With hours diminishing at my long-term, part-time job, I’m forced to get back into the job-hunting game, which isn’t fun like a game.

My inbox is cluttered with emails from Indeed, Jobcase, and other employment sites. They like to keep in touch.

“Hey, we’ve got something you might like!” one email teases.

It depends upon the meaning of “like.” No, I wouldn’t like to be a truck driver.

The email gets banished to the junk folder, which is like the shark-infested tank in a Bond movie.

I look at the next email from a house sitting site. “There’s a homeowner near you who needs someone to feed her cat and get the mail — $34 per hour.”

Sounds too good to be true.

It was. You need to sign up for a premium account to float to the top of the house sitter pool.

Another email promises: “We’ve got a match for you!”

— If I want to be an Uber driver.

That wouldn’t go well. I promise you. I always argue with my GPS. When I’m not arguing with her, I talk to myself.

“How are you today?” I ask one of the voices in my head.

“Fine, except for that person staring at you in the backseat. Who is that anyway?”

“I can hear you!” the customer says.

The job hunting expedition is painful at times. Last week, I stepped in metaphorical quicksand when I mentioned to a recruiter that my son was 29.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“I don’t think that’s allowed,” I told her.

“I could get in trouble,” she said.

“I know!”

“How old ARE you?” she asked again.

“’This won’t affect my chances? Will it?’

“Of course, not.”

Wink. Wink.

“61!”

“That’s old! Shouldn’t you be retired or dead?”

She really didn’t say that, but I could see the angst in her video-conferencing eyes, courtesy of Skype.

I didn’t look old until I told her my age. Most people think I’m five years younger or more, except my mother.

Every time my husband and I get together with my parents, the next day my mother asks me if my husband uses a moisturizer.

“No, he doesn’t,” I tell her. “But I do.”

“You don’t look as young as Jim,” she says. “I can see every wrinkle on your face.”

Nice, thanks, mom!

“Do you color your hair?”

“No, mom.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“Maybe you should use Jim’s moisturizer…”

The moisturizer he doesn’t use?

“… Then your youthful hair would match your face.”

“There’s a joke about a match with a face and an ass. — Got a match? Your face. My ass.”

“That’s sophomoric!”

I didn’t mean to say that out loud. Remember to keep your inside voice in your head.

“Maybe being sophomoric keeps my hair young.”

“Coloring your hair keeps your hair young.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You’ll have to tell me who colors your hair.”

“God!”

“You’ll have to give me his number,” she says.

“I’d be happy to make an appointment for you.”

Dysfunctional wife, mother, parent of mutt. Lifelong ADDer and loser of stuff. Occasionally, find my keys in the refrigerator. Visit Lauren at ThinkSpin.com
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Dysfunctional wife, mother, parent of mutt. Lifelong ADDer and loser of stuff. Occasionally, find my keys in the refrigerator. Visit Lauren at ThinkSpin.com

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