I bopped around the Internet back when it was just a small neighborhood, or more accurately a boy’s dormitory.

So put an electronic toy in my hand, and I’m as swift on the uptake as my kids, and that’s saying a lot.

When I save to my cell phone a number that I expect to call again, I want to associate a picture and a ringtone with it, just for fun.

The photos are straightforward. If I meet a man online then I have a picture of him. Then again, this happens less than you might think. I don’t put his picture in my phone until after the first date, and most guys don’t get a second.

However, once we’ve met once or twice, and I go silent on him—I’m just thinking, Mmm, do I want him to take me out again or not?—his phone number and picture and ringtone get stuck in my phone.

Maybe I’ll go out with them again, maybe not. I can scroll down the pictures on my phone like an electronic menu of men and see what the choices are. I send a text message. He calls, and let the games begin.

The most fun by far is assigning ringtones. Each ringtone costs $1, so I have to at least value the man more than that.

When my kids call from home, I hear Paul Simon sing “Home! Home is where I wanna beeeeeeee!”

My ex and I still talk fairly frequently about kid business, which is the way I want to frame our ongoing relationship. We are partners in this child-raising business but not in any other sense.

I’ve assigned him Bachman Turner Overdrive’s “Taking Care of Business.” This is a huge upgrade for him over the tunes that came out of my phone earlier in our divorce process, the best being Warren Zevon’s “My Shit’s Fucked Up,” which I now think of as my ex’s theme song.

Prior to that the Rolling Stone’s “Sympathy for the Devil” was the tune that introduced the harangue I was sure to get from him if I took the call.

When she called, my divorce lawyer was also announced by a Warren Zevon oldie: “Lawyers, Guns and Money,” which I now understand as a divorce song.

My ex does the same with his phone and reported to me that he’d brought a recent date to a screeching halt when I called and Joe Cocker began to sing “Unchain My Heart.”

He says the woman looked at him icily and told him that needed to be changed.

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.

Click on the picture for some snow pleasure.

Now that I got a full-time job, I can’t wait to get to work, even on the weekend.

No matter!

You make out of life with whatever it presents you.

This weekend, good old Mother Nature presented me with snow. Not a lot but enough to sculpt visions of a better tomorrow and maybe evening (wink, wink).

As you can see, I got to work right away. As my boyfriend likes to say, “Time is money.” I agree, from the top of my thigh highs to the bottom of my butt cheeks. [All this unemployment stuff has left me without underwear, but I haven't had any complaints.]

Back to the snow. It changes how everything looks but not how we think.

Having to go to work in the snow makes me think that it’s going to be hard to get in and then pay attention when I’m there. I never know when one of my kid’s school might send an email alert saying that the school will close early because of the threat of more snow.

I’m also wet and uncomfortable. All that salt that’s thrown on the street and sidewalks turns snow into a big slushy that’s dirty and ugly. Makes me think of leaving early.

When I am at home, the snow lets me sculpt and give form to my desires. I think I’m talented enough to create them. Take, for instance this snow sculpture. Here’s where snow blurs the line between work and a hobby.

Moving forward in life, my work will be my hobby, or I’m going to get a new job.

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 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.

After high school, I practically eloped to Florida with my tiny sundresses and bikinis. To me, Florida was bliss. No long underwear, no bras, no ski caps.

I left Florida and came north to have a career, but now that my career is on life support, I am left to wonder again about the path not chosen.

I could have been a country club wife in Plasticland, with too much booze to drink, too much money to spend and too much time on her hands. When I was 20, the thought was abhorrent.

Now, however, I’m an urban gym rat with an ex-husband who alternates between surly and sweet, a boyfriend who checks in from his home planet, kids who talk back and a woefully inadequate supply of booze and money.

Whatever free time I have goes into dithering about my situation. Being Ann in Plasticland doesn’t seem like such an evil choice anymore. At least it would have kept me out of the cold.

Here up north it is winter everywhere, not just indoors. The pace of work slows way down during the winter. People seem content to nest in their offices and cubicles, heading out now and again to gather office supplies.

They all arise about the same time—noon—and forage in the refrigerator for the food they stored there earlier. No one is very ambitious. I blend in, of course. There is no upside for me to stand out from the crowd. If they’re going to hibernate, then that’s fine with me.

My love life is also a wintry mix. I’ve achieved a rough equilibrium between things that can never co-exist—the residual mess of my failed marriage with a man who cherished me but couldn’t support me and an emerging relationship with a man.

I rarely dabble in online flirtations but almost never talk on the phone with anyone, much less meet up. Seldom do the online conversations last more than a few exchanges, except if I send him my bathing beauty photos in which case it goes on longer.

I like the attention.

When a man, however far away, lusts for me it cheers me out of my winter funk. My top fantasy, of course, is having one man who both loves me from the very depths of his soul and who cares what happens to me.

I might make some changes, but not now. It is winter, nothing is happening, and I’m cold.

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?

After being a good doobie by digging my ex’s car out of the snow last weekend, I’m now in the doghouse for a couple of minor scratches I caused when I pushed a heap of snow off the trunk with the edge of a plastic shovel.

I should have used a broom or let nature take its course to expedite the snow-removal process.

My ex is livid.

Yesterday, he was so angry he locked my computer, external hard drive, and digital and video cameras in the safe. Childish, yes. I’m now faced with putting a bolt lock on my basement apartment to prevent him from entering.

He’s always doing things like that—moving my stuff around, taking things, or placing whatever I’ve left on the main floor right in from of my apartment door.

He even buried my prescription glasses underneath a scarf on the tile floor near my door. I presume with the thought that I’d step and break them, which would have cost me more than $600. But luckily I found them first.

The incident also sent him into harassing text-messaging mode. He ran up $36 in text-messaging charges. I’ve had to eliminate the service from my phone because I can’t block just one number. It’s either all or nothing. I chose all.

I told him I’d fix his car and made a sincere effort Saturday. I spent more than $50 at the Ace hardware store in Tenleytown. I first bought a $12.99 bottle of Scratch Doctor, to no avail.

I then bought everything I could think of to buff out the scratches—two heavy duty rubbing compounds, Turtle Wax’s Color Cure Car Polish with Black ChipStick, wax finishing cloth, auto shop towels, and, God rest his soul, the Billy Mays-endorsed and As Seen On TV Fix It! Scratch Remover with a battery-operated buffer.

None of them worked!

Some of the very minor superficial scratches came out but a couple of the deeper ones, which didn’t even reach the steel frame, wouldn’t. I spent two hours trying to repair the scratches, but my ex said I just took the car to the car wash.

While I will now need to seek a professional auto paint touch-up service (any recommendations, email me), I am heartsick that I’ll need to spend money I don’t have, especially after the wad I spent on my children’s Christmas presents. I couldn’t bring myself to take their money, even though my 10- and 12-year-old had offered to buy their gifts this year.

I suppose getting the car fixed is the least of my worries and that I should heed mom’s advice: “This too shall pass.”

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!