“Oh my God,” I blurt out. “HOW DID I NEVER NOTICE? PA INGALLS IS SO SEXY!”

Two small round faces swivel from the TV and stare at me with a mix of bemusement and ewwwww.

“Seriously?” says my firstborn, a wise creature of eight, who already knows about the “sex” part of “sexy.” 

I rip my eyes away from Michael Landon’s sweaty, naked chest and his perfectly teary eyes as he prepares to shoot Jack the dog, who might have rabies—which would mean, of course, that Laura might have rabies, all because of that stupid raccoon.

I had not recalled Pa Ingalls having so many topless-with-suspenders scenes. I remember having a crush on Almanzo at some point, but Pa? Oh, my.

My children are still staring at me. This is a FAMILY SHOW, after all.

“Um. Did I say that out loud?”
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Yeah, so, I bought a shirt at Target today for $4.98. That’s my sassy, naughty splurge, peeps. I feel dirty, oh, so dirty. Go on. Lick me. I taste just like the armpit of a 12-year-old in a Chinese sweatshop.

I’m writing this while waiting for an unemployment insurance rep to get to me. Twenty-two minutes, the recorded message said I would need to wait. Gives you an indication of roughly how many folks are calling unemployment these days.

I’m calling to check on my eligibility for another unemployment extension. Some folks argue that I might be eligible; some folks argue that I’m not, that that well has dried up for good.

I have learned a few things about public welfare in my time. I know what government cheese looks like, I know that state health insurance means well but is a tangle of red tape, I know what WIC stands for and that it saved our lives, for a time.

Here’s what else I know: Did you know you can still receive unemployment benefits with an occasional writing gig here and there? I was relieved to find that out. That will be really helpful while I work on putting the finishing touches on my new dominatrix den. I hear it’s rewarding work. Good pay, very undemanding clients.

Thank you for holding. All claims representatives are still busy. We are experiencing an extremely high volume of calls.

Yeah, I figure it’s worth a call, to see if the government is still including me in the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to keep three figures in the checking account. I figure it’s worth 22 minutes.
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Here’s a career tip for single moms everywhere:

Don’t cry over the dead mouse under your desk.

Yeah, I made that move. 

The poor little guy looked like he was sleeping. Except he was wrapped in a cobweb. Which meant he’d been resting in peace by my foot for quite a while.

It happened during the early days of the marriage coming apart, and something about that little fella sent me over the edge. I’d been holding it together pretty well at the office until I came in one morning and found him.

O, wee, dead mouse. You did me in.
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Dear Politicians,

I voted today.

But the answer to everything else?

Today, the answer is no.

I won’t write another letter today.

I won’t call another five friends today.

I won’t stand on the corner with a sign today.

I won’t update my Facebook status for you today.

I won’t call my senator today.

I won’t send you another $25 today, because I don’t know what you did with the first $25.

I could have bought a lot of juiceboxes and kids’ socks for $25. 

Earn it. Don’t milk me dry.
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Tonight, I feel like the Carrie Bradshaw of the Single Moms at Work set.

No cosmopolitans, no $400 Dolce & Gabbana pumps, no Mr. Big waiting under on 500-count Egyptian cotton sheets. Just me—alone—sitting cross-legged in my own place, tapping away on my laptop with my hair piled on the top of my head. (Carrie Bradshaw would not have had American Idol on the tube, but she had her constant cigarettes, so our bad habits balance out.)

As I do every Tuesday night for Work It, Mom!, I’m musing about this not-new-anymore life I’m living, but still can’t quite claim as mine. I’m staring at my laptop screen, trying to channel my inner Carrie. 

As you guys know, Carrie Bradshaw proposed a question each week in the Big Apple, and did her sassy, excellent, honest best to come up with a well-researched answer, about sex, relationships and the single life.

But she got out of the house more than I do. She had the shoes for it.
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My mother started it, bless her, with the simple words, “Mommy has something maybe growing in her tummy and the doctors have to do some tests.”

Oh, bless her.

This sweet statement—designed to allay the possible fears about hospital tests I need to undergo tomorrow—had an entirely different effect on my daughters.

They accosted me in the bathroom immediately.

“Are you PREGNANT?”

I spit my water in the sink but wound up hitting my toes.

“WHAAAAT???”

“Babci said you had something growing in your tummy so we thought maybe it was a baby.”

Gah. 

“Are you sure it’s not a baby?”
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