But she and I are the same size and age and have similar sensibilities.

We almost always make exactly the same mistakes, which is why we’re such good friends.

She called to ask me where the line is between exploring your options and cheating. How far out can you step before you say goodbye?

She hates her job, so she has been gritting her teeth and getting through it for well over a year. She’s undervalued and underpaid. So she’s been stealing time from her other duties and using it to look for a job while she’s at her job.

As far as I’m concerned, this is too normal to be worth talking about as a transgression. It is just too minor.

Recently, however, she’s started to get some job interviews. She comes up with an excuse and sneaks out. She told me she even leaves her interview clothes in the car so her co-workers don’t wonder why she’s all dressed up.

After the interview, she removes her lipstick and other makeup so she can blend into the blandness of her office without attracting attention.

When she dithers about cheating on her employer this way, I can tell she’s not genuinely troubled by it.

You don’t need to quit a job and be unemployed in order to find another one. Since you can get fired for even telling your boss you’re looking for another job, there is no choice. That’s just how it has to be.

Her approach to dating is very similar.

She’s always got a guy or three coming after her—one or two who think they are going out with her and at least one who she’s dumped but who hasn’t given up hope.

She doesn’t lead them on exactly, but she does manage all this male attention adroitly so she never has to be alone or pay for a meal in a nice restaurant. She tells them little lies so that Man A will continue to consider himself in the pole position (of course) despite the fact that she’s doing the same with Man B and often Man C, too.

It is always just about to collapse, on the verge of going out of control.

In the nightmare scenario, all these suitors arrive on her doorstep the same night with flowers, running into her other suitors. As I picture this, a battle ensues and the man left standing at the end gets her.

She’s not exactly cheating, I say, because she’s so adept at being vague. She lets the guys think what they want to think. She knows that clarity and transparency are not her friends, and that deception is allowed right up until the point she makes a commitment to one of the men.

She never seems to get to that point, however. If she told a guy she was also interviewing and auditioning other men he might not want to go through the evaluation, right?

I tell her you go girl, that’s just how it has to be.

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?

For Ann, one job is never enough. Yes, Ann is looking for extra work.

While she’s thrilled to be taken off the unemployment roll, she’s got one little problem. Ann is making $20,000 less than in her last full-time job. That’s a significant drop in wages, given that her cost of living keeps rising.

How to plug the income drain guides Ann to explore quick employment opportunities. You might say she’s in an “I-don’t-know-if-I’ll-go-through-with-it phase,” but she’s applied for [fill in the blank].

Let Ann fill in a couple of them for you because she’s actually applied for them through her favorite what-the-hell-I-can-do-this-job site—craigslist. Craigslist has all kinds of goodies under the events and gig links. On a fluke, Ann applied to become a nightclub dance partner for single guys in need of eye candy. The only problem is that Ann can’t dance but maybe that’s not that important.

As with women, looks are deceiving. The website, DanceDate USA, looks good, but Ann can’t believe this site isn’t a front for hooking up hookers with men willing to pay for the privilege. You do get paid to go out, but that’s the real killer—only $20 to $25 an hour.

That’s not enough for Ann. She’s supposed to show up at the trendy Current Sushi nightclub in D.C. on February 5th for an in-person interview. Not doing it.

The other gig seems much more promising, but she imagines stiffer competition. Ann has applied to become one of the Racing Presidents for the Washington Nationals baseball team. If she gets tapped for an audition, she won’t be running in heels. That headgear is anywhere from 45 lbs. to 60 lbs.

The Presidents’ Race features four former U.S. Presidents, namely those found on Mount Rushmore: George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Thomas Jefferson and Theodore Roosevelt. At every home game, they run against each other during the fourth inning.

Ann is vying for Teddy, the underdog. He’s never won a race.

She doesn’t think it pays anything, but think of the publicity. You become a local D.C. celebrity. Appearances at the White House, annual Easter Egg Roll, 4th of July fireworks.

Now that’s a home run she doesn’t have to take her pants off for.

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.

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.

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.

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!