The following is another exert from my work in progress, The Throuple Private Eye—Business is Booming; A Jen McDowell Series. I thought I would start posting exerts as the novel progresses. I’m at 25k words now. If you want to catch up, order the short novella The Throuple Private Eye—Hate Crimes, on Amazon ($2.99). The link is https://www.amazon.com/dp/B084LTTHGN.
 
Another Exert from my WIP

CHAPTER 3—Two weeks earlier.

An older man walked into the Central Chicago Jewelry Store. “Can I help you?” the manager asked.

“Is Charlize working today?” the gentleman asked. “She was recommended to help me.”

The manger nodded to Charlize who walked over. “Yes, sir. What are you shopping for today?”

The gentleman looked over toward the manager who was now busy helping another customer. In a low voice, the gentleman said, “I not shopping g today. “I just need to talk with you about this.” He laid two fake credit cards on the counter. “Are you’re really Kyra Birchfield?” He pointed to one of the cards. “Or are you Jerome Meserly?” He pointed at the other card. “or maybe you’re Francesca Martin?” He laid down a fake driver’s license.”

Charlize was stunned. “Sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do,” the man answered. “I took these from your apartment. Relax, I’m not the police.”
Charlize felt her knees shaking. She tried to recover her composure. “Sir, I don’t know who you are, but I’ll pay you back whatever I took. I swear.”

“Relax. Relax. Like I said, I’m not the police. I just want to talk with you. Meet me at the coffee shop across the street in ten minutes. If you don’t show, then I’ll go to the police.”

“Okay, ten minutes,” Charlize replied as she reached for the cards. The man was quicker and sweep them up.

“Ten minutes” the man said. “Don’t be late.”

Charlize told her boss that she needed coffee and she walked over to the coffee shop. She saw the gentleman in the far end of the shop sitting at a small table. She sat down opposite him. She noticed a laptop that looked like hers on the table.

The man saw her glance at the laptop. “Yeah, it’s yours,” he said. “I took from your apartment along with some of the fake credit cards you made.”

Charlize frowned. “Are you going to report me to the police?”

The man shook his head. “My name is Jimmy Richards. Does that ring a bell?”

Charlize remembered the name as one of the identities she recently stole. “Oh shit,” she said. “Look Mr. Richards, I’ll gladly pay you back. How much do I owe you?”

Jimmy laughed. “No, no. I don’t want you to pay me back. Keep it. MY wife won’t miss it.”
“What do you want?” Charlize asked as her hands started to shake.

“Oh, it’s really simple” Jimmy said with a smile. “I want you to keep spending on my wife’s credit card. Just limit it to under $500 a month.”

“You don’t want me to stop?” a surprised Charlize asked.

“No, no. In fact, if you don’t $500 per month, I’ll go to the police with all this evidence.”

“You want me to keep charging on your wife’s credit cards each month? Why?” Charlize asked.
“That’s none of your business. Just do it or I go to the police. Understand?"

Charlize didn’t understand but she agreed to it. Later that evening she told her boyfriend, Maury Fincham, what had happened. The fact that Jimmy knew where she lived and had broken into her apartment and taken her laptop scared the crap out of Charlize. She could stop shaking. “What do you think?” she finally asked Maury.

Maury thought for a moment. “It sounds as if this guy Richards wants to convince people that his wife is here in Chicago spending money."

“So, what do we do now?” Charlize asked. “He has my computer with all my stuff. I could go to jail if he gives it to the police.”

“Charlize, this guy maybe is setting up an alibi so he can get rid of his wife.”

“Get rid of her? You mean kill her?”

“Yes,” answered Maury. “In fact, he may have already killed her. I think that at some point, he may come back to kill you.”

Charlize was really scared now. “Maury, what can I do. He has my laptop. All my thefts are on there. If he goes to the police, we’re both going to jail. He knows I can’t tell anyone. If we do what he says, he might kill us later. Oh, shit.”

“Yeah,” replied Maury. “He has us over a barrel. We need to find out more about him. He has either killed his wife, or he’s planning to kill her. What do we know about him?”

Charlize began to calm down. She sat back and thought for a moment. “Well, I know about his wife. Her name is Biyu Richards. It’s an odd name, don’t you think? I was able to find a picture of her. She’s Chinese or oriental. I have her post office box address. She lives in
Atlanta, Georgia.”
​
“Okay, that’s a good start. You have security cameras at the store. Tomorrow, see if you can get a screen shot of his face. It might come in handy. Meanwhile, get on my computer and find out whatever you can about this guy. An address would be helpful.”

The following is another exert from my work in progress, The Throuple Private Eye—Business is Booming; A Jen McDowell Series. I thought I would start posting exerts as the novel progresses. I’m at 25k words now. If you want to catch up, order the short novella The Throuple Private Eye—Hate Crimes, on Amazon ($2.99). The link is https://www.amazon.com/dp/B084LTTHGN.

CHAPTER 2

Molly looked at the security monitor. “Someone’s coming up the front sidewalk,” she informed Jen.

“Do we have an appointment today?” Jen asked.

“Not until 1 pm,” answered Molly. “This must be a walk-in. Looks like a young couple.”

When the couple reached the front door and rang the doorbell, Molly asked over the intercom, “May I help you?”

The young man looked around until he saw the camera. Looking at the camera he said, “We’d like to see Ms. Jennifer McDowell, please. We have urgent business.”

Molly rang them in as Jen walked over to the hallway and signal for them to come back to the office.
Jen and Molly introduced themselves and asked the young couple to sit down. “My name is Charlize Wessel,” said the young woman. “and this is my boyfriend Maury Fincham.”

Molly entered their names into her computer while Jen removed a record from her desk. “Do you mind if we record this conversation?” she asked.

Charlize and Maury glanced at each other. “We rather not,” answered Charlie. “I’ll explain why in a minute.”

Jen turned off the record but left it on the table. Charlize glanced at Maury who nodded. “I… We’d like to hire you,” she said. She reached over and took Maury’s hand.

Molly offered the couple some coffee or tea and busied herself with maneuvering her walker to the coffee pot and serving everyone.

Finally, Jen asked, “How can we be of service?”

Charlize looked at Maury who motioned for her to explain. “It’s a long story, but first is this confidential?”

“Yes,” answered Jen, “but if there’s a serious crime involved, we will advise you to notify the police. I must tell you that my boyfriend is a police detective and I’m a medically retired police officer.”

“We know,” replied Charlize. “That’s one reason we came to you for help.”

“Why don’t you start by telling us what’s going on and we’ll advise you on the best course of action.”

Maury sighed, “We think someone has been murdered. Molly gasped and looked at Jen. They both sat back in their seats “Not by us,” Maury quickly added. “By someone we know.”

“Why can’t you tell the police?” Molly asked.

Charlize leaned forward. “Because if I do, they’ll arrest me and Maury for other crimes.”

“What crime?” Jen asked.

“Identity theft,” Charlize answered.

Jen sat back in her chair and thought for a moment. She looked at Molly with raised eyebrows.
“What the fuck?”

Molly stood up and using her desk for balance, moved to the front and leaned back on her desk.

Let’s do this,” she said. “Tell us what’s going on and we’ll see if we can work out a deal with the police. If what you say is true, you might get a plea deal to avoid jail time.”

Charlize and Maury looked at each other. “Okay,” Charlize said.

Jen turned the recorder on. “Do you have to record this?” Charlize asked.

“I’m afraid so,” Jen answered. “But if we don’t take the case, we’ll give you the recording.”

“Okay,” Charlize answered.

 “Okay,” said Jen. “Start at the beginning.”

“Here’s what happened. Maury and I live together in Chicago. I work in a jewelry store in the loop. It doesn’t pay much, mostly on commission. To make extra money, I steal identities. Maury is into photography and he helps me forger driver licenses or anything else I might need. I make small Charles on their credit cards; not a lot.”

“Wow,” Molly said. “So how does a murder fit into this?”
​
“Well. A couple of weeks ago, a guy came into the store and asked for me by name. I never met the guy before.”

I’m departing from my usual humorous blog to talk about the renaming of military bases. I’m a Vietnam veteran with 22 years of service in the infantry, so I think I’m entitled to an opinion. First, let me state that I’m in favor of changing the names of military bases that are names after Confederate generals or slave owners. They never should have been named after them to begin with. I think there’re plenty of generals who have not been honored by having a base named after them. There were many in WWI, WWII and Korea to begin with.

We have to assume that we can’t name bases after Union generals either. That would upset another group of people. We should not allow congress to select the names, although they might have to approve the final names. Politicians have their own agenda and can’t be objective or trusted. We can’t let the military choose the names either. The military has their own bias. We can’t let the local citizenry choose the name or we’ll end up with the same name or maybe another Confederate general.

I think the American taxpayers should choose the name. The taxpayer finance those bases and rightfully own them. Taxpayers could vote for a name on their tax returns as early as 2021.

Here is list of some of the bases that should be renamed: Fort A.P. Hill, Camp Beauregard, Fort Benning, Fort Bragg, Fort Gordon, Fort Hood, Fort Lee, Fort Pickett, Fort Rucker, Fort Polk, Camp Maxey, and Camp Pendleton (let's make this a fort while we're at it).
​
Here’s my recommendations for naming bases:
George Marshall, Douglas MacArthur, Dwight D. Eisenhower, Omar Bradley, John J. Pershing, Joseph W. Stilwell, Mark W. Clark, George S. Patton, Jonathan M. Wainwright, and Matthew Ridgway. They are all Army generals. I think the bases named after Confederate officers are all Army bases.
 
If we decide to use foreign commanders, there’s always Napoleon Bonaparte, Julius Caesar, Attila the Hun, Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, Darth Vader, and Hannibal Barka.
 
I can’t wait to see the final decision.  If you’re not familiar with any of these names--google them.

The following is another exert from my work in progress, The Throuple Private Eye—Business is Booming; A Jen McDowell Series. I thought I would start posting exerts as the novel progresses. I’m at 25k words now. If you want to catch up, order the short novella The Throuple Private Eye—Hate Crimes, on Amazon ($2.99). The link is https://www.amazon.com/dp/B084LTTHGN.
 
CHAPTER 1

Jennifer “Jen” McDowell was finally settling into her new career as a private investigator. The publicity from her undercover operation that exposed a bomber and a sniper was a boon to her business. She had enough offers that she could be selective. There was more than enough business to keep her busy for months if not for years. She decided not to accept any more cheating spouse cases. She just didn’t to be that kind of PI.

Her partnership with Molly Lovelace, her best friend was working out well. Both women had double prothesis below the knees and both suffered from PTSD; Jen from an ambush while she was still on the Atlanta Police and Molly from an IED in Afghanistan. They met through a PTSD therapy group and became fast friends. When Molly was attacked and nearly killed by a white supremacy hate group, Jen offered her a full partnership in her private eye business.

Jen turned one of the spare bedrooms into an office in the home she shared with her two boyfriends/lovers, Dr. Curtis ‘Doc’ Betts and Jonah Magliozzi. Molly was finally at a point in her rehab where she could come to the office to work. Outside Molly needed to use a walker, but inside the office there was enough furniture for her to lean on if she needed to. Molly also brought her service dog, Prada to work with her. Prada was an older greyhound who had suffered an accident and had both her rear legs amputated. She was fitted with set of wheels that made her mobile. Jen and Molly fell in love with her the moment they set eyes on her at the shelter.
​
Jen and Molly split up the various office duties to cover all bases. Molly was in charge of the website, answering the telephone and emails, and the schedule. Jen did all the “leg” work, met with clients outside the office and used her connections with the police to gather information as needed.  Leg work was an inside joke since neither of them had legs. Jen was a former police officer. Her old partner and current lover, Johan was a detective with the homicide department of the Atlanta Police. 

The following is an exert from my work in progress, The Throuple Private Eye—Business is Booming; A Jen McDowell Series. We adopted two greyhounds. They were great pets, but both passed a couple of years ago. They were named Prada and Groovy. Both were retired racing dogs. Prada was the smarter of the two and more laid back. I decided to include her my next novel as a service dog. Here is one exert of how I included her. Enjoy.
 
The Throuple Private Eye—Business is Booming; A Jen McDowell Series
 
Jen returned from a doctor’s appointment to find tension in the air at the office. She looked at Molly who was focused on her computer and ignoring Jen. She looked at Prada who was on her bed with her back toward Molly. “What happened?” Jen asked.

Molly looked up from her computer. “What do you mean?”

“Obviously, something happened,” Jen answered. “Prada has her back toward you which she only does when she’s pissed, and you’re not talking. What did you do?”

“Why do you always take her side?” Molly shot back. “Nothing happened.”

“Come on, tell me. I can’t work like this when you two are upset.”

“If you must know, when I tried to give Prada her pills this morning, and she snapped at me, so I swatted her.”

“Did you hurt her?” Jen asked.

“No,” Molly replied. “I didn’t hit her that hard.”

“No,” Jen continued. “I meant when you gave her the pills. I know you use that pill insert thingy. Maybe you hurt her.”

Molly thought for a moment. “Maybe I did.”

“Well, apologize already.”

Molly signed. “Okay. I’ll make bacon as a peace offering.” Molly went to the kitchen and returned in a few minutes with two crisp pieces of bacon. She knelled down by Prada. Prada lifted her head. A good sign. Molly petted Prada’s head. “Prada, honey. I’m sorry. Would you like some bacon?” Prada ate the two pieces of bacon and licked Molly’s face.
​
“I guess she accepts your apology,” Jen said.
 

I like to watch TV. However, lately my favorite shows seem to have added so many sub-plots that it’s hard to keep them straight. There’s a sub-plot for each relationship.  Here’s an example of a detective show with too many sub-plots.

Too Many Sub-plots – A Short Story

Dick sat at his non-descript desk in the bull pen typing out his report on his latest bust. His partner, Tracy, sat in the desk next to his doing the same.

A tall blond walked over to Dick’s desk and sat on the edge of his desk. It was Joanna from Vice. She was a very successful undercover detective in vice because she looked and acted like a hooker. “Are you coming over tonight, handsome?” Joanna asked slyly.

“Yeah,” Dick answered. “As soon as I finish my report, I’ll be right over – thirty-minutes, tops.”

Joanna stood up. “Okay but don’t be too late or I’ll start without you. Oh, and bring your handcuffs.”
“Where are yours?” Dick asked.

Joanna smiled. “We’ll need two pair tonight, Sugar.” She exited the room with a little more sway than her usual strut. Dick and Tracy watched her until she turned into the hall with a pad of sticky notes stuck to her butt.

Dick glanced over to Tracy in time to see him advert his eyes back to his monitor. Dick returned to writing his report. Finally, he broke the sound of clicking keyboards, “This isn’t fair.”
“What’s not fair?” Tracy asked, looking up.

“The whole justice system. Today we busted a meth lab and took in… what, half a mill in drugs and easily $100,000 in cash, and what do we get out of it? A pat on the back. It isn’t fair.”

“Yeah, you’re right. You know, in some companies, we’d get to keep ten percent.” They both returned to their keyboards. After a few minutes, Tracy said, “Did you know there’s 3.5 million dollars in the evidence room? A couple of smart guys like us could figure a way to get it out.”

Dick sat back in his chair and looked at Tracy. “You’re right. We could figure out how to remove it without anyone noticing.”

“After work, let’s go get a drink and talk about it,” Tracy suggested.

“I can’t. I’ve got a date tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”

Tracy laughed. “Going over to Joanna the Slut’s place?”

Dick stared at his partner. “Don’t call her that.”

“Everyone calls her that.”

“I don’t care. Don’t call her a ‘slut’ in my presence.”

Tracy threw his hands up in surrender. “Okay, partner.”

Detective Columbo, another detective in Dick’s department, walked over and leaned on Dick’s desk. He looked Dick straight in the eyes. “This isn’t over, dick-head. We need to settle it. Let’s you and I go to the gym tonight and get in the ring – no holds barred.”

Dick smiled. “Can’t tonight, maybe tomorrow night.”

Columbo straighten up. “Oh yeah, you’re going out with Joanna the Slut tonight.”

Dick jump to his feet. He would’ve hit Columbo in the face if Tracy hadn’t jumped in between them. Tracy placed his hands on Columbo’s chest and gave him a slight shove. “Not now, guys and not here; tomorrow night at the gym. Now beat it, Columbo.”

Columbo pointed a finger at Dick. “I’m going to kill you.” He turned and stormed out.

Dick’s boss, Lois Lane, stood in the doorway to her office. “Dick.” Both Tracy and Dick looked up and made eye contact. “Not you, dick-head, the other Dick,” Lois said. She signaled for Dick to come into her office. When Dick came into his office, Lois said, “Close the door and sit down.” She shuffled through some pages and finally looked up at Dick. “Where’s the report on today’s bust?”

“I’m working on it, Chief. I’ll e-mail it to you in twenty minutes.”

Lois nodded. “Do you need over-time?”

“No, No. I got it. Besides, I have a date tonight.”

Lois chuckled. “Going out with Joanna the Slut again?”

Dick didn’t answer; he just glared.

Lois shook her head. “Look, I understand. You work hard, you play hard. It’s been a long day and you need your pipes cleaned. Go for it. Go ahead and just file the report. Print out a hard copy for me.”

Dick cocked his head. “Is that why you called me in here? What’s on your mind?”

Lois shook her head. “You always were the perceptive one. Internal Affairs is reopening the case from last year about the teenager you shot.”

“Who’s heading up the investigation?” Dick asked.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

Dick shook his head. “He’s been after me very since I accidently ran over that kid my rookie year. That shooting is a closed case. It was a clean shot.”

“You fired nineteen rounds into the perp. You stopped to reload a second clip.”

Dick stood up and shouted, “He was jaywalking!” He took a deep breath and composed himself, flopping down in the chair. “He could have been hit by a truck. I probably saved his life when I shot him.”

Lois shook her head. “It would have been better if you had killed him. He sued the department and the city settled out of court for five million dollars. I think Sherlock wants to recoup some of the money from your pension. That’s brings up a good point; You shot him nineteen times and he still crawled away.”

“I could have killed him if I wanted to.”

Tracy stuck his head in the door. “Dick, you better come out and see this. Your daughter is here asking for you.”

“Damn it!” Lois shouted. “I closed that door for a reason.”

Tracy stepped inside the office. “Sorry, Chief. It’s an emergency.” Dick stood up and marched out of Clark’s office followed by Tracy.

Dick’s daughter, Mystique, stood by Dick’s desk; young, pretty, wearing a too short and tight mini-skirt and sporting a black eye.

Dick stopped in his tracks. “WTF? Who hit you?” Mystique wasn’t crying, but Dick could tell by the way she clinched her jaw she was pissed.

Mystique chuckled.  “My so-called boyfriend did this.”

Dick clinched his fists. “I’ll kill him. Where is he?”

Mystique held up her hands to stop her father. “You have to chill, dad. I’m a big girl now. I can take care of myself. I’ll handle this. I just came by to borrow a gun.”

Tracy reached down to his ankle and pulled out a small pistol. “Here. Use mine. It’s unregistered and the serial number’s filed off.” He stepped forward and handed it to Mystique.

“Thanks,” she said, “I’ll return it tomorrow.” She kissed Tracy on the mouth. Her left hand stayed on his buttocks a little too long. She turned and kissed her father on the cheek. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll see you tonight.”

Dick shook his head. “Sorry, hon. I’ve a date. I might not be home tonight.”
Mystique laughed. “Oh, Joanna the Slut again? Oh well, I shouldn’t talk. Have fun. See you at the fight.”
Dick was puzzled. “What fight?”

Mystique stopped in the doorway. “I heard you and Columbo are scheduled to fight tomorrow after work. It’s about time you two kissed and made up.”

Dick could feel his face redden. “Is nothing a secret around here?” He watched his daughter walk out; her mini skirt revealing a little too much cheek. He turned around and saw Tracy watching her. When he glared at him, Tracy looked down and slithered over to his desk. In ten minutes, Dick was finished and headed for the door.

“Give my love to Joanna,” Tracy shouted.

It was now dark. As Dick walked toward his car, he heard a voice out of the darkness. “Dick, wait up.” It was one of his confidential informants, Moriarty. Moriarty closed the distance between them. “Hey, we need to talk.”

“WTF, Moriarty? I said never to talk to me here or in public.”

“I know, dude, don’t get flamed. I wouldn’t if it wasn’t important.” Dick paused to listen. “Word on the street is you and Tracy going to drain the evidence room.”

Dick was stunned. “Where did you hear that?”

“I’ve my sources. That’s why I’m a good CI. Is it true?”

“It’s in the planning stage.”

Moriarty placed a hand on Dick’s shoulder. “Well, if you need help, I’m here for you, dude. I also heard you and Columba are going to rubble tomorrow night.”

Dick raised his voice. “Damn it! Are there no secrets anymore? So… what are the odds?”
“Three to one in Columbo’s favor.”

“WTF? I’ll murder that guy.” Dick took out his wallet and fished out a twenty. “Put $20 on me to win.”
“Come on, dude. Only a twenty? Your daughter put up $30 on Columbo.”

“I guess there is no loyalty. I always thought blood was thicker.”

Moriarty laughed. “Well, I guess we’ll see tomorrow. By the way, Chief Lane bet $50 on Columbo.”
Dick looked up at Lois’ window and saw the light was out. He pulled out another $10 and gave it to Moriarty. “Now get out of my sight before I arrest you for gambling.”

Moriarty disappeared into the shadows. From the shadows he yelled, “Give my love to Joanna the Slut.”

THE END
​
This snippet has so many sub-plots I have forgotten the original plot. Too many cooks spoil the broth. The same goes for sub-plots.
 

​Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you must have noticed the new phenomena that I call “Facemask Rage”, not to be confused with the Entitled Karen Syndrome which is racist issue. It’s very similar to the old Road Rage and may even be a mutated from of Road Rage. It is observed whenever someone goes ballistic when they are asked to wear a facemask to prevent the spread of COVID-19. No one know for sure what causes Facemask Rage, but there are several theories.
 
One common theory is that facemask rage is a result of pent up frustrations with the pandemic and the restrictions required by most states. Another theory is that facemask rage is nothing more than an adult temper tantrum. Psychologists theorize than people who have Facemask Rage are acting out because they never outgrew the childish tantrum they had as children. However, other doctors point out the stomping of the feet that usually accompanies a tantrum seems to be missing in Facemask Rage. Some scientists think that Facemask Rage is a mutated form of COVID-19. This theory hasn’t been tested, because the people who suffer Facemask Rage also won’t allow themselves to be tested for COVID-19.
 
Whatever the cause, the symptoms are well know by now. Suffers of facemask rage will:

1. Begin acting out when asked to wear a facemask.
2. They may become aggressive by:
   • Throwing items like food.
   • Yelling and raising their voice
   • They may start pushing and trying to force their way inside.
   • Spitting or coughing.
3. They usually say things like:
   • “You can’t make me.”
   • “I don’t have to do what you tell me.”
   • “You’re not my mother.”
   • Or other such nonsense.

They’re totally irrational and won’t listen to reason. They actually believe they have a constitutional right to infect others. They’ll site Freedom of Speech believing it includes coughing on others or the right to Bear Arms believing the ability to infect others is a weapon.
 
Until a cure is found for Facemask Rage it’s best to avoid the ragers and attempt to notify medical responders to help these poor people.  
 

​I read with interest, an article by Tom Huddleston Jr. about Mark Cuban, the billionaire owner of the NBA’s Dallas Mavericks and star on CBS Shark Tank. According to Tom, Mark said concerning job-hunters, “The first question every interviewer is going to ask you is: ‘What did you learn during the pandemic of 2020? What skills did you add during the pandemic of 2020?’” Cuban made the remark during an interview with Dallas’ local CBS affiliate on Sunday. He went on to say, “Keep on adding to your skill-set, no matter what it is.”
 
I’m pretty sure he was talking about job skills. I think many jobseekers have no clue what skills they might learn during the pandemic. Binge watching TV shows is not a skill set. Making short YouTube videos while attempting a minor feat of skill like tossing a water bottle so it lands right side up is not a skill set. Well, it is but just not a job skill. Employers are looking for “transferable skills” which means a skill they can use without paying you to learn it. Many jobseekers don’t know the difference. I want to help. As a community service, here is a list of job skills that are transferable that you can learn during the pandemic for your job interviews and others that are a waste of time:
 
Non-transferable skills:
Face masks—You learned to how make facemasks from material found at home. Unless you’re applying for a job in a facemask factory, not transferable. The facemask made from plastic bags wasn’t a big hit.
 
Toilet Paper—You developed a technique to stretch toilet paper to make it longer. A valuable skill if you go into the toilet paper industry, otherwise, not transferable. You also developed a method to make toilet paper out of banana peels—not transferable.
 
Washing hands—You learned how to properly wash your hands. Big deal. So did everyone else.
 
Uses for latex gloves—You found multiple uses for latex gloves like making funny balloon animals. Of course, by now so has everyone.
 
Transferable job skills:
Secret language—You invented a secrete language only you and your kids can understand. This is the type of skill that the CIA is searching for. It could be used in devising codes and secret communications. Good job—transferable.
 
Shaking hands—You master the techniques of tapping elbows, feet or hips. Congratulations. This will be the new normal. It is useful in all fields. Look for work in customer service.
 
Teaching kids—You successfully home school your kids. Teaching your own kids is the toughest teaching job. This skill is useful in the education field or in law enforcement.
 
Cooking—You learned to cook. Congratulations. This is a much sought-after skill in the food industry and restaurant business provided no one died or got food poisoning in your family.
 
Cutting hair—You learned to cut your own hair and the hair of your family. You might qualify for a job as a barber. Do not provide photographs of your early attempts.
 
Makeup—You learned to do your own makeup and the makeup of your family. You might qualify for a job as a makeup artist. Again, don’t provide photographs of your early attempts.
 
I hope this gives you some ideas about what skills might be transferable. Good luck finding employment.

Here’s another of my favorite short stories. I’ve posted it several times, so if you remember it, I’m sorry. Enjoy!

If Thoughts Could Kill—a Short Short Story

Angelina allowed herself a small snicker as the focus of her ire came down for breakfast. God, I hate him, she thought. Look at that idiot. Little does he know that I am going to kill him next week. I can’t stand the sight of him.   
 
“Good morning, dear,” Ravi said as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “How’d you sleep last night?” I wish she died in her sleep. That would make everything easier, he thought. I must kill her next week. He sat down at the table opposite her.    

Angelina handed Ravi the half-and-half. “Fine. And you?”

Ravi blew on the surface of his coffee, a habit that Angelina found extremely annoying, and took one sip. Blood began to drip from his nostrils. As he reached up to touch his face, foam began to pour out of his mouth. He looked at Angelina with those narrow beady eyes as his head hit the table with a thud. Then his head rolled off the table, across the kitchen floor and into the dog’s dish where Peppy, the greyhound, began to lick his face.  
  
“Like a baby.” Ravi grabbed the bagel knife, reached across the table and stabbed Angelina’s hand, pinning it to the table. Pulling a pistol from the back of his waistband, he shot Angelina between the eyes. He smiled as the back of her head blew out like a smashed watermelon. Blood spouted out the top of her head and down onto the flannel nightgown that he hated. “Do you have plans this weekend?”    

“No, not really.” Angelina poured another cup of coffee. Yes, you bastard, Angelina thought. While you’re banging your slutty mistress across town, I’ll be buying some antifreeze for your coffee. Then I’ll stop off at the gun shop and pick up the pistol that has been on hold during my background. I also want to find your old hunting knife.    

“Me neither.” Ravi sipped his coffee again. I wish I had a slutty mistress across town so I could spend the day banging her while you waste money on another facial. He finished his coffee and stood up. “Well, I am going to get dressed and do some yard work.”  
  
“You do that, dear. I think I’ll go into town and get a facial.” What an idiot. He is worth millions but wears the same pair of underwear for years. I can’t wait to kill him.   
 
“Have fun. Pick up something for dinner.” As Ravi walked out of the kitchen, the kitchen exploded in a ball of fire. Apparently, someone left the gas on in the oven.   
 
“Ciao,” Angelina answered. As Ravi reached the top of the stairs, the top step gave way. He grabbed the railing which also gave way. He fell over the side and landed on his head in the living room. His eyes were open and glued to the TV. The thought of it made Angelina smile.  
  
“Angie, I can’t find my lucky underwear.” What a bitch. I bet she threw them out.   
 
“I threw them out, dear. I’ll buy you some new ones while I’m in town.” I gotta kill him next week.    
Ravi shook his head. I have gotta kill her next week.
​
THE END