Tuesday, September 20, 2011

When I broke the news to my mom that I had been laid off, she asked, “Can you protest it?” She wasn’t joking.

God bless my mom, and God bless moms everywhere. They’re the only people who will love you unconditionally. No matter what you do, they’ll think the best of you. So you just got busted for knocking off a bank? Everyone else will call you a criminal, but Mom will say you’re entrepreneurial. So you’re living under a bridge? Everyone else will call you homeless, but Mom will applaud you for living within your means.

At any rate, I’m neither homeless nor a criminal—I’m just an unemployed guy trying to figure things out. My mom, God bless her, isn’t quite as fatalistic about the situation. She’s pissed at the people who did this to me, and I’m pretty sure she wants to get on the phone and give them all shades of hell. I wish I had my mom’s fortitude. Forget Crushed Soul Publishing—I’d rule the world.

My mom volunteers at Liv’s school to teach the kids about art. There’s an art-lady planning meeting tonight, so she and my dad stop by our house beforehand for dinner. My face is still pasty, my eyes are still glassy, and my fleece is still covered with cat fur, but my mom tells me she’s proud of me. I believe her.

Do I need the scotch to (1) forget that
I don't have a job or (2) forget that
I'm watching the Chicago Cubs?

As we’re sitting down to dinner, a friend from the neighborhood, Todd Gray, pops in with an addition to my I’m-down-on-my-luck bounty: four tickets to tomorrow’s Cubs game.

“I can’t go, and I figure these will go well with your Blue Label scotch,” he says.

There’s no doubt about that. If you’re watching the Cubs, you definitely don’t want to do it sober. A blackout level of intoxication is the way to go, especially this season. I appreciate that Todd is thinking of me, but I won’t be able to use the tickets. I have hours of work to do tomorrow on the freelance gig that doesn’t pay great but is steady. In other words, I plan to be productive.

And that puts me a step ahead of the Cubs, who haven’t done anything productive in more than a century. As I think about the Cubs, my plight doesn’t seem so bad. I mean, I might be down on my luck, but I’m confident I won’t require 100-plus years to turn things around.

Maybe we should send my mom in to manage those sad sacks. Lord knows, they need it.