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.

While the bad part of our lives don’t change at the core, we somehow manage to hone the surface to make them look okay; sometimes even great.

Used car dealers are good at this. They can take a damaged car, even when structural integrity of the car is compromised, and make it look like it rolled off a factory showroom.

Thankfully, we have services, such as Carfax, to help us determine an automobile’s history and make a wise-buying decision.

Unfortunately, no comparable service exists to examine a person’s life and whether their history shows any deficits, but I’m sure the day is coming.

Increasingly, employers use a panoply of tools to check out potential employees—background and credit checks, the Internet, verifying degrees and certifications. The list goes on and on.

The next thing you know they’ll be asking new hires to donate a pint of blood to screen for infectious diseases.

The tools employers use are also available to daters, but I don’t think many of us go beyond googling someone’s name to examine their digital hygiene.

I know I don’t, and it sort of becomes a game to dig for information when the first and second pages of a search-engine results don’t turn up much.

When we find incidents of indiscretion, misbehavior or both, should we eschew that person and move on to the next? When you’re married and that happens, family counselors urge us to forgive. Sometimes, employers do it but only when they have time and money already vested in an employee.

I can’t think of one example where an employer went through and hired a person after discovering bad credit or a criminal record. To be honest, it would be hard for me not to align my values with an employer if I learned that I’d be going out with a man who, for example, beat his ex wife.

Such situations beg the question, “Do people deserve a second chance?”

As we enter the season of giving, let me say that forgiving may be this season’s best gift. That’s because it might be the one gift that will give back to you in ways that money never will.

Someone blew the whistle on my online dating profile for posting a fetching photo that showed a halo of a nipple.

It was barely showing. You can’t decide for yourself (see photo below).

The consequence: The dating site deleted my picture and sent me a scathing email that warned me not to do it again—or else.

The warning said: “If any of these rules are violated again, your account(s) will be removed from our website permanently.”

I’d hardly say that the photo falls within the realm of nudity.

I mean, have you taken a look at The Huffington Post’s Celebrity Skin site?

Here you’ll find pictures that would otherwise be declined for approval, or worse, deleted from your online dating account, and I seriously doubt you’d do the braless look for that all-important, once-in-a-lifetime job interview.

But they’re okay if you’re a celebrity, or even close to being one. All you need is some boobs or a belief that animal fur is a bad thing—then you can pose in the nude for People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals with your body parts strategically covered by a hand (not always your own).

Scrolling down the homepage of The Post’s site, I read the headline question, “Who Do You Think Should Pose for Playboy?”

The answer seems rather rhetorical to me.

I ask, Do you really think it would be anyone without big breasts, such as uni-model Agyness Deyn?

I imagine that jealously reins with the online dating police who think that those with clear, soft skin have an un-hair advantage.

Psssst. Ever hear of GiGi Honey Wax?

Still, it’s not like these whistle blowers can file a qui tam action like employees can do when their company does bad things. If the only bad thing I’ve done is show the skin I’m in, then I’m guilty.

Ann Powers Appears on Fox Business Happy Hour to Discuss the Manifesto.

ANN’S NOTE: I decided to post the manifesto early given the outpouring of support and response I received from my appearance on the Fox Business Happy Hour yesterday. Tune in to NPR affiliate the Louisiana Radio Network at 10:45 AM EST on Labor Day to hear me speak more about it. Read the manifesto through Labor Day.

Manifesto of the Idle Workers of the World

We are more than 15 million individuals in the prime of our lives who have lost our place in the world of work. We call upon our representatives on Capitol Hill to help us directly, rather than assisting our institutions first in the hope that their recovery might also bring us along.

We declare ourselves too big to fail. But we are being pushed by circumstance from the comfortable middle-class to the terrified middle-class, and from the working poor to the hopeless poor. We have lost our savings, retirement, and, in many cases, our monthly income to sustain our lives. We fear homelessness and a loss of stability as we struggle with rebuilding our assets.

We can and will help ourselves. We take jobs for which we are over qualified. We work longer hours. We work odd jobs. We downgrade our lifestyles. We deny our children their birthday gifts and vacations. We try to educate ourselves to the options for cure and take positive steps every day.

But still our financial standing degrades, and we feel the journey of recovery will be long, and we will cry and stumble.

Despite the names chosen by officialdom to describe us, we are not displaced, dislocated, discouraged, disadvantaged, disaffected or disgruntled.

Instead, we are disappointed and disillusioned that the financial condition of our households is of secondary consideration to the economic stabilization of huge Wall Street financial firms, curiously declaring their own recovery just months after calling themselves near death.

Last month, six of the seven biggest financial institutions reported quarterly profits that surpassed expectations, despite deteriorating loans on many of their balance sheets. Many of us, however, teeter closer to foreclosure, find ourselves in distressed sales or evicted from our homes.

We are distressed that the $787 billion American Recovery and Reinvestment Act has money to keep us unemployed for longer but not to get us back to work. In July, one in three unemployed individuals were jobless for 27 weeks or more. And, the number of workers who have stopped looking for a job rose to 796,000, up 335,000 over the past 12 months.

We feel disrespected that our government has committed trillions of dollars to get the nation moving again. Yet, we can see no change in our own daily lives.

Has any of this $1.5 trillion bought a single Happy Meal for an unhappy family? Has it sent the creditors that hound us by telephone into silence by making a mortgage or credit card payment for us? Has it bought us groceries or paid the utility or insurance or tax bills? Has it paid for our health insurance?

On this Labor Day, we declare that we are lost, lonely and forgotten, but that we vow to become loud, united and forceful so we will claim our rightful place at the center of the political debate. The body politic is seriously diseased if those of us who have been the very backbone of U.S. prosperity can be left without direct assistance when we are facing the loss of our homes, careers and all the possessions we need to maintain a safe home for our children.

Patience is no longer the order of the day. There is a rabble to be roused, virtual signs to be made and held up, marches, petitions, visits, phone calls and every manner of communications used to say to the public authorities now it is our turn. Now you must save us.

Yet, sometimes I feel I alienate because others think I’m a snob. But I’m not.

Nonetheless, I don’t know what some of my male suitors are thinking when they email me like a bolt from the blue. Honestly, I don’t know how they find me on these online dating sites. I’m never listed in the “top 25 females” and frankly don’t want to be because the pictures that put them there seem kinda slutty to me.

Moreover, I really think that my future relationship will be with someone who’s in my desirable geographic location, or DGL. I mean, when I look for a job, I don’t want to schlepp to the hinterlands of Woodbridge, Va., or Gaithersburg, Md., especially if it’s not on a Metro line.

Ann’s Refresher Course: She lost her car, an aging Volvo, before the big holiday of Saint Nick in 2008 and has been unable to replace it. Someone kareemed into her car and fled, leaving her to deal with the aftermath.

In any event, keeping transportation time down to a minimum is important.

Second, if you’re not qualified to take me out, then don’t ask. And, this is where the alienation piece comes in. Okay, I’m not perfect, and I’ve made several mistakes in my past that I regret but which I haven’t repeated. I mentioned this before, but I gained a lot of weight (50 pounds) when I was in my 30s and felt miserable. That was more than 20 years ago, and I ain’t repeatin’ that one. I emphasize completely with anyone who’s had a weight problem.

But look at me now. I don’t think I have one, and I don’t want to date someone who tells me that he has gained a lot of weight after a bad breakup. Someone in that situation needs to unpack the pounds, not for me but for themself.

I understand that it’s not easy. Do you think I enjoy going to the gym or pool three to four days a week? I don’t. I’d rather sip a Pinot Noir on the deck, but I exercise instead because it makes me feel better. To continue the analogy, do you think I enjoy working more than a 9-to-5 job? Not really, but I’ve done (and will still do) it if there is upside to the downside.

Third, I’m seeking a certain quality in my life that can only be afforded by securing an executive position, which I’m qualified for and am close to getting. So, I don’t want to work as a secretary or in a bar, just like I don’t want to live in a rickety old wooden houseboat because it’s “romantic” (yah, on the first night). A 54-footer works with a detailed, wooden interior. And, if it’s bigger, with a crew, well, I can deal with that.

While money can’t buy you love—or a job—it can buy happiness, to a point. The two are as intertwined as the roots of a Wisteria vine and create sacrifices when one predominates. Will you seek (gamble on) love or keep your money? For many guys, greener pastures lie with their wallet, not with their heart.

I’m beginning to view new relationships in terms of goals and deadlines, similar to the annual performance review. With a job, you’re forced to disclose—in writing—your goals to your supervisor and HR.

The deadline for achieving them is your end-of-the-year review, which means you’ve got to set benchmarks throughout the year if you plan on achieving them.

With a relationship, I don’t need to disclose anything to anyone but myself. I can set my own deadlines, and they can be much shorter in scope. I don’t need to give a relationship a year to see if it’s for the long term.

And, I won’t settle for average performance. While performing in the average range may keep you your job, my leg is already swinging forward to give a good, swift kick, because it’s not good enough to keep a man in my life.

Frankly, I’m not sure anymore whether I need a long-term relationship, or a series of companionships, that nuture me long term. Maybe I’ve been reading too many relationship books, but I’m opening my mind to the possibility that humans are not like black swans and don’t mate for life.

The baggage of my childhood agrees with the wedding vow, “’til death do us part.” But, given my track record (two divorces), I’m more inclined to think that it should say, “for as long as we continue to love each other.”

After all, that’s what happens in a job. You don’t stay fettered to work (well, maybe now you do since it’s so hard to find a new one). Why should you stick with a relationship that feels frigid and boring?

My goal for a new relationship is that I must be “swept off my feet,” and he must “rock my boat.” Substitute whatever cliché you’d like. I’m a firm believer that we shouldn’t enter middle age by settling for the first fish that bites our bait.

As I get older, I’ve won’t hesitate to throw back a fish that’s only got the basics down. As my girlfriend says, “There are a lot of fishies in the sea.”

My ex and two young sons (all live together in a twisted Brady Bunch kind of way) had their own version of work week, which turned my Adam’s Family style garden into Wisteria Lane, sans the desperate housewives; only a desperate divorcée.

I’m flummoxed over their rationale when confronted with the cognitive decision to prune or not to prune, just like I don’t understand an employer’s decision to prune employees from the payroll besides the global reason of budget shortfall.

If there’s any logic to the madness, it’s not in the logicality of mathematics.

Do you prune a plant because it’s past its prime? Probably. But do you save its seeds to plant for next season? Probably not.

I believe many employers prune employees past their prime (translation: dead wood). But younger employees can be as unproductive as older ones.

Unfortunately, the wisdom that can be gleaned from an older worker is often passed over for a youngin’ with a tight tush and cleavage.

Yes, cleavage. I’ve seen a lot of it on the Metro on my way to a temp job. On a rush-hour train, I thought I was sitting next to the St. Pauli Girl, with her Bavarian blouse and a pink bra peeking out from behind the ruffles. Her girls had to add up to something more than a 36D. Yeah, I got it! Why hire one girl when you can get three for the price of one.

While modern-day office wear baffles me, some of the other pruning decisions my ex and sons made baffle me as well.

Did they cut to the ground some of my most beautiful plants because they were in the way, too scruffy, or did they become prune happy like employers get trigger happy when they shoot out the pink slips?

Whatever the reasoning, it’s too late to save the plants. They permanently severed their roots that supplied nutrients to keep them alive—just like us employees who have been severed from our jobs.

My exit was an orchestrated affair that humiliated and labeled me emotionally as a criminal.

I had served the organization for 3-1/2 years and even spoke at one of its conferences, earning the highest of evaluation marks from the audience.

On my D-Day, the HR person escorted me to the elevator door with whatever I could carry, and the top dog’s secretary was waiting at the curb to hail me a cab.

Not even a goodbye after I had acknowledged her in my book. I thought that was crummy and showed an office friendship as shallow as veneer.

I don’t know why the do-gooder organization I worked for chose the low road. There was nothing in my employment history that suggested I’d do something provactive, such as destroy, or steal, company property.

Why would I jeopardize future employment opportunities? I had immense monetary needs. My ex had been laidoff three weeks prior to my layoff, and I had school tuition and tutoring bills for a child I had recovered from a developmental disability.

In a relationship that ends badly, I could see a jacked response that results in malicious behavior, however. Bad breakups cause emotions to run higher than a layoff (except for a Chinese steelworker boss who was beaten to death last month by his employees over a layoff)

That’s because relationships are intimate, and that creates more emotional attachment than with a job, or at least I hope so.

My impending divorce caused my ex to commit spiteful acts. He torched my $800 wedding dress; had a big bonfire in the backyard, and he pasted in rhinestones the word “Princess” followed by “is falling” in magnetic poetry on the refrigerator door.

He taunted me in other ways: He tore off the cover of the book, Speak and Grow Rich, and pasted over the word Speak with F—k. Yes, I had met someone else, and my soon-to-be-ex at the time considered him wealthy. He was somewhat wealthy compared to many people, but he was also a cheapskate.

And, here I was worried that he’d take a pair of scissors and slice up my underwear, which he later told me he had considered doing.

While getting back at a company is never a good idea, getting back at your ex girl- or boyfriend is often enough of an emotional release to move on, because you sure won’t be moving back, unless, of course, you’re on the brink like me.

It was like taking physics in high school. I mean, am I ever going to really need to know this?

So, while I was going through my online dating phase, it hit me. I’m going to get completely lost if I don’t somehow find a way to keep track of all these men hitting on me. For this, I need something like… Salesforce.

Some (most) of the guys who try to get my attention, I just delete immediately (sorry guys). There are a few I consider, at least at the moment I first meet them, hot prospects.

And then there are all those in between. They could be great. I don’t know. I’ve just gotten behind reading profiles, and besides, only the most confident are gonna get anywhere near their goal.

It’s really that hot prospects group that has a serious chance, although I don’t always check my work so the system isn’t perfect.

This still creates a pool of a whole bunch of suitors. I don’t have as much time to date as I’d like, and I don’t want to be random about it, so I created a small database to track the men seeking my hand, or any other body part for that matter. It isn’t comprehensive, the number of body parts, that is.

I just make notes on email addresses, sometime phone numbers, and a few stray facts that can help me remember who the hell it is when they call me. Likes dirt bikes. Brother is an NFL lineman. Stuff like that. It comes in REALLY handy.

I’m terrible with names, and, before implementing my new system, I confuse different guys all the time. I could, I suppose, use this to tell different things to different guys, but I can’t see the point of such complexity.

Most importantly, I keep my database sorted by a rudimentary ranking. Each record may have different stuff in it, but what really counts is where you rank. The currently top-ranked guy gets Saturday night, date night. His leading competitor gets Friday, maybe, or something else.

As for what they get from me, that is all improvisational. Like most women, I am persuadable by the right man, in the right setting. None of the men know about the list, of course (or they didn’t before now, anyway).

Okay, yeah, it is a little cold, doing it this way. But I’m a practical girl, and this is a practical solution to the “I’m sorry, who is this again?” problem.

Eight months have lapsed since I lost my full-time job, and it’s getting harder to stop at eating one chocolate-chip cookie or waiting until the clock strikes 5 to pour a glass of wine.

Sometimes, I feel as if no one knows I’m alive, or cares, except for the bill collectors and my children, who depend on me to deliver their apple cider and French Toaster Sticks to them for breakfast. I don’t need a pity party to hear others say, “I’m sorry you lost your job” and then walk away because they don’t know what else to say.

People work because they have to. I understand that. I’m not a trust-funded kid. But I do want to enjoy my work, and I love writing and turning a phrase just so. I just wished it paid better, and that there weren’t so many wannabes who are willing to deflate the cost of writing to gain experience and clips. I’ve got clips.

I don’t have a lot of people to commiserate with, either. Despite massive layoffs that continue to spike upward, I don’t know anyone else who’s lost a job, except my ex-husband, whom I’m forced to live with.

Perhaps if I would leave the house I’d bump into one of them. My options for lunch are now Bread for the City on 7th Street Northwest, not the Bread & Chocolate bakery near Chevy Chase Circle.

I have to believe that my current situation isn’t forever, that my life will not necessarily get easier but will get better. It has to. America, for the most part, is a land of survivors, and I believe I’m one of them.