As many of you know, I’ve been in the job market. For the last month I’ve been posting my resume on job boards, and avoiding all the openings for Pizza Hut delivery persons. When you need a job to continue your lavish diet of beans, rice, and the occasional Big Mac, being without one raises a certain level of anxiety.

I’ve chosen to combat fear with compulsive behavior. Doesn’t everybody? I naturally rented Bruce Willis reprising his role as John McClane in A Good Day to Die Hard, but chiefly, I’ve been watching the entire Twilight Saga, again, and again, and again. In some karmic twist of fate, I’ve fallen victim to another type of vampire.

While walking our dogs in the woods, my daughter and I have been attacked repeatedly by mosquitos. We don our OFF clip-ons, and tiny fans ablaze, we confidently cross enemy lines. Since I was wearing shorts, the OFF resistant buggers decided to attack me in intimate places. This is why I’m not currently wearing panties.

The little bloodsuckers left a trail of destruction along my panty lines, causing further unsightly bulges when I wear tight pants. These are places that have heretofore only been seen by my husband and my gynecologist. OK, there was that one time that I went in for a Brazilian. I wouldn’t recommend it for the faint of heart, which I’m sure is what the esthetician was also telling herself just before she announced, “I’m going in!” But I digress.

Miss Manners would have an aneurysm if she knew that I’ve been scratching at my yoo-hoo area in public, especially since this involves contortions that I haven’t attempted since High School. The problem is that panty elastic further irritates welts of a size that would impress a Hollywood monster make-up artist. In total desperation, I went into my panty drawer and excavated a pair of prehistoric thong underwear left over from the Jurassic Period.

Let me first say, that everybody over the age of forty has a moral responsibility not to bare their ass cheeks in public, except in dire emergencies. This definitely qualified. Having a string of dental floss jammed into my lady parts had the desired effect of distracting me from the itching and burning only a few inches away. It was a bittersweet victory. Since I’m not a total masochist, I’ve lately opted instead for going commando.

Next week I’ll be going in for a job interview wearing nothing but hydrocortisone cream on my backside. I’ll be trying to keep my legs crossed under my dress while telling my prospective boss where I’d like to be five years from now. If I slip up, the interviewer will know more about me than just my qualifications and experience. I may have to update my resume.

I’m sure that she’ll be impressed with my ability to multi-task. This morning, I’ll be practicing my skill by watching Breaking Dawn 2 while thinking of interview questions and digging at my privates. I think I’ll soon be in line for a promotion. Yippy-Kay-Yay!