Hubby: I think it’s time you got a job.
Me: And what is wrong with the occupation I have now?
H: Umm, what might that be?
Me: Well, I have several.
H: Go on…
Me: Let’s see. I’m a wife, obviously. That takes up time.
Me: You do require a fair bit of effort, you know. There’s feeding you, making sure you cut your toenails. Nagging.The nagging alone is a 35 hour a week endeavor.
H: Okay. What else?
Me: Mothering. Hello? Remember that 10 pound ball of flesh I pushed out of my vagina? Turned into that skinny blonde kid? That didn’t happen by itself, you know. I have had to mother the snot out of that thing just to keep it going.
H: He’s in school full-time now. You’ve done well.
Me: Thanks. And then there is blogging. Twitter. Cat herder. Being a gusty windbag. All of this stuff going on…*sigh*
H: Yeah, about that, umm, what’s the cat count at now?
Me: I don’t know. Sixty? Sixty seems about right.
H: You can’t take a fucking step in this house without tripping over a cat.
Me: Exactly!!! Keeping everyone safe from the cats is a fulltime job.
H: So, what does all this “stuff” you do pay?
Me: Dude. You can’t put a dollar value on what I do in a day. Is this about money?
H: Well, no. Not really. It just seems like you are, I don’t know, not thriving.
Me: Have you been listening to Dr. Phil? Thriving.The fuck?
H: Well, it’s 6:30p.m. You’re still in your pajamas.The boy is eating peanut butter out of the jar and you are shovelling mac and cheese out of the pot into your mouth with your bare hands.
Me: Whafst? Hmp? *wiping hands on pajama pants and swallowing* Look, eating peanut butter out of the jar is a right of passage! He has to learn how to survive before he gets to college! And as far as the pajamas I only put them on at 3:00.
H: Why the hell would you put them on at 3 p.m.?
Me: Because, Dumbass, I can’t very well go pick the kid up at the bus in my panties, now, can I??? Duh!
It’s about this point that voices were raised, some cussing and eye rolling ensued. I’ll spare you the deets but suffice to say we got down and dirty. One of those good old-fashioned name calling, threatening kind of fights. The fight where you walk away from each other, wondering where the shovel is and in which corner of the yard the dogs would be least likely to dig up a corpse.
But…the sumbitch is right. SHHHHHHT! Shut your mouth! Never tell him I said that! *showing you my shiv, making frowney eyebrows*
To that end, I started looking. Here’s the shite part; I absolutely, unequivocally do not want to do any of the jobs I’ve ever done and am even remotely qualified for. But I’ve been trying. It’s going a little something like this…
So, Mrs. Flummshitz, why do you want this position?
I answer with all of the called for responses. (And in my crazy little head, to entertain myself, ending each response with ‘Your Momma’!)
And could you explain the 4 year gap in your employment?
I lost my sitter and couldn’t find another. (I was raising my CHILD, you horse’s ass! Your Momma!)
Oh nothing. (JESUS SHITSTICKS! Did I just say Your Momma out loud?)
I thought I heard you say you were a momma, which I understand. Anyway, what else did you do during this time?
I studied such and such, which I’m in the process of completing, blah, blah, blah (Mostly I looked at shit on the internet that would make your pubes straighten, you little twerp.)
Okay. Almost done. Could you describe yourself in three words for me?
At which point, I’m so fucking bored and so very certain I don’t want this job, all I dream of doing is leaning over the desk, getting close to his face and saying very slowly,
I. Have. Gas. (And with a wink and an upraised middle finger taking my leave! YOUR MOMMA!)
The job hunt continues. But if anyone wants to pay me for all of this *sweeping arm around, showing you the splendour of my words and nonsensical bullshit*, please let me know. I will work for boxed wine.