No, it’s not my birthday - that’s in the Spring - and I haven’t seen 39 for several years. Thirty-nine is how many bags of leaves Mr. Hot and I put out for the yard waste pickup yesterday. The leaves will be recycled into free compost that the township gives away every spring. The bags will be recycled.

It’s a shame there aren’t more uses for the things.

******lalalalala******

When I had dinner with these two last week, they were surprised to find out that 24 still lives here. Oh yes, he does. Because, apparently, I haven’t been bitching too much lately.

Is he still making me crazy?

Only when I let him. Which isn’t too often anymore, because I’ve taken a stand. I refuse. This house only needs one Alpha Bitch - and that role belongs to me. So, he’s become like that smaller, younger female in the pack - largely ignored by the Alpha Bitch. She, er, I mean, he works Monday through Thursday from 8-5 and spends at least three nights every week with his boyfriend.

When he does manage to make it here after work, he walks in, goes directly to the kitchen, eats our food, and then goes down to his room until 10 pm or so, when he comes back up to take a shower. This past weekend, he left Friday afternoon to go back to Morganhole to pick up MORE STUFF from the house he moved out of last April. (Remember? He had a desk?) I don’t know what he brought back, or where he’s going to put it, but then…I Don’t Care. La la la la la. And you can’t make me. So there.

However. There are moments… Oh, are there moments, y’all. This one makes me laugh every time I think of it.

Last weekend, his sister (21), my brilliant, beautiful stepdaughter (as long as SHE doesn’t try to move in next) and her boyfriend came up from West-by-gawd-Virginia. Mr. Hot and I decided we’d make a huge breakfast on Saturday since all 4 “children” (Shortman, 24, 21 and the boyfriend) were going to the U of M/Northwestern football game at noon - and Mother Nature promised rain mixed with snow and sleet. (Mother Nature delivered.)

We told 24 to go ahead and invite C - his boyfriend - for breakfast as well.

Friday night, as we were discussing sleeping arrangements, 24 whined, “It’ll just be easier if I go sleep at C’s house.” (Yea, whatev.) We reminded him that breakfast the next morning was at 9 am - and spent the rest of the evening playing board games. (Which, y’know, I RULED. Have you ever played Apples to Apples? Dude. You don’t want to take me on.)

At 9 am on Saturday, we all assembled in the kitchen except…of course, 24. and C. But they were on their way. (We took bets to see who could come closest to actual arrival time. 21 beat us all with a 9:35 guess - only 2 minutes off.)

When they finally arrived (and C. is perfect for 24, by the way…it was first time we met him), Mr. Hot was making a second round of eggs. 24 was not impressed that we were taking bets on their arrival time (especially Mr. Hot’s guess of 10 o’clock), but he quickly recovered and started getting C’s plate of food ready and poured his coffee. He bustled around like a nervous girlfriend.

It was really something to see. There we all were, dressed in sweats - unwashed hair (well, the others, y’know) - standing around with cups and plates - dirty pans piling up - and 24 was waiting on C - making sure that he had everything he needed. I kept waiting for him to tuck a napkin into C’s shirt collar.

“Where’s the cream?”, 24 asked. “C takes cream in his coffee.”

Mr. Hot looked at me and mouthed, “Cream?” over 24’s head.

I shrugged my shoulders.

Um, there’s milk - well, there’s skim milk. We don’t have cream.

And so, C had skim milk in his coffee.

You’re probably wondering, “Why does this make the Hotfessional laugh? There’s really nothing that funny about it. In fact, she’s kinda being condescending towards the relationship.”

No, really - the funny thing is CREAM???? CREAM????? The kid has been living in this house - eating our food and drinking our coffee and using our water. And yet, the look on his face when we told we had no coffee cream … was priceless.

—- Okay, so maybe it’s only funny to me. And maybe I should add CREAM to my grocery list for this week - I’ve invited C for leftovers from Thanksgiving dinner. We actually invited him for dinner, but he’s going to his parents. Where apparently, they have cream. And sugar that isn’t served out of the 5 lb bag. —-

Yesterday was the first time 24 heard “No” from his dad since he moved in. It’s going to be interesting to see how he reacts longterm. His immediate reaction was to leave the house for the rest of the evening. Pouty boy.

When 24 asked us if he could come live here, we knew it was going to be an adjustment for all of us. For the last 5 years, 24 had been living with roommates, not family. He’s used to more of a democracy than he has around here. We don’t believe in equal votes. We believe in a parent-ocracy. Mr. Hot and I run the house and although we weigh requests fairly (sometimes too leniently, we are the first to admit) we get to make the decision and hand down the verdict.

Like it or leave it. If you’re Shortman, like it or shut up. Because, even if you are 6 foot 3 and outweigh me by 70 lbs, I bring home the money, honey, which gives my vote about twenty-seven times the impact as yours.

I’m the first to admit that we should have sat down the day he moved in (before he unpacked his shit, y’know, to make it easier in case he decided to leave) and had a “TALK”.

We didn’t.

Why didn’t we?, you may ask.

Fair question.

Seventeen years of separation with a side order of guilt? Rose colored glasses? Fear of confrontation?

All of the fucking above?

Our bad.

Mr. Hot and I had this conversation last weekend coming home from grocery shopping:

The Hotfessional: I’m pissed off at myself because I don’t feel comfortable in my own house anymore.
Mr. Hot: You should be. It’s YOUR house.
The Hotfessional: I know. And actually, maybe it’s not so much that I don’t feel comfortable, but that I’m afraid that if I’m not on my best behavior all of the time, then he’ll get pissy.
Mr. Hot: So what if he gets pissy?
The Hotfessional: Honey, this is a guy that didn’t speak to you for a day because you reminded him about checking the water conditioner.
Mr. Hot: Yea, but I didn’t let it bother me. It’s his problem.
The Hotfessional: {sarcastic snort} It’s like the food stuff. I went down to get one of my Kashi frozen lunches out of the freezer the other day and it was gone, but I never, ever touch anything that he buys. I can’t believe you had the balls to drink that leftover margarita that was in the blender the other day.
Mr. Hot: I cleaned the fuckin’ blender. You bet I was drinking it. Did you notice he took the tequila down to his room?

Now, I know y’all are going to say, “Yea, Mr. Hot has it right. He lives with you, in your house. You can’t let him bug you. You set the rules.”

Some of you are going to think, “Geez. Last time she was bitching that he didn’t have a job, and now he’s working. Is she never happy?”

Let me stop you right there. I’ve had those conversations with myself already. So you’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. I stick my tongue out at you and then say, “Bite me.” (Except you, because I love you.)

I am happy he has a job. It’s better for his self-esteem. He can afford his organic shampoo and he can pay me for his cell phone bill. Yay, congratulations for 24! He’s an adult! At 24. Woo hoo. < /sarcasm >

A paycheck doesn’t make the adjustment any easier - for him or for us.

{Geez. Have we gotten off track from the original statement? Let’s try to get back there, eh?}

Not long after he moved in (in April), 24 mentioned that some friends were planning to come up from West-by-Gawd-Virginia. Mr. Hot said, “That’ll be nice, but understand they can’t stay here. We only have one shower. There’s no extra space for a bunch of people spending the night coming and going. AND, The Hotfessional works from home.”

Pretty freakin’ clear right? Glad they’re coming to visit, but we’re not running a motel.

So, last night we were sitting out on the front porch when 24 came out with that “I’m going to ask you something and I bet I get my way” look on his face.

(I’ve been a mom for nearly 17 years. I know that look, you little shit.)

Um, guys. My friends are coming up from Morgantown this week. They’re going to be here Thursday, Friday and Saturday. They’re going to get a hotel for those nights, but they were going to get here Wednesday night. Is it okay if they stay here one night? They won’t get here until 9 o’clock or so that night.

Mr. Hot looked at me.

“Oh, hell-to-the-no, you’re not laying this in my lap, my darling studmuffin. This is the fruit of your loins. You can tell him yes or you can tell him no, but I’m not opening my mouth.”

(All of this, of course, was communicated by that telepathy that is only possible after you’ve been together for-fuckin-ever and have had your share of NOT understanding the telepathy and survived to talk about it.)

He finally looked at 24,

No. I’m sorry, but we just don’t have the resources to have three more people in the house and getting ready to go out the next day. We have one bathroom. The Hotfessional has to work Thursday.

And, so, 24 said, “Okay”, and went back into the house.

Mr. Hot confessed to me he nearly said, “That’s fine”, but he came to his senses. (Good thinking, Mr. Hot. That’s why you got cookies last night.)

Twenty minutes later, he was in the car, pulling out of the driveway. No explanation of whether he’d be back or where he was going. I have heard him and Mr. Hot talking today, but I haven’t been around to gauge his mood.

I did remind Mr. Hot that we’re not going to be home this Saturday. Y’know, this Saturday when we’re going to be gone from 7 in the morning until late at night. Saturday when we’re driving to Ohio to see the races? Saturday when 24 agreed that he would be around to take care of making sure that Poopy the Puppy gets taken outside? Saturday when these three additional guys are still going to be here?

—- Mr. Hot claims there won’t be any issues. I’ll let you know. —-

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. —-

I’m home - and only slightly hung over! The really disgustingly greasy Egg McMuffin with Sausage, Hashbrown patty, and Sweet Tea breakfast that I had at 5:50 AM (yes, that would be early-fucking-morning), helped tremendously. As did the nap I took from the time we pulled away from the gate at O’Horror (on time….make note!) until the pilot bounced the plane on the runway in Detroit.

I was suitably mortified when the flight attendant asked me if I had a nice sleep as she said, “Buh-Bye”. Did I snore? Oh mah holy hell, I bet I did. I really need to start including some, oh, food in my day when I have these “events” to attend. Dinner at the retirement party last night was 1 meatball, 2 carrot sticks, a piece of bruschetta, and a cauliflower thingie. And although I managed to make sure that I went three days(!) without having a dinner expense to report, (thanks again, Bossy and SK), I’m sure my liver is wondering when the hell I’m going to be normal again. (That would be tonight!)

So, 24 is moved in. He originally said, “I have my clothes and a desk.” Then it was, “I have my clothes, a desk, and a bookcase.” Then! “I have two bookcases.” (In addition to his clothes and the desk.) I’m guessing that the basement is a little, um, crowded with piles of OUR stuff in front of the washer and dryer. I’m guessing that because Mr. Hot said, “Don’t think I’ll be able to wash any clothes until I rent a U-Haul and make him move his own ass out - good thing you work from home - we’ll all smell like butt.”

My darling husband was thrilled to see me walk in the door this morning. I have no idea why, as it’s not like I’m going to say something about it all when he’s already up here, unpacked, set up, and sprawled all over my couch looking for a job. Oh, did I mention? That job that he was transferring to? Um, apparently not available. Or some such shit.

Did I mention that this kid is moodier than a 15-year-old girl? I think I may change his alias. (Moody. I think it suits.)

Aaaaannnnywayyyy. Mr. Hot was happy to see me (and not because he thought he was getting cookies, because, uh-huh, not tonight dear, I’ve been up since 4 a.m.). I think having another “real adult” in the house calmed him down. Either that, or he figured I was using this alcohol-filled business trip as an opportunity to maybe, oh, suffer from amnesia or something and leave him with his two clones sons - and now he’s going to lock me in the bathroom and never, ever let me leave the house without him again.

(I may have to come up with a secret code - and if I blog that code? You must.come.rescue.me!)

So, can you stand yet another stupid employee story? I was in the grocery store this evening and my Crackberry started buzzing. I read the message - from the Human Resources Dept.

Hotfessional,

I received a call from Sillygirl. Sillygirl received her severance information package and determined that the calculations were based on her pre-2008 salary. I know that Sillygirl was out on Short Term Disability, but did you notify us to flip the switch on her merit increase on January 1 when she returned?

Sincerely,
HRLady

I responded:

HRLady,

When Sillygirl returned from Short Term Disability, I asked HRGuy if there was anything I needed to do to make sure her merit increase got processed. He said that as long as her supervisor sent in form 230STDReturn, her compensation would be adjusted. I know that Sillygirl’s supervisor sent that form in.

My question is, since she returned on January 2nd, and those raises were effective January 1st, why didn’t she notify us that her increase wasn’t appearing on her paychecks?

I’ll find the email from HRGuy as soon as I get home - and I’ll also send you the approval for Sillygirl’s increase.

Regards,
Hotfessional

Got that y’all?

Our merit increases are effective annually on January 1st. This woman came back from disability on January 2nd. The policy states that if you’re not “actively employed” on the first of the year, your increase is not effective until you return to work. But, when you return to work, it gets paid retroactively…blah, blah, blah.

I know - you’re looking around the room and wondering if I’m going to bother to get to any point. But stay with me here for a minute, eh?

We get paid on the 15th and last day of the month.

January 15th. January 31st. February 15th. February 29th. March 15th. March 31st. April 15th.

Seven-fucking-payrolls.

And she never told anyone that her increase didn’t get processed.

I understand that her take-home pay could have changed at the beginning of the year. I mean - taxes change. Benefits co-pays may be different. But, y’all? Please tell me that I’m not anal-retentive weird a nutcase alone in that I would have checked my damn paycheck with a fine-toothed comb if I was told I was getting an increase AND told that I’d get paid retroactively back to the effective date.

Anyone?

Should I get fitted for a white coat with really long sleeves and a self-tie belt, or would you, maybe? just possibly? notice that your gross-semi-monthly-salary hadn’t increased?

—- I bet they’d wash my pretty white coat at the hospital though. —-