Wherein the dregs of my bitter cup are flung into the Internet, and then baked into cupcakes.

Perhaps a decade ago, a dimpled young Slice started hanging around the Roosevelt City golf course.  He picked up balls that were on the driving range, hit them, picked them up again, and took them into the pro shop.  (With permission, of course.)

He's been there ever since.

Nearly three years ago, Slice and I were newly engaged, and we went to visit Slice's boss-friend.  This boss-friend said to me, "Are you sure you're ready to be the wife of a golf pro?"  And I said, honestly, "I really have no clue what I'm getting into. Maybe that's a good thing."

Ha!

Now it's 2011.  But this here is Duchesne County, where "progress" is a bad word, and "nepotism" is pretty much synonymous with "politics," and by the way, the politics at that golf course are worse than any other workplace I have ever seen.  (Even our school district!)

Things have been ugly at times; accusations, proposals, late nights and pride.  Don't think I haven't tried convincing my Slice that perhaps this is not where we want to end up -- you step on the wrong toes, you're outta here -- and now I don't have to say that I told him so.

And as if losing a 10-year job wasn't bad enough, it comes three months after we signed papers on a house.  Four months after I quit my job at the school.  Two months after we decided to "stick it out" until March, when Slice's winter job fell through and I broke my wrist and I didn't think I could handle being at home alone with my 6-month old.

So for two months we've been living on savings and my jobs and other miraculous sources of income, just waiting for March to come.  It's not coming.

Thanks, guys!