Age Ain't Nothin' But a Number

My Dad could sell an electric vibrator to an Amish woman.

Seriously, he's that good. He's spent most of his life in sales, save for a few stints in chimney sweeping, the Marines and bartending.

When I was 14, we gladly moved from Ohio to North Carolina so my Dad could take a big-deal job selling commercial laundry and dishwashing equipment and supplies to places like hospitals, hotels and restaurants. My Dad rigged our home washing machine so that all we had to do was press one button for the correct amount of soap and fabric softener. Verrrrrrrrrrrry cool.

So, I called my Dad today, expecting the usual chatter.

"Hey, Dad, it's 123Valerie."

"Hey, 123Valerie. What's new?"

"Not much," I said. "Just working a lot. How about you?"

"Oh, not much either," said my Dad. "I lost my job this week. That's about it."

Huh? Do what now? My Dad is awesome at what he does. New business a-go-go. People, especially people who have money to spend on the products he sells, just ABSOLUTELY love him.

My Dad's douche bag boss made the unfortunate mistake of firing my Dad by telling him, "Your performance is great, Denny. Highest sales in the region. Of course, everyone loves you. And you know the products better than anyone. But, well, we just need some fresh, young blood in here."

Oh, Dad. I'm so sorry. Ouch.

My Dad is incredibly handsome (I take after him), suave and personable. And obviously he's good at what he does or he wouldn't be offering to send me money at every turn. But, my Dad's idiot asswipe company decided on a whim that his expertise was no longer necessary because, despite his new hip hairstyle, dedicated vitamin regimen and new-found love for The Gazelle, my Dad just doesn't meet thier "cool" image needed to sell dishwashers and laundry soap. Gah, yeah right. What the F?

I can't say much about this, but my Dad and a legal team are looking into something that rhymes with "mAGE inDISCRIMINATION." You go, Dad.

But, I have no worries. My Dad has landed on his feet more times than a gymnast. He is fine professionally and millions of people are rushing to his aid. Even if he chooses not to get back in the rat race, he has an incredible artistic talent that bodes well for painting seashells on the beach. And if all else fails, he's got a hot wife 15 years his junior, my Step-Mom Paula. She's a kick-ass business woman and will take care of him. So, all is well.

Except that I can't shake my anger that someone told my Dad that he could no longer do what he's always done. (And has done it phenomenally well, I might add). I imagine it's a bit like how one would feel about their child who gets unfairly attacked on the playground.

Granted he's a 59-year-old, silver-haired child with bad knees who needs fiber supplements, but he's still my heart. And he plays a mean game of Freeze Tag.

Bastards! I will find my Dad's ex-boss and poop in his office trash can on a Friday night so he comes into a cloud of darkness on Monday morning.

No contest this evening. I'm too mad. Okay. Maybe a small contest. Have you ever gotten fired from a job, and did you deserve it? The winner gets a copy of my Dad's resume.