When Life Hands You Lemons, Hand Them Back

Hello. My name is Stephen MacDougall. Call me Steve. I’m 33 years old and I lost my job today. I became a statistic. I’m unemployed! I’m a victim of the recession – or so they tell me. I think I handled the news well though. I mean, I didn’t go lay into them with a barrage of f-bombs or threats of physical violence or pull any kind of "disgruntled former employee" thing. Although I suppose I would first have to be gruntled in order to become disgruntled…and I don’t know what gruntled means. Anywho, I’ve sort of summed up today’s events into one simple, dignified, and restrained response: gigantic, steaming pile of urine-soaked douechbaggery with an arrogant corporate bullshit kick to the sack. But I’m not bitter. Heavens no! Bitterness gets you nowhere. You always hear about bitter people in the biographies of failed inventors or unappreciated sculptors: “He died bitter and alone at the age of 52”. You know the story. I for one, am not going to die bitter and alone. I’ll die the other way people die in biographies of failed inventors or unappreciated sculptors: drunk and destitute! I mean, I can’t very well kick-off in the lap of luxury without a job now can I? What fun would that be? Drunk and destitute it is!

However, that idea is not really turning my crank either. No, in fact that’s the worst idea I’ve had in a dog’s age. Don’t mind me. It’s just all the animalistic rage I’m feeling from being axed by a poorly run company that cut so far back during the good times, there was nothing left to cut during the bad times. So please forgive me. I’m just suffering through a Mel Gibson-esqe drunken rage…well minus the drunkenness and bigotry. Nope, just plain old rage for yours truly. I’m a ragetarian. But I’m not really feeling rage right now either. I woke up this morning, and will again tomorrow with a roof over my head. That’s more than I can say for many people. Although, there is a gaping hole in my bedroom ceiling right now. Yeah, where all that water was pouring in from the day before. Yep, a plumber came over and tore a hole in my ceiling to find the source of the leak. He didn’t find it. So now I just have a gaping hole in my ceiling until the water comes pouring in again. It’s almost like a game. It’s called: "wait for water to come gushing into your room when you’re not home so that it ruins your bed and makes your house smell funny". This game hasn’t really caught on very well, say, the way soccer has. Did I mention that the plumber managed to knock my mirror off the wall and shatter it into a thousand pieces? No? Well, he did. Now is that seven years of bad luck for me or for him? Or do we get three and a half years each? I’m going to need to get sources on this. Either way someone is going to suffer through a lot of canker sores and constipation over the next few years.

No, I’m going to take all that rage and anger and bitterness and channel it into something better. Well…just as soon as I reconcile the fact that someone who has written for national television and worked as a reporter and morning show radio host is considering applying for a job at Tim Horton’s because the economy hasn’t quite recovered the way about 8.4 percent of the Canadian population wished it had. I’ve been here before though. Pounding the pavement in Toronto. Two university degrees in hand. An IQ that the experts tell me, “borders on gifted”. Stopping in front of Booster Juice on Bloor Street West with my resume, wondering if I was ready to swallow a dose of pride so large I’d need a Carnie Wilson-sized liposuction procedure to remove it when all was said and done. I didn’t apply for a job at Booster Juice that day. I held my head high and went home to a meal of Kraft Dinner and hot dogs…again. I found work a couple weeks later. At a store that sells sunglasses. It’s two and a half months of my life that I’m trying to repress. I could very well be developing multiple personality disorder from all the repressing I’ve been doing. I think I suffered from post traumatic stress disorder after working there as well. Our manager made us listen to a dance/hip hop station while we worked. To this very day I get violently ill when Shakira’s Hips Don’t Lie comes on the radio. Nothing against Shakira. She shakes her mojo like nobody’s damn business. No, it's just that it was a hit song at the time and it conjures up terrible memories for me. Selling sunglasses that cost more than I made in a week to bored yet wealthy housewives, cocky stock brokers, and spoiled rich kids who would ask if I had any glasses where you could “really see the Chanel logo”. And don’t get me started on my co-workers. The manger that had been selling sun glasses at that very location for like 18 years…straight, and would spend most of the day on the phone whining to her other manager buddies about how head office was screwing her over. Then there was the really cute girl who could fulfill her sales target by lunchtime simply by showing up to work and blinking. Then the initially sweet girl who ruthlessly fought for her one percent commission...and tried to steal everyone else’s while she was it. She'd come in full of cheer and vigor but as soon as a customer came in she'd go through some sort of Michael Jackson Thriller video transformation into a blood-thirsty werewolf. It was bizarre. She'd grow fangs and claws and the room would fill with mist and everything. Then there was overtly flamboyant young guy who really didn’t want to like me at first, but eventually gave in when he realized I wasn’t some east coast homophobe. And then our brilliant assistant manager who made her business your business…no matter what the subject matter. Yes, this is the same girl who loudly and with great detail, told me about some kind of painful rupturing cyst that she once had on the crack of her butt. Did I mention she loudly and with great detail told me this story while surrounded by dozens and dozens of other rush hour commuters on a subway car? This is not the kind of information most doctors want to hear let alone casual acquaintances. In fact, I'm sure this is the kind of medical case that doctors pawn off on to their interns because they don’t want to deal with anything that yucky themselves. I certainly didn’t need to hear this information, and the poor bastards stuck standing next to this girl on the subway certainly didn’t need the juicy details either. All those people crushed in there together like sardines. Think of the poor guy who was pushed up next to this girl’s butt. He probably spent his entire ride home wondering if that cyst was oozing anything onto his new slacks. Was it contagious?

The bottom line is: I survived the sunglasses store. I’ve survived unemployment before. I’ve swallowed my pride. And even though it tasted worse than anything I’ve ever eaten at Arby’s, I came through it. I cleaned out rental cars for seven bucks an hour. I bussed tables and scraped off disgusting dinner plates for less money than that. And after all of it: I am who I am. It’s part of me. I think I’m a good guy. Smart. Funny. Well-liked. Handsome on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and every second Pancake Day. My friends and family love me. I’m quality. I’m not one of those people you can order over the phone like a Snuggie or a Slap Chop. No, you have to go into a really expensive boutique to order up someone like me. I guess a good kick in the pills from life every now and then reminds you of who you are. Life says, “Hey! Jackass! Don’t get too comfortable. There’s more for you to do! Now get moving!” To which I reply, “Bite me, Life! You can give this shit up any time now! You seriously have the worst timing! You're like a case of the runs on a first date! Remember the time I was about to play my very first gig ever with my band and you blew up my amplifier 10 minutes before show time? And remember the time I got a job bartending for the summer and you gave me a sprained ankle so I couldn’t work for three weeks and I went broke? And what about all the times I ever stepped in dog shit? Enough is enough, Life! Give it up!” And Life replies, “Make me”. So that’s what you have to do. When life hands you lemons – grab a salt shaker and do a shot of tequila. Or if you're a non-drinker, hand those lemons back.

Anyway, I’m trying to keep my head up. Trying to make my way through this. I know I will. I always do. I have people in my life who help me along the way. I’m lucky that way. Positive thinking, great friends and family, confidence and humor. Those will be my crutches – my shoulders to lean on. For all of those things, I am truly thankful. And to my boss who decided to lay me off, I would never tell you to kiss my ass. I’m above that. But feel free to kiss the ass of my old assistant manager at the sunglasses store.