SAD SACKED: Excerpt

Coming out in June

The last person Liz Alterman expects to hear from during her Thanksgiving prep is her husband, Rich. He never calls from his job at a busy Manhattan newsroom. And he never will again, because he’s just been laid off. Two months later, Liz is downsized, too.

At first, Rich is enchanted with his new leisurely lifestyle. But when he’s still unemployed six months later, his euphoric mood devolves into depression and despair. It falls to Liz to figure out how to support their family of five and keep up appearances in their well-to-do suburb, where even nannies drive the latest model Lexus.

Sad Sacked (out June 11) blends the wit of Nora Ephron’s Heartburn with the madcap hilarity of Maria Semple’s Where’d You Go, Bernadette to expose the pressure on women to put on a happy face even as their world falls apart.

Excerpt: 

As much as I wanted to hog-tie him to a desk chair and force him to apply to fifty jobs a day, I tried to be respectful. I also wanted to know if there were a statute of limitations for something like this. I imagined headlines on women’s magazines: “Partner Unemployed? Allow Him 12 Days to Wallow, Then Kick His Ass!” 

At the same time, I wanted to Taser the friends and relatives who were quick to tell him to savor this “well-deserved break.” This growing group also said things like, “You look so relaxed and well rested!”—a statement he took to mean “Keep on doing what you’re doing!” Which amounted to a shit-ton of laundry but not much else. 

Of course he was well rested! He slept deeply, like a man who’d just returned from a ten-day camping trip. While I was wide awake worrying about his next act, he snored so loudly he could’ve drowned out a plumber snaking a toilet. 

I could feel my blood pressure soaring each time I heard him on the phone telling someone, “Yeah, I was let go. But really, it’s been a blessing. Last night I stayed up until midnight for the first time in ten years. It was amazing!” I wanted to scream, “I’m happy for you, but you’re not retired. This is just a detour—not even, this is a rest stop. Use the bathroom, grab a coffee, and get back in your car! This isn’t— this can’t be—your final destination!” 

I shared my frustration with a friend I’d known since her son and mine had been in kindergarten together. Her husband had been briefly out of work a few months earlier, so she understood my concerns as each day passed and Rich became more enchanted with his new leisurely lifestyle. She assured me he was still in shock. “When it wears off, he will immediately go into crisis mode,” my friend advised. “So enjoy the euphoria stage while you can.” 

Three weeks after being let go, he had taken over all the household tasks without applying for a single job. He drove the carpool while picking up milk on the way to the bank and the post office. My non-practicing Jewish husband magically morphed into the perfect six-foot, two-inch Christmas elf, doing the majority of the holiday shopping and gift wrapping. 

Each morning, the children were delighted to see him home again. As if he had amnesia, our middle son would start each day with some variation of “Wow! Dad, you’re still here!” forcing us to serve up the bitter “Dad lost his job, remember?” line alongside waffles and gummy vitamins. Our own sad version of Groundhog Day. 

From afternoon until dusk, Rich threw footballs to the boys as they bounced on our trampoline while I wrote stories that would appear in the next day’s newsletter. Sometimes I’d take a break and watch from the dining-room window, finding the scene both sweet and concerning. Was Rich simply enjoying all this time with the boys after years of arriving home from work after dark? Or was he hiding from me and my gentle reminders that résumés don’t just update themselves? Time would tell. 

A few days later, as he made yet another loop through the living room with the Dustbuster, his newly-acquired third arm, it occurred to me that this must be what it’s like to have a butler. If so, I wasn’t sure I wanted one. My husband, who usually kept a collection of balled-up socks in the bedroom corner, now lurked, waiting for me to finish my coffee so he could whisk the mug off to the dishwasher, fueled by a desperate need to be of use. 

Although many moms fantasize about having a personal assistant, the reality fell far short of the dream for me. I always said I never wanted a nanny even though they were the norm in our neighborhood. I adored my boys: their snotty noses and sticky fingers, the milk and ketchup mustaches they’d erase with the disconcerting swipe of a good linen tablecloth. All of it. I had vowed that whether they turned out to be Nobel laureates or serial killers, I needed to know I’d had a hand in it. I was prepared to take full responsibility either way. But there were many times I’d wished I could send someone out for a gallon of milk or the lemon I’d forgotten for a recipe. Who wouldn’t love an earnest helper who never failed to move the wet laundry into the dryer? So why was I suddenly missing the man who’d previously left crusty cereal bowls all over the house? I guessed it’s the same reason no one wants to sleep with Alice from The Brady Bunch. Watching someone scrub your toilets as you’re facing financial ruin is no aphrodisiac. 

Rich was now washing more sheets than your average Hilton. One Monday morning, he emerged from the basement after his third load of laundry and said, “I’ve decided what I’d like to do.” 

Oh, thank God. Finally. Here it was. The moment I’d been waiting for. I held my breath as I willed him to say, “I’m taking an online course in web development.” Or “I’m going to apply to the six hundred job postings you’ve sent me.” Anything other than what he proudly exclaimed, which was: “I think I’d like to join the YMCA.” 

PRE-ORDER SAD SACKED HERE

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In addition to Sad Sacked, Liz Alterman is also the author of the young adult thriller, He’ll Be Waiting, and the domestic suspense novels, The Perfect Neighborhood, and the forthcoming, The House on Cold Creek Lane.  For more, visit lizalterman.com 

 

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Category: On Writing