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

Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to Facebook

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

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Dear Facebook,

I know what you’re thinking. This shirt makes me look fat. Also, you are not an object. But judging by the statistics of daily page views of you on the interwebs, Facebook, you are clearly the object of many people’s desires. Of course, this still does not mean you are a tangible object as the rest of my letters have featured. To this I say: that template makes you look fat. Now what!? Burn!

Anyway Facebook, as my perpetual vagueness may have indicated, I have been under the influence of unemployment for longer than that I would like to admit. I find this ironic, as so many people who have trouble deciphering between then v. than, their v. they’re v. howthehelldidyoupassthirdgradegrammar, and supposedly v. supposibly (not a real word), have jobs. Perhaps this is the reason that you decided to rearrange our profiles such that the interests we right write are featured much less prominently then than corporate and celebrity pages? Hippies think it’s because we’ve been taken over by “The Man,” but I know the truth. I also find it strange that hippies now use Facebook.

As having a job seems to so often preclude the ability to write, I have decided to make my profile on you, Facebook, more job friendly by instituting the following changes:

1.    I will fail to use punctuation of any kind because who needs commas and periods they are just overrated things that interrupt my idiot stream of conscious when I write my opinion on lame things

2.     In facct I think I willl stop cheking spelling two

3.     Inspired by the latest episode of “Modern Family,” I will use meaningless song quotes, such as “Don’t Stop Believin’ “ and “Get this Party Started!” whenever possible in lieu of actual thoughts.

In addition to these changes, Facebook, I will take other measures to emulate mindless profiles, including summarily barring words such as “emulate” from my vocabulary, and posting 350 pictures of me waving and eating ice cream. I will also make sure to “like” statuses that recount mundane, daily activities of my friends, and list every movie with Bradley Cooper[1] as my favorite. Oh, and Farmville. I will also make sure to show my genuine interest in fascinating games, such as Farmville.

To be fair, Facebook, I have some incredibly intelligent friends doing high quality work all around the world. Thanks to them, I believe there will be no poor people and I will be able to download iPhone applications straight to my brain by the year 2020. After a critical look through their Facebook profiles, I have come to the following conclusions:

1.     They don’t spend a lot of time on Facebook

2.     They are better than me. Sometimes in every way possible.

To alleviate this concern, Facebook, I will use the oldest tactic known to man: false self-aggrandizing. For starters, I will use the well-known strategy of listing myself as fluent in any language I have ever heard of. Didn’t know I can speak Burmese, Amharic, and Galician? Guess what? I can’t! But Facebook says I can! Second, I will say I went to an Ivy League school. I’m South Asian, this won’t be questioned. Third, I will only link articles of global importance to my profile. Acceptable subjects include macroeconomics, linguistics, Middle Eastern politics, and puppies. Yes, puppies are of global importance.

So you see, Facebook, through deliberate tinkering of my profile on you, I will convince the world that I either have no brain, or a super brain, as these seem to be the two extremes of people who are most often employed. I have yet to decide which direction to pursue, but rest assured that whichever way I go, it will be a side of me you have never seen before, because it is not true. Thank you Fakebook!

With falsity,

Mala

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[1] Is this a real person? How do I even know this name?

Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to Gas Tank

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

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Dear Gas Tank,

A few days ago, I decided to take life old school and send a 10^th birthday card to my brother via Mailbox. Proud of myself for remembering, I was a bit surprised when my mother called to inform me that:

1.     My brother’s birthday is in November.

2.     He is 22.

3.     I sent the card to my grandparents’ house.

Under normal circumstances this would have been cause for alarm, but as I am still afflicted with a severe case of unemployment, this apparent loss of brain function was the least of my concerns. What was upsetting, however, was that my brother is graduating from college on Sunday, which means one thing I hate: a long car ride (long being defined as anything more than the time it takes me to eat a can of ginger snaps).

Car rides in Virginia are particularly harrowing, as many people choose bumper stickers that depict unfortunate yields of American culture, including Confederate Flags, Jesus’ opposition to Darwinian turtles, and Donald Trump’s toupee. Nevertheless, my brother had to sit through my overpriced education graduations, so I suppose I should do the same for him.

I decided to take you, Gas Tank, out with car for a test run to make sure I still possess the ability to cut people off in traffic while badly singing to French songs blasting from stereo. Thankfully, I still got it! Not so thankfully, you crapped out on me after two miles. Sure, the periphery accessories of car still function properly. I can still use car to play weird techno music, or store a few hundred cases of Chapstick. Sure, car still looks strong and stable on the outside. But YOU, Gas Tank, are the lifeline of car.

Now I realize that you have been running on empty for nearly a year. Well guess what? So have I! Without your cooperation, car will become like me – a decorative lawn piece used for everything but its intended function! Like you, Gas Tank, I have been running on empty for the entire year, forced into meaningless tasks like maintaining a blog about objects that help me get through unemployment. But that doesn’t mean I can give up! If I did, who would be left to take perpetually unpaid internships at organizations no one has ever heard of? Who would repeat overused jokes about Republicans? Who would send my brother birthday cards?

So you see, Gas Tank, even though you seem to have nothing left to keep you going, it’s time to dig deep and find that inner inspiration that has powered you to transport me to all of those unpaid internships. I realize this may be difficult given your…mechanized look at life, but in the end, you will understand how important this is, mostly because gas is like $4 per gallon, and I am really broke.

Where the hell is my AAA card?,

Mala

Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to Pre-Packaged Meal

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

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Dear Pre-Packaged Meal,

After a visit to the doctor last week, (webmd.com), I made the alarming discovery that my normal meals of wine and Vitamin D provide less than 1 percent of my required daily nutritional value. Since microwave is still dead, and I have trouble remembering how to chop vegetables, I decided to saunter (the word “walk” is still boring) down the street and see what ready-made food options are available these days.

Buying food is hard, Pre-Packaged Meal! I tried going into restaurants, but they require so much from their customers, like tipping and wearing shoes! So I decided to go to the grocery store, since I see barefooted wannabe yoga gurus and idiots wearing “Toms” in winter go in there all of the time.

After wandering around for a few minutes, I finally found what I was looking for: the salad bar, which conveniently has all kinds of food, except for salads. I grabbed a box, starting piling food in, and then looked up. $8.99/pound!? WTF, are you kidding me!? I am trying to make up for 9 months of no nutritional value with a net worth of 5 dollars, not including student loan debt and bad bets on “Toy Story 3” winning the Oscar. What kind of madness is this – requiring I measure how much I eat!? We don’t do portion control, this is America!

So there I stood, salad bar box in one hand, overly complicated phone calculator in the other hand, trying to figure out the correct ratio of brownies to cookies to peas. It’s important to keep a balanced meal and all. I looked at the happily deluded grad students, trust fund babies, and Wall Street fat cats fill their salad bar boxes without a care in the world. Their steady source of cash meant contents and portions were of no concern. Two hours later, and all I had figured out was two cookies = one brownie = 40 peas = God that shit looks gross. Clearly this salad bar nonsense was not meant for those of us debilitated by a case of unemployment.

That’s when I saw you, Pre-Packaged Meal. You have been absent from my life for so long. Our last encounter was in the third grade, when I thought Lunchable pizza was the coolest invention on earth. I now know that I spent two years eating cardboard topped with ketchup, but considering Lunchables provided more nutritional value than my current diet, I suppose I can’t judge. Finally equipped with you, Pre-Packaged Meal, I walked to the cashier with the confidence that I am once again taking care of my inner being. Unemployment will not destroy my body, it will only destroy my mind!

As I got my last $5 to pay for you, a sign caught my eye:

“Wine on sale. $5.”

But no matter, I knew that you were the one thing my body needed, so I stood strong, and bought you. And now that I am back home safely walking without shoes, I can enjoy you, Pre-Packaged Meal, once and for all. It turns out that you are a 2008 Merlot, and quite liquidly. I bet you’d go well with Vitamin D!

Cheers,

Mala

Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to Puppy

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

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Dear Puppy,

Last week, in an attempt to be the next Stephen King, I tried super-gluing Raft together to tap into my inner inspiration. Despite my threatening phone calls, angry fist shaking, and bribery attempts with Krispy Kreme donuts, the snot-faced publishers in New York insisted that I had to write the book before they would give me a contract. Asses! I don't know if you read a lot, Puppy, but writing books is hard! Especially if you don’t want them sold in grocery stores. As this bout of unemployment has turned my brain into superfluous bodily matter, and I often have trouble deciphering between my socks and toothbrush, I decided that my book author career must come to an end.

As my whale, alien raft excursion was in Virginia, and I did not make the millions of dollars I planned writing about my whale, alien raft excursion, I had no money to get back up to New York. Not wanting to ask my parents, I was determined to pay my own way back. So I decided to be a human courier. It worked! All I had to do was make my parents request a human courier from their house to New York to deliver an empty box to a fake address! It feels good to be independent, Puppy!

Sadly, upon arriving in New York, I realized I forgot where I live, or if I even live in New York at all. Dejected, I decided to go to the only redeeming place in the Upper East Side: Nope, there is nothing redeeming about the Upper East Side. So I went to the pet store, where I met you, Puppy. There you were, happily shaking your toy, licking your paw, eating food off the ground. I remember when I used to do that. It was last week.

I began to explain that it has been so long since I have done anything productive with my time. Much like you, Puppy, all I do is eat, run around in circles, sleep, and whine. How does one deal with such a simple existence? That’s when you explained the Theory of Puppy Time. The key is to leave out units. Times of high productivity are counted in dog years, while times of low productivity are counted in human years. For example, I have lived abroad for nearly 14 years, while I have been unemployment for less than a year. Idiot humans will believe both are in reference to human years, but the Puppies of the world will know the truth. Sorry, English-speaking Puppies. How insensitive of me.

This certainly alleviated my concerns about time. But what about location? I have been afflicted with unemployment so long, that I am liable to accept a job in some vile location, even the suburbs! Then what? I could tell by the look on your face that this had a more complicated answer.

Although most Puppies in America appear to be happy in their suburban oases, many shake their toys and lick their paws because these are the prescribed motions the members of Puppykind are told they are required to do. Most would have loved to live the high-power Executive Puppy’s life, or become a Player Puppy, a famous Puppy actor, or what have you. Unfortunately, life is all too often predictable. Even though some Puppies kid themselves into thinking they are famous or interesting because 45 other Puppies liked their Puppybook status about eating a muffin, most are caught in a rut. Your advice, Puppy, was to follow my dream. Don’t succumb to the monotony so many Puppies face. The time will come, even if it’s in human years.

Without time units,

Mala

Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to Raft

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

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Dear Raft,

Rumor has it is that summer is upon us. There has been evidence in support, such as the reappearance of sun, happy people on the street, and a sharp decrease in drunk tourists from New Jersey. However, I remained skeptical until the ultimate sign of summer presented itself: three flies constantly buzzing around my face. For those people who have experienced summer, which I imagine is anyone over the age of 9 months, intersect with anyone living south of Norway, you know that the Three Flies Men is the telltale sign that hot weather, dirty streets, and general summer merriment is imminent.  

For all of my summer experience, I still partake in the annual fly kill-a-thon, in which I spend four to seven hours chasing flies, while any cheerfulness I had about warm weather is summarily killed. In preparation for yesterdays kill-a-thon, I picked up a cumbersome object that appeared to contain words of some fashion. Completely bewildered, I asked for advice. “TommyAged5” suggested it was a loaf of bread. Other suggestions included “Fake guitar,” “Napkins,” and “Mascara.” After 4 hours, someone finally informed me that this odd, cumbersome object is indeed a “Book.”

Immediately after sounding the word “Book” aloud, memories came flashing back, Raft! All the books I read a youth! All three of them! Then I realized I am still under the influence of unemployment. Then I was sad again. See? --> :-(  So I decided, Raft, to use this new old-found knowledge to find my way out of unemployment. I would write my own book (exclusively for downloading online)!

This proved challenging, Raft. Writing a “book” involves words! And apparently, the placement of, commas semicolons, and. periods changes meaning and intent! Who knew!? Certainly not 75 percent of Facebook users! Alas, I would have to dig deeper. I had to use the “book” characters for inspiration. As my favorite author was Mark Twain, I decided to take you, Raft, and play out Twain’s greatest adventure, in which Huckleberry Finn kills the giant whale, while Ishmael joins Timothy at the Cay. Unfortunately, a quick trip to Williamsburg proved futile in finding an Ishmael willing to accompany me.

You should know, Raft, that I tried very hard to build one of you out of wood. But my superglue didn’t work. Fortunately, I was able to buy one of you from a sporting goods store. Just leave your price tag on, okay? After describing the width and the average food intake of whales, four hipsters suggested I try looking in Virginia.

So here we are, Raft! Though this “Swift Creek” place appears to be a stagnant pool of polluted muck, our adventure to inspire me out of the brinks of unemployment must commence! As long as there is not a giant algae monster lurking in the depths, we shall prevail. In the case there is a giant algae monster lurking in the depths, we must find a way to destroy it before it eats the giant whale townspeople! And then maybe we find out the monster is controlled by aliens who want to take over the planet…wait a minute. Raft! I think I have a “book” idea! Screw this, there are way too many flies out here!

Happy Summer,

Mala

Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to Monocle

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

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Dear Monocle,

After a particularly hostile encounter with calendar last week, I made the shocking discovery that it is 2011. Furthermore, it was April of 2011. Time flies when you’re asleep! With the help of sponsored ads by Google, Calendar also informed me that this Sunday is Mother’s Day. For those third parties reading this, you’re welcome for the reminder.

Anyway, Monocle, I decided to buy a Photo Frame and stick boring pictures of me as a gift for said greeting card manufactured holiday. I have always felt the creativity that went into creating the holiday (in this case, none) should be reflected in the creativity that goes into the gift (also none). In the midst of documenting my rather boring life, I came across a picture I did not recognize. I sent the picture to my father, who wrote back saying.

Dear Mala,

Glad to hear you’re up. Sleeping for 5 months is better classified as a coma.

Regarding the picture, it appears to be a little Chinese girl blowing bubbles. In fact, I saw her in several frames at the pharmacy this morning.

Go back to bed,

Dad

Highly discouraged by this development, I soon forgot what I was doing, and fell asleep. Two days ago, I re-awoke with a brilliant idea. Cereal! As I was eating out of cereal bowl, another brilliant idea came to mind. Since that Chinese girl was not my childhood self, perhaps I could revisit my own childhood to discover what my former intended career choices were to gain insight on how to rid my body of this violent case of unemployment. After two bowls, I came up with this list:

1.     Elf

2.     Architect

3.     Moonperson (better known as an “Astronaut”)

4.     Sherlock Holmes

5.     Cheese

Becoming an Elf or Cheese sounded like it involved a lot of plastic surgery, so those were out. Architect and Moonperson/Astronaut involved another degree, which requires money or further delusion into taking out more loans. So those were out too. That left Sherlock Holmes. I pulled out my thinking cap (which is a lovely shade of green), and soon decided that my biggest obstacles in becoming Sherlock Holmes were not having a British accent nor possessing you, Monocle.

Fortunately, my desire to become Sherlock Holmes did not happen during childhood, but rather during the month of October. So, I found you in my Fisher Pricecrap detective kit. I must say, Monocle, that together, we are making great progress! With your coaching skills, I mastered several British terms, including “fortnight,” “aubergine,” and “Scotland.” Furthermore, old chap, our adventure with the NYPD last night was quite useful for all of the parties involved, minus the victim and the police. Through strategic waving of you, Monocle, I was able to say elusive and ingenious things to crack the case, such as, “The dog is a wolf!” and “Perhaps we should ask the window these questions!’ and “Where is my pen!?” Sure, it appears we have now ended up in the psych ward, but look at silver lining, Monocle. If we are institutionalized, no one will expect us to find a job! Mission indubitably accomplished.

With eggplant aubergine,

Mala