Bum, Bum, Bum, Bum. Another one bites the dust. And another one gone and another one gone and another one bites the dust.

Y’all. I love Queen. L.O.V.E. As far as I’m concerned, Radio Ga Ga and Bohemian Rhapsody could be on continuous loop (let’s throw Fat Bottomed Girls in there) - and I’d probably not lose my freakin’ sanity until the seventy-hundredth time. (”We are the Champions” though? Should die a horrid death.)

Annnnywayyyyyy. Another month of 2008 has bit the dust. Bah. And Gack. And Oh Mah Holy Hell - W.T.F.? October brings Shortman’s birthday (go here and see about a giveaway in honor of him being 17.) - and Halloween (and since we live in the country, all of the candy I buy will be MINE. All MINE! I’m buying BAGS of Smarties. And Tootsie Rolls.)

The end of September means that I get to do my New Commenter Highlight Hotlight. With an additional little prize. Solomon, over at “Things I’m Grateful For” awarded me an “I’m Grateful for You” button. And if there’s anyone I’m grateful for, it’s new commenters. So, if you’re in this list… grab the button, display it proudly, pass it along. Because y’know…y’all are awesome.

• Louise writes at JeezLouise - I found her when I was looking for wig advice - and she pointed me to the wonderful Alopecia World site. This post alone would have made me love her forever.
• My Three Ring Circus’s Tiff - She’s Ivy’s Mom and yet, so much more.
• Jessica, Steven and Bryce’s mom is another Technology woman - managing projects. My heart goes out to her. I want to know how she snuck into my bedroom.
• Whatever, Katy’s Katy has the caption “Alcohol was consumed, what of it?” She has a really wicked family tree - and I think she’ll like me for saying so.
• LatteMommy got to have a date with the woman I want to have babies with. I’d still vote for her for President, though.
• Ms. Nezbit - The Funny Mommy - She’s Sarcastic, Funny and Brutally honest. And she has one of the BEST Wordless Wednesdays ever.
• Barbara, at I Am Love lives in Vancouver, BC (Jealous much?) - and is a “The Smiths” fan. I don’t think I need to say more.
• Patsy, “While You’re Up” is a retired teacher and has been married for 30 years! (Oh mah holy hell, y’all). This post touched me in a way 100 words rarely does.
• Mulligan’s Stew and Cindy give us Daily Chuckles. Read more about her here.
• Sugar, over at Living, In Theory has three(!) blogs. She also has a lack of poofyossity so you should go send her some love.
• Florida Girl, who lives in Sydney drives on the left side of the road (why yes, I’m all kinds of jealous). She broke up with a boyfriend via VOICEMAIL. I’m in love. Swoon.
• Mike at Unraveling Mysteries lives surrounded by an abundance of Botox and boobs. Hey Mike, at least I have a female pet.
• Sara and Matt (Mami and Papi dot Net) have a beautiful new baby boy. You must read the last line of this post.
• Derende at Miss Interpretation has a beautiful Shutterfly site. Can you feel this Z.O.M.G. post?
• And then there’s Travis at One Word, One Rung, One Day writes Humor and Women’s Fiction. Seriously. And, he writes “My Town Monday” posts that are positively fascinating.

—- And thank you to the delurkers who didn’t leave links… I want y’all to know how much you mean to me. —-

We look alike, don’t we?

“M” was one of my brother’s many girlfriends - and like most of them, there’s a story associated with her. Her and my mother, to be specific.

The Golden Child met M. at the local roller rink. Remember roller skating in the 1980’s? The Golden Child was a “skate guard”. He got paid to skate around and yell at people who weren’t disco enough following rules. He met her when he was 16 - he may have just turned 17 - I remember it was the year I was away at school.

My parents Dad loved her. Dad was thrilled that The Golden Child was dating a middle-eastern girl instead of the dorky blond bimbo. My mother (who would never like any girl that her son was dating) was tolerant of this sweet young woman who loved to cook and would help out in the kitchen.

Since I wasn’t around at the time, I’m not certain of the types of conversations that my parents had with M. I mean, the usual, “What school do you go to?” and “What classes are you taking?” - y’know, the types of questions that are mandatory for parents interrogating getting to know your date. I do know that one day, my mother called me in a complete and utter snit.

Mom: “You know that girl The Golden Child is dating? The one your Dad thinks walks on water? The one that he met at work?”

The Hotfessional: “You’ve told me about her, Mom. Her name is “M”, right? She’s Arabian or something?”

Mom: “Yes! That’s the one. Guess when her birthday is.” (Hmmmm. There’s 366 possibilities here Mom…so I take a wild-ass guess.)

The Hotfessional: “November 14th.” (My dear Mother’s birthday)

Mom: “No, May 6th!”

The Hotfessional: “Hey, that’s cool.” (My birthday)

Mom: “No, it’s not Ree. It’s not cool at all.” (Her voice is getting really high up on the scale)

The Hotfessional: “Why not Mom? What’s the matter?” (Wondering if I should get someone to go next door and dial 9-1-1 and send them to my house.)

Mom: “Guess what year!!!” (Oh mah holy hell people…)

The Hotfessional: “Mom. I don’t know what year. What year was she born? 1963?” (1963 being the year I was born, and therefore making M. two years older than The Golden Child and sufficiently old enough, in my Mom’s eyes, to make her his “Mrs. Robinson”)

Mom: “Nine-teen-fifty-nine!” (The year my mother graduated from High School - this really is The Golden Child’s Mrs. Robinson!)

Ha! and Snort! M. was eight six* years older than my brother. She was older than me! She was older than any boyfriend I’d dared to bring home.

I couldn’t believe that they’d managed to hide the fact that not only was she not a fellow eleventh-grader, but she could have gotten a Bachelor’s and a Master’s degree in the time since she marched to Pomp & Circumstance in the gym at John Glenn High.

Mom freaked and Dad sulked. The Golden Child and M. cooled it for a bit, although she still visited occasionally. When I came home from school that summer, I met M. and understood how she had captivated everyone with her personality. Cute and witty, she and I became friends and started hanging out.

At some point, whether it was because of The Golden Child’s continued dating of that dorky blond bimbo (who, by the way, he later ended up marrying) or my own marriage, M and I lost contact. I can’t even remember her last name, or I’d try to find her to see how her life turned out.

—- And honestly, I’d take HER or the Blond bimbo over the woman The Golden Child is married to now. Sigh. —-

*Edited thanks to the math professor lurker. Sigh again. Snort.

… Marshall University’s Thundering Herd played the Brown University Bears. Before the game, Mr. Hot and I said, “I do”.

Seventeen years? Really? Wow.

I love you darling. I love you every single day. You amaze me with your passion and your compassion. You make me laugh and cry. You’ve given me the greatest gift I’ve ever received - our wonderful son - a young version of yourself (oh mah holy hell).

We’ve shared so much together. Of course there have been tough times. Really tough times. But there have been so many more beautiful days - days I can’t imagine sharing with anyone else.

Happy Seventeenth Anniversary lover. Here’s to many, many more.

—- I just asked him if he remembered the score of the game. 28-7, Marshall over Brown. I wasn’t the only winner that day. —-

Who wants a $500 shopping spree on Zappos.com? Capessa (you read Capessa, right?) is running a “Letter to my Body” contest.

I’m entering an excerpt from this post. Wanna join me?

—- Sharing Saturday, I’ve decided, will be a spot for me to pass along news, announcements and requests. Let me know if there’s something you’d like me to pass along. (Do I have to say that I reserve the right to respectfully decline giving a shout out to things I disagree with?) —-

Friday - and home now.
The flight was uneventful,
the welcome home - sweet.

Homecoming tonight
will be football and cheering;
Hornet blue and gold.

I don’t have much haiku-ing in me today, but I have to tell you about the woman next to me on the airplane last night.

She was deadheading home. I think she was a pilot, but it was hard to tell because her jacket was off almost immediately and her blouse had no markings on it. She may have been from another airline, for that matter. She definitely worked for AN airline, though, because she commented to someone that she had offered to take the jump seat, but they told her there was a seat in first class open. Which, she said, she “jumped at”. (Oh, snort. She cracked herself up.)

Annnnnyyyyyywwwaay, that’s how she came to be sitting in 4F.

It was a packed flight, so we never got offered anything before we backed away from the gate. All of the “searching for overhead space” and “please put your smaller carry-on under the seat in front of you” prevented the customary “Would you like something before we take off?” benefit of being a frequent flier.

I was, however, treated to a number of shoulder bags of all makes and models bashing into the side of my head. So that was fun.

Four-F opened up her book. It had really, really small print, so I couldn’t see if it was something I might want to read over her shoulder someday. Since I had forgotten to bring emergency reading material with me, I was screwed. I was looking at forty-five minutes of staring at the bald-spot on the back of 3-E’s head since he insisted on reclining his seat into my lap.

Thankfully, I had remembered to grab my not-an-Ipod out of my backpack (which was safely stored under Bald-3-E’s seat) beforehand - so I decided to lose myself in some Aimee Mann.

Eventually, drinks were served. I asked for a glass of white wine (What? I only had three while I was scarfing calamari) and glass of water. Four-F asked for orange juice - no ice. As soon as the flight attendant moved past us, Four-F reached down into her bag and pulled out a plastic juice bottle.

courtesy - Google Images

Well, except it was empty.

And she poured the juice from the glass she was just served into that empty bottle, capped it, and put it back into her carry-on. Well, she poured most of it into the container anyway. Some, she poured into her own lap. For the record, I did NOT laugh at her misfortune. No, really, I didn’t.

I did, however, keep an eye on my wine AND my water. No telling how many more empty bottles she was carrying in that bag.

And I have no idea how to end that story. …. ::crickets:: Damn.

—- So, here, enjoy some Aimee. —-