FIPS Cares: Show Me The Money

The husband has a new(ish) mantra that goes something like this...

"You want (fill in the blank: to go to Vienna for Christmas? to buy a front door? to pay the bills?) Get a job!"

To which I reply:

"I have a job. In fact, I have many jobs."

To which he replies:

"A real job. As in one that involves a salary and perhaps a subway."

Yes, I'm getting the distinct sense that my time of playing June to his Ward is drawing to a close.

I'm with him. In principle.

It's not that I don't want a "real job." Fine, I don't really (espesh not with summer around the corner) but let's keep that to ourselves.

For years, I had it made. In the days before the fall of the paying publishing world, I could actually make a living at this writing shit.

Now, I get notes from editors saying, "We can pay you $200 for that article we would have paid you $2000 for two years ago. We don't want to go the way of ______ (fill in your fallen newspaper/magazine of choice)."

My glitch: I'm afraid of the rush hour subway and all that sweaty humanity, not to mention the backpacks. I'm afraid of panty hose and pumps. I don't own any office clothes. I cease to function around 7pm and am not good at face time. I'm impolitic. I want to be annoyed by my kids afterschool.

So, folks, can you help me help myself?

Show me a job that won't eat me alive but that will allow me to feed the kids, morbidly obese cat, gluttonous dog, dwindling fish population, and even the husband.

If you care, show me the money. Get me a job. With benefits, please. And a good vacation policy. Telecommuting? Fridays off?

My resume and clips at mybrainonkids.com.

Thanks in advance!