I honestly don’t know which of these is the most painful:

• Sitting through a meeting rehashing something that you thought was agreed to months ago and then finding out, an hour into the meeting, that the other person didn’t understand the difference between “A” and “B”, and so now DOESN’T agree to anything. At all.
• Slamming your hand in the car door.
• Running out of vodka.
• An hour-long workout after taking two months off.

Can you guess which one of those four things I HAVEN’T faced today. No, seriously, y’all. There’s four very painful things up there. Guess which one hasn’t happened!

{{waiting}} {{waiting}} {{waiting}} {{waiting}} {{waiting}}

Okay! Who guessed that the Hotfessional has NOT slammed her hand in a car door?

ding ding ding ding ding!

You win.

Everything else? Yes.

Fuck a duck y’all.

I’ve been working with a team made up of process experts (kill.me.now.) since March. I “own” a document that covers this process from beginning to end - meaning I have to add/delete/change/spindle/mutilate the flowchart (remember those?) whenever someone from the team figures out that “X won’t work” or “Z can’t happen.”

This process is supposed to be completed/frozen/communicated/blessed/approved on Friday. I’ve spent the last three business days not reading blogs/not writing blogs/not twittering/not IM’ing/not spying on my neighbors, but working my ass off to get this thing finished. And I was almost there. I was soooooo close. I was moaning saying, “Yes! Yes! Yes! Don’t stop!”

And then, today, someone essentially said, “Five doesn’t equal five. Five really equals ten.” (Kinda like running out of batteries midstream having your three year old catch you in the act.)

And the rest of us were all, “Huh? But five DOES equal five. Five doesn’t equal ten. Five equaled five in April. And in May, and in June. What’s so fuckin’ different about July? Huh?”

So now, I have to change that mutha-effin’ document again - or jump out the window.

Which won’t kill me because I’m only on the second floor. That is, if I could open the window with the pain in my arms from the forty-twelve curls I did. Or if I could raise my leg high enough to get out onto the ledge after the seventy-eleven squats and lunges.

I can barely squat down to sit on the freakin’ toilet to, ehem, relieve myself. Which means I can’t drink beer or wine, because they make me have to pee. Every 10 minutes.

And I’m outta vodka.

—- Sigh. —-

I have not been this emotionally wrung out and on the verge of sobbing uncontrollably since I was a thirteen year old girl who hated her nose, her parents, her brother and sister and her life.

It would be very easy to blame this on pre-menopausal hormones. It would be even easier to blame this on all of the changes I’ve gone through over the past three months. And both of those excuses very good reasons are true. But having someone to talk to and listen; listen to what I’m SAYING…not the words, but the feelings behind them would go so much further than being told that I’m the problem.

So that when I say, “I don’t feel comfortable in my own house anymore.” Instead of trying to pacify me with “That’s stupid.”, why not HEAR me and ask me, “Is there anything I can do?” Or better yet, say, “I understand.” Even if you don’t right then. But then THINK about what I’ve said and remember your psychology classes. Remember when I said, “I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed by life right now”? That could have been a tip-off.

Maybe if you did that, I wouldn’t be sitting here crying right now and turning my head when you walk by so you won’t see me.

Maybe then I could tell you that I’m scared that my hair won’t grow back. That I’ll be forever wearing scarves and be afraid of unexpected visitors or having to meet strangers who ask if I’m covering my head for religious reasons or worse, because I have cancer.

I could tell you that I’m scared that I won’t find a job that I like when I lose this one in November. Or that I won’t find one at all. That I’m scared enough that I won’t be able to support the two people that I have been supporting for the past eleven years without adding another to the mix. Another whose contribution to this household has consisted of nothing more than something else to worry about.

Maybe I could tell you that it bothers me that you scream at our son for the smallest transgression, but that when 24 “forgets” AGAIN to check the water softener, you fill it up and never mention it to him.

I could tell you that instead of groping my tits or ass when I walk by, you’d get so much further if you offered to put lotion on my back or took me to dinner. Alone. Without me having to suggest it.

Maybe I could tell you that yelling when I don’t remember a rant you made two weeks ago about some political figure only makes me feel like you think I’m stupid, it doesn’t make me want to go read every article ever written on the topic. Although I’d really like to have an intelligent political conversation with you, because I think you’d be surprised at my opinion on things that are going on in the world.

I could tell you I’m not criticizing your ability to keep the house clean when I sweep the kitchen floor or MOVE the furniture to vacuum, it’s just that I do things differently and notice when there’s dust under the cedar chest. I could tell you I don’t MIND doing it, even if you just did it three days ago - because, y’know, I don’t cut an acre of grass every week in addition to cooking and cleaning and laundry and we have a dog and two cats and 4 people in this house.

Then you wouldn’t walk in here and find me in tears because you said that I’m not being myself and everyone notices that I’m walking on eggshells. That I’m “killing us” because I don’t say what’s on my mind.

Because if I could explain all of that to you, then we could laugh about the fact that my cheeks are wet and we’re out of tissues because those hormones went apeshit again just when I heard that song on the radio. We could celebrate my going out to get the mail without putting on a baseball cap in case someone drives by. We could smile and laugh when 24 brings his friends over for tacos instead of my wondering, “Am I being normal now? How about now?”

But, no, because you wouldn’t stop and think about what I said the day I told you that I was feeling overwhelmed by life, I am sitting up here crying again, and you’re down there banging things around to get ready to feed the masses. Or maybe I’m sitting here crying because you did think about it and just didn’t care.

—- I wasn’t going to post this, except my friend Candy sent me an email, “What good is having a blog if you can’t blog about it :)”. And since she needs to know what she’s getting into when we get married, I know she is exactly right, I did. Thanks sweetie. XX —-

Yesterday, Scott Kalitta, a Mount Clemens, Michigan native died in a qualifying crash in New Jersey.

Image courtesy of Detroit Free Press

The Hotfessional family’s sympathy goes out to Scott’s wife, Kathy, his sons Corey and Colin, and the Kalitta Motorsports team.

—- Kalitta Motorsports is our local team. Their headquarters is no more than 5 miles down the road. As drag racing fans, we know that these guys put their lives on the line every time they go down the track - for the love of speed and sport. Be safe y’all. —-

And on the 30th day working from home, I seriously considered bringing a bottle of wine upstairs to have during my lunch. Because, y’all? it’s been one of those days. The kind where everyone’s brains have been sucked out of their heads by some giant, invisible, ant-eater-type being that passes through the highways and byways of Corporate America with a vacuum attachment it sticks up employees’ noses. It turns on the motor and tttttthhhhppppppppttttttt - people who usually have some bit of intelligence are no longer functional human beings.

Therefore, I see no reason why I can’t suck down a 1/2 liter of my favorite Merlot with my hotdog. It would have saved me from beating my head against the wall when:

• I had a conversation with a vendor this morning and he wanted to know WHY I needed to know how many of his contractors were working for me. (Um, because I pay the bill?)
• I watched an overnight delivery van pull up to MY house with Sillygirl’s new package (the fourth try; and also wrong, by the way) instead of delivering it to HER house. Which is 70 miles away. Which would cost $77 in mileage for me to hand deliver. (Expense budget? Apparently not.)
• I found out that a new software implementation happened three months early (“We didn’t think it would be any big deal”, said the project manager) and caused some of our customer-facing systems to crash and burn.
• I got a phone call because someone issued duplicate login IDs for five people - four of which were unable to work for the rest of the day because only the first one logged in can use that ID.

When you think about it, I could have a headache from the head::wall thing, or a headache from the mouth::merlot thing. Seems to me that the mouth::merlot at least makes getting to the headache a bit more fun. (snort. snirk.)

Actually, though, not everything was bad today. Mr. Hot surprised me with a new 8 GB MP3 player that he got for a bargain basement price (A sansa e280 - pretty and shiny new) - and I’ve been loading music to it. Shortman can have my Samsung - it doesn’t hold as much, but hopefully, it won’t suffer the same fate as my IPod.

And! I get to tell you about my new commenters for the month of April! So go! Spread some love and see some new sites.

Old Knudsey - All the news that is too unreal to pass up.
Fiddy P - CommentLuv-er Extraordinaire
Frogdancer - She has a cat named Daphne and an awesome hairstyle!
Magpie - Uses “ephemera”in her tagline, yet claims her head is full of lint.
Ya Ya’s Mom - 3rd grade teacher who can quote the Wiki definition of flatulence.
Coast Rat - My new ‘down south’ boyfriend - with a Midwestern heart of gold y’all.
She Who Goes Gracefully - Another Kohl’s whore and a fellow Type A personality - they must go together.
Coastal Nest - Remodeling at the beach and elsewhere.
Snappy - Smart-talkin’ southern girl happy to explain Sweet Tea and grits.
OverThinker - Worrying IS an art, and we share a coveted place at the Louvre.
Angelawd - Mother of Teens and former Michiganian…with her own freelance writing company.
Arwyn Skye - Ivy’s best friend - trying to keep control when others are trying to steal it.
Battling Chaos - She calls her teenagers “The Recliner” and “Banshee Girl”. Her pets have normal names though.
Kate - South Dakota is freakin’ cold, but she’s got fuzzy slippers to help her through her recovery.
Quin - New Orleans outlook transplanted to NYC tells you about her version of life.
Kathy - The Attention Craving American Sweetheart - Because she says so!
Charles Jeter - Derek’s techie-expert 2nd cousin who gives excellent blogging advice.
Sensitiva McFeelingsly - A new road warrior blogger; someone to share stories with!
Charlotte - A rocket scientist (really!) with a bun in the oven.
The Bloggess - How can you not love someone who has posts titled “Free Booze” and “High”. Where has she been all my life?
Lina the Fish - She’s traveled to more countries than I have states. She’s another green-eyed girl.

—- Oh, and if you go visit Grateful Guy, tell him that the Hotfessional sent you! —-

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. —-

As a (ehem) writer, typer, blogger, hell, I’m writing, so I’m saying writer, I can use this forum to bitch and moan. I can use it to educate. I can use it to reflect on my future and my past. I can make people laugh, and possibly, cry (although that’s probably just pain).

But I feel that one of the things that I must do, in order to be the kind of person I want to be, is Do Good. I have an audience (Hi - all 12 of you). I can be an advocate.

And so, on my sidebar over there, you’ll see “Hot’s Mind and Heart” - it’s important stuff. Today, I’m adding Team Renee to the mix. I hate having to add these things, but if it helps, even a little bit, I feel like I can say that I’ve done some good. And then I get a warm, fuzzy feeling.

From Cheri, “Renee is a 39-year-old wife and mother who has been diagnosed with lung cancer - mestastisized throughout her body.”

—- Check out what Renee’s friends are doing for her and help us all spread the word. —-

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. —-