Your front-row seat to my nervous breakdown
OK, seriously: What’s with all the hubbub about high unemployment rates in this country? Because I’m still two business days away from my lay-off, and already the job offers are coming at me faster than I can keep up with them. You jobless whiners out there must be a bunch of losers; this job-search shit is even easier than kicking my kids’ asses at Candyland.
Since learning last week that I’ve been laid off from my job of the past 10 years, I’ve been feeling a bit anxious and unsettled. So imagine my relief when, this morning, just a few short days after uploading to CareerBuilder.com a copy of my résumé, I received the following email:
In my mind, I am a worldly, tuxedo-wearing, international man of mystery, jetting to and fro, blending seamlessly with my surroundings … by all appearances a high-class, streetwise native of whatever far-flung, exotic locale in which I find myself.
In reality, I rarely leave the house.
Oh, Scott. Things were going so well. So well indeed. Alas …
You see, Scott, I am a major control freawok … but, unfortunately, I am neither qualified nor equipped to install Verizon FiOS. Thus, I begrudgingly had to relinquish control and allow you to have free rein around the inside and outside of my house today.
Don’t take it personally, Scott; I get twitchy and anxious when anyone is doing any work on my home of any kind. I always worry that the person performing the work is going to accidentally fuck something up and leave me with a new problem that didn’t exist until they dicked around with whatever it was with which they had to dick around.
Um, well, actually, Mr. Bono, now that you mention it …
(Sorry, kids. You’ll get the story, but not tonight. Aiming for tomorrow.)
(Also, FYI: This kind of unfortunate incident can be avoided in the future if one of you would like to make an enormous donation to the “Help Jon Zal Quit His Day Job” fund. I’m just sayin’ …)
Me to my wife after running outside and catching her before she backs out of the driveway so that I can hand to her the cellphone she left on the kitchen counter—the one that I can never reach her on:
“Please keep this on you.”
“I do.”
“Apparently not.”
“Yes, I do. That’s why it was inside.”
Four years ago this month, my wife and I closed on our house and joined the ranks of the “homeowners” (a misnomer if ever there was one, because, I assure you, we SO DON’T own this house; Countrywide Mortgage owns not only this house, but, thanks to the plummeting real-estate prices of the past several years, everything in it … but I digress).
At the end of our first winter here, it became apparent to us that the previous owners, in order to make the house they were selling look pretty for the least possible cost, slapped a coat of paint on it with little or no preparation. Their plan worked; we gave them an assload of cash for their pretty house, they vamoosed, and, after less than one year here, we had a house that looked like a giant, pale-yellow scab.
To: [Lots of people]
Hi, this is Jon. I can’t get to the phone right now because it shattered into a million pieces on Interstate 95 early last evening. Its pieces are intermingled with those of the six-hour-old BlackBerry Curve that I received from my employer yesterday. I left both on the roof of my car while transporting my family from point A to point B. Total estimated retail value: $700.
If you need to reach me, please call me on my home phone … which I probably won’t answer, because I’m busy throwing up.
Thanks.
