It takes a while to be good and take off the extra pounds. But once you get on a roll, you begin to stick with the program, with an occasional fall.

When you have so little money, it’s hard to start saving. That might not make any sense or may even come off as an oxymoron, especially for someone who’s supposed to be retiring into middle age.

The start of my job last month has given me a steady income and a reason to save, and that’s a good thing. The problem: Piles of debt I’ve accumulated over the last 15 months and how to snow blow them away.

My debt is not insurmountable. My credit card debt is way less than $10,000, and I could almost pay it off. My other problem is that I need to use the money to pay taxes on the miscellaneous income I earned last year.

Although I imagine I’m a grain of sand in a desert of debtors across this land, I don’t want to invite the Internal Revenue Service (IRS) to come down on me.

This is the first year in more than a decade that I’ll be doing my own taxes, as a divorced mom. So, I’ve started to explore the merits of do-it-yourself tax preparation services. From the reviews I’ve read, Turbo Tax has received the highest marks.

[The IRS will do your taxes for free if you make less than $49,000, but you need to visit your local IRS office to get the help. Find out more.]

You get to try Turbo Tax out—for free—meaning that the software program will prepare your taxes for you online, and if you want to file the results you need to cough up the cost of the program. I’m exploring the home business version because it’s meant for people who’ve piddled at different jobs throughout the year and/or collected unemployment.

So far, it’s been pretty easy to use. The best thing is that you can start, stop and save what you’ve done if you need to gather more information. I’m at the point of calculating all of my business expenses from the past year.

While Ann is much better at spending money than saving, her timely tax tip for this year is to label 10 standard white envelopes with the month and year. During a given month, put all all of your receipts that you’d like to take deductions against in the proper envelope. That way it’s not so overwhelming when you have to sort them at the end of the year.

I don’t know if mine will add up to anything worthwhile, but it’s worth a shot to find out. Just like it’s worth a shot to start saving.

That “Waterweld” stuff really works for a girl handyman job, I thought with a smug smile.

Though the neck of my faucet now looks like it has a gray growth on it (Waterweld doesn’t come in makeup-hip colors), I can overlook that, just like the big hole in the ceiling and the inoperable microwave that my ex tried to fix but abandoned once he realized that the part he needed cost oodles more than the $5 wrong part he ordered.

You see, having lost my job more than a year ago (Ditto for my ex, whom I still live with for financial reasons.), I can overlook a lot, including the potato bugs in my bathroom, which have nothing to do with home repairs. They, like my homeless-looking home, remind me of my sorry state of affairs.

The neck of my faucet, the victim of age and wear, deteriorated at the seams. For months, it has sprayed water onto the cheap backsplash the former homeowners had installed.

The backsplash is tile, but they just clipped the tile to fit rather than find the proper size or even use bull nose tile to finish off the edges. I had, or I should say still have, grunge growing on the back of my sink from the months of water squirting on it. The other girl fix, which actually lasted a while, was using metal (I think) electrical tape to plug the hole.

The kluge fixes I now do around the house, when I feel the inclination to do any, come down to an “it-will-have-to-do-for-now” attitude because of my jobless (read: poor) state of affairs. The back yard also needs work. It looks naked (no grass, just lots of mud).

Everything could use a good home lift, but I’m not counting on ABC’s Extreme Makeover, Home Edition to rescue the house joining the Earth like food scraps in a compost heap.

I didn’t let my vagina run wild and produce a dozen or so kids, and I wasn’t born with some awful medical condition that puts, say, a third boob on my chest. (I guess if I were a guy and had a second dick I’d be praising the Lord.) Those are the kinds of people Extreme Makeover picks. So, I doubt I’d qualify. (But follow this link to get an application.)

In the meantime, I’ll be turning a blind eye toward everything that needs fixin’. I’d rather look in the mirror and think about what it would be like to have a third boob, or any boobs for that matter.

I look forward to buying paperwhite narcissus bulbs, white stones and some pots. Even with a minimal amount of water and attention you get flowers on your desk or table pretty quickly, as well as the pungent odor that announces their maturity.

I have never liked calling this process “forcing.” Surely, it would be better to call it “coaxing,” or “enticing” or “accelerating.”

Except for perhaps a tiny minority, no one likes to be forced. Do they?

By far, I am happiest when exercising my will through the power of no. If it is not to my liking, I simply refuse to do something. But using that negative force requires that someone, somewhere, initiate something that I can slam my veto stamp down upon or merely walk away from.

Whether a process is fluid, natural and mutual or is a matter of domination depends on free will, which I feel I have precious little of these days.

I don’t want to be forced to take a job that is beneath my talents and salary history, but to pay my bills I have to. I don’t want to have to write and rewrite my resume to the point that it is a challenge to find the actual, verifiable truth in there, but I am forced to by the brutal job market.

I don’t want to go back and contact people in my past in the nearly futile hope one will lead me to a job, but circumstances force me to.

I don’t want to be forced to move out of the house so that my ex husband and I no longer have to share the house, but it is the only plausible step ahead in this agonizing process of splitting up.

This week, the week I’m off kid duty, I decided to spend my time someplace else, which means that I’m not seeing my children as much as before. That will change, however, when I’m back on kid-duty this Sunday. This new arrangement forces clarity on how I spend my precious time with them.

In order to pay the bills, I probably will be forced to rent the apartment I’ve been living in, forcing me to pack and move my belongings.

The narcissus bulb doesn’t know it is being forced, but I do. It just knows it is being brought to life so it can flower. Perhaps, in time, this painful interregnum between households will bring me beauty in sight and scent.

For now, however, all I feel is force.

I say, “Bad move.” But how can I begrudge him a little hanky panky.

I’m also getting out of town. But I’ll be with someone I’ve known for a while.

The kid’s pregnant babysitter is coming over to take care of them. I’ve left a bottle of apple-grape sparkling juice in the fridge for them to watch the famous New Year’s Eve Ball descend from the flagpole in Times Square. I even  whipped up a batch of glazed sugar cookies and made cinnamon rolls with frosting.

This is the third New Year’s I’ve been away. I don’t want to recall last year’s because I was with the guy in California who dumped me. I decided to google his name to see what he’s been up to.

I can say with conviction that even though I have it rough and am under financial stress, it sure beats fighting a custody battle over a 4-year-old love child at the age of 64.

His story in a pecan shell: Sixtyish-something retired millionaire picks up 30-something African chick on the sidewalk in South Beach. Affair ensues and so does a pregnancy. His wife files for divorce. Marriage ends, and African chick digs in gold heels to extort him.

She won’t work, despite a college degree. African chick then files suit to move back with toddler to live with her mom in New York City.

She loses and now has taken her case public with a website and petition to free her from Marin County. She’s got to be his worst nightmare.

I’m glad I’m not part of that relationship anymore.

Moral: If you plan to get loose tonight and ring in the New Year with some hanky panky—use protection, whether you’re unemployed or a millionaire.

That said, let’s re-visit my ole’ homeless pal Phillip for condom-buying advice on the best brands. See On the Job, On the Prowl Advice.

Please enjoy her take on “The Night Before Christmas.”

Twas the morning of Christmas, I just downed an ale;
I grabbed Victoria’s Secrets to see what was on sale;
Panties, bras and a tawdry pink nightgown;
But I still can’t afford them despite the big markdowns.

I painted my nails red to celebrate the season.
Just couldn’t think of a better reason.
I’ll make up my face and suspend all my troubles;
For the next 10 days I’ll live in a makebelieve bubble.

I’m thankful to shelter the ex, kids and three cats,
Even though my former husband thinks I’m a dingbat.
With no full-time job in a year, I’m still reeling from shock;
It’s hard to stop for long and really take stock.

The mortgage can’t wait, and so can’t the bills.
No place to hide during winter’s big chill.
I’ve got a contract to carry me through another two months;
Then I’ll feel the weight of the next money crunch.

My advice is to take time for some sex—though hard as that seems—
Enjoy your adult toys and kids’ laughter and dreams.
I’ll take a moment out now, sneak out of the house,
No one will hear me except my ex spouse.

Hear the oohs, feel the warmth, light up with the glow
Of an orgasm so peaceful it beats new fallen snow:
Peace, love and goodwill, and hope burning bright.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

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.

Last week, we bought a tree, and I got my two children a few small presents. What they really want for Christmas is an Xbox 360 Elite, and they’ve saved up their own money to buy one.

That’s the good news, as twisted as it seems. Your kids buying their own Christmas presents.

The bad news: My ex husband, whom I live with, abruptly lost his contract job this week, a job that had been paying the mortgage and all of the other bills excepts my son’s school tuition. I have been paying for that with my contract job, which expires at the end of this month.

My younger son is also experiencing mental health problems. He wakes up crying and doesn’t want to go to school. He says, “It feels like a sad house.”

I prefer not to write about my children in any great detail because it’s too personal.

We are trying to hold it together like so many other families who have lost their means of income and don’t qualify for a mortgage workout under President Obama’s plan to save homeowner’s from losing their American Dream.

I am still in the phase of processing my ex’s bad news, and we don’t know what we’re going to do.

He thought his contract job would lead to a full-time job. His confidence led him to buy a used car, which he financed. Of course, the car dealership won’t take it back after less than seven days of owning it. It told him to sell it to pay off the loan. Thanks.

We feel that losing our house would be catastrophic for so many reasons, the most important one being the stability of our children’s mental health, which seems more fragile than a crystal goblet left outside to break on a windy day.

I’ll continue to shield my children for as along as possible and keep my fingers crossed that my ex will find something between now and the end of the year, even if it just temporary seasonal work.

Knowing that there are others like me out there offers some comfort that I’m not alone. But I know less than a handful of them. The rest are as faceless as numbers on a flashcard, much like the U.S. Bureau of Labor’s report on the rising ranks of the unemployed.

And we have no car. The family Volvo was totaled while parked on a residential street almost a year ago.

We’re single now, what with the divorce and all, and we both date.

Thankfully, he and I are both protective of our children. In the last two years, we’ve each only introduced one significant (S.O.) other to them after we’d been going out with the S.O. for about half a year.

So our kids don’t usually meet the boyfriend or the girlfriend. They do, however, often meet their cars. The kids observe our social lives by what is parked in front of our house—cars loaned to us by lovers.

My ex started this, pulling up in front of the house in a little red Mini Cooper. Cute car. I had to ask him where he got it, and he somewhat tersely answered, “girlfriend.”  He drove that around for a while.

A few months went by before I noticed a BMW sports car parked outside. “Beautiful car,” I told him, thinking he’d finally bought a new car. He looked at me and laughed. “Girlfriend,” he said.

I imagined the women that went with these cars. The first was clever and quick-witted. The other was fast, racy, definitive, maybe a little ostentatious. That they were both too young for him went without saying.

I delivered this news to my boyfriend, who has three  cars. I didn’t say it outright, but I’m sure he got the idea that to loan me one of them. The Smart Car was impractical for carpooling the kids to school.

That left the Ford Expedition and the Jaguar XKR, which he had just bought. He offered the Ford. It wasn’t ideal but would do the job and thrill the kids.

What did it say about the man that went with it?  No children, a boy in love with his toys?

I didn’t care what it said so long as when I parked it out front I could just say to my incredulous ex— “boyfriend.”

He won’t titillate me with what he heard. I asked.

And, I can’t, won’t, provide a rundown of the possible details.

Purse dialing is akin to “butt dialing.” Maybe you’ve seen the commercials: Boy sits on couch with his Blackberry mobile phone in his back pocket. It secretly dials a friend (in the commercials a wife or girlfriend) and the significant other answers saying, “Hello Butt.”

Well, my Blackberry dials from its case in my purse, and I have no idea when this happens, which I think is more realistic than the butt-dialing commercials.

If I were on the other end of the receiving line, like my ex was, I’d listen in, too. I’m hoping that the conversation—or whatever he heard—was muffled enough so as not to disclose the intimacy (or whatever) of what was going on. But I’m too shy to pry and will just leave it as that.

Let’s just say I’m, er, we’re, blazing new divorce territory,and there’s nothing like taking your ex with you on a date!

Good or bad, it sucks, and I’m unsure of the next turn in the road other than it’s got to be the right turn.

If I have any more wrong turns, I’ll want to be the turkey that’s cooked this Thanksgiving. Just make sure you baste me with Kitchen Bouquet so that I look robust brown (not one of those blond, cafeteria-style birds).

Ugg (and I wished I had a pair).

He (my ex) did go on to describe a scene in the Showtime hit, Californication, about a fornification scene involving two characters and how they were making more noise by throwing furniture than two other characters in another room. The point; to get the other two characters to stop having sex.

That is an abbreviated summary of what happened. But I don’t think it matters.

You get the point, or at least I think I do. Why would he be bringing up that scene if it didn’t relate to reality. Just to tease me? Well, maybe, and I think that’d be the right answer.

Griffin stars in the The D-List, which refers to her self-proclaimed celebrity status, not her cup size.

Griffin is beginning to grow on me because of her honesty with where she stands in life. She knows—and admits—that she is not a box office sensation like actor George Clooney.

Yes, well, as I was saying, Griffin’s candor resonates with me. As job seekers, what list would we be on? Certainly, anyone who’s been unemployed for as long as me—nearly a year—would fall well below The D-List. But I think the name works just fine because for the jobless it would stand for The Dumped List.

We are still a growing league, and I fear that I will slide further down The D-List in the weeks ahead.

This Saturday marks my one-year anniversary since being laid-off, and I fear that my contract job will end without an offer of full-time employment.

The thought of losing my temporary job knocks my mind back to the shabby treatment I received from my last full-time job. It has left irreparable emotional damage and fractured my belief in a familial work environment.

Nothing like that will happen this time.

The timing, however, is bittersweet because the end of my contract job, which fills me with happiness, is likely to align close to the day I was laid-off a year ago. That’s what’s making me feel edgy.

I don’t know what it’s like to work in a company that’s on a list of the best companies to work for. Even if I got a job at one, I’d still be skeptical because of lingering emotional trauma from my last job.

I applaud some of the companies on Fortune’s list because they shifted employees to less productive offices rather than lay them off. Even reducing hours is better than no hours at all when faced with a budget crunch.

As for me, I will continue to make the best contribution I can as I seek to move on emotionally and move out of my basement apartment and into a place where I can see the flowers again from my window.