’t put any of us through that. 

Love and Kisses, The Hotfessional