So, y’all? Someone needs to just come shoot me.

Today, I got to go deliver some stuff to employees who used to be my staff, but y’know, because of the changes around here, aren’t anymore.

I sat at a diner with two of them this morning, and drank about 17 cups of coffee. It went fine. I really liked these guys.

Then I drove out to my old stomping grounds (where I moved FROM 2 years ago to take my now-defunct job) to see two more. When I got in the car, after a few too many last minute phone calls, I was running about 20 minutes late. (So much for my plans to go through McDonald’s or Wendy’s for lunch.) At 1 minute past our appointment time, I pulled into the parking lot and saw the guy I was meeting walking away from the front door. I pulled together all of the paperwork, and yelled across the parking lot to him.

I told him I’d pick up the tab if he wanted to order something, because I was famished. We both had a Coke and Potstickers (Chinese steamed dumplings). I know. They don’t go together. I needed sugar and sustenance, but I also had a long-ass drive home. I didn’t want to get too full or have to pee (if I’d have had the tea that I wanted to go with the Potstickers).

This guy was the one I laid off twice. He’s itching to find a way to make this a BIG DEAL. And we gave him the appropriate fodder. One of the kazillion documents in this packet of information was wrong. About 31 days worth of pay wrong. I had checked and double-checked and freakin’ quadruple checked….and yet, there it was, in black and white. W-R-O-N-G.

So, while he ate (and I tried not to drool over my own lunch) - I was trying to get in touch with the Human Resources rep. I called two ex-bosses to get her number. I left her a voicemail and paged her. I called her second-in-command.

Finally, my phone rang, and I explained the situation (y’know, it’s kinda hard to rat out the HR department when you’re sitting in front of the one guy who will be an ass about the entire situation….because, FODDER!). Miss HR told me what needed to be done and so I did it.

The next appointment’s documents were incorrect, also, but only screwed up by a week. I explained the situation, and figured I was safe. For now.

I sat in the parking lot and tried to call my ex-boss (from when these people reported to me) so I could give him the news. Left him a voicemail and hit the road.

About the time I hit the scariest fuckin’ merge from one highway to another in the entire state (Marie Millard? Confirm this. I-696 Westbound onto I-275 Southbound) - something beeped. AND my phone rang. I ignored the phone, and looked at my dashboard. GAS. Hello!!! Mr. Hot had driven back from W-by-gawd-V the day before, and I turned around for a 150 mile drive without checking the gas? Fuck-a-duck. And the horse he rode in on.

I knew I was only about 7 miles from the next interchange - a much calmer interchange - so I drove on. This car is supposed to get 27 mile/gallon on the highway. The gauge wasn’t even in the red yet!

la-dee-da. Ignorance is indeed, bliss.

As I was getting off the first exit ramp that had one of those nifty (yes, I say nifty, shush) “Gas 0.1 miles” signs, my phone rang again. I had my headset on (ONLY handsfree phone calls in the car for me, and only on country roads, so shush again!) so I answered. “Hotfessional!”, says I.

It was Mr. ex-Boss. I explained the situation, just as I was getting to the gas station. Which looked, um, non-functional. WTF? There’s construction cones (Michigan’s state tree) blocking each driveway. “Fuck.”, I say. “What?”, say x-b. “Gas station closed. “, says me.

I turn around and head back towards the highway. The west-bound entrance ramp I need is, um, torn to shreds.

I pulled into a parking lot to finish my conversation (responsible! motorist!), but I’m afraid to turn the car off, because, y’know, as a child of the seventies and the gas crisis, I’m sure it won’t start again. And I’ll be trapped in the FedEx parking lot at the Sheldon Road exit off of M-14. Forever. They can just overnight my body home.

After we hang up, I head to the OTHER on-ramp for westbound M-14. I figured I’m still good (27 mpg y’all!) - I’ll just catch gas at the next exit.

Yay! The Beck Road exit has gas (0.2 miles!). I pull in, full of hope. Gas!

(Do you hear the gods laughing hysterically?)

There are fluttery pieces of paper attached to the pumps. “Power Otage. Back 1 hr.” (No, that’s not a typo, that’s what the fucking sign said.)

Y’all? The little hand thingie? On the gas gauge? Is now in.the.red.zone. I call Mr. Hot as I get BACK ON the highway.

I can’t even bear to type what that conversation was like. Just assume that at some point, “Well, good luck with that!” was uttered by someone. (Hint. The someone? Not me.)

The next exit has no “Gas (0.XXX) miles.” And it looks like farmland. My car doesn’t run on horse shit. Damn.

Now, I’m using the semi in front of me as a drafting partner. I have my front end pretty much up his butt to cut down wind resistance. I learned something from years of being trapped in front of endless car races a wife to a Nascar fan.

I keep going.

Ford Road! I know this area. MomandDad live south of Ford Road! At least I can call and say, “Dad….I need gas.”

I turn East onto Ford Road, because that’s the way to MomandDad’s.

Fucking stop lights. And school busses. I’m checking out the cross roads so I can explain exactly where to find my sad carcass. Finally! Civilization is ahead. I see traffic lights. And a gas station! Oh Halle-effin-lujuah! $51 and 15 gallons later, I was back on the road again. Back to the arms of my loved ones.

I just checked the Dodge website. The 2008 Avenger has a 16.9 gallon gas tank. I put in a measly 15 gallons.

—- I SO could have made it home. —-

in a long, long time. And then there was last night.

That conference that I mentioned here started Tuesday night with a reception. So, I went to the hotel after spending a full day at the office (I did the responsible thing and worked from another desk - and I still don’t know whether they ever got my workspace reconnected.), I logged in and checked some email and then headed down to the registration desk.

I had a couple of glasses of wine, some appetizers, and called it an early night. I’d been up and moving for about 19 hours at this point. I was exhausted and breakfast the next morning was at 6:30. No, unfortunately, that was not a typo. Six-thirty.

My cute shoes that were so comfortable the day before when I put them on, made my feet cry when I put them BACK on that morning. But, a good Hotfessional perseveres, and I am nothing if not a good Hotfessional.

A full day of speakers from the ginormous company that bought me and my corporate family followed. Senior executives that have already told me and mine that we will only be working with them a few months. However! Good Hotfessional (see above) that I am, I knew this was an excellent opportunity to network and champion myself and my team.

So, I focused and asked pertinent (not impertinent!) and probing questions. I participated in the activities and made sure that I engaged appropriately.

When cocktail hour started at 5:30 (eleven hours after I put the fucking shoes on) - I should have heard “warning, warning, warning” reverberating through my head. I actually heard “vodka, vodka, vodka” blaring. The bars were set up outside the room where we were going to have dinner. I met up with a couple of friends who were also attending, and went to see the cute little bartender. (Little = “short, tiny” Cute = “75 years old with an accent”) The cute little bartender was VERY liberal with the vodka. Since they didn’t have lemonade, I had my second favorite - cranberry juice.

I had been talking all day, so was a bit parched. I finished my first drink, and was having a second when we got the call to be seated. Since I don’t eat red meat, I had to wait for the chef to fly to the Northwest and catch, kill, and prepare my salmon. While everyone else was eating their filet mignon, I was sipping my white wine. When the after-dinner activities started mere minutes after the arrival of my food, I was on my third glass. And since I’m a good Hotfessional (see above), I didn’t complain when the waitress plucked my 1/2 eaten meal out from under my chin.

When the fun and games were done, we adjourned to the hallway bars again. I had a little chat with my cute little bartender. He was even more generous with the vodka. Maybe he wanted to get rid of it before last call.

Someone (no, not me) suggested going down to the “regular bar” to finish our scintillating conversations. At that point, I’m sure I was channeling Kristabella. So, of course I went. It’s a good thing the “regular bar” wasn’t trying to empty the entire bottle of vodka down my throat, because by the time I made it back to my room (at 1 a.m.), I was sure that I had had enough cranberry juice to ensure that I will never have a Urinary Tract Infection for the rest.of.my.life.

When my alarm went off a mere 4 hours later (just kill me), and I stretched my legs out, my left calf knotted up into one of those cramps that make you sure that pulling your lower lip up over your head hurts less. For those other guests on the 23rd floor? Please accept my apologies. It wasn’t a screaming banshee that you heard. It was me. As I tried to straighten my leg enough to stand up.

I made it to the shower - considered getting into a fetal position in the tub and just letting the water drown me - and got dressed for another 6:30 breakfast. I turned on the news. This is the story I heard. My flight was included in the 900 cancellations for today. I am sitting at O’Horror writing this with a confirmed replacement flight though, so, that is good. Because otherwise, I’d be emailing Poppy to see if I could sleep at her house tonight.

—- And yes, I actually did NOT post yesterday. But, I was awake for 20 hours, two days in a row. That should count for something. Blog365 be damned. —-

(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. —-

(I promise I won’t subject you to this daily. Just my way of keeping track.)

Well, it’s 3:54 and I’ve only wanted to kill my family seventeen times once. I’ve discovered:

• Poopy the Puppy cannot figure out why Mom is home.
• The cats are shedding. And they like to sit on my desk. And did I mention they’re shedding? I feel like I’ve been lickin, um, a kitten. I’ll be harfing hairballs by the end of the week.
• It’s really great having an entire kitchen to explore for lunch instead of dealing with a cafeteria lady that fights with me over a fucking teaspoon of peanut butter.
• Mr. Hot talks to himself while he scrubs the bathroom. (Yes, he scrubs the bathroom. He is a gawd. I’m going to make him wear an apron after Spring Break is over and Shortman goes back to school.)
• It’s nice to not have the admin who can’t spell my name come in to talk about her daughter, but….oh, who am I kidding, there’s no but. It’s nice!
• Spending 2 hours trying to hook up a printer to your laptop that has no ink in it sucks. donkey. balls.
• The little girl cat can scale the shelves in the closet and go to sleep on the clean piles of sheets - which can scare the shit out of you when you don’t know she’s there but you see eyes glowing above your head.

—- And getting the office ready effectively killed my chances to write my New Commenters for the Month of March AND my March Hotlight posts. They’ll be out later this week. —-

Snow again last night,
The sun is shining today -
Hope comes with blue sky.

After work yesterday - having beer and burgers with my team for the last time. And yes, that’s me, for all of you who have wondered. I knew I had to mark my unveiling with a momentous occasion.

—- They’re a great group, and they’re my friends. —-

Gosh and Golly Gee. Wasn’t that mean? I’m not generally a violence-unto-others type of person (I may rant at stupidity, but I rarely never fantasize about bodily harm), but oh mah holy hell y’all. I had a knot the size of a softball between my shoulder blades when I walked out of here yesterday.  I may have also ground my teeth down to the gums.

I know! Stress much?

Nothing that vodka/limeade, soft food, and a nice shoulder rub from Mr. Hot couldn’t cure, though. (Well, that and the fact that I only have one.more.day. to deal with it. One.More.Day. Ohhhhhhhm.)

Which brings me to today’s subject. Major Bedhead tagged me for The Six-Words Meme. Y’all have seen this right? Originally started by Smith Magazine - the history being:

Legend has it that Hemingway was once challenged to write a story in only six words. His response? “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” Last year, SMITH Magazine re-ignited the recountre by asking our readers for their own six-word memoirs. They sent in short life stories in droves, from the bittersweet (“Cursed with cancer, blessed with friends”) and poignant (“I still make coffee for two”) to the inspirational (“Business school? Bah! Pop music? Hurrah”) and hilarious (“I like big butts, can’t lie”).

Here are the rules:

1) Write your own six word memoir;
2) Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you’d like;
3) Link to the person that tagged you in your post, and to the original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere;
4) Tag at least five more blogs with links; and
5) Don’t forget to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play

And my memoir?

Classic Type A attempting to B.

I’m going to tag:

Michael, Meghan, Jennifer @ The Cubicle’s Backporch, Sarah O and Ali.

—- And yes, tomorrow is my last day in this office. After that, I will be working from home with these on my feet and cats in my lap. One step closer to calm and serene. —-

moar funny pictures

I’m going to send this out to the following people:

• The employee that I’ve laid off twice. Both times he’s been instructed that terms of his severance package are completely confidential and should not be discussed with anyone. He then goes to several people to tell them exactly what his severance package entails and what the law says about notification to employees. Apparently he has no fuckin’ brain -or- he’s trying to piss me off. (I’m guessing piss me off)
• The project manager who takes up 20 minutes of my time at 5 p.m. on Friday to discuss several issues. When I hang up, after answering his questions, I believe that we’ve resolved all of the problems. No emails come in from him on Saturday, Sunday, Monday or Tuesday. This morning, I discover that he called my employee last night to ask him the same damn questions. Apparently, he has no fuckin’ brain -or- he’s trying to piss me off. (I’m guessing no fuckin’ brain.)

—- I want to scratch their eyes out. But the first guy? I want to rip his balls off and shove them down his throat as well. Because he’s even more stupid for trying to piss me off. —-