A Housewife's Prayer

Dear Lord,

I thought I'd write because you don’t seem to be answering the candles I lit at church or the holy hour that I spent last Sunday night.  You see, I am looking for a job.  I have filled out countless applications, submitted any number of resumes and have touted my various skills and talents in cover letters and letters of introduction.  Still, the phone doesn’t ring.  And although I have several ideas of what I’d like to do, I have no clear answer as to what I might do best to serve you.  So, if you could get back to me fairly quickly, I’d appreciate it, as I’m running out of money and I’m tired of being broke all the time.  My kid wants to take flute lessons, another kid needs a car, school tuition is due, and, above all, the cupboards are bare and the gas gauge on the van is at E. 

Now, I understand that you work in your own time and that your time is not exactly my time and that you have lots of other, more pressing needs on your list for today.  I’m not saying that you should ignore wars and famine or death and disappointment just for me, but if you can slip me in somewhere, well, I’d be much obliged.

Because, even though there are plenty of things to do here at home, like control the spread of the jungle that is my back yard or prevent the proliferation of cats, I’d really like to do something that pays.  If I had a job, I could delegate the task of picking up the dead cricket/grasshopper hybrid thing that sits on the bathroom floor to one of my children.   Also, it would be nice if I could have my boys clean their room rather than having to do it myself.  Donning the hazmat suit and disappearing into a dimension not only sight and sound, but of smell just isn’t doing it for me anymore.  Sure, Lord, you see lots of nasty things up there, but down here I have to touch them.  That isn’t very pleasant when you a) don’t know what an object is or…was, b) find things that seem familiar but are either wet or crunchy and shouldn’t be and c) discover new life forms that the Amazon could only dream of.  Most of the kitchen seems to be missing and, although it would be nice to find out exactly where the pastry brush, a meat thermometer and a dozen forks might have disappeared to, I'd rather someone else do it. I'm afraid I might find the remains of Jimmy Hoffa or Amelia Earhart or some poor directionally-challenged FEMA official in there.  And really, should it be up to me to dispose of 1) a self-conducted science project that ended months ago 2) a long-forgotten beaded leather thingy one of them made in cub scouts and 3) Luke Skywalker’s head from the Star Wars Lego set that no longer exists?  I mean, I have to do it for free and I don't even get that much appreciation for it.

Jimmy's under there, I just know it!

And, Lord, that’s not all.  Even though my kitchen is half missing, I’m still having problems dealing with the mess.  Right now, as I look at my kitchen floor, I’m pretty sure that if a person ate off it, they would either die or develop an immunity to every possible infectious organism that exists.  My refrigerator rivals the boys’ room and possibly the Centers for Disease Control when it comes to unidentifiable and possibly toxic organisms.  Once again, if I were working, I could delegate it to someone else in my household.  After all, it would sure be nice for someone else to put the liquefied celery or the greenish mystery meat down the garbage disposal once in a while.   

Draw me like one of your French girls, wearing only this...half a Hitler mustache.

Finally, it would be nice to see and talk to people every day.  Nice people.  People who don’t remind me of my shortcomings as a parent, cook, driver, cleaning lady, organizer, provider, and whatever else they might think of.  You see, I have teenagers and they tend to be a bit critical when it comes to my very existence.  I understand that it is part of growing up and that eventually, when they leave the house, I will finally be a well-rounded person, capable of self-actualization.  However, until then, it would be nice to talk to people who don’t abhor my very existence.  Right now, I have the privilege of speaking to a tuxedo-style cat with half a Hitler moustache that insists on alternately laying on the kitchen table and on the stove, even though I have made it perfectly clear that these places are for food only and that she may be accidentally eaten if we ever run out of macaroni and cheese.  I also have the company of an infestation of ants and flies, a host of wolf spiders and the occasional wasp that makes it in through the closed windows somehow.  I have tried valiantly to introduce the spiders to the ants and flies so that the infestation will end, but to no avail.  I’m starting to think that I might have upset you somehow, as it seems as if the plagues of Egypt have come down upon my house.  I’m somewhat thankful that you haven’t sent frogs, but I must admit that they might be helpful in the fly situation. 

Really, Jesus?  You gotta be kidding!

So, Lord, you now understand why I want to work so badly.  Although I don’t mind being at home, it sure would be nice to get out on a daily basis and to be of some value to people who actually might appreciate it and who would pay me for it.  I know I have lots of parameters and conditions, but I also have lots of talents and skills.  I’m sure there’s something out there that I can do.  Only you know what I should be doing.  Now, if you could just put it on one of those billboards that I pass every day on the way to my kid’s school…

Just my luck!  Slayer must have lots of requests.