New Unemployment Statistics…

…are proof that unemployment is still vastly out of control.


Looking for work is my new full-time job!

If they could make this a paying position, I’d be stinking rich right now.

Hubby asked me the other day, “What kind of jobs are you looking for?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  I suppose at this point I’ll take just about anything.” I say flippantly.

He doesn’t move away, which causes me to lose focus on the computer.

I look up at him standing there square in front of me.

I see the gleam in his eye.

He’s so transparent.

“Well, when you’re done on the computer, I’ve got a job for you,” he offers.

As though I didn’t know that was coming.

I try to look all shy and shit, but he waits for it.

He knows me better than that!

“Asshole!” My standard reply after all these years together. “Get in line buddy!” I say, confident that this will, okay maybe not absolutely positively, make him pause and wonder what I actually do when I leave the house, then come home still unemployed.

I know I’m a great asset to any company. Or maybe, it’s just that I have a reasonably great ass that any company would want to have around.

I’ve had exactly…

Okay. So. No. One. Else. has offered this type of employment in a while, but I sure as hell am not going to let him think that he’s the only recruiter that’s checked out my resume or credentials.

Fuck that!

After 32 years of marriage, you’ve got to work a lot harder at making the spouse jealous, but I consistently try. It keeps things interesting!

An hour later, I close the computer. I’m frustrated!

I want a job!

Any Job!

I go upstairs only to discover he’s in the shower.

I see his pants on the floor.


I rustle through his pockets and find his wallet.



Seems he’s freakin loaded today.

Perhaps a little part time job at this moment won’t be so bad after all.

I pocket a $100 bill.

I get undressed, then join him in the shower.

I try to look business like!

“Coming to apply for the job?” he says with that come hither look spread across his face.

“Will there be overtime?”

“With any luck,” he says. “With any luck!”

The Rooter Guy…


…informed me the other day that my ‘flange‘ was too high.

Excuse me?

No one’s ever been brave enough to point that flaw out to me before, at least not right to my face, and never out loud!

I have to admit I was a little shocked that it was the second thing out of his mouth right after, “I’m the rooter guy MAAM“.


Son of a bitch!

Believe me, I’ve had plenty of experience with inflammatory remarks before mainly because I have kids, but my ‘flange’ for God’s sakes?

This was far and beyond any insult I’ve ever had to deal with.

I excused myself and went to do a mirror check.

Certainly my flange could not be the girls since they’ve relocated all on their own, and they certainly have not moved upwards (except when I pile them into my new sexy Victoria’s Secret bra!) Beside’s that, he said ‘flange’ not ‘flange’s’. He was obviously pointing out something in the ‘singular’.

My butt? Mmm…

Now, if he was referring to my butt, that would actually be a good thing. It would mean all those hard ‘ass’ moves I’ve taken on at the gym were finally beginning to pay off.

But then I saw it, that little pudge that likes to hang over the top of my pants.


Was he referring to my Muffin Top? That’s singular and all-encompassing.


Perhaps this is why nothing really fits anymore.

Once your flange has been flagged I guess there’s no going back!

I decided to change my top before returning back to where said rooter man was working. Big and baggy would now rule the day.

Upon my return, he glanced up and his expression changed from what had been moderately happy, to something more in the confused category.

More like ‘I was enjoying the view of your cleavage and now I can’t see anything’ kind of disappointed look.

“I liked the other top better,” he said as he pulled more snake out of his rooter machine.

“Oh, I, well…I spilled something on it so I changed,” I shot back.

“Just sayin…the tighter one suits you better!” he says. “I’m just about done here. I cut the flange down so it’s lower and the toilet will sit properly now.”

“Oh?” I say.

“Yeah, the flange has to be set against the concrete, otherwise your toilet will always leak. It’s good now. Shouldn’t leak any more.”

Oh my little mind!

Why, oh, why, do you always have to go there? Always racing around in such an unpredictable way?

As the gate closed, I stood there and watched him drive away.

This was my moment!

I could finally let out my stomach!

I look at it this way. It’s about the only exercise those muscles get, holding it in and letting it out I mean.

Just as I was about to go inside the house, my gardener pulled up.

I opened the gate.

He came in, looked me up and down for a moment.

First thing out of his mouth, “Mrs. Brown, Your weeds are too high!”


I immediately pulled my baggy shirt down to cover my crotch.

What is with these guys?

I excused myself, went inside the house, picked up the phone, and booked an appointment for a Brazillion!