I've had many jobs in my long and colorful life. Some paid well, and some did not. The list is long of my successes and failures. I've laughed, cried, and despaired on many days.

But these things have made me into the person I am today; and for that, I'm very grateful.

I'm keeping this book on the light side and hope you'll find that laughter heals many disappointments. I have three categories for jobs--the good, the bad, and the ugly.

The good job, meaning your best job ever. It's probably the first one that comes to mind; and, hopefully, you're still enjoying the fruits of your labors.

The bad job. I learned from mine and moved on. I hope you did, as well. Unfortunately, this pool was a big one in which I belly-flopped more than once. Ouch!

Then, I have the ugly job category. This one I rarely speak of, okay... never. I'm breaking silence today and baring my soul. (Let us know how you felt being a sign flipper in 100 degree heat or being the scooper of the poop in the monkey house.) It's all good, or should I say, you'll feel better when you read mine and Robert Zimmerman's forthcoming chapter.

This is a multi-author book; so please join 'Z' and me for 'The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.'

My good job. It was an easy pick here. I love being a wife, mother, and grandmother. I come by it naturally. When I met my husband, there was nothing I wanted more in this world than to have children with the man I loved. This career choice has shaped me like no other.

But as a teenager, I had my sights set on fingerprint forensics, and was ready to make that a life career with the FBI. I owned a fingerprint kit and had also made a cataloguing system to house the prints. All of my family and friends were subject to this torture. A girl ahead of the times, I think. I even paw-printed my nextdoor neighbor's dog! My single mother said no to my career aspirations, as she knew it most likely would've ruined me. "You're a mother through and through," she boasted. She was absolutely right.

I married my high school sweetheart in 1975, and we had three sons four years apart. There was nothing like being around my baby boys and seeing their big blue eyes staring at me. I will never regret giving them the best years of my life.

People often asked me why I stayed home to raise my children. I replied, "so they don't grow two heads and turn into monsters because they weren't loved and cared for. That's my job."

My bad job. Oh, dear. It didn't last long because I cried every day until I quit. I was the receptionist for the Public Defender's Office when I was eighteen. Just typing this makes me cringe. The stress and atmosphere was horrific. The worst thing was, I had left my job as a telephone operator where I had top seniority, wonderful pay, and a security guard escort to my car day and night. None of those happened at the office of the public defender. My desk was robbed repeatedly. I found my wallet one day in the back alley when I was emptying the wastebasket, which added to my uneasiness.

I had a mountain of unpaid parking tickets for failure to move my car every two hours from downtown street parking. (The public defender is always strategically located near the county courthouse where parking is non-existent.) I did lose weight running for the meter-maid, and making my daily delivereries to every office in the four-story courthouse. Three months later, I RAN back to the phone company and begged to return. Thankfully, they said yes.

My ugly job. I will call this the sometimes ugly side of a great job. I was a Realtor in the beautiful state where I still live, and with that came all three of these categories. Keeping this light, here is a standout memory from a house showing. I'll call her, 'Ms. Dental Hygiene.'

I drove with my client one hour (one way) to show her a half million dollar home. It was lovely, but overpriced and in the middle of nowhere. We arrived, parking in the circular driveway near the elaborate fountain. The widowed owner answered the door; and I was so shocked, I was rendered speechless. The seller was not properly dressed, and there was a long piece of dental floss dangling from her front teeth. Friendly and chattering away, she began with the tour of the house.

She continued room by room, pointing out the fine indoor features, completely unfazed by her appearance. The more she talked, the more comical it seemed, and she, unaware of the dental floss flapping about.

I broke out in a paroxysm of laughter; and quickly excused myself, returning to my car. A few minutes later, my client came looking for me, wanting to put an offer on the house.

We sat down at the seller's kitchen table as she signed the offer, smiling, with floss still in her teeth and clad in see-through pajamas. (To my credit, I did insist on a bathrobe.)

A Realtor's got to do what is needed to close the deal, no matter how bad it looks.

I hope you enjoyed a slice of my life. I look forward to reading yours, too.