My Life as a Hotfessional

Part 1

Part 2

I didn’t even like beer. After an ill-advised downing (and subsequent upp-ing) of a six pack during my senior year in High School, I stayed away from anything that formed a head when poured. Between 1981 and 1990, I bet I had a total of 3 or 4 beers, and those came after a day of skiing at 9500 feet. “Beers for the Knees” or some such shit. Blech. (I still hate skiing - sorry Heidi -  but I can drink beer now.)

So when Mr. Hot and I made it over to a nearby bar, owned by a guy he knew, I had no freakin’ clue what to order. “Bud Ice”, I said, catching the name on the chalkboard over the bartender’s head. “Make it two”, said Mr. Hot.

We talked for the next two hours. I told him all about my “career” in Human Resources and how much I hated it. He told me about working as the Circulation Manager for a local newspaper. I told him that I adored kids, but couldn’t have any. He told me about his two - then 6 and 2, and how he had never really wanted kids; had never wanted to get married, but he’d dated her for so long that he felt like it was expected. He was too shy to date anyone else, and it was obvious that she loved him. So he married her. He told me how great it was having kids - how he never expected that he could possibly feel the way he felt towards those kids.

Based on my memories, this must have been mid September. We made this a usual Wednesday thing. We both had 6 pm classes on Wednesdays, so after his 2 o’clock, we’d go grab something to eat. We’d study. We’d talk. We’d laugh hysterically. I quizzed him on math formulas (he hated math with the heat of 10,000 suns). We’d watch whatever sporting events were on television in the bar (which started two decades of this). We looked into each other’s eyes.

He’d bring me roses he’d stolen from the city Rose Garden (the one he drove past at 3 a.m. while delivering newspapers) every day. He knew I loved all roses except red ones. He’d bring yellow, white, salmon, pink. Never red ones. He listened. He knew.
We became close friends - the kind you have for a lifetime. It had been two months.

I can hear someone out there saying, “Wait, Hot. Two months? - To become close enough to be friends for a lifetime? Right….” To which I say, “Yea, well, I wasn’t exactly swimming in friends, and this guy could have been my twin. So that’s how I felt. And I still feel that way - 18 years later.”

************************

My husband (Practice), the one that I’d met at Michigan State, was not interested in having children. I burned with the desire to be pregnant, to have a baby, to raise a child. When we found out that it was physically impossible for the two of us to have a child together, I wanted to take the next step. Medical intervention was going to be a necessity. He wasn’t interested. “Maybe when I’m 35″, was his refrain. He was 30. I didn’t think I’d last another 5 years.

His favorite past-time was smoking marijuana and watching (or looking at) porn. I was not morally opposed to either, in moderation, but the pot wasn’t helping our attempts at procreation. His porn addiction (and yes, it was an addiction), had caused us problems with our neighbors. I couldn’t handle the comments I was getting from the men on the street - men that worked in the plant with Practice. They assumed, apparently, that since my husband had no problems, um, wandering around the backyard in the nude, that I was fair game for their leering and their innuendos. I couldn’t take a walk or work in the yard without hearing threats from the fuckheads that lived around us. I became a prisoner in my house. School was the only way I could forget it all.

When I confronted Practice with the accusation that he was, um, “servicing himself” on the deck, he couldn’t deny it.

I couldn’t live with it.

And so, while we still lived in the same house, we were separate. It was only a matter of time before it was all over. He offered to “get help” with his problems. I had already disengaged. We’d been married 5 years. During our trip to the Bahamas for our fifth anniversary, he’d asked me if he could hire a prostitute to spend time with “us”.

Not in a million fucking years.

But, I had quit my job and was financially dependent on him, and I wanted to finish this degree. It would open up the kind of doors I needed.

************************

One day, after a particularly tough math exam (there it is again! math!), Mr. Hot and I were celebrating his A. It wasn’t a Wednesday, but we stopped for a quick beer (“Bud Ice”. “Make that two.” was our refrain) to toast his victory and my excellent formula-quizzing. As he was walking away from my car, I yelled at him.
“Hot! Hey, Hot!”.

He turned. We met each other halfway…“Don’t call me Hot”, he said. “Okay”, I replied. And I said his first name.

I opened my arms to give him a hug. He stepped in, and wrapped his arms back around me.

I looked up into his face (it was unusual for me to have to look up - there are physical things beyond dimples that make me weak in the knees - looking up into a man’s eyes definitely ranks in the top 10 of those). I saw his mouth coming down. I surrendered.

Somehow we staggered back to campus. We had to talk. We had to kiss more. We ended up in the Education building, making out like we were sixteen years old.

Finally, we came to our senses. Blamed it on the beer and the excitement over the math exam A.

I had a hard time driving the 45 miles back to my house that night, but when I got there, Practice told me that he was going skiing out west right after Christmas. We’d drive back to Michigan, spend the week with the parents (both sets), and then I could drive back to West-by-gawd-Virginia while he went skiing in Montana with a friend. “I know you don’t like to ski, so you may as well just forget going out west. I’ll go alone.” “Fine with me. I’ll relax before next semester starts.”

************************

Another three weeks or so went by. Mr. Hot and I talked and rehashed and beat ourselves up over and over and over again. We couldn’t break up his family. His kids needed their dad. We would always be friends…we could do this. Just because my marriage was probably breaking up, all I had was cats. No little hearts will be broken.  Wednesday beer and lunch continued, complete with math quizzing and baseball watching.

Complete with my heart breaking.

************************

The week of final exams, Mr. Hot stopped me in the hallway. “Mrs. Hot knows that I am in love with you. I’m moving out over Winter break. I found an apartment. I can’t live with her anymore.”

I had 10 days to figure out what the fuck I was going to do. But first, I had to get through the holidays with my parents and Practice’s parents. Oh, and Practice.   He would be there too.

In the meantime, though, I asked Mr. Hot to cat-sit for me while I was in Michigan.  In his new apartment.  He agreed.

….to be continued….

—- Y’all. The Pioneer Woman has a Fairy Tale story of her courtship with Marlboro Man. And although we share a name (she’s Ree, I’m Ree), her’s is truly a fairy tale written in parts (she’s up to 33 so far….and it’s heartwarming and HOT and I eagerly await each new chapter). My story is more of a catharsis after nearly 20 years of guilty feelings tempered only by the love of a man who is truly my soulmate - and the arrival of his son, his first-born, who has come to live with us. Eighteen years later, they are making peace and I’m writing our story. —-

Part 1

I, of course, knew nothing about Mr. Hot when he showed up at Hardee’s that day. All I did know was that he was cute. Oh Mah Holy Hell - so freakin’ cute.

When he pulled up that chair (I swear, I distinctly remember him pulling up a chair, but I wonder, is that even possible? Does Hardee’s have chairs that you can remove from the table????), he swung it around backwards and plopped down with his arms crossed on the table next to me. I can’t remember anything about the conversation, but I do remember that I didn’t look at the textbook OR the notes I was supposed to be studying after he opened his mouth.

We must have talked about school. About being back in school. About how strange it was to be surrounded by all of these kids. I know that at some point, I mentioned that I had a business degree and was married. That I had quit work to go back to school full-time.

He mentioned at some point that he was married. And had two children. And had quit work to go back to school full-time.

I was working towards a B.S. in Computer Science. He was going the “Management Information Systems” route; a more business- than math- oriented technology degree. We talked about the courses we were taking. The courses we would be taking the next semester.

And then, it was time to go take that final. And he had class. We said good-bye, hope to see you around…

How much later our next encounter happened, I couldn’t tell you. Summer semester was over; we were a couple of weeks into the Fall semester, so it had to be at least a month after Hardee’s.

I know where it happened though. I’ve relived it so often in my mind over the past eighteen years - I can feel the hot breeze that was blowing that day. I can smell the sun baked concrete.

If you’ve seen the movie, “We Are Marshall“, you know the story of the 1970 M.U. football team. In front of the Student Center, is The Memorial Fountain; I was just coming around that fountain to go into the Student Center when Tom and Mr. Hot appeared.

“Y’know…you’d think”, said Mr. Hot, “that if she already has one college degree, she could afford a pair of jeans that actually covered her knees.”

I was wearing my absolute favorite GAP jeans…ripped out knees and all…with a white t-shirt. (Mr. Hot claims it was the white t-shirt that he fell in love with. Thank you Fruit of the Loom!)

Tom laughed.

Being the mature woman that I was, I stuck my tongue out at them both and went on my merry way. I had to get something to eat, and then make my way over to the office of this professor I was tutoring. (Yes, shush. I actually tutored a professor in computer programming, thanks to ace-ing that course with Professor Dickhead.)

*******************

What was going through my head? This was the second time I’d run into this guy. I thought he was cute and funny. I wanted to know more about him, but I was married. He was married. I thought we could be friends; like I was friends with Tom and my husband’s buddies. I’d always had an easier time getting along with males than females - less due to a problem with girls than because of shared interests with boys. My best friend all through High School was a boy. When I went to college the first time, I hung around with a couple of guys. Why should Mr. Hot be any different?

*******************

A couple of days later? The next week? Who knows. I was sitting out in front of Corbly Hall between classes with my first tutoring fee in my pocket. Mr. Hot walked by - rushing into the building. He waved. I waved back. He slowed…and then walked back towards where I sat. It was about 2 o’clock.

“I’ve got 20 bucks burning a hole in my pocket, wanna go grab a beer or something? I don’t have class until 6 o’clock tonight”, I asked him.

(Yes, I made the first move. Doomed. Doomed I tell you.)

“Can’t. I have a class - but if you’re still here when I get out, I’ll take you up on the offer.”

At that point, I don’t think a tornado would have moved my ass from that bench. But as he walked away, I wondered what the fuck I was doing. Why did I have butterflies? It was only a beer with a friend.

…to be continued…

—- If you have seen “We Are Marshall”, and you’re at all interested in the ‘un-movie-ized’ story of November 14th 1970, please see “Ashes to Glory” - a documentary that was originally shown in 2000 on West Virginia Public Television. I grew to know and love this town and its people (and yes, one person in particular) . It’s my husband’s and my son’s heritage. I will always be a proud graduate and supporter of The Thundering Herd. —-

I refuse to believe it.

May 14, 2007

Three hundred sixty-five days and four-hundred eighty-one posts later, we are gathered here today to celebrate my blogiversary. I told y’all I was a wordy bitch!

Shall we take a short tour? (Go ahead. Laugh. I know! “Short” and “this blog”. Ha!)

This was the first time I ever got a real-honest-to-goodness comment - from Cupcake…who is still hanging around and whom I still adore (just don’t tell me if I used “who and whom” correctly). Thanks sweetie!

This post still gets hits. Apparently there are a lot of poor souls who are looking for business casual guidelines - thankfully, I no longer need to worry about such things. If my desk chair wasn’t the pleather-cheapie-special from Office Depot, I could sit here in my bare ass. (But I don’t because of the frequency with which I try to get up and find the backs of my legs skinned from where I’ve stuck.)

August, 2007 - you can read about my run in with Pepe LePew.

I started the great reveal here…with cleavage(!)- and a plea for Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

And revealed more here. Wrote letters here.

In November, I did NaBloPoMoOhMahHolyHell, and finished it off with my very favorite shout out ever. Seriously, I think this was my crowning achievement in 2007.

Was it really this long ago that we found out we were getting another bundle of joy? And that I wrote a letter to my body as part of a BlogHer challenge?

March was a pretty amazing month. And you finally got to see what the Hotfessional looked like.

And then last month, I went with Kristabella to meet Bossy and a bunch of other wonderful bloggers.

You met me when I had just turned 44. When I turned 45, I got birthday wishes from “teh hol blogosfere!” - and it made my day.

Why do I blog? Why have I managed, when I usually flit from one project to another, to stay with this for an entire year? Why do I feel like I’ve know some of you for my whole life? Why do I cry with you and laugh with you? Why do I let you see me in my bitchiest moods? Why do I tell you my deep secrets and my secret fears?

Would I do this even if I didn’t have an audience? If no one read? (The answer to this is yes, I would, but damn…y’all make it so much more fun. Hell, I’ve even had a proposal. )

One of my friends on the other side of the world said it best. “I have found a whole community of people that I have come to care about very much.”

Thank you, thank you, thank you - one and all. Tonight I will raise my vodka/limeade to each and every one of you who has stopped by in the past year and brightened my day with your insights, your sympathy, your laughter, and most of all, your friendship.

And tomorrow, I’ll tell you a bit more about Meeting Mr. Hot. Because tomorrow begins Year 2.

And Kelley - this is especially for you - so you know that I’m not such a heathen after all:

Well, maybe I am a heathen, but I’m not a philistine:

So stop whinging about your eyes falling out of your head and tell me you love mah shoes!

—- And The-Husband stopped by earlier to take in the trash cans and walk the dog, but there’s been no sign of Mr. Not-the-Husband today. She has not left the house except to take the kids to the bus stop. The plot thickens. —-

Who in the hell drags themselves to a Hardee’s in West-by-gawd-Virginia to study for a Pascal final (a programming language that is SO not used anymore) at 8 o’clock in the morning in August? Especially when said Hardee’s is 45 miles away, it’s 85 degrees out, and you’ve already got the class aced?

Why yes, that would be me.  Y’all are smart, too!

The professor for this course was a world-class egomaniac. The arrogance dripped off of him - it puddled around his feet and he was lucky he didn’t slip and fall on his brain ass. I can hear his Indian/English accent to this day - “In my village, a medical doctor was no better than a janitor. It was the university professors that were revered.” He wanted to wear his robes to class, but the university wouldn’t let him.

Annnnywaaaayyyy - that’s not where I was going with this. (But he was a dickhead.)

I was going to tell you that I thought my classmates were the greatest. I was 27 and returning to school after 5 years working as a Human Resources Specialist. I had a business degree, but I wanted to work in technology - give me keyboards and numbers and analysis, whee! - and these kids that I had classes with were fun and irreverent and young (I already had my old lady ‘tude going). I loved being in school again, even if it meant dragging my ass down the road at that ungawdly hour.

(And I did. Five days every week for 8 weeks for a 3 hour calculus class. I know! But that’s how much I loved it.)

A group of us decided to get together at 8, before our 9 a.m. final, to have coffee and go over the topics that Professor Dickhead was likely to test us on. We picked Hardee’s. Cheap, decent coffee, and across the street from the College of Science building. (Yes, I know…finally…the Hardee’s part.)

I don’t remember most of the people in that group that day, but I remember Tom. He was older than the rest of the class, but not as old as me. He had done a stint in the Army working for the Corp of Engineers as an encryption expert. Smart, and cute, but I was married and he had a serious girlfriend.  (Tom got called back to active duty during the first Gulf War.  I always wondered what happened to him.)

Tom had a friend he knew from some other classes. A certain “Mr. Hot”. Mr. Hot had quit school once already - years before - after discovering that he could make far more money as a full-time employee than he could with a psych degree. By 1989, though, he had had enough working for Big Business Corporate Wankers and decided to return to school.

Mr. Hot was 34 at the time. In order to support his wife and two children, he delivered newspapers in his hometown - taking routes that wound way up into the mountains and down into the valleys. Routes that no 12-year-old paperboy was ever going to navigate on his bike.  (Can you say, “oh mah holy hell, there’s a freakin’ cliff around that turn!”?)

He would wake up at 2 a.m. - deliver papers, then head home for breakfast and to take care of his kids after his wife went to work. He’d take his son to school, and then, when he had class, drop his daughter off at the babysitter. Another adult who adored being around college age kids, he was having the time of his life (except for that no sleep thing - oh and math - he hated math (foreshadowing y’all, pay attention!)).

One day, in August, Mr. Hot decided to stop into (you guessed it!) Hardee’s for a coffee before he went to class. He saw his buddy Tom sitting there and decided to grab himself a chair and drag it over to the booth where Tom and a group of people sat.  I was in that group of people.

And as I looked up into this gorgeous pair of brown eyes, a nose covered by a smattering of freckles, and a mouth that looked extremely kissable, Mr. Hot smiled. The damn dimple that even today gets him out of trouble appeared.

I was a lost cause at that moment. Fucking dimple.

—- More to come on this little story sometime down the road, but for now…those of you who are following this saga…The Not-the-Husband didn’t show up today, but She left for about an hour around lunchtime.  Hmmmm.—

I think I’m getting the plague. Or something.

Which is strange considering that a) I hardly ever get sick AND b) I haven’t hardly been out of the house. Can breathing your own air make you sick?

My ears are all stopped up - I may as well have my head under water. Which is going over real well with Mr. Hot. “Huh?” “Wha?” “Sorry, huh?” He already claims that I don’t listen to him. (But at least normally, when I choose not to listen to him I can hear him! He shouldn’t feel bad now, right? Because I really can’t hear what the fuck he’s saying! So the listening? Not a choice.)

Of course, I’m going to get my head shots on Friday, so let’s just be really miserable by then!  Let’s make sure death sounds like a less-shitty option.   Yay!

***lalalalalala***

MomandDad came over to my house yesterday because Dad fixed my birdhouse and made me some drawer-rails for my dresser so the drawers would stop falling out on my toes. It rained all day long. The plan was to head over to the bakery to pick up some goodies and grab Mom a present before they got to our house.  (Mother’s Day….Mom needs presents….even though I didn’t get any.  I’m not bitter.  Ha.)

Mr. Hot didn’t want to go out in the rain. (Snirk. Yea, right, he’ll melt. uh. huh.) So, even though MomandDad were supposed to be over at 1, I procrastinated until 12:40. Shush - the bakery is only 7 miles away. And a stop at the garden center to pick up a bunch of flowers or something wouldn’t take long. After all, when MomandDad say “One o’clock”, they really mean two-ish. Or thereabouts. Or “sometime that same day…y’know - the same day as the one o’clock day”.

I got to the bakery - picked up the goodies (hummus, bread, baklava and mahmool) - and left and it was only 12:53! (I rock. I also drive fast when necessary.) I ran into the nursery, grabbed a bouquet of purple roses and lilies and this:

for her garden - because he was so damned cute. (I think she should name him Steve. Do you think he looks like a Steve?)

Aaaaannnnnyyywayyyy, I turned onto our road (1.1 miles from home) at 12:59 pm - figuring I was golden! I had plenty of time. I could run upstairs, grab a card…write something sentimental and tear-jerky in it, and still have time to handcraft some wrapping paper ala Martha Stewart before they arrived.

Because on-time? And The Hotfessional’s MomandDad? Are not on speaking terms.

Except, apparently, yesterday. Because they were already there. At 1:0-freakin-4.

Oh well. No card, no handcrafted paper. Just a bag (paper, though! It wasn’t plastic!) and a Happy Mother’s Day!

Still, isn’t that one cute toad?

***lalalalalala***

And because I’ve subjected you to too much whining and moaning lately, here are some search term gems:

• business casual walking shorts 2008 - y’all? my business casual wardrobe is now cut-off sweats, a t-shirt, and slippers. (Kelley - look away, you’ll disown me)

• city shorts business casual - No. Just no. If you’re one of the women who worked in my office setting, do NOT wear city shorts. Please.
• all-green dry penis - Um. I’m sorry. I bet you can find a prosthetic one that is realistic though after yours falls off.  Veronica or Cookiebitch may know where.  And maybe next time you won’t do whatever it was you were doing.
• what would you do if you knew you could - Good question! Unfortunately, I’m 45 and don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.
• quotes from superbad lemonade - “Ewwwwww, this stuff sucks.” “Tastes like piss!’ “Just give me straight vodka next time!”
• natasha richards revealing dress - I can tell you with 100% certainty that I have never written about natasha richards. I don’t have a clue who she is…but I think she’s the one that Mr. Hot was ogling the other day.
• hotfessional - Yes? that would be me.  As opposed to witchypoo - who is not me.
• stats how many people feel bluetooth is - better than green tooth?   Let’s vote shall we?
• another birthday got it right- yea, got it right in the gut. Oh mah holy hell, let’s not think about it, okay?
• have you sunbathed topless - Well, yes, I have. Y’all, here’s a hint. Use sunscreen. Lots and lots of sunscreen. SPF-783 is probably about right.

—- And for those of you wondering. - Mr. Not-the-husband drove up at 12:20 p.m. today and didn’t leave until 3:18. Guess they had the weekend to make up for. —-

Being a Mom means:

• Fixing vegetables for dinner when you really want to have ice cream. And sometimes, having ice cream.
• Watching Aladdin or Winnie the Pooh for the twenty-fifth time in three days, because it’s his favorite. (circa 1995)
• Giving up your favorite seat on the couch - or allowing yourself to BE the seat on the couch. Even when he’s 6′3″ and 230 lbs. And you’re 5′9″ and, um, less than 230 lbs.
• Crying when he starts school and then crying more, when he graduates. From kindergarten. From 5th grade. And oh mah holy hell, at the THOUGHT of him graduating from High School. At least you have a year to prepare - and stock up on tissues.
• Listening to a play by play (by play by play) of what happened during this show or that class or this game or that movie.
• Holding your breath, holding his hand.
• Saving every “I love you Mommy” scribbled on every piece of paper. Saving the “I hate you” ones, too.
• Bare butts. Bare toes.
• Messes and cars and action figures hidden in every corner of his bedroom. And no, you can’t get rid of the G.I. Joes…. or the baseball cards…. or the baseball caps.
• Haircuts. or not. Electric razors for Christmas.
• Video games.
• “Cut the grass. Take out the garbage. Change the cat litter.”
• Riding in the back seat after handing over the car keys.
• Bartholomew Cubbins and his 500 hats. Over and over and over again.
• A five-year-old voice singing “We represent the lollipop guild”.
• Never, ever calling a ‘pillowcase’ anything except a ‘tuppow diaper’. Some things are too good to ever be forgotten.
• Seven “wake up calls” in the mornings - as soon as he hits the teen years.

The hug of a giant and the “Happy Mother’s Day” mumbled into the top of your head.

—- Happy Mother’s Day to all of my friends and my friends’ mothers. —-

A Day and a Post
Both filled with nothing at all
Except randomness.

Quiet has reigned here.
I would have slept on my desk
Except it is wood.

A special email
And a haiku that she wrote
did brighten my day.

But other than that
there is nothing happening
in the Hot household.

As much as I bitch about stupidity and the craziness that surrounds me on a daily basis, today was bor-ing.

(I have just completely jinxed it by typing that, you realize? Okay, so long as we’re on the same page here!)

So randomness - I haz it.

• The other day, some asshat decided to steal money out of our checking account using Mr. Hot’s debit card. We have two suspects. We have filed a police report. We have canceled the card and the bank has started its investigation. We should have our money back in 7-10 business days…because I can say, with 100% certainty, that I did not get a first-class ticket on Malaysian Airlines for my birthday….although that’s what Mr. Hot’s debit card paid for. I cannot even begin to express how many different ways I’ve thought about dismembering this prick. Believe me, his prick would be one of the first, um, removals.
• The past few days, around lunchtime, the woman who lives in the house across the street comes home. A few minutes later, a van pulls up and parks on the road in front of her house. A man gets out and goes into the house with her. He stays for about an hour, and then leaves. Sometimes, afterwards, she leaves, too. Sometimes she doesn’t. As far as I can tell, her husband (who is not the man who comes over at lunchtime) is there on a regular basis - walking the dog, taking the boys for bike rides, cutting the grass - although not when the mysterious van is there. I can’t figure out whether the husband is still living in the house. I’m guessing if he is, he won’t be for long. (Yes, this is what happens when you sit at a desk looking out over your street for 8 or 9 hours every day.)

The view:

Hey, you’d wonder too if you sat in front of this window 9 hours/day.

• The cable that connects my camera to my laptop is the same kind of cable that connects my Blackberry to my laptop. Since I’ve discovered that, my life has been much easier because I’m not staring at two cables trying to figure out which one is which. It also saves me walking downstairs and back up when I decide to take a random picture of the house across the street… the one I sit and look at all day long.
• The plan for this evening involves driving several miles down the road to watch cars go straight, really fast, for a quarter-mile. The things I do for the testosterone laden members of this house will never cease to amaze me. Therefore, on Sunday, NO ONE better wake me up before Noon unless it’s to open a present, drink champagne, or feed me peeled grapes. And chocolate. The good stuff, not the cheap kind. Take note all penis-bearing members of this house. You have been warned.
• I’ve been watching three rabbits chase each other around the yard. They play leapfrog; they play hide-and-seek. There are finches that fly by, their bright yellow bodies zipping through the air and past my window. I can hear Poopy the Puppy downstairs, whining to try and get out into the yard, because, “Mom. Mom. Mom. Want to play wit teh bunnehs. Mom. Mom. Come let me out.” Were it not for that, I could almost make believe that I’m Snow White or Pocahontas surrounded by little forest creatures in a Disney animated film. (Ahahahahahahahahah. snort. Yea, right.)

—- When is it going to be warm enough to open the windows? I think I’m going a bit stir-crazy around here, breathing my own air all the time. —-