Yep, yep. The CDC posted an article yesterday on how to prepare for the Zombie Apocalypse. What with the end of the world nigh approaching today, a mother giving her 8-year-old Botox, doctors in Florida refusing to treat overweight women, and Skechers making butt-toning shoes for 7-year-olds, I’m really not all that surprised.
So yeah, the CDC is jesting a bit, but just in case the world IS ending today, they’re giving some great advice on emergency preparedness for other types of “lesser” disasters like tornadoes, floods, earthquakes, and more.
However, upon reading about the undead this morn over my first cup o’ Joe, I couldn’t help but mutter, “Aren’t I already living through a Zombie Apocalypse right now?”
You see, I just moved to Utah and I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve lost my way on my life path and have been infected by the Zombie hive myself. I seem to be shuffling along, arms outstretched into the void, not quite sure where I’m going or if I’ve reached my destination. In my journey to Utah, somehow I think I accidentally took the red eye to a proverbial Siberia, and I’m not sure how I’ll get back, if ever.
My Own Personal Apocalypse
According to the Holmes and Rahe Stress Scale developed in 1967, changes in living conditions and changes in residence add up to place the process of moving in the top ten of stressors we face in our lives (though I can’t imagine why a Zombie Apocalypse isn’t up there among them). Moving is right there alongside death, divorce, and losing a job. I’m here to tell you that ain’t the half of it.
When my young heathen self decided to “Go West,” I called a moving company that shall remain unnamed to pack me up and help me over that Oregon Trail. Being the Anal Retentive that I am, I handled all the details months ahead of time, paid my $600 deposit, and commenced to “tossing and taping.”
As the date drew near, I got a call from the moving company to let me know that my truck would arrive on 5/12 between 9-10 am. I was stoked as I ate my Top Ramen out of the one bowl I had yet to pack with a pair of disposable chopsticks. To say that I was “ready” to start my new adventure would have been a vast understatement; like saying I am simply “ready” for Johnny Depp to come by any old time for our date at the Bowl-O-Rama.
And then the company called to cancel, saying the carrier that had booked my pick up had an emergency. Well shit, I was sorry to hear that and sent a little prayer hoping that everything was okay for said driver. Fortunately, I still had days for them to book another truck, pick up my gunk, and hit the trail.
Instead, I was infected by their Zombie strain.
After approximately 46 phone calls on my part with no answer and no response to my increasingly desperate messages bordering on the insane, I finally reached one of the undead in their NYC offices who told me that I should just look for alternative means to move. They weren’t going to be able to honor their contract.
I had just flown my little brother in to help me make the drive out West and he had to get back to work. We scrambled and rented a U-Haul, I called in a favor to a dear friend, and we loaded up and headed out, exhausted and wet from the torrential downpours plaguing the States (which I hear is yet another sign of The End).
It’s always been my firm belief that when things are meant to happen they just flow. Like shiny lights come down from the heavens and bless every step you take and the sky parts and the angels sing “Kumbuya” into your ears. Perhaps I had made a drastic mistake in following the signs that were boldly telling me it was time to move on.
Nope… I just can’t buy it. Sometimes you just end up dealing with a company of Zombies who go rote through their days and don’t consider the living being on the other side of the telephone line. And it doesn’t have to do with the Universe not having your back. It doesn’t mean you’ve ignored the signs. It doesn’t mean you’ve lost your way. No! It has to do with a company whose heart has died.
Oh, of course the Zombie hive at this company promised to refund my $600 deposit on Friday the 13th (a day which couldn’t have been more fitting for dealing with Zombies) but I still haven’t seen it, and I’m back to my stalking by telephone, trying to reach a survivor who hasn’t been infected and praying that one will return my phone call. But it hasn’t happened.
Maybe I’ll never get my deposit back.
But that’s not what pisses me off. What torques my jaw and sets my ass to burning like the bush of Moses’s fame, is the fact that I feel like a doormat. A well-trampled, traversed, covered-in-muddy-footprints doormat and I’ve allowed this company to infect me with rote shuffling and questioning. It has made me to feel like I’ve lost my way in life and made a horrible mistake in reading the signs so lovingly placed before me by the Universe.
Luckily, the CDC has provided me with a list of items needed for my emergency kit as I try to get well and survive. And, as an added bonus, in the event that the world does end today, I can enlist the help of live atheists who “vow to rescue pets in case of Rapture” as I head to the pearly gates this evening. This “post-doomsday pet rescue service, comprised of sworn atheists, already has 259 clients who have paid $135 for the first pet and $20 for each additional pet at the same address. You can trust an atheist, according to Eternal Earth-Bound Pets.”
At least the Atheists are among the living and will take care of my beloved pup So-Kr8z as I hopefully ascend into nirvana, where I will no longer be plagued by said moving company, doubts about my spiritual path, or Zombies.
UPDATE: And like a gentle ray of sunshine from the Celestial Sphere, a lovely live non-Zombified woman, whom I will just refer to as “M” has called from the moving company to help me. Like she’s all-out trying to fix the problem with my deposit. My faith is on the mend, my zombified heart is starting to thump its normal rythym, and I can see a tiny glimpse of my path…