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I’m going to send this out to the following people:

• The employee that I’ve laid off twice. Both times he’s been instructed that terms of his severance package are completely confidential and should not be discussed with anyone. He then goes to several people to tell them exactly what his severance package entails and what the law says about notification to employees. Apparently he has no fuckin’ brain -or- he’s trying to piss me off. (I’m guessing piss me off)
• The project manager who takes up 20 minutes of my time at 5 p.m. on Friday to discuss several issues. When I hang up, after answering his questions, I believe that we’ve resolved all of the problems. No emails come in from him on Saturday, Sunday, Monday or Tuesday. This morning, I discover that he called my employee last night to ask him the same damn questions. Apparently, he has no fuckin’ brain -or- he’s trying to piss me off. (I’m guessing no fuckin’ brain.)

—- I want to scratch their eyes out. But the first guy? I want to rip his balls off and shove them down his throat as well. Because he’s even more stupid for trying to piss me off. —-

I haven’t forgotten you my lovelies. I’m here, but today I’m here because Sonia is vacationing someplace spectacular. Oh, wait, you don’t know Sonia Sunshine? Seriously? (I know! Nice use of alliteration. Pretty awesome, don’t you think?)

Go see my story about my silly Aunt Mickey. And a Christmas tree. (Don’t pretend you’re surprised that I’m not the only one in my family that has, um, issues with trees in the house!) Check out the rest of Sonia’s guest posters and her site in general, because she’s wicked funny.

Wait! First, before you go, don’t forget that we’ve got the whole Hotlight thing coming up. I know you all have some coffee- (or tea- or your beverage of choice) snorting sites that you’re keeping from me. Send them my way - I’ll be working on reviewing them and coming up with some commentary (while wearing a bib and keeping some extra snot-rags around for cleanup) this weekend.

—- In the meantime, I’m beating Mr. Hot and Shortman in our March Madness brackets. I am a basketball goddess. —-

“Pop!”

“Um, honey?” (Shaking his shoulder.) “Honey, I think my water just broke.”
“Mmmmmmshhshhsdmmdfskdfajdlfkj”
“No, really, my water broke.”
“It’s 2 a.m. You probably peed.”
“Noooo. I distinctly heard a Pop. I felt it pop. I’m soaking wet.”
“Damn. I really don’t need this right now.”
“Um. Like I do?”

Before y’all go and think too horribly of Mr. Hot’s response - he had to get up at 2:45 every single morning to go deliver papers on a mountainous route. He knew he couldn’t get anyone to sub with this late notice. We had counted on a daytime start to labor and so the timing could not have been worse. This was his third child. I was the newbie here. For all I knew, I could have pissed the bed. I certainly felt absolutely normal (well, as normal as a 39 weeks pregnant woman can feel, anyway).

That was nearly 16 1/2 years ago. I’ve forgiven him.

Oh, and I was 5 days early.

We got out of the very wet bed. I grabbed some blankets and went out to the couch. Mr. Hot got dressed; hoping beyond hope that his bundles of papers were ready and he could finish up early and be back. With a warning to me,

“If I’m not back and you go into hard labor, call an ambulance!”

he was gone.

I flipped on the television and wondered what the day would bring. I was, for all purposes, alone in West-by-gawd-Virginia. My parents were in Michigan. My in-laws refused to acknowledge my existence (another post, another day). My best friend and I had parted ways because of a disagreement over my divorce from Practice Husband. All of my other friends were only friends because of P.H. For some reason, I wasn’t scared. Not at all.

I knew I’d call my parents, but not at 3 a.m. I hadn’t even felt a twinge of a contraction yet, so there was no reason to call and wake them up. They’d have a long drive in front of them when they headed down, they may as well sleep.

After about an hour, I shuffled back into the bedroom. There was no way I could go to sleep on the couch. Piling the blankets onto Mr. Hot’s side of the bed so nothing soaked through, I dozed off.

At six o’clock or so, Mr. Hot tears into the room.

“I thought you’d gone to the hospital when you weren’t on the couch! Are you okay?”

After assuring him I was fine, and that there were still no pains, he grabbed his breakfast and got ready to head over to his ex-wife’s house. (Are you sitting there with your chin on the floor? Ha!) His ex-wife is a teacher. My stepkids, 20 and 24 were only 7 and 3 at the time. The daily routine was to finish the route, come home to eat, and then go to her house to watch the kids until 24 went to school. He’d usually bring 20 home with him to spend the day at our house…but we figured it would probably be a better idea if 20 went to her gramma’s house that day. I was warned to call the ambulance again if I needed to, and again, he was gone.

While he was eating, I called my parents.

“My water broke. I’m fine, and there’s no contractions yet, but I thought I’d give you a call.”

I swear before I got the phone hung up, they were in the truck and headed south.

The next time Mr. Hot came back? I was in the shower. (At least this time he heard the water running and didn’t panic. At least not so loudly.)

There was no way I was going to the grocery store without washed and styled hair and makeup, and we had nothing in the house for my parents to eat. Not a thing. I still had had no contractions. It was about 7 hours after my water broke. I was pre-registered at the hospital. My bag was packed. I didn’t want to go sit in the freakin’ hospital all day. I had to be useful. (The fact that I’d never, ever been in a hospital except to visit someone may have had a bit to do with this attitude.)

And so, grocery shopping we went. While we were walking the aisles getting soup and bread and who knows what else, (my pants getting damp from residual leakage) the contractions started. Very mild. Slightly crampy. Hey, the grocery store shared a parking lot with the hospital. I wasn’t worried because I knew that if it got too bad, we could just head across the lot.

After we paid and loaded the bags into the car, I told Mr. Hot, “Let’s go put this away, and then we can go to the hospital.”

It was 11:30 or so when we pulled into the parking lot for the second time. Nine and a half hours down.

The nurses kindly took me to my room and gave me a gown. They checked to see if my water had indeed broken or if Mr. Hot’s theory that I couldn’t control my bladder was true. I was vindicated. I went into the bathroom as soon as the nurses left to try to pee (since I did understand the difference). Mr. Hot laughed just as I closed the door.

“Hey, Ree, your doctors are here.”

I came out of the bathroom and my parents were in the room. They’d made the drive that usually takes eight hours in just under six hours, 30 minutes. Damn good thing my Dad still carried his “Retired Cop” badge.

And so I wasn’t alone any longer. My darling Mr. Hot, my MomandDad. I knew I could get through the rest of the day. There was no use putting it off any longer. I told the baby to come and get the party started already. He was still undecided apparently on whether or not he really wanted to be born. Amazingly, nothing has really changed. He still can’t make up his mind.

Around 3 o’clock - thirteen hours after my water broke - the real pains started. Really and truly and fucking hell they hurt. And my family? The ones that were going to be my rocks during this ordeal? Were sitting there eating sandwiches. Roast beef and cheese and mustard. And bags of potato chips. And drinking big juicy Cokes. It smelled so good and I was starving.

I, of course, wasn’t allowed to have anything. Except ice chips and Popsicles. Except the hospital had run out of Popsicles.

I don’t really remember much after that except for the blessed relief of the epidural and the oxygen mask they slapped on me because Shortman’s heart decided that it didn’t want to beat all that regularly. So we sat there, watching the monitors and ooohing and aaaahing at the pretty peaks my contractions were making on the screen.

“Did you feel that one?” “Ow, didn’t that hurt?” “No.” “Nope.”

And then, finally, they told me to push. I pushed. Shortman was born at 9 o’clock that night. For those of you keeping score, nineteen hours after my water broke. He gave everyone a scare since he came out, um, purple. Not lightly lilac colored. Not lavenderly. More like grape-freakin’-popsicle colored.

Until he started screaming. Then everything was okay.

Well, except for the fact that he ripped me completely open, and for three solid hours after he was born, they stitched me back together. Without an epidural. Because no one would believe me when I said the needle had come out of my back and the sweet elixir of drugs had dripped down my back.

And that part? I remember completely. It still makes Mr. Hot turn pale whenever we talk about Shortman’s birth. He figured he’d have to raise the boy himself because there was no way anyone could lose that kind of blood.

—- October 16, 1991. 7 lbs, 8 oz, 21 inches long. *** March 24, 2008. 225 lbs, 3 oz. 75 inches long. —-

My fiance, Candy, tagged me for a meme and although I’m trying to only do one meme/month, this is the first time I’ve seen this one (and it’s 7:12 p.m. on Easter Sunday, and see that title up there? Yep. I’m caving.) . Here are the rules:

1. List three books you’ve always meant to read, but haven’t got around to them

2. Share the two books that changed your life

3. Recommend the one book you’ve been talking about since the very first day you’ve read it

—————–and so here they are——————–

Three books I’ll read someday:

… because isn’t this the world’s longest book or something?

… because somehow I managed to miss having to read this one

and

… because I’ve heard wonderful things about it.

Two books that changed my life:

I found this book stashed in a linen closet when I was 9 or 10. For some reason, I think it was hidden from me. I liberated it from between the sheets and pillowcases, stuffed it under my mattress and read it while I was supposed to be doing my homework or cleaning my room. Since I shared a bedroom with my sister, I couldn’t read it at night - the only light in my room was the one in the ceiling.

I learned what life was like from the view of a girl about my age, but who grew up when my grandmother did. After I finished reading it, I had a new appreciation for my own life and times. Me - a middle-class white girl from Detroit - I could do anything.

and

… like Candy, I know that people either love or hate Stephen King. If you’ve seen this post, you know I own a lot of Stephen King books. This is the only one that I re-read every couple of years. (Note, the television mini-series adaptation? Sucked. Molly Ringwald was so NOT Fran.) The first time I read it, it gave me far more chills than any bloodier or ghostier “horror” story. Classic Good vs. Evil.

The one book I’ve been talking about since the first day I read it?

A story about a tragedy, but told with humor and love. A view from outside with a sweet ending. Maybe this is why I’ve enjoyed reading Dawn’s untitled novel so much.

And I usually don’t tag people, but this time I’m tagging: Dizzy Ms. Lizzy, Amanda, Sangria Lover, and Shania. And YOU! if you want to participate.  EDITED:  And Mr. Lady.  Because she loves me this meme.

—- I love books. There’s nothing better, to me, than sitting outside during the summer, an icy cold drink nearby, feeling the sun on your bare feet, hearing the birds and smelling the heat, with a book in your lap, just waiting to read that first line. —-

All images thanks to Amazon.com

Yesterday, Kelley over at Magneto Bold Too picked (well, she didn’t, her Bunneh did, and how apropos, eh?) my name as part of her Pay It Forward contest. She’s going to review my blog on her site. Y’all? It’s like being asked to sit at the popular girl’s table in the lunchroom! Have you seen those awards on her sidebar? Oh mah holy hell.

It’s my turn now. All you have to do is leave me a comment on this post. Actually, you have to leave me a comment finishing this sentence:

“My absolute favorite part of my body is my {{blank}}.”

And fill in the blank.

Next Saturday, I’ll pick 3 winners (or maybe I’ll have Poopy the Puppy, Daphne the girlcat and Pippin the boycat) pick winners. (Snort. Like I can get the damned cats to do anything.)

You’re probably wondering what I’m going to hand out as prizes - because you may decide that it’s just not worth telling the world that your left boob is your favorite body part. (Although I think your left boob is pretty cute.)

Each of the winners will each get a custom header for their blog. If the winner doesn’t have a blog, or is perfectly happy with their header, or thinks I have zero-freakin’-artistic ability, then we can negotiate a different prize. My feelings won’t be hurt. (Well, they will, but I’ll keep a stiff upper lip and try not to cry too much.)

Candy has a header I made for her. She even proposed after I made it. We’re still trying to figure out the date and I think she’s making me sign a pre-nup, but I know that our love will prevail.

—- So, c’mon. You can do this for me, right? I’ll even risk a finger cramp like Kelley got when she cut up all of those pieces of paper. —-

It’s a record year for snowfall

—- The robins are not happy. And neither am I. —-

Dear Fucking-Head-Of-Building-Security,

Explain to me why you:

1. Watched me bring my son in through the back door (i.e. nearest my office) of the building,
2. Recorded our actions (carrying 3 boxes, 1 bag and 3 wall frames) as we walked back and forth through the security gate (using my badge to record all comings and goings),
3. Had one of your minions watch as we loaded the goods into the back of an old beat-up pickup truck,
4. Sauntered through the cubicle farm outside of my office with your little lackey swinging your keys around while I was buying my son lunch,
5. Sauntered BACK through the same cubicle farm while I was sitting in my office eating lunch,
6. and never said a word.

But!!!

Felt the need to - an hour later - come bursting into my office, stuttering, “Are you the Hotfessional?” When I replied, “Yes”, with my winning smile, you felt the need to interrogate me on “What, exactly, are you removing from XYZ Company’s premises? What was in the boxes that we have you, on tape, taking out of here?”

Oh, you shithead. Do you know what being accused of theft does to me? Especially when I know that you sat there and watched everything and taped it? When all you had to fucking do was get off your be-hind and ask to take a peek in that bag or that box. (Because, y’know, my Ben Wallace bobblehead? May contain company secrets. So, gawd only knows, I would refuse.)

What do you mean you couldn’t figure out what was happening? Couldn’t figure it out? Because we were being so furtive and sneaky? Oh, yea.

The books that my son was complaining were so danged heavy? The ones that were in boxes WITHOUT LIDS that took him a good 5 minutes to walk to the door? Then, don’t forget, he had to put them on the floor, go through the security exit, pick them up, and carry them out to the truck? You couldn’t figure out what was going on?

Oh, and that form that I filled out? That form was signed by XYZ Company’s Operations Manager, the highest-ranking-official-on-site (well, except for me, but I don’t work for XYZ) and given to the Security Office. It was the one your staff told me was the proper form for removal of equipment. So, maybe, AssMunch, you should ask your staff to make sure that they a) have people fill out the correct form and b) tell you that that person that you’re watching on tape who is obviously trying to hide the fact that she’s taking that picture of her kid and some books out has, indeed, filled out the form. And had it signed. And turned it in.

So, now, Mr. Head-of-Building-Security, I feel compelled to notify your Facilities Manager, (y’know, the one that signs your contract?) that even though my staff and I have filled out the forms and completed this divestiture project ON TIME and UNDER BUDGET, we are being, um, harassed while we’re moving.

I know that you would much prefer me to have to carry those boxes around to the front of the building and out to a parking space a football field away (where that ice? heaven knows, may cause a trip and fall incident, but you would be following procedures) so that you can look at the extra toothbrush, toothpaste and tampons I’ve decided to take home now instead of next week.

Thank you for reminding me that I’ve just shredded 15 years of my career and have whittled my rise to the executive level of a global financial institution down into three boxes and an Olive Garden bag.

I wish you all continued success in your own endeavors. Because, gawd only knows, we need more pricks with a tin badge making sure that NO ONE takes a white board marker that doesn’t belong to them!

Bite my ass. Sincerely.

The Hotfessional

—- Y’all? This is a true account of my life today between 11:30 and 1:30 p.m. I’ll be drinking tonight. —-