Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to Receipt

I decided to write thank you notes to the various objects that are helping me get through unemployment. This edition is dedicated to Receipt.

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Dear Receipt,

Having been under the influence of unemployment for a bazillion trillion days, I have come to realize that most people in my situation experience significant loss of dignity, motivation, and sense of self. I, on the other hand, suffer from a far greater misery: the inability to buy large quantities of worthless crap. Over the years, I have amassed 40,000 socks, more than a million postage stamps, and nearly 10,000 beanie babies. Now with my current status of employment, I am forced to…what’s that, Receipt? Oh, that’s not me? That’s an episode of “Hoarders”? I see. Well, that’s embarrassing. Don’t tell anyone about this, okay? Thanks.

Anyway, now that I have your attention, Receipt, I really ought to take this opportunity to thank you. As I am afflicted with an unbearably long case of unemployment, I find keeping you in my possession very necessary, for 9 times out of 10, I immediately regret the purchase just I made. For instance, last week, I bought a box of 100 cookies from Whole Foods, but after looking at you, realized they were oatmeal raisin and not chocolate chip. Even with my dramatic fist pumps and feet stamping, I could not convince the cashier that oatmeal raisin cookies are absolutely pointless, nor that, “All Indians just look alike, how do I know it’s really you who bought the cookies?” is not a proper reason to deny my return! But there you were, Receipt, standing by my side, proving that I am indeed differentiable from the other 1 billion Indians on the planet, and that I do indeed deserve a refund for the dumbest cookie in history.

Now receipt, we are taught from an early age that what matters in life is family, friends, experiences, and memories. But any idiot who has seen America knows this is a bunch of bull. What really matters is how much stuff you own. As unemployment appears to be directly correlated to my ability to purchase said stuff, I have found it necessary to prominently display you, Receipt, whenever possible.

If someone asks me for the time, I make sure to search through my pockets, saying things like, “Where is that damn watch?”, while pulling out every one of you, Receipt, that documents important purchases, like a computer or gummy bears. Once the person asking for the time points out that my watch is on my wrist, I make sure to hold you in such a way that displays you in their line of vision. That way, the person will not only find out the time, they will know that I am an awesome person, as judged by the stuff I own. Now that, Receipt, is the definition of efficiency!

In conclusion, Receipt, I still need a damn job.

With cookies,

Mala

Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to Ruler

I decided to write thank you notes to the various objects that are helping me get through unemployment. This edition is dedicated to Ruler.

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Dear Ruler,

As I was walking up 5^th Avenue last week, I realized that Manhattan extends above 59^th Street! Who knew? Certainly not anyone who pays $1300 a month to live in a box downtown and pretend their only window view being of a brick wall adds a “vintage flair” to one’s life. Overpriced piece of sh*t.

Ahem. Anyway, enough about the poor choices one makes during grad school. Like I was saying, as I was walking down 5^th Avenue last week, I noticed a sign that caught my eye: Free t-shirts. Now, Ruler, if there is one thing I can never get enough of, it’s paper-thin, oversized, white t-shirts that accentuate my back fat and draw attention to my abnormally short neck. How sexy. Naturally, I was intrigued.

Upon further investigation, I was delighted to find out that I would receive said free t-shirt after sitting through a two hour presentation on a new service that is guaranteed to find you employment after 30 easy payments of $4000 that can be recycled as your annual salary should the program turn out to be a total failure! After a riveting 90-minute presentation (during which I fell asleep), I awoke to hear the presenter make his final point. “And remember, ladies and gents,” he said, “The key to a successful job hunt is to know how to measure your success. Does anyone know how to measure their success?”

Of course I knew the correct response. This is America. The answer is clearly inches. That’s when I thought of you, Ruler! Despite the fact that I have always have you, Ruler, I still try to measure things by opening a Word document and holding the item in question up to my screen. For years, you have been gathering dust, but now, Ruler, I have found your second calling, and according to my Word document, it is between 0.5 and 4 inches tall. I can’t really tell. My screen is a bit blurry.

So I rushed back home and found “WTF box” in the back of my closet. After tossing out Photo Frame, I found all of my “WTF” documents, including diplomas, theses, awards, and my welcome certificate to the official “Spice Girls” fan club, and made a pile. According to you, Ruler, my success stands approximately five inches tall.

Unfortunately, all of my Bing searches for “five inches average success?” resulted in a gross blogs about…you know. It seems, Ruler, that my five inches of success cannot be measured against the rest of the world. I suppose at the end of the day, it's the quality of the inches that matters, though it seems by composition of important institutions, such as Congress, that quality is a far second to the ability of making your inches appear on Fox News. Good thing I have my t-shirt to cover my ass. And back fat.

With inches,

Mala

Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to Pencil

I decided to write thank you notes to the various objects that are helping me get through unemployment. This edition is dedicated to Pencil.
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Dear Pencil,

While recently reconnecting with Pad of Paper, I realized that I have not properly paid tribute to you and your valuable contributions getting me through this unnecessarily long and ironic case of unemployment.

Our relationship started many years ago, Pencil, as you have faithfully served me so well. In middle school, you erased embarrassing things I wrote on my notebook, like “I heart the Spice Girls!” And in high school, you stuck by my side, erasing embarrassing things I wrote in my notebooks, like “I heart the Spice Girls!” Still, in college, you were there, erasing embarrassing things I wrote in my notebooks, like “I miss the Spice Girls!” But Pencil, I suppose there are no Pencil erasers that can correct the bigger mistakes of life, like doubting Justin Timberlake’s solo career and going to grad school. When the scientists of the world do invent such an eraser, Pencil, be sure to let me know on Facebook, so I can write dreamily about it in my Spice Girls notebook. I mean Justin Timberlake notebook. Damnit.

Pencil, you are also so good for illustrating important points. Just last week, I was interviewed for a job in the UK that involves using a Monocle, spitting whilst talking, and using British-sounding words, such as “whilst.” As this job involves knowing a great deal about England, the recruiter gave me colored versions of you, Pencil, to draw a map demonstrating my knowledge of the Queen's island. Unfortunately, World Map was busy, but I did very well! See?

Of course, before I turned my map in to the recruiter, I realized I made a crucial mistake! So I used you, Pencil, to correct the folly!

Silly me, I forgot Loch Ness’s hat! Also, I put London on the wrong side.

Sadly, my application for the job was revoked once the recruiter realized I thought “Esq.” means I believe myself to be “exquisite.” But no matter. You are always there for me, and you are Esq, Pencil.  Together, we will continue write and erase embarrassing thoughts whilst illustrating important features of the UK, like the Spice Girls! Unemployment shall be conquered!

With Loch Ness,

Mala

Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to Swimming Pool

I decided to write thank you notes to the various objects that are helping me get through unemployment. This edition is dedicated to Swimming Pool.

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Dear Swimming Pool,

Last night, I was a bit down on myself. Being the kind soul you are, you asked me what was the matter? I told you that my sadness stemmed from two things: still being afflicted with a terrible case of unemployment, and once again being locked inside of the gym at closing by the dummies who run the place. I was all but ready to give up, but you took this opportunity to impart some valuable knowledge. Leave it to you, Swimming Pool, to turn the lemons life handed me into lemonade…albeit with trace amounts of chlorine. As soon as you started talking, I began to cheer up, and appreciate the positives, like the radio being tuned to remixes of “Queen” songs. Cheers to my fellow Indian, Freddie Mercury! (You didn’t know Freddie Mercury was Indian, did you?)

Perhaps is was the jovial atmosphere, perhaps it was the chemical fumes, but your reasoning of the job market made so much sense, Swimming Pool. That, or I fainted. Like the candidate pool, every swimming pool has a few undeniable stars. Their swimming abilities are so advanced that others would rather drown themselves than get in the way of their genius. Each star was born with absolute grace, superior athleticism, and can swim a mile in the time it takes me to put on my damn Goggles.

Then there are the kids. The kids just graduated from college (high school?) last week, and are able to participate in swimming activities because the pool possesses the kids’ most sought out quality – nepotism. While the stars have used their undeniable talent, the kids are total free-floaters casually drifting to the other end of the pool without a care in the world about how it affects the mental stability of the rest of us.

Let’s not forget about the instructors. As in most mediocre gyms, instructors are hired to literally make people jump through hoops to demonstrate their ability to perform basic functions, such as breathing, blinking, and standing upright. Most instructors went to some school in Milwaukee or Columbus, Ohio for art, drama or speech therapy. Yet ten years later, here they are administering activities to determine my ability to help empower poor people in Africa or swim the breaststroke.

Finally, Swimming Pool, there are the rest of us. We went to decent schools, worked hard, and took a few risks. Some of these risks paid off, some wiped out our bank accounts, some resulted us getting stuck in a fence. But at the end of the day, here we stand, 10 to one lap lane, for we are not a star nor a beneficiary of nepotism, nor are we one of those random lucky bastards who landed their dream job by “just dropping into the President's office to say hi.” We respect one another for speaking a foreign language, or having lived in a country most others have only heard about. We all want each and every one of us to be successful. But we know, Swimming Pool, that only one candidate can come out on top, and in the spirit of international cooperation, we all agree that, “Damn, I really hope it’s me.”

With hoops,

Mala