Since the season started on January 5, Jake has been sending girls home—the ones he doesn’t want to f—k or make babies with, except for Rozyln Papa—the one ABC sent home for sleeping with one of the show’s producers. She’s coming back tonight. Perhaps she’ll spread her lips and let us in on all the hooha she had while the cameras weren’t rolling.

The camera’s however, were rolling when kitty-cute Ali Fedotowsky sent herself home. She made it sound like her employer gave her an ultimatum—Jake or your marketing job. She chose work over love. Wise move.

In the Women Tell All special, all of the lovely ladies will get a chance to confront Jake about their booted bootie before they disappear into obscurity.

If only rejected job candidates had a chance to confront prospective employers. I think we need to give job seekers that opportunity so they can improve on their deficits. After all, trial and error works for employment situations as it does for rocket science (and love).

Since rejected job seekers didn’t get The Job, it’d be great to watch them say what’s on their mind as if they were aiming their discontent at someone they had hoped to develop a relationship with.

If it were me, I’d say,

“I came here for the right reasons, and there are job candidates here that did not. I know that for a fact. You didn’t even give me a chance.”

“I’m disappointed because you’re a company that I definitely could see myself joining.”

“I’m pretty competitive. I don’t like to lose. We’re all after the same job, and that’s just a cat fight waiting to happen.”

However, in the end, getting feelings off our chest will only make us feel better. They won’t change a situation that wasn’t meant to be.

But that’s okay because sometimes we need to feel better on the inside to move on on the outside.

On a normal weekend, I usually get about 8.

Before the big snowstorm hit Friday evening, I got to go home early from work. I enjoyed sipping a glass of wine and watching all the fluffy frosty flakes fall from the sky.

The next morning, I felt like Alice in Winterland—Jack Frost nipping at my toes and a whole lot more. I wanted to make snow angels.

Then, I looked outside. Horrors to find so much snow covering the walkway, sidewalk and my ex husband’s new used car. I shoveled for a good long while before I realized I needed a different strategy. Then, two strong men trudged by.

I did my damsel in distress thing. Try it girls, it really works! I got my walks cleared in no time.

I realized I needed to take out the trash and clean the kitty litter since I have a no-pets-go-outside policy in cold weather. Not enough men see my best lingerie, so I took out the trash to give the boys a show. But they were a no show. Must have been the weather, I guess.

I went back inside to do some housework, because work outside the office doesn’t stop. I feather dusted the fireplace mantel and set out some cooking in anticipation of a St. Nick reprise. But he was a no show, too.

So, I waited to see if some beeswax I had ordered to make a specialty cosmetic would arrive. This is what I wore when I saw that hunky FedEx guy brave the storm to knock on my door. I don’t know why they call that guy Abominable; he was the best snowman I ever had.

I can’t wait for the next big snowstorm to hit.

Now, tell me, how did you spend your weekend in the snow?

That’s because snow presents serious questions.

The bigger the snowstorm, the more serious the questions.

There are job-related questions: Will my office close? Will I get to leave early? Should I work like crazy and get as much work done as possible, or should I take it home?

I see parallels between that last question and my dating life. Should I go out tonight and get as much sex in as possible, or should I cancel and wait for another opportunity?

I can’t take sex home because I’m trapped in my house with my ex husband (recession victims who can’t afford separate digs). The only sex I can take home is me, and I think I can do better than that, though I am a lot of fun!

So, what to do?

I feel good about boiling my life down to simple pleasures because it really does come down to work and sex. Yes, I know we need to eat, and there’s plenty of time for that, too.

We wouldn’t have TV reality shows such as The Biggest Loser if people could keep their hands out of their mouth. We also wouldn’t need Planned Parenthood if people practiced abstinence (god forbid). And we wouldn’t need jobs if we lived like aborigines or were Paris Hilton.

But life is only simple in our minds.

In reality, life is complex and complicated. Why am I still living with my ex husband? Why are my tween boys challenging authority and playing video games for hours on end? Why don’t I go home to see my aging parents? Why can’t I save enough money to move? Why are fires romantic (They seem a lot of work to me.)? Why do I have a lipstick fetish?

As the snow falls, Ann will think big as she reaches for her Bluetooth vibrator and a hot buttered rum as her mind drifts from reality to what really matters—the simple pleasures in life. Won’t you join her?

I wondered how they knew that until I realized it must be data coming from those new magnetic scanning devices at airports.

“Look, Bob, she’s obviously a 34C, but she’s wearing a 36B. What an idiot.”

I readily admit that I love my lingerie. Buying it, wearing it, even washing it makes me happy. The best part is having a man take it off. To me, this is always a huge test of virility.

If a guy can reach back and unhook it with one hand, then he is suave and debonair and a good match for me. If he’s fumbling with two hands, I feel like tossing him his clothing and opening the door, shouting “next!” into the hallway.

A bra figures prominently in one of my best adventure stories. In college I worked on the newspaper and I sort of hooked up, to use the modern term, with a guy who picked me up at a bar I hung out at. Hey, this was the 1980s. We didn’t have Internet and masturbation hadn’t been invented yet.

He was fun and funny and we had a romp in his room, but he didn’t ask for my number or anything. Confused by this and constrained by the etiquette of the day, in which apparently I could f—k him yet not ask for his phone number, I left my bra behind.

I must have done this in some futile hope he would call me back to his room to retrieve it, and it worked out that way. He ran an ad in the student newspaper to Miss 34b asking if she missed her 34b. I replied. He invited me over to get it and, this is unlike me, I went braless since after all it was a bra I was retrieving.

As you can imagine, I got all I came for and more. I don’t think 10 entire seconds went by before he had my shirt up and pants down. That may have been the only time in my entire collegiate career that I had sex without any alcohol.

But back to size. My exercise program finally presented me with a huge breakthrough achievement. I got my top measurement down to 32. Men may not view this as an accomplishment, but it really is.

Now most petites are a perfect fit. My cup size has also gone down. The guys who get a testosterone rush when they see those top-heavy DD girls weren’t coming my way anyhow. Now I feel like I fit.

If only there were a way to feel like I fit at work.

My breasts, of course, are tied down and lashed into place. Neither of my nipples has seen where I work and they never will. If only I could go to a company I wanted to work for, leave a bra in the conference room, and be seen by the president as I dashed from the building. He would run an ad, inviting me to come in and try it on to prove it was mine, and then instead of asking me to be his queen, he would ask me if I wanted to manage the company’s most important division from the corner office at a huge salary.

That’s what Cinderella really should have gotten, not some lousy throne.

It’s not a cartoon creature or an avatar. Instead, it is comprised of video clips of a real (yes, very sexy) girl who talks to you. Press her button and she says things men want to hear: “Anything that makes you happy, makes me happy,” “I love your family, especially your mom,” and “you look so cute when you first wake up in the morning.”

If you shake the iPhone, she says things, such as, “Are we dancing?” “Shake it baby!” and “Are we having a party?”

I couldn’t resist recording a few customized phrases to add to her repertoire; “Not so loud you’ll wake up the baby,” “Did you fart or did I?” and “Oh yes, yes, now put your left leg around there and reach all the way around and touch me over there with your, ohhh, that’s it,” and “Oh honey, the kitchen is farther away from you than I want to be. Let’s order take out again.”

And I recorded a few that were specific to the individual involved that I cannot, unfortunately, share with you here. We got a few hours worth of entertainment out of it, laughed, ate, drank, went to sleep.

A good time was had by all.

And now he gets to take his Pocket Me around with him, probably to show off to men at work. If I only knew how to rebuild the app with my image rather than that young little skanky hoe they’ll be leering at. It should be me.

I realize this thing has great promise for other circumstances. Men only have a limited number of things to ask of girlfriends, so creating a virtual one that’s more amusing than intelligent is an easy challenge.

What about at work?

Do my bosses and co-workers really ask me an unlimited number of questions, or is there a subset of everything that gets used over and over again?

The iPhone can’t actually do my job, but it could talk about it with some accuracy. In my Pocket Personnel, the woman is wearing a business suit, of course, maybe glasses and hair up in a bun in a sexy librarian look—the sort of straight arrow who could become a porn star at any moment.

She says things like “I can have that for you by the end of the day,” and “I think my compensation is right where it should be. There are so many others who need a raise more than I do,” “Of course I can work evenings and weekends if it is for the good of the company,” and “I am skipping lunch and not getting up from this desk until we meet that deadline.”

I have been a business owner in the past so I know that these phrases make supervisors hot, and they generate longing and desire.

The trouble is that, as the Pocket Girlfriend, if I satisfy my man I usually also get satisfied.

When I satisfy my boss, I am almost always left completely unsatisfied.

If a man even attempts to ask, “Do I look fat in this?” I know he’s not suave enough to be the guy for me. If he demurs, proving he has a strong sense of self-preservation, I will eventually ask him, “Was your last girlfriend as pretty as me?”

Anything other than “no,” and he’s history.

If he asks me, “Your place or mine?” then he just clearly hasn’t been paying attention since he is not coming to my house unless he makes house repairs for free, or wants to meet my ex husband, who lives with me.

The other question that drives me crazy is, “Was it good for you?” If you have to ask, bub, then something went wrong. You should be able to tell.

Only a complete idiot would ask, “Have you had plastic surgery?” (I haven’t, but are you buying?), “How many times have you been married?” (Twice, but please let me bring that up.), or “What kind of car do you drive?” (I have no car and, no, I don’t want to talk about that either).

Of course, those are questions that are governed by politeness and a man’s ever-deliberate drive to get laid.

It is better that a man be courteous and respectful, of course, but if that’s too much to ask, you’d think at least he’d consider the impact of stupid questions on the course of our date or relationship.

At work, on the other hand, the forbidden questions are banished, not just by custom but by law. In a job interview, they can’t ask, “Are you married?” or “Do you have any pre-existing medical conditions we should know about?”

Once you’re in the workplace only a complete fool—though an honest one—would ask me: “Would you unbutton one more button on that blouse?” or even “Would you like to get a drink with me after work?”

There is a guy who is usually in the lunchroom when I am, and he can’t seem to come up with anything to say to me other than “Are you going to finish that?” I find that to be a truly loathsome question. I hate everything about it. I tell him “yes,” and when he leaves, I throw the rest of my food away. I mean, really.

Many questions have no meaning. “How are you?” is a rote greeting. The question mark is superfluous. “Do you want to dance?” has almost been rendered obsolete. You want to dance?   So dance. I try not to ask myself, “what did I do to deserve this?” although it is in my head all the time.

My favorite ridiculous question of all time is at the end of a relationship. Like all women, I ask “Can we still be friends?”

Don’t bother to get stressed by this one guys, the answer doesn’t matter at all.

I can send things back to be rewritten, or make extensive comments. The office hierarchy presents itself again, but in a somewhat perverse and unexpected way.

If someone in the middle range of the salary ladder is extensively edited they’re likely to respond with hostility. Who am I, a lowly temp, to change what they’ve written?

They can resist changes but then, of course, they produce a product that could have been much better. The higher ups are more responsive to direction and criticism. I suppose because they are more secure in themselves and their jobs, and they are so pressed for time that they’re happy to have my help.

With them I can edit at will, even if it means dropping whole paragraphs and radically restructuring their document. They’re usually pleased with the result, and no one in the executive suite has ever taken umbrage with my suggestions.

You also learn how far you can go being less than supportive, even critical, of men. But men are quite different than working with words on a page. In a relationship, sometimes I find them loving and caring; other times their pit-bull nature rears, and all I do is just want to run away.

I haven’t yet learned to think like a man, though I’m learning, for whatever that’s worth. I learning that the essence of life for men is what stands between their legs and not between their shoulders. That it’s really that simple, and women shouldn’t probe for a deeper explanation.

If that is truly the case, then I will get on my knees and pray for an honest explanation.

Monday, on ABC, has apparently become “‘Marry Me” day, with a line up of The Bachelor followed by the new Conveyor Belt of Love (the new low).

Don’t let your imagination run away from you as the men do as they literally move down a human-size convey0r belt (what do you think that cost?) before four women raise a paddle that says “Interested” or “Not Interested” after the guys—one by one—seek to impress the ladies in less than 30 seconds.

This is when 30 seconds really count, when your masculinity is about to get skewered.

I think the networks are on to something. If Monday is Marry Me day then why can’t we have Hire Me Tuesday? The networks can use the same silly antics.

A casting director would pick a potential pool of job seekers who would be given a chance to impress a panel of hiring managers. They’d also have about 30 seconds to say or do whatever they think will resonate with the managers.

The hiring managers would also have paddles that said “Interested” and “Not Interested” rather than “You’re Hired!” I mean, what if the person turned out to be really weird, not like they aren’t already.

Once all of the managers picked a potential hiree, they would then take them out on dates as the ladies do on Conveyor Belt of Love. Nothing too involved or what happens on The Bachelor, which is high-seas fantasy, such as using a Pirates-of-the-Caribbean-type sailboat, compared to a 30′ sloop on the cheaper-costing Belt reality show.

We’d see snippets of their date-for-hire dates to see if there was a “job connection.” If that turned out to be the case, they’d be on their own to pursue more interviews, presumably in a more office-type setting rather than on the winking seas on a hot, sunny afternoon.

The end is rather predictable, so I’ll leave it to your imagination on what it would feel like to move down a conveyor belt like a hunk of meat and be inspected by people who will determine your fate.

That doesn’t seem too far off from reality in these modern economic times if you do have a job, now does it?

This has recently become a pressing question for me.

However bad things are, I’m always on guard for signs that life will get worse.

Without succumbing to negativity, I find myself preparing to hit bottom, and then for the bottom to fall out and sink even further to some new and deeper bottom.

But thankfully, miraculously, the bottom has not hit, at least not for me. My contract has been extended yet again—providing me with monetary fulfillment to mid-February. I’m not sure what happens after that. I’ve learned not to take anything for granted, which is both a good and bad way of living.

While I feel economy-wise about life, I don’t like always being on my guard that something’s bad about to happen, and it’s shaken my trust in employer-employee relationships. Nothing is secure.

Living in Washington, D.C., I’ve been socked by snow this past weekend and suffered a minor setback. The office I’m under contract with closed down today, leaving me without a day’s pay. But I stayed productive, cleaning the house, making soup and bread, and wrapping gifts for Christmas.

One of my stupid cats meowed incessantly to go outside. What a fool. I let him out. He frolicked in the snow a bit, sinking to his neck, then scurried back in, only to start meowing again. He just doesn’t get it.

I also was the best ex wife today. I dug out my ex husband’s car. He bought one a few days before his contract was terminated. I guess he didn’t see it coming.

In the New Year, my principle objective is to get out of my basement apartment and away from the house I grudgingly share with him, which varies from intolerable to tolerable but doesn’t ever get any better than that.

So I hit control-alt-delete, rebooted, and am now seeing a wonderful man who adores me. I’ll leave it at that for now.

I also have my health, sort of. Mental anguish is wearing me down. I have my girlish figure, youthful appearance, my grace and élan. Men look at me, their eyes follow me, and they come up and hit on me.

My kids are more or less well, although in need of considerable attention these days. I tell them nothing, but they can sense my psychological pain and foreboding.

Thank God I have some money coming in, at least for now. But while I have hopes for the New Year, I also have strong premonitions that I will find a fulltime job. That would be the end of bottom, I hope.

That’s right. If you’re not working, you’re jerking (off), or is that making your own beef jerky. I wouldn’t have known.

No turkey for Christmas, and you can’t afford lamb. Forget the HoneyBaked Ham. Time to glaze your own.

We should all be so lucky to be billionaire golfer Tiger Woods. He may have put himself in a position (okay, maybe a few) that has cost him some endorsements, but he’s not out on the street with a couch by the curb because of an eviction.

While some people say you should be thankful for your health, I say millions of American still pine for wealth.

So your “in list” may be my “out list,” but if there’s one thing we can agree on let it be more sex before text! Yahoo! Who cares what that means. But if you can’t figure it out, then it’s time you read Ann’s List.