Where do my weeks go?
And yet, if they fly so fast –
why isn’t Spring here?

It’s snowing again. We’re supposed to get another 3 inches today. It’s that really fine, baby-flake snow that blows sideways and tries hard to make you believe that it won’t have much affect on the roads and the sidewalks that you have to travel.

It’s lying.

Shortman is coming home for Spring break today. I have an appointment with the accountants to go over my 2009 taxes. Mr. Hot and I must finish the downstairs bathroom disaster this weekend. I started my period (again, gawddamnittohell). I have to make Shortman an eye appointment so he can get new contacts. AND take him to the Verizon store to get his phone contacts moved over to his new phone.

Sigh.

I really just want to put on a pair of short, sit outside with a book, and relax.

—- Did I mention? It’s snowing again. —-

Early dark thirty.
Waiting for my french toast.
Lifesaving coffee.

Since Monday was a U.S. holiday – for some of us at least – and I had meetings until 7:30 last night, I decided to take the first Friday morning flight out of Chicago instead of traveling on Thursday evening.

O’Hare is even more O’Horror-ish at 5 a.m.

—- I figure drowning myself in powdered sugar AND maple syrup will help, right? —-

I sit at O’Hare.
Eating fries and drinking beer.
Waiting for five twenty-five.

After barely missing the 4:30 flight (not my flight, you understand, but, ehem, flying every week does have some perks – and one of them is moving to the front of the standby list), I made my way back to the O’Horror O’Hare Bar & Grill. Normally when I stop here, my order is taken by an elderly gentlemen – slightly stooped, not so slightly hard-of-hearing. I point at my selection on the menu as I carefully enunciate EVERY.WORD.

Chicken. Sandwich. Glass. of. Pinot. Grigio.

I say, stabbing my finger at the items on the right page.

He repeats back my order.

Sheeken. Sammich. Pino. Gricho. Fries?

I nod and thank him; turning my head back to either the screen in front of me or my blackberry – hoping that my flight is on time and not too crowded. I tip fairly well and treat my elderly guy with respect – all the while hoping that karma behaves herself and grants my wishes.

Sometimes she does. Sometimes she doesn’t.

Today, though, she made up for the times she didn’t. She gave me Marky Mark as a waiter.

This cute kid (okay, so he had to have been in his 20’s, but still – kid-ish), came over to get my order (Corona Light, grilled cheese sandwich and fries, thanks…) and all I could think was, “Please don’t call me ma’am. Please don’t call me ma’am.”

He didn’t.

—- I tipped extra well. —-

Edited to say: WTF with my comments turning off? I don’t turn my comments off. I live for comments. Without feedback, I will whither and die.

Night in the country.
Peaceful, icy, crisply cold.
Moonlight shimmering.

Every once in a while, Mr. Hot will yell at me to “Come with your camera. You’ve got to see this sunset!”

I’m so NOT a fan of winter. And living my split life, I’ve noticed that winter in the country is a different animal than winter in the city. The snow blankets and muffles sounds in the country – silence lulls me to sleepiness by 7 or 8 o’clock each evening when I’m home amongst the cornfields.

Winter in the city seems harsher to me. The noise and the slush and the wind seems to batter and drive to a different tiredness. Not so much a “relaxing with a warm quilt until your eyes won’t stay open” but a “fall into bed and zonk immediately” feeling.

The romantic in me likes the first scenario – I add a comfortable chair, a roaring fireplace, a large hound dog, a glass of warmed brandy and a book to those dreams – getting up only to make my way to the four-poster bed across the room. The one with flowery, lacy bedding. When it’s time, I crawl between the covers and blissfully drift off.

The Hotfessional in me thrives on the second – sitting in bed with reading glasses perched on my nose, a glass of wine on the bedside table, cat purring and laptop humming. Pillows stacked behind my back are covered in high thread-count, stark white cases but a deep red down-filled comforter is just a quick grab away. Falling asleep with those glasses still on my face is not uncommon.

—- And there you have it. I think I’m officially two people. —-

Peeking at the clock
in the early, cold morning,
icy nose and toes.

Thinking “Please, please, please. –
Don’t let it be time to rise”.
Snuggle down deeper.

Michigan winter.
Seven degrees and so gray.
Blankets. Over. Head.

Unfortunately, I had a conference call to dial into at 8:30, which meant that in order to get coffee into my body and jump start my engine, I needed to be up at 7:45. It’s now 11, and I haven’t been off the phone since.

What I really need is a long, hot shower.

I did want to write this note really quickly, though:

Dear American Airlines,

After nearly 70,000 miles of my butt on your planes in 2009, I felt I owed it to you to write about a great experience.

Well, actually, not a great experience, but a great pilot. A pilot who felt sorry for the passengers that left O’Horror 60 minutes late. A pilot who kept everyone updated throughout the flight about arrival times and changes in route. A pilot who didn’t want passengers standing on the jetbridge in 10 degree weather.

This pilot? He himself got the gate-checked bags from the ground crew and announced colors so that those of us who were shivering and wanting to get into the warmth of the terminal didn’t get frostbite. It was the quickest I’ve ever received my bag in the previous year.

Thank you Mr. Pilot. Wish I’d gotten your name.

Love,
The Hotfessional

—- I’ll be so glad when this crunch time at work is over and I can play in the blogosphere again. —-