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. —-

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.—

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. —-

• 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. —-

Dear Hotfessional:

I understand from Sue that Bob (from Company D) wants to keep the reports that were created for Company C. Since Company D no longer owns these reports, I’m not sure what we should do.

Signed,
Joe

Okay, so Sue is once again causing a panic about something she knows nothing about. Bob cannot have access to these reports. Legally, Bob’s department has NO RIGHT to the reports any longer. Sigh. I’ll take care of Sue later.

Dear Joe,

As you have indicated, Company D no longer has any legal right to keep these reports. Additionally, below, you’ll find that Bob’s manager understands that and has indicated that it is perfectly fine to delete those reports. Please proceed with the plans as defined - delete all copies of those reports. Company C (the new owners) have what they need.

Sincerely,
The Hotfessional

What Bob’s manager actually wrote was, “We don’t need the reports. Delete them.” (Could he have been any more clear?)

Dear Hotfessional:

Are you sure that Bob is okay with this?

-Joe

Um, Joe? I don’t really give a shit what Bob is okay with. Legally, (may I repeat myself?) Bob has no right to this information. Bob’s manager agrees that Bob has no reason to need these reports. Bob is a moron. Joe, you are a bigger moron.

Dear Joe,

Bob’s manager is fine with it. Legally, Company C has NO right to this information. I have provided Bob’s manager’s approval. Please go ahead with the plans to delete the reports.

Thanks again.
The Hotfessional

And OMFG! Please come to my house so I can stick my pencil through your right eye and out your left ear.

Dear Hotfessional,

I just want to make sure you realize, once deleted they are gone for good and can not be recovered.

Joe

Sigh. And I can put my letter opener into your right ear and out your left eye. Really, stop by anytime!

Dear Joe,

Just delete the fucking things already. I told you we have no right to the information. I told you that I’ve gotten everyone’s okay. I don’t know if you think I’m a liar or just plain stupid or what, but if you don’t delete the damn things, I’m going to take whatever tapes/disks/flash drives/pieces of freakin’ paper they are on and shove them, individually, up your ass! I understand.

The Hotfessional

—- I was afraid that once I started working from home I would run out of stories of idiocy for this blog. Obviously, I was wrong. —-

I found out that a Lemon Sake Martini (yes, one!) will go right to your head when you’re eating raw fish.  And that octopus is kinda rubbery, but you can actually stick them to the side of your plate when they’re served with their suckers still attached.  And that I’m much more capable with chopsticks than Mr.  Hot, but since he’s missing his right-middle finger from the top knuckle up, he’s at a disadvantage….the bottom stick kept falling off his hand.  Snirk.

In work related news, our “big initiative” that I wrote bitched about here has some minor “issues”,  but nothing too terribly bad that I can tell.  Some stupid crappe because people weren’t thinking or paying attention, but all in all, (knock wood), I think we’re going to come out relatively unscathed.

Which is a good thing, because, srsly, how am I supposed to get any work done when this is going on right in front of me?

Yea, I know.  “Hotfessional, we thought you were, um, more professional and mature than that.”, you’re saying.   “You’re supposed to be an executive level manager or some shit.”  (Okay, so maybe you wouldn’t say shit, but when I put words in your mouth, you tend to speak like me.)

Well, okay, so there is that whole “kick them out of the office” option. Or, “stop taking pictures.” Or, at the very least, “Oh mah holy hell woman, stop freakin’ captioning them.”  But, oh noes.  That would be no fun at all.

—- Thanks again for the birthday wishes…it may take me a couple of days to get through the emails and stuff, but I will!  Love to you all. You are truly the best. —-

What Age Do You Act?

Funny, because this:

turned 45 today.

Forty-freakin’-five.

—- Shoot me.  Tell me Happy Birthday.  Just don’t tell me how much younger you are than me.  Snort. —-

I want to be outside, laying in the peninsula hammock with a good book - drifting off to sleep with the birds chirping and the breezes blowing through my toes. A nice glass of wine on the table next to me - some kind of instrumental music playing softly in the distance - near enough to hear and enjoy, not close or loud enough to be distracting.  Vaguely aware of the donkeys that live behind us braying every once in a while. It’s such a happy sort of sound….especially when mixed with the nicker of the horses.

Wait, what? You’ve never heard a hammock referred to as a peninsula? Snort. Seriously? C’mon. Snirk.

Okay, then. Let me tell you about Sam and the Peninsula -

Once upon a time, in a little suburban neighborhod made up of small, tidy homes and small, tidy yards, the Hotfessional family had neighbors that they hung around with.  The best next door neighbors in the world (BNDNITW) had three kids. Boy1, Boy2, and Girl. Boy 1 and Shortman were nearly the exact same age (within 3 days.) Boy 2 was a couple of years younger. Girl’s name was Sam.

Sam hadn’t yet started Kindergarten when this happened. It was summer - that gorgeous kind of summer day when the sun is up until 9:30 at night and the temperature is in the 80’s and no one has baseball or soccer or work to deal with. Hot dogs and hamburgers are everyone’s favorite food - the sound of the ice cream man brings joy to all hearts.

On one of those very special days, the Hotfessionals and the BNDNITW were outside having a cookout and drinking lots of beer water. The adults, Sam, and Poopy the Puppy were on the Hotfessional side of the fence. Poopy the Puppy was most likely sacked out in the shade - and the boys (Shortman, B1 and B2) were playing basketball in BNDNITW’s backyard. The grill was going - the cooler was full. It was all shangri-la and hummingbirds and butterflies.

Boy 2 decided to take a break and come over to the Hotfessional side of the fence. He climbed onto the hammock. Poopy the Puppy jumped into the hammock with him (which, actually, is a snort-worthy sight all by itself). They snuggled down together and looked very content, if a bit, oh y’know, weird.

Sam, who had been sitting on her mother’s lap, suddenly looked at all of us and announced:

“I want the peninsula.”

We looked at each other. What the fuck? We all know that “If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you”, and crappe, but none of us could figure out how to wrap up the State of Michigan and hand it over to this spoiled-ass rotten absolutely adorable four-year-old.

Sam’s mom looked at her and said, “Huh?”

“I want the peninsula. Now.”

The adults looked at each other and shrugged. Obviously the beer water and the sun were playing tricks with our heads and we were rendered incapable of understanding. Mr. Hot was willing to risk the wrath of all 3 feet 4 inches of blondeness as he bent closer to her. “What honey? What do you want?”

Sam straightened up and looked him in the eyes. She smiled her sweet little smile and twisted a strand of the pure honey gold hair around her finger.

Y’all? You know the kind of lung capacity a 4-year-old has? Of course you do. Well, imagine it here.

“I want the damned peninsula! Now!!!!! “

and she pointed. At the hammock.

“I want to sit up there with Skeetah* on the damned peninsula!”

The force of the soundwaves knocked her brother off of the hammock and sent Poopy the Puppy flying for cover behind the garage.

All of the adults (except Sam’s saintly mother, who knew better was trying desperately to teach her daughter that the correct word was “hammock” and not “peninsula”) stood up, walked over to the side of the house where Sam couldn’t possibly see us and laughed hysterically.

She knew, though. Oh, did she ever know. And from her perch up on the hammock peninsula, when we re-congregated back on the deck, she told Mr. Hot, in no uncertain terms.

“Now, I want Skeetah up here in the peninsula with me so I can lay with him like mah brutha did.”

—- I’m still disappointed that they didn’t follow us when we moved to Ann Arbor - I miss the weekends hanging out, the shared dinners when we cooked too much, or they did. I miss the game nights and the trips to Tiger games. But whatever else, that thing will forever after be known as the peninsula. —-

*Poopy the Puppy’s real name is Skeeter. Hence, my other, not-so-hot nickname. “Skeetah’s mom.”

First, we must go ahead and play by the rules:

1. The rules of the game get posted at the beginning.
2. Each player answers the questions about themselves.
3. At the end of the post, the player then tags 5-6 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they’ve been tagged and asking them to read your blog. Yea, you know I suck at doing this, so I’m not even going to pretend.
4. Let the person who tagged you know when you’ve posted your answer.************

1) What was I doing 10 years ago?

10 years ago? 1998? Wow. I was just getting ready to turn 35. I had been diagnosed and was fighting my first bout with this. Mr. Hot, Shortman and I were living in a “garden-level” (dark-ass basement) two-bedroom apartment and wondering how in the world we were going to afford child support, rent, and y’know, food, if I lost my job after our buyout by a much larger bank based in Chicago. Mr. Hot had taken an early retirement to be a stay at home dad in 1996 and we were pretty much broke.

It was, all in all, a pretty crappy year. (Bald and on the verge of possibly losing my job…..hmmmm, it’s deja-fuckin’-vu. )

2) What are five things on your to-do list for today?

1. Plant seeds.
2. Weed around the Wiegela bushes.
3. Call Mom.
4. Help Mr. Hot scrub the glider/swing for the backyard.
5. Give myself a pedicure to make my toes pretty for spring. ( it’s a half-assed job, but I can’t do half-a-checkmark.)

3) What snacks do I enjoy?

Almonds. Vodka. (Shush, it does count as a snack!). The yummy banana bread I made yesterday. Vodka. Mr. Hot’s earlobe. Dark chocolate. Limeade (with vodka.) Wine. Tortilla chips and homemade guacamole. Cheese.

4) Things I would do if I were a billionaire?

Buy Shortman and 24 their own house and a Nanny to keep an eye on them so Mr. Hot and I could go live on a beach by ourselves and run around naked all the time. Set up a foundation that provides scholarships for young women getting into technology fields. Visit the major cities of Europe. Retire and spend my days reading and writing.

5) Three Bad Habits

1. Smoking my three cigarettes/day (yes, dammit, I do have to add that qualification every time I admit I smoke),
2. not putting my clothes away after Mr. Hot washes and folds them (I know, you’re jealous, I don’t even know how to work the stupid machine, hee.),
3. and swearing (besides my tag line up there, “fuck a duck” is one of my very favorite phrases, and I call 90% of the other drivers on the road “shithead” at any given time, just because I like to. “Dickhead” is another good one.)

6) 5 places I have lived…

1. Town 1 in Wayne County, Michigan
2. Town 2 in Wayne County, Michigan
3. East Lansing, Michigan
4. St. Albans, WV
5. Huntington, WV

7) 5 Jobs I have had

1. Katie and Tommy’s babysitter
2. Brigid and Erin’s babysitter (Katie and Tommy’s cousins)
3. Mucker of horse stalls at a daycamp (didn’t get paid, but I got to ride)
4. Scrubber of stainless steel animal cages (a.k.a. Veterinary Assistant)
5. Poopy the Puppy’s protector (from the noisy trucks going down the road)

Six EightSeven suckers, er people I want to know more about…

Nah, sorry….I can’t do it. But, if you want to steal this, go ahead….and let me know in the comments and I’ll link back to you here.

—- Did you know that having your laptop on your bare, sunburned thighs hurts like a mo ‘fo? —-