Mr. Hot thinks you all need to vote.

The Official Version:

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Part 1 — Part 2
Part 3 — Part 4
Part 5

The weeks after we moved in together are a blur, but there are a few things that stand out.

• I had a couple pairs of jeans. Some sweaters. I wore a lot of Mr. Hot’s clothes.

• I didn’t have any money. I refused to take any money from my accounts with Practice. He, of course, wasted no time in emptying them out. He called his parents. He called my parents. Told everyone I’d left him. He went to Michigan with a check for over $20,000 and all of my jewelry. When he got there, his father said, “Wow, you had all that money and she didn’t pay your student loan payment?” (Told you he didn’t believe me). His mother said, “I didn’t think she would leave without her jewelry.” (She apparently thought I had married him because he gave me gold.)

• Mr. Hot and I started back to school for the Winter/Spring semester. The ex-Mrs. Hot (we’ll use the alias Karen, okay? not her real name) was a teacher and so had been off on Christmas break with the kids. Once school started back though, things had to change. The alarm still went off in our bedroom at two-OMFG-thirty every morning. Mr. Hot still kissed me awake, I still told him to “Be careful”. Now, though, he’d run home to me for a quick breakfast after finishing his route. Then he’d head over to Karen’s house. She taught in a tiny little town in coal mining country - he watched the kids after she left; took 24 to school, and then he’d drop 20 off at his parents’ house. Depending on the day of the week, we’d either pass each other coming and going, finally meeting up for lunch; or we’d end up sitting in class together.

• We had to install the phone, no longer could we hide away in our little world. Every morning, after Mr. Hot had gone to work, Practice would call me. It’s funny, I don’t remember a lot of the discussions, but I remember the phone ringing every day at 3 or 3:15. One time, he told me that he had started attending Narcotics Anonymous meetings. He said, “They told me that we may not be able to have kids because I smoke so much pot.” I reminded him that I had told him that many times before. He cried.

• I remember Karen calling one time and telling Mr. Hot that she thought she was pregnant because she missed a period. In the next breath, she told him her gynecologist told her it was probably because she was under a lot of stress. I started breathing about 6 hours after they hung up.

• We lived in the town that Mr. Hot grew up in. Karen grew up there, too. Her parents were “important social people” in town. They had “standing”. They had “status”. They had spies. It seemed that everything we did or said was reported back to Karen. If we walked down the street holding hands, we were “rubbing it in”. If we were spotted talking, we were “having a fight”. Once, oh mah holy hell y’all, we got into line at the grocery store and kissed. I looked up to see Mr. Hot’s eyes get wide. Karen was in the aisle next to us. I felt surrounded by hatred.

• Mr. Hot’s mother refused to let me into her house. She refused to mention my name. His father hadn’t been completely healthy for years, although he worked as a driver for one of the hotels after he retired from his manufacturing job. She was afraid the mention of my name would cause him to have another heart attack. My father wouldn’t talk to me, but he wrote me a very long letter telling me how I was screwing up my life. My mother would call when she could. She seemed to understand - she told me I hadn’t been myself for years. I told her all of the sordid details of my marriage.

• The girlfriends came by one evening. The four of us sat in our very small living room and discussed options. Neither one of them thought that I should have moved in with Mr. Hot. The Lawyer talked about the inability for me to get a settlement or alimony if I was living with another man. The Engineer (who I had met ONLY because of Practice - they worked together) agreed vehemently with her. She wanted me to get as much as I could. I had no reason to want anything except half of that cash that he had taken back to Michigan and my own personal belongings - things I brought into the marriage. I knew arguing with Practice about property and money would only delay my freedom. It was one of the last times I spoke to the Engineer (my best friend until Mr. Hot ended up in my life) for about 10 years.

• The first Gulf War started on January 16th, 1991. Mr. Hot came running home from campus where he had a 6 pm class. We listened to Peter Arnett, John Holliman, and Bernard Shaw reporting. We fell asleep in the living room in front of the television after bringing the alarm clock out. About a week later, our friend Tom got a call - his reserve group had been called up. We never did get to thank Tom for introducing us, but I’m sure he never, ever, expected it to turn out the way it did.

• Practice asked me to come make dinner for him on his birthday. He insisted on picking me up, taking me to the grocery store to get the ingredients and asking me to make lasagne. Not exactly the fastest meal, right? I was still stupid enough to figure that I owed him that much. When we were in the checkout line, the cashier asked me something. I have no idea what. I don’t remember what I responded. I do remember him telling her, “Don’t believe anything she tells you, she’s a liar.” Mr. Hot was asleep when I got home. I’m not sure he expected me to come back.

• On February 13th, Mr. Hot said, “When was the last time you had your period?” I looked at him. “Oh, heck, it was, um, when I was up in Michigan - Christmas time.” He looked back at me. “Do you think we should go to the drugstore?” We came back with a pregnancy test, and I went into the bathroom. After peeing on my hands as much as the stick, I left it in the bathroom and came back out to curl up on the couch. “I can’t stand it. I can’t sit in there and wait.” He laughed and went to pick it up out of the bathroom. He came back out and stood in front of me. “I can’t read this thing”, he said and stuck it right into my face. I opened my eyes and started sobbing immediately. Sobbing, laughing, reaching out for the man that was the father of the baby I was carrying.

—- Who knew it was so easy for me to get pregnant? Apparently, there was a “Just Add Sperm” sign on my uterus and I never suspected. It was time for us to find lawyers and get this whole process started. We had nine months to get divorced and marry each other. —-

We interrupt the telling of The Hot Affair in order to bring you this public service message test the emergency broadcast system allow the author some time to reflect on why the hell she didn’t see this coming.

Dear 24,

Since you moved in four weeks ago, you’ve worked two (5 hour) days. One of the reasons we let you take over our basement let you completely screw up my workout routine disrupt our lives completely opened our doors to you and let you live here RENT FREE was so that you could establish residency and save money (that you swore you were going to be, y’know, earning?) to go to grad school. They must have paid you really well for those 10 hours. Do you think you could get your Dad a job there?

We do love how health conscious you are and that you buy your own (very expensive) organic food (and shampoo, and body wash, and that other smelly shit that’s in the bathroom) - and how you cleaned off shelves in the pantry so that you could store your (very expensive, I know! And without a job! You rock.) organic food. By the way, moving our (non-organic) crackers to the same cabinet where we keep the cleaning supplies no longer causes us any confusion. (And I’m sure that our teeth will eventually return to a normal color.)

We wouldn’t dream of eating your (very expensive) artisan cheese and artichoke dip with the delicately seasoned crackers from the specialty shop in town. We know you keep those for the times you watch the television shows that you’ve DVR’d. (And I know! You didn’t mean to delete the movie that I’ve been waiting ages to see just hours before I was actually going to get a chance to watch it.) And that pizza that you made? The one that you ate half of? Was it good? Because, y’know, since your Dad and I were sitting there we thought that maybe you would offer us a taste. (Next time, sweetie, why don’t you take your Dad’s advice and use a (washable) plastic container to store your leftovers instead of using that very large piece of aluminum foil. I’m just sayin’ - the environment would prefer that we use that foil only when absolutely necessary, which is why we generally only have to buy it every couple of years.)

By the way, you do know that all of that food that you eat from OUR grocery trips that we pay for with OUR money? Not organic. Okay. Just checking.

I really do love the way you’ve decorated your own little living space and made it impossible for me to do any sort of workout tape (I needed a break, really, my summer wardrobe was starting to fit again). It’s amazing how your “desk” managed to multiply into two huge bookshelves and more artwork than I have in the entire rest of my house! When you said that the only furniture you had was a “desk”, we thought you meant that you had A.Desk. Silly us!

But we really meant it didn’t mean to upset you when we said that it’s important to be able to GET TO the water conditioner. In case you hadn’t noticed, we have well water. And if you don’t add the softening salts to the water conditioner, things in the house start turning a ghastly shade of burnt orange. And hey, “Hook ‘em Horns” and all that, but really, it does tend to clash with the soft blues, greens, and lilacs I have in the one full bathroom that we all have to share. (Remember, the one with all of your organic toiletries?)

And because we would prefer to NOT have to scrub the iron stains off of the sinks, tub, toilets, and washing machine on a daily basis, and you’re obviously very meticulous about the way you dress (those shirts that you favor? the ones that were designed by someone that I can’t justify buying for myself?) - you may want to think about what that non-conditioned water is doing to your duds. Because, honey, take it from me when I say that you simply can’t bleach that shit out.

I know you’ve offered to do whatever needs to be done around the house, but since we thought you’d be, y’know, working, we figured that we’d be easy on you. We gave you one chore. It’s not a daily chore. It’s barely a weekly chore. We used to do it only every 10 days, but since you’ve moved in, it does need to be done slightly more often.

Check the fucking water conditioner. Make sure that the salt level is where it needs to be.

I know it’s tough since your DESK is in front of it. But my love, we cleared out all kinds of space for the “desk” you were bringing up here with you. Oh, that’s right. The gigantic bookcase is in the spot where your desk was going to go. The spot that would have made it possible to check the water conditioner very easily. Because your desk? Wouldn’t be in front of the damn water conditioner.

It’s been wonderful having you live with us RENT FREE for a month. Truly. I like hiding my last (non-organic) banana in my office so that I can actually have one out of the bunch I purchased last week. I like knocking over that bottle of (expensive) shampoo onto my foot when I’m in the shower reaching for my razor. The bruises really accentuate my pedicure. I especially adore how you let Shortman drive my car every time the two of you decide to go see a movie - I know gas is expensive for someone who has only worked 10 HOURS in the last 28 days.

I tell you all of this because next week, your Dad is going to issue you a warning. “Find a job before the end of June or move your ass back home.” When that happens, there are a few things I need for you to remember:

1. McDonald’s, Wendy’s and Burger King do NOT have organic beef on their menus;
2. Generally, grocery store baggers do NOT get an employee discount on shampoo that costs $6.25/ounce;
3. You’ll make a better impression if your skin is not burnt orange and your hair is not green so please check the flippin’ water conditioner salts; and
4. Do not look in the filing cabinet in my office. You will not find that last banana.

Love,

The Hotfessional

—- Oh Mah Holy Hell, y’all. This kid has more beauty products and designer clothes than I do. Before his dad kicks his ass out, though, I’m going to make him redecorate the half-bath. —-

Previous Parts

It became a routine. Every morning at two-OMFG-thirty, Mr. Hot’s alarm would go off. He’d lean over and kiss me and whisper, “I love you. Be back soon.”

I’d struggle to the surface of consciousness long enough to mutter, “Be careful.” (The “Be careful” to any loved one leaving my house continues to this day. We all do it. Come visit and you’ll see!)

And then he’d be gone - delivering papers on a rural route in the hills of West-by-gawd-Virginia for three hours. He’d come home around 6; we’d eat breakfast and hang around the apartment. We’d read or watch television. Go for walks. Make love.

Around dinnertime, we’d drive the forty-five miles to my house and wait for the phone to ring so I could keep up the pretense with Practice. Our conversations were stilted, to say the least, but I wasn’t supposed to say anything about the future until he got home. He made sure that it was always his way.

*********************

There were two conversations I remember while we played this fucked-up game.

I had, somehow, managed to get straight A’s that Fall semester. I had Calculus 2, Physics, C-Programming, Assembler (another programming language) and Engineering Graphics. It was the one thing I wanted to gloat about. Practice never thought that I was very bright - and yet, I managed to four-point my first full semester back in school. He immediately took the credit. “Yea, you wouldn’t have been able to do it without my help.” He summed up his view of our relationship pretty neatly in that one sentence.

The second conversation was with Practice’s father. Mr. Hot and I had fallen asleep at my house. Well, he had fallen asleep and I was watching him pretty intently. (And liking what I was seeing - but I suppose that goes without saying.) The phone rang around 8 p.m. Practice’s dad says to me, “I got a notice that you didn’t pay Practice’s student loan payment last month. What’s going on?” I explained that I had run out of checks and had ordered new ones, but they hadn’t arrived yet. Probably because of the holiday. I could tell he didn’t believe me, but it was the truth.

*********************

We had less than a week in our 1-bedroom Camelot. I had “moved in” on the 27th. Practice was due back on New Year’s Day.

On the 31st, Mr. Hot and I went out to dinner. We couldn’t celebrate the coming of 1991 - we didn’t know if there would be anything to celebrate. Afterwards, we went back to what we now called home and spent one last night together. When he got up to deliver papers the next morning, I couldn’t go back to sleep. I waited for him. I paced. I cried. I couldn’t believe it was over already - and I had to go back to Practice’s house that night. I got the feeling that Mr. Hot thought I was leaving for good. Nothing I could do or say convinced him otherwise.

The worst part was I had to drive back to the airport in Ohio. The flight was landing in the afternoon and I had a five hour drive. I wanted to stay with Mr. Hot as long as I possibly could, so I left the cats with him - I couldn’t take the time to drop them off at the house. I would think of an excuse on the way.

*********************

These were the days when you could still get through security without a boarding pass and go directly to the gate to wait for someone. I was sitting next to the door, my head leaning on the cinderblock wall with my eyes closed when the flight landed. Soon the passengers were off the plane and Practice was standing in front of me. He grabbed me to pull me up from the seat. I resisted at the same time. As I fell back into the chair, my head slammed back into the cinderblock. Immediately a knot rose on the back of my head and I had an instant headache.

*********************

Once we dropped R off, and headed down the road, the questions came.

“Where were you last night? I called several times. The florist said the flowers I sent you were left at the neighbors.”

I told him that I had gone to a girlfriend’s house. My head was throbbing and I was concentrating on staying awake and as alert as I could. I knew if I did tell him where I had been, I ran the risk of him driving off the road - and I was in no shape at that point to prevent anything from happening. He told me that he knew I was lying, he’d called that girlfriend’s house. I told him I was at Mr. Hot’s apartment. (He still didn’t know that this was the man I was in love with. He thought he was just the cat sitter.) For some reason, that shut him up.

When we finally made it back home, I told him I was going to bed. I took some Tylenol and slept.

The next morning, I told him everything. I told him I was in love with Mr. Hot. I told him I’d spent the entire week at his apartment and that everything was over between he and I. He argued with me. He cried. He swore that things would be better.

The phone rang.

Practice picked it up and yelled Mr. Hot’s name into the mouthpiece. I lunged for the phone. Whoever it was had hung up. There was only a dialtone on the other end. I knew Mr. Hot hadn’t yet hooked up the phone. I had no way of calling him back if it had, indeed, been him calling. I felt completely helpless - but at that point, right then and there, I knew what I was going to do.

I didn’t need anything. I took off my wedding rings. I took off the emerald he’d bought for my birthday the year before. I told him I’d take the old car - the one that was paid off - and I left. It was the last night I ever spent in that house.

…to be continued…

—- It ended up that the mysterious caller was the girlfriend Practice had called on New Year’s Eve. The one that told him she hadn’t seen me. She heard him yell Mr. Hot’s name into the phone and hung up to call a mutual friend of ours who was a lawyer. By the time she called back with an offer of someplace to stay and the name of a divorce attorney, I was long gone. —-

Edited: Aw, hell, y’know what y’all? Screw it. Flay away. (And that’s not Bobby, Lys!) It’s my story, it’s why I’m me. Read, comment, tell me I’m a soul-less homewrecker. I’ll still love you. I’ve opened the posts back up. Part 4 right below this one.

Dear All of you,

We’re getting to the part of the story where some people may be a bit, um, taken aback by the whole thing. I’m going to take this story private now. If you’d like to continue reading, please send me an email. I’m happy to give you the password. I don’t plan on making this a habit. I may open it all back up eventually, but I’m getting a bit antsy over the next few ‘chapters’ and I know that I will open myself up to the possibility of some real disapproval.

I’ve been judging myself throughout the past 18 years. I can handle being judged. What I don’t really want is to have others read any judgemental comments I get. I don’t know if password protecting is the answer, or closing comments, or what. I’m new at spilling my guts to the world.

So, we’ll try this, and see how it goes. I’d rather do this than take the stories down.

Much love,

Ree

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

After 10 days with my parents and Practice’s parents, it was time for us to leave. I had a feeling that my mother could tell something was going on, but she never asked. Practice’s parents were completely focused on Christmas. Theirs was a holiday that lasted three days.

It felt very “don’t ask, don’t tell”.

The day after Christmas, we left Michigan for the drive to drop Practice off at his friend’s house in Ohio - from there, they would leave for their ski week. We spent the night at the friend’s house, and then I took off after dropping them both off at the airport.

Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. I drove straight to Mr. Hot’s apartment.

We hadn’t been able to talk the entire time I was gone. He didn’t hook up a phone, there was no email. The last time I’d seen him was when I dropped off the cats. As far as I knew, he’d thrown the cats out on the street or taken them to a shelter and moved back in with his wife.

As I was getting closer, this song came on the radio. I took it as a sign.

“I got fifteen miles to go now
And I can hear my baby calling my name”

I parked and ran, full speed, up to the second floor. I knocked. And oh mah holy hell y’all, he opened the door.

“Sorry it took me so long to get the door opened, J.R. was asleep on my chest and I didn’t want to wake him up.”

This was the man who told me that he had no way of relating to cats…that he’d never had one, and didn’t especially like them. And now, my J.R. was laying on his chest.

“Where’s Riski?” I said, looking deep into his eyes.

“Probably on top of the kitchen cabinet. She only comes down to eat and poop.” Neither one of us had moved. I was standing just inside the doorway.
“We need to talk. I came here right from Ohio. I haven’t been home. I have everything with me, but Practice is going to be calling me every night. If I don’t answer the phone, he’s going to probably get on a plane and come home. He doesn’t love me, but he doesn’t want anyone else to have me. I don’t want to be married to him anymore, but we’ve got to figure out what we’re going to do. I won’t have any money. You have kids. I told him I was in love with someone else, but I didn’t tell him who.”

I said all this in a rush, without a breath. Mr. Hot put his hands on my shoulders. “You told him what?”

“I told him, right before we left for Michigan, that I was in love with someone else. I was laying on the couch and he was getting stoned again, and I just blurted out, ‘I don’t know why we’re married. It’s obvious you don’t love me. I don’t love you, and I don’t know why we got married. I finally figured out what love is when I fell in love.’”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘What do you mean you fell in love?’ and I said, ‘I’m in love with someone and that’s how I know I don’t love you and you don’t love me. ‘ And then he got up and walked over to the couch. He picked up the end of the couch where my feet were and acted like he was going to tip it over on top of me. I took off my rings and threw them at him.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No. He walked off, and I stayed on the couch. Then he came back into the room and said, ‘We’re still going to Michigan for Christmas, and we’re going to pretend that none of this happened. Then I’m going skiing with R. We’ll talk about this when I get back.’ And that was it. We left the next day and never talked about it the entire way. Six and a half hours; 300 miles. Not a word.”

***************************

I was never one to make waves. I knew I was in love with Mr. Hot, but I would never, ever ask him to leave his children. I was scared of driving up to Michigan with Practice - I didn’t know what he would do. I knew what his temper was like, and although I can’t believe that he would have ever lifted a finger to me, he wasn’t above hurting himself.

I remember one argument where he bit a hole through his lip - blood poured down his chin - I always thought that it was solely to prevent himself from hitting me. He turned the anger inward.

I didn’t want to ruin his parents’ holiday. I wanted to spend some time with my MomandDad - they would never understand this. No one they knew got divorced; no one in our family got divorced. You married for life - happily or not. Suck it up.

I wanted Practice to go out west so that I could have some time alone when the holidays were over. I wanted to be able to think through what I needed to do, with or without Mr. Hot in the picture.

I needed to think.

***************************

“Sit down”, he whispered as he took his hands off of my shoulders. He moved his book off of the couch. “You’re freezing”, he handed me a blanket. “Here.”

I curled up on the corner of his couch. J.R. started head-bumping my hand and I scratched him. Riski appeared from the kitchen. She jumped onto the arm of the couch. I looked at my cats. I looked at the man I loved. As silly as it may sound, this felt familiar. And safe.

“What have you been doing?”, I asked. Wanting to know, but not wanting to know, if he had really moved out. How his wife was reacting. How his children were. Most of all, how his children were.

And so we talked. And as we talked, and he held my hands, he told me that he didn’t want to be alone. He loved me and wanted to spend his life with me. His kids were young, and yes, divorce would hit them hard, but he’d make it work. He and his wife lived like brother and sister. They were together out of convenience, not because they had anything in common. But he was sure that she’d take him back; she’d always loved him way more than he loved her; if I felt like I had to stay with my husband. He’d understand. But he wanted me to know he was serious about this, and it was up to me. He wanted me, but he couldn’t spend the rest of his life alone.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So much of what I was hearing was the typical “we never have sex” story that men told their mistresses. And yet, he’d already moved out. This wasn’t some “after the kids are older” or “I can’t divorce her because she’ll take me for everything I’ve got”. He had already given up his life for me. Because how can anything be “normal” after that? You can’t undo what he’d done.

Instead of laughing or crying, I took my hands out of his and got up from the couch. I reached for his hands, and pulled him to a standing position.

“I still have to be at my house to answer the phone. They’re supposed to land in a couple of hours. He’ll call once they get to R’s house. Once he calls, I’ll pack some clean clothes, some more food for the beasts, and I’ll grab a bottle of wine. Then I’ll come home.”

He put my hands around his back. In doing so, he pulled me closer to his chest and kissed me on my forehead. I looked up again. He smiled (fuckin’ dimple) and kissed my lips. For a very.long.time.

“I’ll go with you. And then we’ll come home.”

…to be continued…

—- It took us another hour to get out of there. It was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to me. I had never felt so loved, so warmly protected, so sexy. And yet, I still had to tell everyone in my life that my marriage was over. Including my husband. —-

Today’s episode of The Hot Affair is going to be shown tomorrow. Mostly because I haven’t written it yet, and I need to plan through the sequence of events in my head. Besides, I have a couple of other things to tell you about.

Yesterday I went to meet my new doctor and she is wonderful. She’s beyond wonderful. She made me laugh while she was shooting my head full of cortisone! Seriously y’all, how could you not like someone who can crack jokes that are actually funny after the 20th poke. She gave me 27 shots all together (I’m so sorry, those of you in the audience who are turning white…. Hey, can someone pick Sue up off the floor?) - and is confident that she’ll have the same luck as Dr. Boyfriend. (Growing it back. Geez, y’all. But, y’know, if she does have the same luck, I may just make out with her on the examination table!)

The joke? She asked me if I was going home after the visit. I said, “Oh yea…and probably straight to bed for an hour.” She came back with, “Oh, good. I’d hate for you to go run errands with blood spurting out of your head like a sprinkler.” (Okay, so it wasn’t a good joke, but at least she has a sense of humor.)

Another appointment in 4 weeks - we’re both convinced that there will be some new hair growing in by then.

-lalalalalala-

Mr. Hot and I went to the garden center today and bought three beautiful, huge hanging baskets. (And yes, he’s the one that makes sure they live…I’ve had plants commit suicide because they just can’t stand the neglect love that I shower them with!) Two deep purple petunias - the “Wave” petunias that pour over the sides of the baskets - they’re hanging on the front porch and set off the green of the posts and the door very nicely. In the interest of getting the hummingbirds back this year, we also picked up a fuchsia (why does Wordpress think I should type Eustachian instead?) … the pink and purple set off the purple of the petunias very nicely.

We decided to put a trellis in the spot where the wellhead is - and I’m going to plant Morning Glorys this year. I still can’t figure out what I want to do with that spot permanently, so we’ll go with the violets and hosta that are already there - I added some “wildflower” seeds to see if they come up - and after the morning glory seeds soak for a day or so, I’ll plant them. Hopefully it will all fill in nicely and add some color to an otherwise weedy spot.

So, those of you who are serious about their gardening, you’re probably laughing at me. “Ha! Hotfessional, that is sooooooo common of you. WTF?” You’re absolutely right. I can’t argue with that at all. But I don’t have a lot of time to figure it all out … and I live in Zone 5 … which pretty much means … I’m fucked. (Wait, that’s not really true. There are a lot of beautiful things that can grow around here, but we have midwestern clay for soil, we’re surrounded by trees (the parts of the yard that get full sun are generally not gardenable - because that’s where the septic tank is), and I just don’t know what to do.

—- So remember that the May Hotlight is garden blogs? SEND ME SOME! Don’t let me down, okay? Either leave me your favorite garden blog in the comments for this post, or send me an email with “May Hotlight” in the subject. —-