“Guys, you need to find work,” I hollered at the boys hunkered down in front of the Astros game. Must’ve been a good idea. They dashed out the door in less time than it takes Roy Oswalt’s fastball to hit Brad Ausmus’s glove.

“Um, dear, I was thinking of you,” The Big Guy said, backing slowly toward the knife drawer. “Maybe you can put your college degree to good use.” He stood squarely between the drawer and me.

“I use my degree all the time.”

“Not your diploma from the American College of Beer Drinking. The other one.”

It’s not as if I haven’t tried finding a job before. A few years ago I applied to NASA for a position in the Bed Rest Project, a program that called for spending 120 days in a sleep lab. Alone. Day and night. In bed with a TV, DVD player and computer with Internet access. This would’ve meant lying around with my head tilted downward. A little blood rushing to the head never hurt anyone. It didn’t seem to bother The Big Guy when someone ripped the automatic door off the van just by backing out of the garage a teensy bit too close to the wall.

NASA never called, not even after my follow-up letter I sent after their diapered space momma got into hot water driving non-stop to Florida. She’s not the only mom who can drive a car like a rocket hurtling into orbit. Every day, I throw a helmet on Cat, strap her into the back seat while Pinot & Grigio handle pre-flight cross-check:

“Everyone in?”

“Check.”

“Buckled?”

“Check.”

“Mom’s gone to the bathroom?”

“Not necessary. She packed Depends.”

Since the NASA gig fell through, I decided to check out craigslist, the online job message board. A few looked promising. A photographer wanted twin girls for a photo shoot. He requested photos, bio, and a list of do’s and don’ts. Perfect! I have a twin sister, I don’t scrub floors but I do cook. Sorta. Crockpot meatballs, on special occasions.

Another ad called for two girls to do “an oily shoot” in a hotel room with tarps and oil. Sounds like a taping for The Food Channel. I bet they use olive oil. Mediterranean cooking is sooo hot these days.

Another listing looking for a surrogate mother asked potential applicants if they loved being pregnant. What’s not to love? With Pinot and Grigio, I was on complete bed rest for three months. No cooking, vacuuming, dusting or even fetching the mail. I nearly applied but The Big Guy pointed out our wine cellar would be placed on lockdown.

Finally, I found the perfect job. A martini and wine bar was looking for help but applicants needed knowledge of martinis and wine. No biggie. Chardonnay is white, Cabernet red, and twist-off tops are cheap. Guys smell the cork, women sip the sample and no one eats a worm. Martinis can come dirty, dry, shaken, or stirred, and garnished with an olive or onion. They were first popularized during the 1960s by boozing Las Vegas crooners and a sitcom housewife who had a knack of whipping up a pitcher just by twitching her nose.

The job sounds ideal. Not only does Contessa have firsthand knowledge, experience, AND a personalized cork screw, she’s got the uniform. She’s been looking for a chance to wear those shorts with W-I-N-E spelled out on the backside. They might even help customers make up their minds.

Danielle Schaaf is the co-author of Don’t Chew Jesus! and can be contacted at hauteflashcontessa@yahoo.com.