How to ruin Thanksgiving dinner without even showing up

One of my favorite things about my old job was the two hours of volunteer time we were allotted every month, which I spent with my kid brother under the cover of "mentoring troubled youth." I may have been laid off, but I'm sticking to routine, at least for now. Yesterday I met Shane at Java Joan's at the usual time. I saw my first Christmas tree of the year there, though I couldn't tell if they were done decorating it. There were only seven ornaments on it, and the lights didn't seem to work. Maybe Joan is making some kind of political statement.

We got our coffee and sat in our usual booth. Only this time when I asked Shane what was going on, instead of his usual initial response of "nothing," he launched straight into an impression of Rob bitching about how I portrayed him in the book. Rob claims he never drinks in the driveway like I said. "Never" is a matter of timing. He finished off part of the garage when I was in college and set up a card table and two chairs behind an old shower curtain so he couldn't be seen from the house. That was in response to Stephanie complaining about Shane always wanting to go outside to be with Daddy because he could see him out the kitchen window. Shane was 3 then. Please note in my book, Shane wasn't born yet. Stephanie was nowhere to be seen yet. Nothing Rob complained about was actually untrue. He just has a shit memory.

So while I was uninvited to Thanksgiving dinner, I was present as some kind of invisible guest, pilloried in absentia by Rob and his partner-in-moronity Pat Donovan at subsequently louder and louder volumes as the day progressed until Stephanie finally lost it. She slammed a wooden spoon against the table, snapping it in half and then tossed the handle on Rob's plate. Shortly after that, he and Donovan relocated to the gentlemen's lounge out in the garage. Apparently Donovan didn't find any of my descriptions of him flattering, either. (They weren't meant to be.)

Finding hope among the Unlucky 7

Today was my last day at McGlothlin-Zilch. Yes, that's the real actual name of the company I've been employed by for the last eight years and four months. I no longer fear getting fired for identifying it, as I've already been kicked to the curb. The separation agreement I signed prohibits me from "disparaging or holding up to ridicule the name of the Company, its current and former officers, agents, and employees." Reporting that I was laid off does not violate that clause. (Also, I don't think making fun of the name "Zilch" is what they mean by "holding up to ridicule," but since I'm not a lawyer, I'll let you make up your own Zilch jokes and I'll leave that one alone. Though don't imagine for a minute that you'll hit on any my co-workers haven't already shared.)

And share they did this afternoon. All afternoon. We were walked out, one by one (there are only two security officers in our building and one had to man the front desk), starting at 10:30. Which would have been a long time already to sit around doing nothing if I had arrived at 8:30 like usual, but my boss (a true humanitarian, and I don't mean that in any sarcastic, severance-agreement-defying way) told us all to not bother coming in until 10:00.

So one-by-one the Unlucky 7 were debriefed in the most perfunctory and pointless of exit interviews (actual question: "Would you recommend McGlothlin-Zilch as an employer to a friend?") then relieved of our employee ID badges and marched to the front door. One-by-one we gathered in the Four Norsemen down the street. Sunil and Courtney got there first. I was third. The others trickled in as I nursed my ginger ale. I was the only non-drinker, which is why I never made a habit out of joining them on post-work outings. I do go to bars, but usually to see a band or for some other specific reason.