Any lower and I'd be sitting on the curb guzzling from a bottle of Benylin

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Today I grovelled for a job. And it didn't help.

A week ago, I went for a second interview at a research park for my local university. The position was Review Editor for a medical journal. I burned.

A month ago, my niece got into the Jeep when I picked her up from school and tossed her knapsack on the floor of the passenger side. It sunk. When I lifted up the floor mat I saw the street. I'm driving a goddamn Flintstones Jeep.

Three months ago I received and deposited my income tax return cheque. It was the last bit of incoming cash I have seen to date.

Eight months ago I completed an on-and-off five year contract with the local college. I rejoiced because getting my ass out of that dysfunctional atmosphere was going to do wonders for my mental state. Little did I know that I would have months of sitting on my ass as an unemployed git to look forward to.

Eighteen months ago The Boy and I entered into the offices of Dr. P****, a wonderful doctor involved with the Reproductive Endocrinology and Infertility program. We answered the million highly personal questions on their application and told ourselves it would all be worth it in a short time. Yeah, right.

I've been through the Buffy series, Angel, Alias and Firefly with the occasional Friends season twice now. I think I would kick ass at a trivia contest.

Now I'm back out to the garden to vent my impotent rage at some grapevines.