Dear Mr. Hot -

Contrary to popular (read: YOUR) belief, I wasn’t criticizing your cleaning skills when I made a comment about the grunge coating the thing on the stove with the clocks and knobs and shit. You did’t need to scream at me and throw the rag and slam the cabinet door. You didn’t need to tell me to “clean it myself” because, y’know, if it bothered me that bad, I would have. It was a fuckin’ comment.

Oh, and when I TOLD you that it wasn’t a criticism, it was an observation - an apology about that teensy weensy bit of overreaction of yours would have been nice. Uh huh. Simply, “I’m sorry” would have worked.

Because, y’know, 45 minutes after your little tantrum, when you had to call me to say that your bike had a flat tire, and you were too far away to push it home - and you needed me to come pick your ass up from the side of the road - you probably regretted your outburst.

But me, being the non-grudge-holding sort of wonderful wife who is more than willing to drop everything to bail out any of the men she houses, clothes, and feeds, hopped in the truck and got you. You and your flat-tired bike. And I smiled all the way home. Because, y’know, that’s just the kind of person I am. Sweet. Kind. Forgiving.

I DID NOT say, “Karma. One bad motha-effin’ bitch.”

Although I wanted to. Desperately.

Love,
The Hotfessional

—- Why does no one in this house understand that I am the Alpha Bitch? I am the Lioness who takes care of the pride. Why do they not appreciate the fact that I don’t go postal on their asses on a regular basis? —-

This is one of those rants that make me grateful I have this blog.  This is one of those rants that makes me really grateful that Mr. Hot doesn’t read what I have to write. There are times I’d like him to, because I am proud of what I’ve written, but then… there are days like this that I am so.very.glad that he lets this space be mine.  All mine.

Can you stand a little history? (If you want the whole-entire-multi-part history, click here, but if you don’t have an extra 3 hours…just read on.)  So, to say Mr. Hot and I aren’t close to his family would be an understatement.  His mother is nice enough to me (now), but his relationship with her was never good.  He has mentioned specific incidents that break my heart - I won’t repeat them here - but I guess, being the oldest of six (five of them in 7 years), and being the independent sort - there wasn’t enough attention to go around.

He got used to not being included unless it served someone else’s purpose.

When we first got married, and for years afterward, I tried to reach out to his parents and siblings.  I sent birthday and Christmas cards.  I made his mother a beautiful cross-stitch sampler of all of her grandchildren’s names and birthdates.  I reached out to his closest sister and her children.

I got tired of it.  Tired of spending time and money that was so obviously not appreciated or acknowledged.  So, while I still send his Mom (his Dad died 4 years ago) Christmas gifts and pictures of Shortman, and all of his brothers and sisters get cards… we don’t speak on a regular basis.

(The sole exception is that his sister’s husband is my stockbroker.   Now, it’s just fuckin’ depressing to talk to him.)

Okay, enough history, right?  Assume that the only time we hear from them is when something bad happens.

As it was today.  The thing is?  This isn’t even where the rant comes in.  This is normal.  Standard Operating Procedure.  Seventeen years of history.  No Big Deal.

Mr. Hot’s sister (wife of the stockbroker - the one with whom he’s always been closest) called.  After some chit-chat about football things, she broke the news that Mr. Hot’s youngest nephew (3? 4? See?  We weren’t even told when this kid was born.) was diagnosed with neuroblastoma - a childhood cancer.   Thank goodness, the cure rate for children with a Stage 2A neuroblastoma is over 90%.   Chemotherapy has been scheduled and we have every hope that this little boy will get through this all just fine.  As sad as it is - the doctors are encouraging, the statistics are encouraging, and he is under the best care available.

Of course, your good thoughts and prayers are gratefully accepted.   My heart is breaking for this little boy’s parents, his grandparents, and all of his aunts, uncles, and cousins.

So, after we heard that awful news, 24 came home from wherever he was.  Mr. Hot met him in the kitchen to tell him what was going on.

The response from 24?

Oh, yea.  I talked to 20 yesterday morning and she told me.

He spoke with his sister?  Mr. Hot’s daughter?  And didn’t feel that it was important enough to tell us?

I know that the rest of the family thinks that we’re a bunch of uncaring, soulless heathens, but this kid lives in this house.  He is supposedly a member of our family (or so Mr. Hot keeps reminding Shortman -  who keeps giving up alone time with his father at sporting events - events 24 has absolutely NO interest in).

24 didn’t think that the fact that our youngest nephew was diagnosed with cancer was important enough to share.  He was far more interested in going off to a rendezvous with whomever - wherever than to tell us that the youngest member of his family has cancer?

Am I wrong to be pissed off?

No, really, tell me.  Tell me if I’m out of line, or expecting too much.  Because right now, I can’t tell Mr. Hot how I feel about this kid because I know that once I open up - a bunch of emotionally-charged shit is going to pour out - and neither one of us need that right now.

—- This is your chance.  Set the Hotfessional straight.  Am I a bitchy stepmother who is looking for any excuse to be pissed off at this kid? or is he so completely immature and self-absorbed that when presented with news about a sick family member, he can’t take 5 minutes to tell his own father? And do I have the right to expect more from a 24 year old than that? —-

So, this morning, while we were stretching before our run, Mr. Hot looked over the car hood at me. He grinned.

Just think. In less than 12 hours, we’ll be there. I can see you with a big frosty mug of beer in one hand, with your other arm around a old, fat, singing German guy.

You know what happened next right?

Oh, honey, are you doing karaoke tonight?

ba duh dum dum.

—- Thank you. Thank you. I’m here through Thursday. —-

Wednesday night, I bribed Shortman with a trip to McDonalds if he’d accompany me to MomandDad’s house. See, The Golden Child and his wife and kids were in town. And although I love my brother - even though we see eye-to-eye on, oh, nothing - his wife (aka “The Bitch Who Stole Christmas” or TBWSC for short) and his kids make me certifiably crazy. Seriously. Like I grind my teeth if I have to be around them too long.

I know that’s a terrible thing to say about your niece and nephew. After all they’re kids. They’re generally well-behaved kids. They don’t scream - they’re 11 and 12, so it’s not like they’re not old enough to have some reasoning ability. They just skeeve me out. Because they’re exactly.like.their.mother.

Let me give you some background first. I’ll try (note: try) to keep it somewhat short.

*****

My brother and his first wife had one daughter. She’s a year older than Shortman and one of the sweetest girls you’d ever want to meet. I love her to death. My brother had custody when he and Wife-1 first split, but after marrying TBWSC, his daughter decided she’d rather live with her mother. So she moved out (this, obviously, tells you something!)

TBWSC had a son from HER first marriage who is also a year older than Shortman. In fact, her son and my brother’s daughter were born two weeks apart. This son (my brother’s stepson) is banned from my parents’ house for stealing money out of my father’s dresser.

Then, they had two children together. A boy and a girl. These are the two we saw.

Sooooooo, annnnnyyywayyy, back to Wednesday’s visit.

*****

My mother wasn’t there when Shortman and I pulled into the driveway. Thankfully, my Dad was - otherwise, I’d have been stuck with The Golden Child and his crew. Alone. With only Shortman to protect me.

We walked into the kitchen to find the table laden with food. Sandwiches, fruits, vegetables, and cookies. My brother called his two kids into the room (that’s when I found out that they’d also brought my other niece from Virginia with them - so three kids all together), and told them to eat their dinner.

He then looked at me and Shortman and said, “You guys can go talk to Dad in the family room so we can eat.”

Y’know, not that I would have wanted any of his overly-mayonnaised tuna sandwiches, but let’s call that Eyeroll #1.

————————————————-

Eyeroll #2 happened after they were done scarfing their dinner and joined us in the family room. My Dad was talking about a tree in his yard that he had cut down. It was a beautiful tulip tree at one time, but I know that it had been slowly dying away. My Dad has a friend, “Tom the Treeman” - and it was Tom who came to do the deed.

I asked Dad if Tom knew what had killed the tree. Dad said, “Hell, he just comes with his chain saw and chops them down.” (Now you know why I talk the way I do.) I remarked that I thought Tom was a Tree Doctor.

From behind me (while we were still carrying on our conversation), I hear “There’s no such thing as tree doctors.”

It was the nephew. I looked right at him and said, “Tree doctors are usually botanists who specialize in diseases that trees get. They’re also known as arborists. Just like veterinarians are called animal doctors.” All the while giving him that “What ever happened to ‘children are to be seen and not heard’ look” that my aunt had perfected.

————————————————-

MomandDad have become members of their local recreation center. It offers water aerobics (Mom’s specialty) and a weight room that my Dad loves. Dad asked The Golden Child, “Why didn’t you come with us this morning when we went over to work out? You said you’d be up and ready, but we waited and then decided to just go.” TBWSC decided to answer for The Golden Child (he’s also the most pu$$y-whipped man I’ve ever known). “We wanted to spend some family time so we decided to get up this morning and go for a long walk ourselves! It’s so good to have family time. It brings us closer together as a family. We looked so cute with all 5 of us walking down the road.” (Eyeroll #3 and a puke in the mouth thrown in for good measure.)

————————————————-

Alas - soon after my mother arrived home (she’d been at dinner with a couple of girlfriends…), my Uncle stopped by with his wife. The rest of the evening was spent with TBWSC trying to compete with the Uncle for the most long-winded story. Shortman was sitting off to my left and slightly behind me, and I had my hat pulled down low so no one could see my eyes. I kept glancing over and Shortman and performing eyerolls #4, 5, 6, 7, 8 and 9. I think I strained a forehead muscle.

—- But I did my duty as a good daughter and sister. I lasted 90 minutes. Shortman cleaned me out at Mickey D’s. —-

I’m sitting out on the deck, Mr. Hot next to me, the cats trying to escape down the stairs, and Poopy the Puppy sitting in his own chair. Idyllic. (Except for the little girl down on the corner screeching at the top of her lungs. What is it about girls that makes them just that much louder than boys? Oh, yea. The octave level. Or whatever you musical people call it. It goes through your eyes, into your brain, stabs around a bit and then comes out the other side.)

It’s a bit humid now - but even that seems to be clearing out and the blue sky is finally peeking through the clouds.

My mother called not too long ago. The Golden Child is in town with his whole damn family and they want to come over this week. Sigh. Mr. Hot and Mrs. Golden Child (my sister-in-law) do not mix well.

Wait, that’s not fair. Nor is it entirely true. Not mixing well is what oil and water do. But if you shake them up enough, they can get together for a little while.

Mr. Hot, on the other hand, hates my sister-in-law. She’s probably the one person in this world that I can say that about. He has his reasons…and I understand and support him fully. She knows all. She’s better than you (just ask her!). She has celebrated man’s inhumanity to man - when she feels that her own religion is right. She’s not a nice person. And that’s probably the world’s biggest understatement. She’s a bitch. Not the good kind.

In fact, in a post that I killed (the only one I’ve EVER killed), I named her “The Bitch That Killed Christmas”. She’s one of those completely fake women who will hug you and get all gushy just to happily stab you in the back. Sometimes you don’t even need to turn around for her to have at it.

I can handle her for teeny tiny little bits of time. (Like about 15 minutes. Once a year. Max.) But only for my brother’s sake. And he’s on thin ice since he’s pretty much been brainwashed by her way of thinking.

Sooooooo, annnnyyyywayyyyy, they want to come over this week while they’re in town. And my mother called to see when would be a good time. Since I’m having dinner with Nancy and Sonia Sunshine tomorrow, that’s definitely a no-go. I suggested Wednesday.

When Mr. Hot heard this, he didn’t try to hide anything. My mother, on the line, was prattling on and on about something. I finally had to stop her.

“Mom. Listen. I’ll bring Shortman and we’ll come over on Wednesday. Mr. Hot doesn’t want her at our house. He can’t stand her. He’s pissed off about things she’s said and her attitude towards the United States. We’ll just come over there.”

“Whaaaa? Tell him to suck it up.”

I laughed. She knows better than that. He’s even more stubborn than me.

“Alright. I’ll tell them. I don’t know what I’ll tell them, but I’ll figure something out. ”

“Mom. You don’t have to tell them anything. I said I’d call back and let them know which day is better. I’ll just tell them we’re coming over there when I do. No big deal. Let me worry about it.”

I know my mother is going to say something. After all, he’s HER Golden Child.

She had to end the conversation asking if I’d been back to the doctor. She’s much more concerned about my Alopecia than I am. I reminded her (for the tenth time in as many conversations), that my next appointment is on the 28th. Then I broke the news.

“I had Mr. Hot clip it all off yesterday. “

Quick intake of breath.

“Why, do you think it’ll grow back faster?”

“No, I don’t think it’s going to grow back faster. It may not grow back at all. And I’m okay with that, but it looks better the way it is now than it did.”

Silence. And then:

“But have you gone out without your scarf yet?”

“No. but I will. I’m not going to hide behind this. I’m dealing with it the best way I know how - and I may as well get used to it.”

Unsaid was, “And you better, too. Because I’m not going to hide or be ashamed of something I have no control over.”

(Y’all. I’ve come a long fucking way in the past three weeks, don’t you think?)

Mr. Hot apologized for his behavior. He’s already said it’s okay if they come over. He just wants me to know where he’s coming from. I already know where he’s coming from. He’s completely right and within his rights to let his feelings be known. (He probably could have done it in a more, um, tactful manner…but tact is not necessarily his strong suit. Love and forgiveness is though - so y’know…we get along just fine.)

I’m going to give it a day before I call back. He may change his mind again. Snirk.

So, stay tuned. I’m sure there’s going to be blog fodder whatever happens.

—- For those of you who were wondering. None of the three (24, Shortman or the dog) realized that Mr. Hot shaved his beard. In fact, when he told Shortman, “You didn’t notice I shaved my beard off.” Shortman replied, “You didn’t have a beard.” Poor Mr. Hot. He’s now convinced that no one notices him. —-

—- Oh, and I promise I’ll stop talking about my bald head one of these days. —-