Of course, he was the son. The son of a father with strong Middle-Eastern roots. The son of a mother who doted (okay, dotes) on her only boy. (Don’t look at me like that, I only have one child…it’s not my fault he’s a male.)

The Golden Child believes that the world revolves around him and its axis would shift if he wished it so. His plans are to inherit my parents’ estate, including the 5 acres, the pond, the barn and the house. He makes no bones about making “inspections” whenever he drags himself back to Michigan from the Great White North; suggestions for improvements and fixes abound. The fact that they’re in their sixties and would love to sell (if only the housing market would rebound so they could get some sort of fair value for their investment) seems to escape his notice.

My brother and I are two very, very different people. He wants everything given to him. I want nothing I haven’t earned. He expects and assumes. I’m grateful for everything that I work for.

This isn’t to say I’m an saint and he’s the sinner. Not at all. (Gawd knows…the only Saint I can claim is that I once visited that city in Minnesota.)

He’s just completely self-absorbed. And ego-maniacal. He would say self-confident. I believe there’s a difference.

When I lost my job with The Bank that Shall Not be Named, I considered going back to school to get a teaching certificate. The Golden Child teaches High School English way up there in Cananada. (I wonder if he’s figured out where to put the extra ‘u’s.) When we last spoke, in May, he asked me what I was doing. I told him I’d started my own consulting company; that I had a client and had been working in Chicago since January.

His response? “Oh good. I was afraid maybe you were going to ask me for a loan. Or lose your house. Or that you’d go back to school like Mom said you were thinking about doing and be a better teacher than me.”

Yea, really.

I’ll show my petulant side and tell the entire interwebs that he didn’t bother sending my son, his nephew, a congratulatory card for graduation. No gift necessary, but an acknowledgement of the accomplishment would have been nice. Did I send his daughter a generous gift on her graduation? Of course I did. Will his other two children get the same consideration? Probably not. I may get over it, but Mr. Hot will probably bring me to my senses. (After all, he’s the one who’s had to listen to me bitching about the thoughtlessness that IS The Golden Child.)

Today is his birthday. I called to wish him a happy one.

He thanked me for the thought and then said, “Oh, and please tell Shortman ‘Thank you’ for helping Dad out. I really appreciate it.”

Now. Really. The Good Person in me should take this request to mean, “I think it’s great that you raised a responsible, caring young man who enjoys spending time with his grandfather and is willing to give up his gaming time to haul sand and do heavy lifting for an elderly man. Make sure he knows that I think he’s awesome.”

Why then, do I bristle at that statement and think, “He’s not doing YOU any favors, you have no right to tell me to thank my son for doing the right thing.”?

I try to be a good and generous-minded person. Somehow, where my brother is concerned, I seem to repeatedly fall short.

—- History is difficult to forget. Familial love is a pain in the ass at times. And blood is not always thicker than water. —-

So, you’re going to Las Vegas! How nice for you. Granted, I could have done without hearing your “I’m going to Vegas” song repeatedly for the 45 minute flight, but at least I knew WHERE! YOU! WERE! GOING!

I hope your mama and dad don’t lose you at the craps table. Unless you’re on flight 510 back to Detroit on Wednesday night, then I really don’t give a shit. Because if I have to listen to you screeching at the flight attendants (who, you should know, are NOT my favorite people) when you’re not singing, or tell you for the 2,387th time that “No, thank you, I don’t want a piece of already chewed gum”, or hear ARE WE THERE YET? WHEN ARE WE GONNA GET THERE?”, I may use the strap of my laptop case to tie you up and stow you in the underbelly of the plane.

And yes, it was probably childish of me to kick the back of your seat. Repeatedly.

Love, The Hotfessional

****lalalalalalala****

Con: No suite at the hotel this week.
Pro: Being in the room right next to the wireless modem. No dropped connections tonight.

****lalalalalalala****

Is it a bad thing that the clerks at the corner 7-11 see me walk in and immediately unlock the wine cabinet? I mean, what if I decide to get beer? That’s in a DIFFERENT locked cabinet. It causes DELAYS people.

****lalalalalalala****

Two-point-seven miles in 30 minutes on the treadmill tonight. It felt sooooooo good. When I stopped.

****lalalalalalala****

Last Thursday evening, the flight landed 1/2 hour early. I texted Mr. Hot: “We’re on the ground.” His response? “Shit. I’m only at Platt. WTF?” (About 20 miles from the airport.)

It was okay, though. I had to pee really bad, it was nice outside, and I wouldn’t be in a rush to get out to the car - meaning the Airport Patrol would have one less motorist to hassle while the driver is waiting for a loved one.

As I was walking through the terminal, I looked up and saw a sign welcoming the latest convention to the Motor City. I passed it. Did a double take. Went back to make sure I read it correctly. Then I took this picture:

Welcome Sign Fail.

—- Bound for Hell. That’s me. —-

One Memorial Day, when Mrs. BNDNitW saw Mr. Hot sneaking off to pass out get some rest, she followed him into our house and into our bedroom. I’m not sure who was luckier that he hadn’t managed to get his clothes off before passing out falling asleep.

Then there was the New Years’ Eve that we offered to bring the ingredients for “Velvet Kilts“. At some point, all of the adults in the house (except for me and Mrs. BNDNitW - we knew better - and besides, it was flippin’ freezing) took off with rolls of toilet paper to t.p. the neighborhood juvenile delinquent’s house. Mr. Hot was wearing flip flops. On New Years Eve. In Michigan.

The morning after THAT particular party, we walked over to pick up a dvd that had to be returned. Mr. BNDNitW was on their couch, a wet towel over his face.

What the fuck was in those drinks?

he managed to blurt out before throwing soaking terrycloth at us.

But Independencr Day was THE party. The one where our backyards were combined…with kids coming and going, yard games (Mr. Hot never lost a game of this in three years), overflowing coolers and “throw this on your grill, there’s not enough room on this one.”

In 2005, the beer started flowing around 2 pm. Mr. BNDNitW mixed batch after batch of cosmopolitans. We were planning on calling it an early night because Mr. Hot and I, along with Mr. BNDNitW and their younger son were running the next day in the Firecracker Mile. The Firecracker was THE local mile long race (Duh. Bet you didn’t see that coming, did you?) between Coolidge and Main Street - right down 14-Mile Road. Hot dogs and bratwurst were grilled. Salads were laid out next to metric tons of desserts. Beer was consumed. And also? Beer. Consumed.

Around 7-ish, Mr. Hot and I reminded everyone that it was going to be an EARLY night. The race started at 9 a.m., we needed to be there no later than 8:30.

Just a little longer. Really…we’ll wrap it up pretty soon.

And so. More beer.

I have no idea when things finally died down. No idea when we got to bed. No idea who set the alarm.

But it went off the next morning and we got up, and then died pinned on our race numbers, and hopped on our bikes. (We always rode to our races, it limbered up the knees.) Mr. Hot had thrown a couple of energy drinks in his backpack, so once we got to the registration area, we tried to drink them down. Then we tried to not bring them back up.

As we lined up for the start, we found Mr. BNDNitW. He looked a little worse for wear, but seriously, the fucker is 6 years younger than me and 14 younger than Mr. Hot, he had NO excuses. Moaning, and telling each other, “See you at the finish”, we waited for the gun to go off.

I can only tell you that I finished that race and medaled for my age group. (Okay, so there was only me and two other women in my age group. S.T.F.U.) Mr. BNDNitW was waiting at the finish line when I got there - already eating a banana. Mr. Hot finished as well. He had taken off his glasses and said that it was the only thing that helped. He couldn’t SEE where he was running or who was on the roadside cheering…he just needed to keep going until someone stopped him. (He also apparently couldn’t figure out how to fake a pulled hamstring - which was his backup plan.)

Of course, it wasn’t ALL about the booze. They were the ones that we counted on to make sure that Shortman didn’t burn the house down when Mr. Hot and I drove to Columbus and back to pick up the Diva and his sister. They were the ones that shared extra ice during the east coast powergrid outage. They were the ones that threw us a going away party when we moved (ok - booze was involved with that one).

We miss them for their humor - and for how much HE was like me and SHE was like Mr. Hot. They even had the same first names as us! (Seriously - spelled the same and everything.)

I hope The Best Next-Door-Neighbors in the World thought of us on the Fourth as we did them. I hope they remembered when our kids were kids…playing soccer or storming the streets pretending to be FBI agents. I hope they had enough room on their grill and that no one blew off any thumbs at the park playing with illegal fireworks.

—- I hope they weren’t as hung over as I was yesterday. —-

• Waking up to a cat purring in my ear.
• Blue sky and warm sun.
• Mr. Hot’s conviction that the Detroit Lions are going to ‘do us proud’.
• Picking the first tomatoes and popping them in my mouth.
• The thought of a nap in the hammock.

—- Watermelon chilling in the refrigerator. —-

Off to Toledo,
to watch the Mudhens play ball.
Three strikes and you’re out.

Mr. Hot’s two flags
are hanging off the front porch.
Wave red, white, and blue.

One for modern day,
one for the original.
Thirteen states unite.

Hot dogs and cole slaw,
Fireworks in the backyard.
Sing Yankee Doodle.

Americana
will come alive this weekend.
Independence Day.

—- My crabbypants attitude seems to have lifted. I think it’s the excitement of a three day weekend, lots of sun shining down, cold beer and watching Mr. Hot cut grass. He’s got awesome legs. —-

I started a post. Realized it was a list of complaints. Stupid complaints. Like the fact that my glasses attract dust and I have a zit on my left cheekbone.

Decided not to bore you all.

—- Then my wireless kept dropping and I took it as a sign. You can thank me later. —-

Gregory (I like to pretend we’re on a first name basis) refuses to believe that his patient doesn’t lie about SOMETHING. And…well, it progresses from there. He picks and tricks and finally, by the end of the show, she ‘fesses up.

None of that, by the way, really has anything to do with this post. But it’s a damned good prelude. Snort.

Annnnyyyywaayyyyyy, one of my favorite bloggers, The Minnesota Matron, tagged me with a meme about the 7 Deadly Sins.

Teh Rulz:
The meme is sinful: “Sometimes you can learn more about a person by what they don’t tell you. Sometimes you can learn a lot from the things they just make up. If you are tagged with this meme, lie to me. Then tag 7 other folks (one for each sin) and hope they can lie.”

So, I’m lying to y’all today. Here goes:

Pride: What is your biggest contribution to the world?
You mean that time I stopped that huge meteor that was speeding towards Earth? The one that was going to wreak havoc by killing all of our food sources? Yea, that was a pretty good thing. Or, my fight to bring back the Temperance Movement. I liked that one, too.

Envy: What do your coworkers have that you wish was yours?
Penises.

Gluttony: What did you eat last night?
A 32-oz porterhouse with a side of fried Rocky Mountain oysters. For dessert, an entire cherry pie. All washed down with tomato juice.

Lust: What really lights your fire?
No foreplay from a man who belches in my face after eating liver and onions. Or a far right-wing NRA Bubba that doesn’t think women are fit for anything but baby-makin’ and cookin’. (Excuse me while I go take a cold shower now.)

Anger: What is the last thing that really pissed you off?
An on-time flight with flight attendants that passed out pillows and blankets while serving HOT coffee and fresh, buttery croissants.

Greed: Name something you hoard and keep from others.
Money, shelter, my car. My good vodka. (Oh, wait. Skip that last one, I’m supposed to be lying. Oops.)

Sloth: What is the laziest thing you ever did?
Had a catheter inserted so I could stay in bed after I had that keg installed next to my bed. What? Getting up to go to the bathroom after swigging warm beer straight from the tap was wasted effort, y’all.

Now, because I’m SUCH a rule follower, I’m tagging you. (Continuing with the lie thing y’know. Rules? Me? ha.)

—- Oh, and that House episode? The patient lived. —-

Dear Mr. TSA Nutjob,

I know this comes as a great shock to you, but I’m here every fuckin’ Monday morning at 6 am (like, oh mah holy hell, 21 times this year). I do know which line is reserved for frequent fliers, and I always end up getting approval to go through the “special” one. So, when you screw up your face and ask me “WHY are you in this line?” and I respond “Because I have priority AAccess” (yes, that’s how American Airlines spells it on the boarding pass), I probably know what I’m talking about.

Yes, it’s early and yes, maybe I did stay up too late last night, and MAYBE I had a little bit extra vodka last night, but still. I could do this in my sleep. Hell, I could do it in YOUR sleep. But really, when you tell me, “No, THAT’s the priority line.” and point to the snaking, 2000 person line next to me?, I’m going to roll my eyes and respectfully disagree. TWICE.

Thank you so very much for holding me up long enough for the family with the four carry-on bags, stroller, bottles of illicit liquid and two screaming kids that refuse to take off their shoes to get in front of me. I appreciated the sticky, donut covered hands of the boy (”NO, I’M NOT TAKING DEM OFF!!!”) pushing me away from the conveyer belt while I was attempting to retrieve my shit.

I was going for my personal best get-through-security time. Douchbag.

Love, The Hotfessional

Dear Hotfessional,

Spinach has lots of iron. Iron, in large quantities, seriously fucks with your digestive system. It has a tendency to make, erm, one aspect of your morning VERY uncomfortable.

Next time you eat two spinach salads in a single day - you may want to follow them up with prunes for dessert.

Love, The Hotfessional

Dear Housekeeping Lady at my Home-Away-From-Home,

So, now you know the truth about the Hotfessional who stays in 812. I finished my workout and was in the bathroom trying to cool off before putting on some non-sweat-socked clothing to go out and find something appetizing for dinner. That generally means taking off my wig so the sweat can escape from every possible gland available. Also, standing around nekkid.

I didn’t hear you knocking. Really, I didn’t. I do appreciate the basket of chocolate you thrust into my face while offering me, “Choco-lat?” repeatedly. Thank you!

By the way, when I left the room a couple of minutes later, fully clothed AND with a full head of hair, your double-take was pretty freakin’ priceless.

I promise, you’re not losing your mind.

Love, The Hotfessional

—- I found out what Mr. Hot does while I’m away. He sent me this picture of his evening’s entertainment. —-

—- Fidel Castro was excommunicated by Pope John XXIII, John Glenn became the first person to orbit Earth, 160 die in a triple-train disaster near Tokyo, John Lennon secretly marries Cynthia Powell, the Cuban Missile Crisis occurs, and my parents got married. —-