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Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms
    On the way home from lunch with Bibienne, my mind races. War means tactical planning. Do I want open warfare? Underground-style freedom fighting? Shock and awe? Extreme, no-rules warfare is appealing—I could begin with a bonfire of all Donald’s belongings on the front lawn. But what if Donald is innocent of nothing but an unrequited lunch and a freak desire to launder sheets?
    Even though my stalwart woman’s heart knows the dirty, lowdown, lying, cheating truth, concrete evidence is required prior to flaming his entire Conan Doyle collection.
    However, maybe sleeping with the up and comers is Donald’s way of speeding his career flag up the company pole? Maybe I should support Donald in his bid for advancement at Doubles? A promotion means a raise. Think of all the wonderful material benefits. Maybe tomorrow I should go out and buy that gorgeous Ms. Gina suit I’ve had my eye on? I need something respectable for my job hunt.
    Not to mention that this clearly frees me up. So, where is my Knight of Cups? Nowhere in sight, that’s where. I might as well forget about empty cosmic promises of dreamboats and concentrate on mynightmarish job search. I haven’t landed a single interview and my severance payout is dwindling fast. Fortunately, I have a follow-up appointment with my headhunter this afternoon. He wants to check my progress on my resume.
    As soon as I get home, I haul my briefcase from the closet, empty it on the kitchen table, and try to organize the papers into piles. I have at least 20 draft resumes, plus a stack of job listings and applications to fill out. Interspersed throughout are leaflets, notes and lists of addresses and phone numbers.
    The counselor wants me to make a list of prospects: progressive companies that offer respectable wages, benefits and advancement opportunities. This part of the research could take forever.
    Then, at any time in the process, things may break down. The employer may “resist” the “information interview.” Or the company isn’t hiring (it’s more likely downsizing to the dimensions of a paper clip). If I score an information interview then I’m supposed to follow up with thoughtful thank-you notes to each person I met during the process, including the receptionist who hates my sucky guts by now.
    Maybe the army’ll take me back. They’re desperate enough to take in any crazy broad who’s prepared to wear Gortex and sleep in the mud. I’m sure I’m still a deadeye with a rifle and driving a tank’s like riding a bike.
    Back in the day, I was a first-class soldier. The army wasn’t so bad. Basic training is brutal but it’s like giving birth; you forget how hard it is. I toughed it out, ran obstacle courses, was gassed, and learned how to crawl around in the dirt—all a textbook preparation for motherhood.
    I met Serenity’s father during a weeklong war games exercise. Who can resist a man in a uniform? Not I—especially when I’m rubbing up against a burly one in the depths of a snug foxhole. Mistake. Never take off your thong in a foxhole unless you want to wear maternity combats.
    But at least I got Serenity. I drag my mind back to the present where the thought of going back into uniform makes me want to throw up.
    I stuff all the papers back into my briefcase and drive to the employment agency where the counselor beckons me into his office. I fidget in my chair trying to resist the urge to play with the programmable stapler while he looks over my updated resume.
    Soon he shakes his head and leans over the desk to fix me with a serious gaze. “Your resume still needs a lot of work.”
    “Isn’t resume preparation part of your services?”
    “Your employer benefit doesn’t cover resumes. There is an extra fee for the service depending on what you need.” He hands me a glossy brochure. A professional resume costs a grand.
    “Have you considered taking one of our employment courses?”
    “A course? Like