Hi, I'm Lisa, and I'm a firefighteroholic.
What can I say? They're firefighters. They're the hotness, plain and simple. We all love them. Am I right, or am I right? Lately, however, my appreciation for them has transformed into head-jerking fascination.
It's especially challenging when I'm driving. As soon as the red truck approaches, God forbid I'm in heavy traffic, because I have a hard time staying in my lane.
Recently, AnnMarie and I decided to take a break from our usual eat-at-our-desks routine and have an actual restaurant sit-down. We hit the restaurant patio and... well, well, welllll... there were about a dozen firefighters seated at a long, rectangular table.
AnnMarie wanted to discuss business. I tried. I really did. But the firefighters won. "Are you listening to me?" she finally asked. I had to be honest. "No. I'm totally not. I'm so sorry. I can't resist them." So we threw in the towel and had a fabulous flirt. After they left, they drove the truck back by the patio twice for a bit more fun. Eye-batting overload. Great business meeting. Flawless.
This evening, I received a gift from the hotness gods. If you're one of our Twitter followers, then you know that the guys downstairs from the office are obsessed with fireworks. Yesterday, they took an old couch outside, stuffed it with fireworks, and set it ablaze. They had hoses, shovels and dirt handy, but still... who burns a couch? Seriously.
I threw open the window. "What the hell are you fools doing?!?" I politely inquired. "We hate the couch. It's gotta go." they replied. I was on deadline and couldn't be bothered. 24 hours later, I'd forgotten all about it, until...
Skittering flashlight beams streamed into the office window. I heard deep voices. I rose from my desk and peered outside. Ta-daaaaaa! FIREFIGHTERS! At our door! Four of them! Wheeee!
I raced downstairs as quickly as you could say "I am so ridiculously hot for firefighters", threw open the door, and... immediately began coughing. Couch smoke filled the air. The neighbors were at it again. "What's going on here?" they asked me authoritatively...and hotly. "You're (cough) in the (cough) wrong (cough) space (cough)," I hacked while attempting to bat the lashes on my red, burning eyes. "They're over (cough)(cough)(cough)..." I wanted to say "there", but I was done for. I pointed them in the right direction, waved and got the hell back in the office.
For the next 15 minutes, I peered through the upstairs window and watched those brave, toned, super-sexy public servants battle the evil couch next door while the owners looked on in shame, heads hanging low. I silently cursed them for torching my dreams. I had FOUR friggin' firefighters at my door, and that damn smoldering furniture prevented me from uttering even one charming line.
Bastard neighbors! Hot blockers! Know this: I will get even. I
will.
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