The Jobless Goddess

     All those times I didn’t make chicken soup for my husband when his nose was running like a faucet have come home to roost. Since Monday, my back has felt like someone beat it with a pillowcase full of broken concrete.      I lie down in bed, I wince before my butt even hits the mattress. I stand up, I have to hold onto a solid surface and still I cry out expletives. It hasn’t been a great week. Meanwhile, though, my husband heats up these homemade rice bags in the microwave. He made them for me, and then he gently places them on my sciatica situation area. I look up at him with the eyes of a dejected bloodhound.      “Thank you, do we have any chocolate?” I ask.       “No, not in the house anyway, unless you want to try one of those stale Oreos I’ve got down in the workroom.”      Now, this means either he doesn’t want me to have one of his stashed Oreos, or he just found a half-eaten bag of them that he hid last July.      “Oh. Okay. I just sort of felt like a little