My Life as a Hotfessional

Being a Mom means:

• Fixing vegetables for dinner when you really want to have ice cream. And sometimes, having ice cream.
• Watching Aladdin or Winnie the Pooh for the twenty-fifth time in three days, because it’s his favorite. (circa 1995)
• Giving up your favorite seat on the couch - or allowing yourself to BE the seat on the couch. Even when he’s 6′3″ and 230 lbs. And you’re 5′9″ and, um, less than 230 lbs.
• Crying when he starts school and then crying more, when he graduates. From kindergarten. From 5th grade. And oh mah holy hell, at the THOUGHT of him graduating from High School. At least you have a year to prepare - and stock up on tissues.
• Listening to a play by play (by play by play) of what happened during this show or that class or this game or that movie.
• Holding your breath, holding his hand.
• Saving every “I love you Mommy” scribbled on every piece of paper. Saving the “I hate you” ones, too.
• Bare butts. Bare toes.
• Messes and cars and action figures hidden in every corner of his bedroom. And no, you can’t get rid of the G.I. Joes…. or the baseball cards…. or the baseball caps.
• Haircuts. or not. Electric razors for Christmas.
• Video games.
• “Cut the grass. Take out the garbage. Change the cat litter.”
• Riding in the back seat after handing over the car keys.
• Bartholomew Cubbins and his 500 hats. Over and over and over again.
• A five-year-old voice singing “We represent the lollipop guild”.
• Never, ever calling a ‘pillowcase’ anything except a ‘tuppow diaper’. Some things are too good to ever be forgotten.
• Seven “wake up calls” in the mornings - as soon as he hits the teen years.

The hug of a giant and the “Happy Mother’s Day” mumbled into the top of your head.

—- Happy Mother’s Day to all of my friends and my friends’ mothers. —-

It’s a gorgeous looking day. The sky is that amazing light blue with really high, wispy clouds and the trees across the street are busting out in leaves and flowers. I have absolutely no desire to be sitting here looking at this pile of expense report receipts that I have to submit while I wait for my next meeting to start.

I want to be outside, laying in the peninsula hammock with a good book - drifting off to sleep with the birds chirping and the breezes blowing through my toes. A nice glass of wine on the table next to me - some kind of instrumental music playing softly in the distance - near enough to hear and enjoy, not close or loud enough to be distracting.  Vaguely aware of the donkeys that live behind us braying every once in a while. It’s such a happy sort of sound….especially when mixed with the nicker of the horses.

Wait, what? You’ve never heard a hammock referred to as a peninsula? Snort. Seriously? C’mon. Snirk.

Okay, then. Let me tell you about Sam and the Peninsula -

Once upon a time, in a little suburban neighborhod made up of small, tidy homes and small, tidy yards, the Hotfessional family had neighbors that they hung around with.  The best next door neighbors in the world (BNDNITW) had three kids. Boy1, Boy2, and Girl. Boy 1 and Shortman were nearly the exact same age (within 3 days.) Boy 2 was a couple of years younger. Girl’s name was Sam.

Sam hadn’t yet started Kindergarten when this happened. It was summer - that gorgeous kind of summer day when the sun is up until 9:30 at night and the temperature is in the 80’s and no one has baseball or soccer or work to deal with. Hot dogs and hamburgers are everyone’s favorite food - the sound of the ice cream man brings joy to all hearts.

On one of those very special days, the Hotfessionals and the BNDNITW were outside having a cookout and drinking lots of beer water. The adults, Sam, and Poopy the Puppy were on the Hotfessional side of the fence. Poopy the Puppy was most likely sacked out in the shade - and the boys (Shortman, B1 and B2) were playing basketball in BNDNITW’s backyard. The grill was going - the cooler was full. It was all shangri-la and hummingbirds and butterflies.

Boy 2 decided to take a break and come over to the Hotfessional side of the fence. He climbed onto the hammock. Poopy the Puppy jumped into the hammock with him (which, actually, is a snort-worthy sight all by itself). They snuggled down together and looked very content, if a bit, oh y’know, weird.

Sam, who had been sitting on her mother’s lap, suddenly looked at all of us and announced:

“I want the peninsula.”

We looked at each other. What the fuck? We all know that “If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you”, and crappe, but none of us could figure out how to wrap up the State of Michigan and hand it over to this spoiled-ass rotten absolutely adorable four-year-old.

Sam’s mom looked at her and said, “Huh?”

“I want the peninsula. Now.”

The adults looked at each other and shrugged. Obviously the beer water and the sun were playing tricks with our heads and we were rendered incapable of understanding. Mr. Hot was willing to risk the wrath of all 3 feet 4 inches of blondeness as he bent closer to her. “What honey? What do you want?”

Sam straightened up and looked him in the eyes. She smiled her sweet little smile and twisted a strand of the pure honey gold hair around her finger.

Y’all? You know the kind of lung capacity a 4-year-old has? Of course you do. Well, imagine it here.

“I want the damned peninsula! Now!!!!! “

and she pointed. At the hammock.

“I want to sit up there with Skeetah* on the damned peninsula!”

The force of the soundwaves knocked her brother off of the hammock and sent Poopy the Puppy flying for cover behind the garage.

All of the adults (except Sam’s saintly mother, who knew better was trying desperately to teach her daughter that the correct word was “hammock” and not “peninsula”) stood up, walked over to the side of the house where Sam couldn’t possibly see us and laughed hysterically.

She knew, though. Oh, did she ever know. And from her perch up on the hammock peninsula, when we re-congregated back on the deck, she told Mr. Hot, in no uncertain terms.

“Now, I want Skeetah up here in the peninsula with me so I can lay with him like mah brutha did.”

—- I’m still disappointed that they didn’t follow us when we moved to Ann Arbor - I miss the weekends hanging out, the shared dinners when we cooked too much, or they did. I miss the game nights and the trips to Tiger games. But whatever else, that thing will forever after be known as the peninsula. —-

*Poopy the Puppy’s real name is Skeeter. Hence, my other, not-so-hot nickname. “Skeetah’s mom.”

MeMarie’s Scavenger Hunt Participants should CLICK THIS!!!!

In the past two days:

• Sitting here at my desk, with Shortman sitting next to me at his computer, I hear him tell a friend, “I’m logging off at 4:15 because I’m going to the movies with my brother.”

• Seeing them laugh at Mr. Hot’s 9th grade yearbook picture - circa 1971…. Yea, so we all looked funny then.

• Watching them drive away to catch the Tuesday cheapie matinee - in MY car. (WTF?)

• Having the four of us sitting at the kitchen table that was, until last week, pushed firmly up against the wall so that only three chairs were usable.

• Hearing them offer to swap chores, “I’ll do the cat litter if you vacuum the living room.”

—- It is rather fun having them both in the house. —-

I cleaned out my flower beds today. Got all of the “winter interest” dead-ass stalks cleaned out and admired the tulips getting ready to bloom. I have little green leaves on my Potentilla bushes. We trimmed our beautiful River Birch to give it it’s classic shape. I weeded out stray grass seedlings from the perennials. It was 74 beautiful degrees. I wanted to strip down to mah bare-nekkid-ass, throw myself to the ground and roll around. (And I would have, too, but the juvenile delinquents hooligans kids across the street were riding their go-cart and the asshat jerkoff neighborhood snoop gentleman farmer behind us was tinkering with his tractor. )

We went around checking the seedling trees we planted last year. I think 3 or 4 of the 10 survived. In 15 years, they may be 6 5 4 feet tall. (They came, literally, in a padded envelope and looked like sticks. With little paint marks on them. Ten trees for $10.)

I have dirt under my fingernails. I am happy.

As far as I’m concerned, I must live high-rise city or way-the-fuck in the country. Give me downtown Chicago….no grass, 45-story buildings, cabbies happy to run you down, five-star restaurants and doormen -or- give me wetlands preserves, manure in the flower beds, 7-miles to the grocery store and raccoons in the yard. Suburban neighborhoods are where I grew up, but there’s a reason I always felt out of place.

After the yardwork, we went out to MomandDad’s. Our bedroom set is a really old hand me down ancient walnut queen-sized bed, chest of drawers, and a mirrored dresser that MomandDad bought about 40 years ago. (Seriously….I just calculated it out. They bought it in 1968….I was, um, 5.) Mr. Hot uses the chest of drawers. I use the dresser. Two of my six drawers are broken. If I pull them out more than an inch (say, to actually get a sock out?), I must make sure I’m wearing steel-toed boots. Because, y’know, they fall out onto my toes. And then I cry.

Dad has a lathe. He can make new drawer runners that aren’t disintegrating - and I can save my pedicure. And my mascara. “Please make me two of these,” say I. “Shall I do them for you right now?”, says he? “Oh no, whenever you have time,” says me. Then I drink their coffee and eat their grapes.

When Mr. Hot and I returned home, we brought the chairs out and set them up on the deck.

Now, I’m stealing this from Lys. Because it looks cool. And I want to see if I can do it.

You.
Can.
Only.
Type.
One.
Word.

Not as easy as you might think.
Remember: one word answers.

1.Where is your mobile phone? Purse
2.Your significant other? Hot
3.Your hair? Messy
4.Your mother? Polish
5.Your father? Cosby
6.Your favorite thing? Husband
7.Your dream last night? Balding
8.Your favorite drink? Merlot
9.Your dream/goal? Leisure
10.The room you’re in? Living
11.Your ex? Practice
12.Your fear? Cancer
13.Where do you want to be in 6 years? Retired
14.Where were you last night? Kitchen
15.What you’re not? Naive
16.Muffins? Poppyseed
17.One of your wish list items? Arabian
18.Where you grew up? Canton
19.The last thing you did? Read
20.What are you wearing? Shorts
21.Your TV? ESPN
22.Your pets? Sleeping
23.Your computer? Warm
24.Your life? Comfortable
25.Your mood? Content
26.Missing someone? Gramma
27.Your car? Avenger
28.Something you’re not wearing? Shoes
29.Favorite Store? Kohl’s
30.Your summer? Short
31.Like someone? Mr.
32.Your favorite color? Forest
33.When is the last time you laughed? 8
34.Last time you cried? Movies

—- I’ve discovered that I’m a wordy bitch. I had to tell a story before I did the one-word meme.  And, I kept wanting to type an explanation to my answer. —-

Mr. Hot left me this morning. (Digest that….then we’ll get to the real story!)

He left to go help 24 pack up some stuff and cart it back here. Because 24 is moving in with us this weekend. As in, this coming weekend. Which means, oh mah holy hell, I’ll have 3 of them to deal with. Three! [whimper. can I come live with you? I’m frightened.]

But! I’m alone this afternoon until Shortman gets home from school. Then I’m alone tomorrow after I send Shortman back to school for the day. Do you think there’s any way I can get the school to keep him overnight? Think of the possibilities! Par-teh at the Hotfessional’s! Woooooohhoooooooo!

So, what would you do if you had hours, blissfully and silently, alone? Take a long, hot bath? Nap? Read?

Wrong! I’m fucking working.

So, although I can dream of going outside to enjoy the sun (it’s a balmy 46° outside), or curling up with the pets to read, or running out to shop for shoes; I am, in reality, sitting here with worksheets and organizational charts, trying to figure out who will back up Susie and Johnny in case of an earthquake or hurricane in Chicago. And occasionally fielding panicked calls from Mr. Hot:

Him: Help, I’m lost.
Me: Okay, hold on, I have your map here. Where are you?

Meanwhile, I’m counting the thank yous I better get for having the idea to copy his Google map directions before he left so we’d be looking at the exact same thing.

Him: I’m going south on I-79, but it says something about the I-70/I-77 exits, and I don’t see that anywhere around here.
Me: Wait, what do you mean I-77? It says I-70E/I-79S. Nothing about I-77.

At this same time, I have a conference call muted on the speaker phone, there’s kitty-p0rn happening on the desk and it’s threatening to hang up my phone, and three people I’d left instant messages for apparently all got back from lunch at the same time, and decided to pop up on MY monitor.

Him: Well, can’t I just stay on I-79 straight into Morganhole?

To say that we’re not fans of West Virginia University would be an understatement, wouldn’t you think? Considering we call them the WVU Mountainqueers from Morganhole? Even though 24 and 20 are both alumni?

Me: Honey, you probably shouldn’t stop for directions and ask if you’re on the right road to Morganhole. Unless, of course, you’re in Pittsburgh. And if you’re in Pittsburgh, I will laugh my ass off at you, Mr. I-always-know-which-direction-I’m-going-I-just-sometimes-miss-the-turn.
Him: Ha Ha Ha. So, just tell me. Can I just stay on South 79?
Me: Yes, honey, just stay on I-79S. Love you. Be careful. Call me if you need anything else. {snort}

Now, Mr. Hot is no fan of his home state. He and I moved back north, toting Shortman (who was 9 months old at the time) and he never looked back. He grew up in the “cultured” part of West-by-gawd-Virginia - Huntington. Home of Marshall University. (Let’s go Herd!) According to him, anything north, south, or east of that was gawd-forsaken hill country. (Beautiful, scenic gawd-forsaken hill country, but there’s a reason this site exists.) Anything west was Kentucky. (Enuf’ said?)

This was our last conversation - just a few minutes ago.

Him: I made it. I’m waiting at some gas station for 24 to come meet me.
Me: Wow! You made really good time, considering all of the traffic and construction.
Him: Yea, but he can’t give directions. When I called him, he told me to get off at the Morganhole exit, then take a right and wait for him at the gas station. So, I turned right, but ended up traveling the road to nowhere. Two lanes, with guardrails on both sides, straight-the-fuck-down. I called him and said,

“24, did you mean for me to turn left? There’s no gas station here, and I’m driving out to BFE.”
and he says, “Oh, yes, sorry, turn around, it’s on the other side of the exit.”

Me: Uh, oh, what happened?
Him: Well, there wasn’t anyplace to turn around, so I ended up using this field that ended up being someone’s front yard. I was making a U-turn around this tree, and these three huge Bloodhounds came running after the car, howling.

The image of that made me laugh so hard, the cats took off running.

Him: And there’s a sign here in front of this station that says, “Sandy Holepitt for Magistrate.” Don’t you think if you were Sandy Holepitt and your parents actually named you Sandy Holepitt that you would change your freakin’ name before you plastered signs all over?

And then, I peed my pants.

—- Now I’m going to make Shortman take me out to dinner. —-

I found out what it is, exactly, that Mr. Hot does all day. I mean, I can only assume that he hasn’t changed his habits just because I’m in the house instead of the office.

He plays PS2.

This game.

with this:

—- He also screams at other drivers. —-

(The Good vs. The Bad)

4:15 a.m. - The driver backs up ever so slowly into my very long driveway. Mr. Hot comes into the bathroom where I have just stepped out of the shower.

“You won’t need to worry about Metro Cars being late. They’re already here.”
“What? An hour early?”

9:15 a.m. - Mr. Hot calls me.

“Remember when I told you the driver was backing up really slowly this morning? He broke off about a 15-foot piece of driveway - not just cracked it, broke it completely, fucking off. The asphalt is laying in the grass and you can see where his tires went right into the yard.”

I told him to take pictures so I can call the car company. Dumbshit drivers. Why they feel the need to back up a driveway they’ve never been to before is beyond me. In the dark. Thank you, Mike-the-asshat-driver who so kindly introduced himself and thanked me for the tip. You’ve probably just cost me $200 in driveway patching and repair. Bite me.

7:00 a.m. - Pilot comes on intercom:

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to O’Horror International Airport. Since we’ve arrived 10 minutes early, there is an airplane at our gate. We’ll taxi to the gate as soon as they leave.”

7:20 a.m. -

“Ladies and gentlemen, please remain seated. We’re about 50 feet from the jetbridge due to some equipment that was left and needs to be moved.”

Excuse me, Mr. Airport-Wave-the-Stick-Thingie worker? Could you please move your shit? Pretty please with sugar on top? I’ve had 2 cups of coffee and I’m about to piss my pants, and since we got here so freakin’ early, the flight attendant wouldn’t let me use the bathroom, and now I’ve been sitting here for a whole hell of a lot longer than I expected. Someday, after you have had children or your prostate decides to start growing, you’ll know exactly what you’ve done. Bite me.

7 :45 a.m. - Calling home to check in.

“Hey sweetie. We just landed. How’s the weather there?”
“It’s supposed to rain. Hold on, let me see what it’s going to be like in Chicago today.”
“No, really, it’s okay. I’ll find out when I get down to the city.”
“No, really, it’s no problem, just let me, wait, damn it, why isn’t this thing working? Hold on.”
“But I need to get to the train.”
“It’s going to rain there.”
“Oh, okay, well, I’m heading downstairs I’ll talk to you later.”

7:55 a.m. - The Hotfessional gets to the bottom of the escalator for the Blue Line. She hears: “All Aboard. Doors closing.” And runs in her cute heels, dragging her suitcase and lugging her laptop towards the train which is a mere 10 feet away. Then it’s 12 feet away. Then it’s 15 feet away. Oh, and Mr. Train Conductor? Bite me.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Next time, remember. Do not call Mr. Hot before you get on the train. It will only screw with your timing and you’ll end up sitting next to the woman with the hacking cough and snot-filled handkerchief. The one she keeps waving around as she talks to her “friend” (and by “friend” I mean the imaginary being that apparently followed her onto the train).

Oh, did I mention? I’m in Chicago. For 1 day in the office, and 2 in an “Executive Leadership” conference in a hotel.

8:45 a.m. - At my desk, finally. I hang up my coat, stow my suitcase out of the way, get some money to buy a bagel and coffee. I try logging on before I head down to the cafeteria. No connection. No network at my desk. The desk with my name plate and my phone and all of my stuff.

“Hello, helpdesk? I’m having problems connecting to the network. Looks like my network jack has been disabled.”
“Okay, what’s your jack #? What floor are you on? North or South side? What color underwear are you wearing today?”
“N38-2876, the 20th floor, North side, and black lace.”
“Alright Hotfessional. Your ticket # is 973262 and the ETA for resolution is 2 - 3 business days.”

8:46 a.m. -

“Excuse me, did you say 2-3 business DAYS? To get me connected to the network? To be able to do my job? This isn’t a new setup. This is broken. If it’s going to be 2-3 days, I’ll be back home.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry, but this vendor takes 24 hours to process a request.”
“Okay, whatever. Just put a Sev 1 on it, and get them here as quickly as possible.”

Y’all? WTF? Two to three business days to flip a friggin’ switch in a closet somewhere to re-enable something that obviously should not have been shut down? I’m thinking about calling it a day, heading over to my hotel and ordering a bottle of top-shelf vodka and some grapefruit juice. I’ll hook up my wireless, order room service, smoke, and blog. Because, y’all? It’s only 9:57. a.-fucking-m. Hey Network Vendor? Bite me.

—- However, someone did search for “replacement knees deKuyper” and ended up here. I don’t know about you, but anything made with deKuyper does make me wish for replacement knees. —-