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The Hotfessional Is…

The entertaining and friendly type. They are especially attuned to pleasure and beauty and like to fill their surroundings with soft fabrics, bright colors and sweet smells. They live in the present moment and don’t like to plan ahead - they are always in risk of exhausting themselves.

They enjoy work that makes them able to help other people in a concrete and visible way. They tend to avoid conflicts and rarely initiate confrontation - qualities that can make it hard for them in management positions.

Hahahahahahaha. Y’all. I just like the fact that she’s up against the bar, drink in her hand, and hot boots on her feet!

—- I’ve spent a bunch of time on the phone with customer service people (no NOT computer issues again, thank goodness). And my brain died at least five thousand tiny deaths with the waiting. —-

I am directionally challenged. I can never tell if I’m going north or south - and I am liable to pee my pants get a bit scared driving around in unknown areas. One way streets (WHAT?!? I’m only going one way!) cause anxiety attacks. Students wearing all black after dark, crossing against the ‘WALK/DON’T WALK’ rules recommendations scare me into a top speed of 3.4 mph. Add all of that to my, um, inability to read signs in the dark, and it makes venturing out to downtown Ann Arbor an adventure.

But dinner (and beer) called. So I MapQuested and GoogleMapped and Mapblasted the directions from my house to Grizzly Peaks Brewery - I kissed Mr. Hot good night (in case I didn’t make it back, oh mah holy hell) and made my way to meet up with Nancy and MommyTime. Y’all? It was 8.15 miles away. (Shush. Driving anxiety SHOULD have a national research foundation funded. We NEED a cure. And a ribbon color.)

Annnywayyyy, I dropped breadcrumbs out the window the entire way memorized the directions, swung by the ATM, and made it to the parking lot with 9 minutes to spare. The parking lot with the FULL sign on it - and four cars waiting to pull in. As I sat pondering whether to go look for another lot or stay put and see if 5 cars left - I noticed the car in front of me. It was Nancy. Ha! Well, she wasn’t going anyplace since I pretty much had the hood of my car in her ass (her car’s ass…geez). The window rolled down and she yelled back at me - “I just tried calling you - but the number I have is disconnected!” (Actually, she had typed the number into her phone wrong…but she IS blond, so I cut her some slack. Snort.)

The gate went up, we parked, and went into the restaurant.

• The first room was full of smoke, so we didn’t sit there.
• The second room had no open tables, so we kept moving.
• The third room (oh mah holy hell, where the hell are we? Goldilocks land?) was full, too.
• Finally, in the fourth room, we found a table WAY back by the bathrooms and plopped down.

I realized that Mommytime and Zoe wouldn’t know where we were, so I went to see if there was a bartender or someone that would direct them to us when they got there. I made my way back to room #2, and found, oooooops, a hostess. Handing out vibrators those buzzy things that shake after you WAIT for a table.

(Y’know, when you don’t just saunter through the restaurant sashaying your way to the ONLY open table in the place. A table that was obviously meant to seat six, not four. Ehem.)

That didn’t stop me though (Puh-leeze. Don’t pretend you’re surprised). I asked the hostess to please let Zoe and Mommytime know that Ree and Nancy were in the furthest room back in the back. She gave me a strange look, but wrote down “Ree/Nancy” and “Zoe/MommyTime” (okay, she didn’t really write MommyTime…y’know…), I have to admit I felt a small wave of guilt when I saw the people huddling in the tiny hallway or standing outside in the frigid wind, but I wanted beer since no one actually stopped us on our trek through 4 rooms, I figured the line started after we already sat down. (Mr. Hot claims I can rationalize anything. I tell him it’s a talent.)

—- It was another lovely night - lots of laughter and stories. Delicious Steelhead Red - “Malty and smooth with a caramel bouquet and distinctive finish.” Poor Zoe had to stay with a sick child, so she didn’t make it (We missed you Zoe!). And I scored a roommate for 2009 BlogHer. —-

…with her and her and her, so I can’t do my usual late-evening posting tonight. Thank goodness JessaLogic at DaysGoBy tagged me for a meme.

It’s the picture meme, and here are the rules:

* Go to your Sixth Picture Folder then pick your Sixth Picture.
* Pray that you remember the details.
* Tag 5 others.

I don’t have picture folders on this computer because I mostly store my pics on Flickr now, but back in the day, I used Photoworks for processing that film stuff that we used to have to use - so I’ll go there and grab something from the Hotfessional archives.

#45 - a.k.a. Shortman

When Shortman was first old enough to talk, he decided he wanted to play football. Every year, he’d BEG to play football. He played soccer from the time he turned 4. He played baseball from 5 on. But football Mom! was what he wanted more than anything.

Our Youth team (The Royal Oak Chiefs) didn’t allow you to play until you were 8 - so as soon as he hit the age limit (right before 4th grade), he committed to football. He decided to not play Fall soccer; Mr. Hot gave up the team he’d coached for the previous 4 years, and we became football parents.

Shortman, however, discovered he was a lover, not a fighter. He didn’t want to hurt anyone - so he wasn’t a great tackler. He didn’t want to go to two practices/day (it cut into cartoon time), so he didn’t become a running back or a wide receiver. He ended up second string Right Tackle. Not a glamour position by any means, but he was out there from 3:30 - 6 Tuesday through Saturday. They played on Sundays - the only day off was Monday. He may not have been disciplined enough to want Two-a-Days as part of his life, but he did become a more disciplined and respectful young man. He understood that he committed to a team and a season - and he never once complained.

It was the only year he played football - he went back to soccer in the Spring when he was named to the premier team as goalkeeper. But the Royal Oak Chiefs freshman team (9-10 year olds) went to the league Super Bowl in 2000. And that picture up there of #45 shows reminds me of the little boy who just wanted to put on pads and play.

Now, I’ll tag those three women up there - Nancy, MommyTime and Zoe. PLUS - blackbird and LemonySarah.

—- It was about 15 degrees out for that game - mid November - so I guess that makes it 8 years ago this week. They lost to the Troy Cowboys 20-7 but Shortman recovered a fumble. —-

Day two of my “sabbatical” (my euphemistic term for being unemployed), I took Mr. Hot to see Quantum of Solace. I figured while he watched the movie, I could drool over Daniel Craig. Plus, it’s cheap matinee day at our local theater - IF you count $6 each as cheap. We did manage to eat lunch before we went, so no popcorn (for him) or Hot Tamales (for me) made it relatively inexpensive.

(It was action packed, of course, but WTF? Only one scene with a shirtless Craig? That was disappointing.)

Annnywayyyyy, I didn’t tell you how the world pretty much said “Fuck You” to me last Friday, did I? Y’know, my last day at work (I promise I won’t make blog into a depressing unemployment diary…yet. I still have a few months - I think - before I get to that point) after sixteen years of superior-type service?

First, I sent my contact information to the process group that wanted me to come back and work as a contractor. Yep. The Process from Hell process group still needs my help but they didn’t want me to stick around as an employee - they just wanted to pay me as a contractor WHILE I was collecting my severance pay. Yea, mmmm, okay. Pay me twice. Get me all freakin’ excited about getting paid twice. They called me to tell me the budget they had for contractors got cut. To $0.

STRIKE 1.

Second, I got a call from the Human Resources recruiter that was handling the position I applied for. The position that was essentially MY job description for the past 5 years. And that I kinda wanted to get. No go. The hiring manager decided that she really didn’t want someone that lived in Michigan - even though I went through three separate interviews during the process and my ability to work remotely (and manage staff remotely) was extolled with great enthusiasm (or is that redundant?) by everyone I spoke with.

STEE-RIKE 2.

Third, I sent my contact information to the person I can’t stand - because…oh hell, I don’t know. I sent it to a bunch of people and she ended up on the list. She called me to offer to pass around my resume and to let me know, “If you see anything on the job site that you’re interested in, please give me a call and I’ll find out whatever I can for you.” (Which was her way of telling me that she got a job with the company…and didn’t that just make me want to puke green chunky vomit all over?)

STRIKE 3.

Then! With 30 minutes left to the end of the day (Dudes. The end of The Day (Now, with caps!)), I got a call from the Outplacement Center that, as part of our severance package, we get access to. Access as in: an office, a phone, a ‘career counselor’ that helps with your resume, passwords to proprietary and double-secret job sites. The deal is that you sign up within 60 days, and then, depending on the title you had when you were laid off, you get a certain # of months of the service. Well, I was a Vice President. The last time I laid off VPs, they got 6 months of service. I was notified that during the sale of the company, the contract was changed. Now, VPs only get 3 months. Have you ever tried to find a job between Thanksgiving and, say, January 15th? Can you say “fucked?”

AND, STEE-RIKE 4.

You’re out! Buh-bye! Thanks. Buh-bye! Don’t let the door hit your cute ass on the way out.

Now, if you comment and tell me that I’ll find something and that I’m great and the right opportunity will come along - I’ll have to bitch-slap you. From afar, maybe, but I will do it. I SO will. Because all of that was just my way of saying that I am pretty damn glad to be on sabbatical - and that I realized it on Friday afternoon around 4:45 p.m.

I have plans, yo. Plans to make some baby gifts for friends. Plans to read books I’ve missed and to see movies with my husband. Plans to research what to plant in the gardens. Plans to get back to exercising regularly - because, let’s face it, saying “It’s too cold” at 6 a.m. was a great excuse to stop running for the past month. I’ve got plans to learn (relearn) how to design websites. And I’m planning my plans for BlogHer next year. Yes, I KNOW it’s a long time away, but I’m making a list of everyone that I’m going to accost try to meet.

—- Now watch. With all those damn plans, someone is going to come through with a job and screw it all up. —-

I’m not going to be able to get out of bed tomorrow. We moved 8 LARGE piles of leaves to the garden beds for the winter. Wet leaves - did I mention that? Raked them onto tarps, dragged the tarps to the garden, dumped them, and then re-raked them to a uniform depth.

THREE hours later, we only have 3/4 of an acre worth left to do. And no more garden space - so these will be bagged. Once they’re not wet and weigh 17 tons, that is. Although if they don’t dry by next Monday - the official “last leaf pickup of the year” - I see Mr. Hot us lifting all 34,000 pounds, filling those paper “yard waste” bags, and dragging them to the curb.

~~~~~Flashback~~~~~~

I was dating Practice, although I wasn’t supposed to be because my parents had banned me from seeing him. It was Autumn 1983 and a friend of ours from MSU had graduated. Before she moved to Boston, we decided to have a final blowout at this local bar with cheap, cheap drinks (and, ergo, cheap, cheap alcohol). Rum and Coke was my poison of choice that night. In these skinny glasses that probably fit 6 ounces of liquid.

Which meant I drank about 18 of those suckers. Oh mah holy hell, y’all.

I DROVE home that night - certainly in the top 5 “Most Stupidest Things” I’ve done in my entire life. I crawled upstairs to my bed and passed out. I remember waking up multiple times to puke into the plastic lined trash can next to my bed. (What I don’t remember is ever cleaning that thing out, but the next morning, it was empty. Did I dream the heaving? Maybe. It sure didn’t help the way I felt.)

The worst thing, though, about the morning after? My mother coming into my room at 8 a.m., yelling at me to get my ass out of bed, and go outside to help The Golden Child. Rake and pick up leaves. Every time I bent over to pick up a pile, I thought I was going to vomit again, which would have so totally blown my cover. I finally gave up and sat on the ground, with the bag open next to me, and shoveled the leaves in with my hands.

It took me about 15 years to be able to face another Rum and Coke.

I suspect that my mother heard me the night before, surmised I was crocked off my ever-lovin’ ass, and decided that the early-morning wake-up call was just punishment.

~~~~~End Flashback~~~~~~

Okay, so here’s your first chance to snicker. Please be gentle.

I’ve been on a crocheting kick lately. I finished a project I’ve been working on - well, except for a button. It’s a cropped jacket. In Navy.

This one shows the sleeves and the length:

Now, I don’t do apparel usually (Okay - so I’ve only done one other thing that is wearable.). I’m an expert at straight lines; I can crochet the hell out of an afghan, but the whole piece-it-together kinda freaks me out. I lose track of the right side vs. the wrong side vs. the upside. You can probably tell that from the raglan seams up there. I think the front of the jacket is inside out, and the back is rightside out. I’m calling this one my practice version.

—- Next up, trying to re-teach myself to knit. If following the instructions for casting on is any indication, the only thing I’m going to use those needles for is to stab myself. —-