Funemployment Inc.

I've recently come to the conclusion that employment is over rated.  As is having a general purpose in life and waking up before noon. I find that spending an entire day staring at the television and playing on the interweb is a totally thrilling and fulfilling way to spend ones life. Watching ten hours of Law and Order: SVU is far more worthwhile than employment in the public sector with the goal of helping people.  Helping people in real life sucks, watching Benson and Stabler help fictional victims of rape is far more meaningful.

Of course I didn't always feel this way.  When I first moved to New York without a job I was optimistic, excited, ebullient! I was a Master of human rights, a MASTER!  Why I could have any job I wanted with my meager experience and bullshit education.  The UN would probably roll out a red carpet littered with cash.  New York was the center of the universe and I was going to take a bite out of the big apple. 

After living for a year in London I had decided along with my best friend Mamie to move to NYC. Mamie, a fellow American, had lived in New York previously. Sometimes late at night Mamie would tell me tales of New York. She spoke of things which I did not dare believe; pizza parlors that never close, thin young men with pants so tight they were often mistaken for middle school girls and bars open until 4 a.m. that charged $12 for a mixed drink. Could it be, a land like this existed right across the pond?  I was tiring of London and was eager to return to the land of the free and the home of the brave. The access to universal health care was becoming tiresome, never having to pay for prescriptions just seemed against the American way. And while London was fun, it was fun in the way visiting your grandparents is fun. Things are kind of stuffy, the food is a little slimy and the teeth are made out of wood (or look like it).

So across the pond I went.  Mamie and I moved in with Mamie's friend Malex.  While Malex was employed, Mamie and I moved without any real job prospects.  We lived on hopes and dreams and five dollar foot longs.  We knew what we were up against. The economy had gone to shit.  Unemployment was through the roof and even the van down by the river was in foreclosure. Finding a job in the fall of 2009 was like finding clean sheets in the Jersey Shore house (get it, the Jersey Shore kids are literally a cess pool of venereal disease).  But naiveté will get you a long way.

In the beginning unemployment was fun!  Funemployment in fact. Our living room acted as HQ for Funemployment Inc.  We would sit on the couch all day, watch Bravo! and talk about all the cultural opportunities at our finger tips.  We would then order food and watch another episode of Bethenny Getting Married.  We were living the American dream and it was glorious.

Then Mamie started getting interviews.  Mamie is a smart girl and deserving of her success but I'd be lying if I said I didn't wish she could have stayed forever a partner at Funemployment Inc.  By mid October Mamie had abondoned me at Funemployment Inc to begin an exciting career in Human Resources.  I assumed I would soon follow in her footsteps and begin my own career in international human rights, though I was unclear what that career might look like.  I applied to jobs daily but to little avail.

At first I remained optimistic.  We were in a recession for sure but there were always jobs for those who desired to help others, or so I thought.  Months passed and I remained jobless.  I began to sleep later and shower less often.  People in my life began to question what I was doing.  Any job leads?  You still haven't found anything?  Have you considered moving to DC?  No, obviously not, and definitely never.

I realized I needed to get creative.  The professional world wouldn't have me, there had to be other options.  A little internet research turned up some promising options.  I could become a mail order bride!  The website said it was a way for lost women to find their way to riches and love.  God knows I'm no stranger to internet dating, being a mail order bride seemed like a natural progression.  Jdate was my gateway drug.  Unfortunately I soon realized that educated middle class Jewish girls from the suburbs were not exactly the prime market for mail order brides.  It seemed that the American men ordering brides were, for the most part, seeking submissive women from underdeveloped nations without the education and wherewithal to object to abuse and mistreatment.

My thoughts then turned to reality television.  I have long been a fan of reality television and believe myself to be entertaining and dysfunctional enough to carry a show.  I exhibit all the characteristics of a timeless reality television star, little shame, no impulse control, a propensity for black out drinking and delusional sense of self.  With that in mind I began scouring the casting boards for Bravo, MTV and VH1.  There had to be a show about unemployed twenty somethings who wanted to make something of their lives or lose 20 pounds or find love.  I mean thats the stuff Emmy's are made of, no?  Again I was shut down.  My only real options were to gain one hundred pounds in hopes of becoming America's next biggest loser or losing twenty pounds and my morals and trying to get on the next season of the Bachelor.  If only I was born a Kardashian.

As more time passed I realized that perhaps employment wasn't in the cards for me.  Perhaps I was meant to live in my parent's basement collecting stray cats and calling them my babies.  My intense allergy to cats could be overcome, as had my drive and determination to lead a productive life.

Sneak Peak! Mara's Book of Love: How to Con Your Way Into a Barely Functional Relationship

SNEAK PEAK! Enjoy this exclusive look inside the forthcoming New York Times Best Seller, Mara's Book of Love:  How to Con Your Way Into a Barely Functional Relationship.*

Forward:  Popular books on dating and relationships often lack significant contributions to an overly saturated market.  He's Just Not That Into You, Why Men Love Bitches, I Can't Believe I'm Buying This Book:  A Commonsense Guide for Internet Dating.  These popular titles promise to reveal the secrets of successful daters - those good looking, well adjusted men and women that do not rely on internet dating  to find someone willing to have sex with them.  The prototypical dating guide tells its readers that they are the same as the functional dater, that with a little push (provided by the self help guru profiting from consumer lonliness and desperation), they too can have loving relationships.

This is where most dating books fail.  They operate under the erroneous assumption that you are deserving and worthy of love.  That with a little polish and training, you too can navigate the waters of the opposite sex and find a suitable mate that will love you for who you are and not for who you pretend to be.  Mara's Book of Love assumes the opposite.  Mara's Book of Love knows you are damaged and needy, probably about ten pounds overweight and potentially permanently disfigured.  You probably are not the life of the party or able to effectively socialize without alcohol.  You need a book that speaks to your idiosyncrasies and obsessive tendencies.

Mara has tested all of her theories first hand and knows that strict implementation is the only avenue to successful relationships, otherwise you will are destined for a life of thankless solitude.

Mara's Book of Love:  How to Con Your Way Into a Barely Functional Relationship

Chapter 1:  Entitlements

Chapter 2:  Bullying and Withholding - Your Body as a Negotiation Tactic

Chapter 3:  Cheating Your Way Into Monogamy

Chapter 4:  How to Reroute Your Texts to Yourself So You Never Send Outgoing Messages - Unless They Contain the Word "Help"

Chapter 5:  Exploiting Dependency - Demands, Threats and Ultimatums

About the author:  Mara Rebecca Mockshin was born and raised in Canton, Ohio.  A midwestern girl at heart, Mara spent her childhood square dancing with her local Jewish youth group.  An Ohio State grad and current student at Harvard Law School, Mara enjoys quoting her LSAT prep book and eating hummus with her fingers.  An interest in travel has brought Mara all over the world, from Jerusalem to Bangkok, from Cleveland to Washington, D.C., Mara enjoys mingling with the locals and buying Fanta in plastic bags. 

*Chapter titles are the intellectual property of Mara Mockshin, all other written material has been outsourced to blogging, bored friends.  

I Was Gone For a Minute Now I'm Back Let Me Hit It

Once upon a time, in a land far far away, there was a girl who was self involved enough to believe that people would be entertained by her random musings on a totally self indulgent and superfluous blog. This girl, lets call her Mephanie, blogged about life, love and the pursuit of happiness (or the pursuit of entertaining herself at work). Mephanie's blog was an instant hit among blood relatives and childhood friends. Despite taking pleasure in writing her blog, Mephanie was forced to halt blogging activities when she moved to the magical land of London and became busy with school work and a social life. Alas the masses were left wanting more (or so Mephanie believed). Mephanie, being a woman of the people, decided that academia and friends should not be her priorities and certainly should not stop her from blogging. WIth this in mind, she packed up, moved to New York and settled in for a tenure of unemployment which would allow her to blog uninhibited by things like "school work", "actual work" or "day-time TV" (thank god for DVR).

English American Dictionary

Despite its British colonial heritage and shared wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, America and Great Britain have somewhat divergent ways. Many would assume that a move across the pond to United Kingdom would be seamless due to the obvious uniting factor, a love for George Michael. However pop icons can not be the glue that hold our great declining nations together, for there are deep fissures in our union.

The English language, what should be our common denominator, has failed me time and time again over the past six months as I attempt to assimilate to my adopted mother land. Having spent time in Spain and Israel, I knew that not speaking the native tongue can really inhibit an experience abroad and also make it extremely hard to make friends and purchase feminine products in more rural areas (for those of you who were present for the yesh po tamponim debacle, you'll know what I am referring to). Alas my move to London would signify the first time that I might actually get to know a place in its own language instead of through sloppy translations and repeated pleas of "bathroom?" to shopkeepers and waiters. English, the only language I speak, would prove to be my key that would unlock London and its ancient mysteries! Or so I thought.

To my great shock and surprise, it turns out that cultural differences and an ocean have separated many words from their meanings as I know them. Restroom, something that I use frequently due to the somewhat exorbitant amount of water I ingest on a daily basis, is not a word that gets much of a reaction over here in the Great Britain. Loo however, seems to mean something other than a man's name. This the preferred word for bathroom makes me think I'm being introduced to someone. When people aren't running to the loo, they are letting me know that they "need a wee." While this is understandable enough, it is not something that one would expect to hear in an office, at dinner, in class, wherever. Despite all their claims of subtlety the Brits feel the need to explain in full what the intend to do in the bathroom.

After you're back from the loo someone might offer you a biscuit. A biscuit, you might think, is warm and puffy and generally comes with fried chicken, some sort of breakfast sandwich, or a turkey meal. If you did think this, you'd be wrong. Instead a biscuit refers to sub par chocolate chip cookies. That's right, stop your mouth from watering. Also, don't bother asking for jello in the grocery store. Even describing it as "that wobbly stuff with Bill Cosby on the box" won't help. It's jelly, and jelly is preserves or jam...I'm still not sure. Then there is the spelling. The r's are misplaced, s's are everywhere z'd used to be, and u's keep sneaking in where you'd least expect them. Writing academic papers in British is hard, its like a second language.

In an attempt to bridge culture gaps I have taken to pulling from classic British films in order to appear more English. In one recent conversation with a native friend I said she was acting quite randy. While I meant to relay that she was being a bit feisty and quippy, I was quickly informed that randy did not mean feisty. Randy, it turns out, means horny and is not normally used in an exchange among girls in the midst of a larger social gathering. Imagine my discomfort when the conversation went quiet and everyone turned to me as if I was a bit crazy and wildly inappropriate. I guess using Austin Powers as a cultural yard stick wasn't the best of ideas.

Graduate Student Seeking Employment

Current master's student seeks employment upon graduation in fall. This is an exciting opportunity to hire a young mind fresh from the manipulation of liberal academic normative values. Potential candidates for employment should be quick learners willing to adapt lowered expectations regarding productivity. Only those offering four day work weeks with flexible hours need apply. Clerical work is not included in repertoire of skills and administrative activities are strictly prohibited. Only substantive tasks that genuinely engage and interest job seeker will be entertained and only in the mornings and early afternoon. The hour following lunch and the hour preceding departure will be spent socializing in office or on internet gossip sites. Full access to the internet is required and acceptance of a constant g-chat presence is preferred.

Special skills include an absolute inability to understand functions of basic technology, a tendency to have tourette's like outbursts of profanity when frustrated and remedial Spanish.

Now accepting applications, to apply please send gift basket and starting salary data.

Nobody Likes a Ginger

The streets of London abound with small children in knee socks. The little boys clad in newsy caps and sweater vests ask their mums for sweets in a voice not even Beelzebub could resist. They are generally cute and good natured and I would venture to say proclaim things like "cheerio," and "top o' the morning to you," (or maybe thats the leprechaun from the Lucky Charms cereal). While they are not wearing rouge (thats blush in British...I think), their cheeks are endlessly rosy, coloured with the vibrance that is youth. If you are imagining a mix between Oliver (the title character in the classic british play) and Christian Bale (the title character in the classic disney movie, "Newsie's"), then I have hit the descriptive nail on the head, because that's where I'm going with this. British children are far cuter than any American child I have ever encountered, including blood relatives (sorry Mannah).

Despite the constant urge to abscond to the country with one of these adorably British children where we would live a simple life of tending house and garden, making cheese and possibly operating some sort of independent news press all while wearing wooden clogs (it's possible I'm mixing up some of my bizarre Disney/cross cultural fantasies here, I haven't seen anyone in England wearing wooden clogs), I don't. As I only have a one year student visa and mounting debt, I don't think child abduction is a feasible option at the moment. If my passport gets seized and I get deported my family, friends, and new acquaintances might think less of me. Alas, I will not be stealing any children (or sketchers) any time soon.

Twas a Sunday afternoon, no more than a fortnight ago, when sitting on the tube, I was cured of this desire to steal small British children. The tube, London's underground akin to the New York Subway, the DC Metro, or the Boston T, is clean and efficient. Its one major drawback is the lack of air conditioning. London, a city famous for its dark dreary weather, must be sitting on top of large magma deposits because going underground is like walking into a volcano, or sauna. Off come the trendy leather jackets, trendy scarfs, layers of sweaters or other trendy tops and down everyone strips to their t-shirts while they wait for their train. This strip down is both embarrassing and time consuming, but for sweaty Americans, it's a must.

Everyone uses the tube. Men in suits, women in heels, tourists with overstuffed backpacks and new mothers with baby's in prams all crowd into the hot cars and hold on as they make their way to their final destination. I often relish my time on the tube, despite the uncomfortable heat and gradual appearance of sweat on my brow, the tube is prime people watching ground (and prime child snatching ground.

Anyway, as I said, it was a Sunday afternoon. Unseasonably warm and hotter than usual, I sit perched on a ledge meant for luggage in the center of a crowded train. As we approach Kings Cross people prepare to empty out. I slyly looked around, secretly judging my fellow passengers and coveting the boots of the impossibly thin and fashionable girl standing across from me. The train slows to a stop and unloads its burden while new people, fresh from the street and only starting the strip down game board.

A woman in her mid thirties stumbles into the car. She looks as though she has spent significant time in a tanning bed and beauty parlor. Her hair, a brilliant two toned display of black and yellow, poofs in ways that defies gravity. Her nails are the type that preclude any desk or house work. Her outfit, of silver mesh and too tight jeans, twists as she doubles over and begins a long search in her massive tote for something that must be extremely important.

Behind the woman two small children board the car. The children are not the sort I have been getting used to seeing in London. First of all they are Ginger, that's British for red headed. Now everyone knows that you can't really trust a red head. A lot of people also live by the credo that "no one likes a redhead." As someone who doesn't buy in to stereotypes, critical judgements or general meanness, I would NEVER think or say a thing like this. I reserve judgement of these unfortunate ginger children. I slowly assess them, trying to figure out who they belonged to. While they got on immediately after the too tanned woman, she doesn't seem to notice or acknowledge them, nor them her.

The lady on the loudspeaker asks people to stand clear of the closing doors as the children begin to wrestle in the middle of the crowded train. They fight for space on the long pole meant as a grip for standing passengers. The boy is the smaller of the two. A mere eight, he wears an intense bowl and appears to have less teeth than my 80-year-old grandmother. His eyes looked like those of a cartoon dragon, yellow and mean.

The girl, perhaps ten, is no less unfortunate looking. Plump and wearing shorts and a cropped t-shirt that falls down in a long fringe over her spandex shorts, her hair fire red hair emanates from her head like the rays of one of those static balls. The fringe of her shirt is garnished with beads like she just returned from a Jamaican vacation but instead of getting her hair braided and beaded she got her shirt shredded and beaded. The weather is unseasonably warm this Sunday, but not even the Sun spitting out little sun pellets of burning flame merits any sort of cropped beaded top.

Despite dragon boys small stature he appears to be the stronger of the two and certainly the more forceful. My ears almost fall off when I think I hear him command his sister to "Fuck off," in a little British accent. It must be the accent, I tell myself. There is no way a small child, even a ginger, would say that. I try and maintain my faith in human goodness and small British boys in newsy caps. Then it happens again.

"Fuck off fatty, I do it better." I love the British accents with an embarrassing passion. That may or may not be my real motive for relocating for the year. However not even "fuck off fatty" sounds refined in it.

The little girl, surely embarrassed now moves to an adjacent pole. She quickly climbs it and then slowly slides towards the floor, her pudgey stomach making the uncomfortable sound of flesh rubbing plastic as she makes her way down.

Frantic for both my own and these foul mouthed children's safety, I look around for the surely mortified parents. I see no one. Again my eyes turn to the too tanned, two toned woman. She continues her search in her bag, seemingly oblivious to the behavior of these red headed devils. She can not be the mother I tell myself, no mother would ever allow this sort of behavior in public. Across the car appears a man in a wife beater. Bingo! I don't care where you are from or what language you speak, a wife beater means one thing and one thing only, you probably live in a trailer.

The children begin to fight with each other, dragon boy throwing punches at his sister, her beads jingling as she throws slaps back. Wife beater makes his way over. Of course he's their father.

" 'Ey," he says, carrying another redheaded child in his hands. The children look at him and instantly stop fighting. The return to their respective poles and begin to show him how they are able to climb up the dirty pole that is touched by millions of people every day and probably carried swine flu, bovine flu, elephant flu and gonorrhea.
"Look at me Dad. LOOK AT ME!" Devil boy commands. The father shows little interest and leans over too tanned lady. Of course she is their mother and has this entire time ignore their take over of the car poles and their foul ginger language. Too tanned and wife beater kiss. I think I just contracted syphilis.
"Mum look I can climb the pole too." Jingle bells wants in on the action too. The parents exchange looks and wife beater reaches up to scratch his hat. The site of his under arm hair causes me to gag.
"You're not as good as I am. I'm the fucking best." Devil boy has dropped the f-bomb again. I have through my adult life, been accused of cursing like a sailor. But holy fucking shit, if I spoke like that as a child I would not have lived to see the light of day. Wife beater however doesn't seem to notice.
"Yeh, nice job (insert British white trash name here)." He turns away again.

The car slows and the conductor announces that we have arrived at my stop. Thank god, freedom. Dragon boy and jingle bell block my exit as they try and do flips off the pole. I say excuse me as sternly as I can, hoping this small show of discipline reforms their horrible ginger ways.

Once home I look up the number for London's child protective services and destroy my VHS copy of Newsies.

Blogitis

Editors Note: After moving home to New Jersey in early September, en route to my eventual destination of London, I have contracted the highly contagious, nearly incurable disease blogitis. Symptoms include an overwhelming desire to sleep until noon, an obsessive need to watch old episodes of 90210 on the Soap network, extreme ice cream consumption while sitting on the couch all day and an utter inability to be creative in the face of multiple movies playing on the eleven channels of HBO.

My only hope is a risky treatment doctors are calling "get the hell off your ass and move out of your parents house." I will be embarking on a rigorous course of the prescribed treatment beginning tomorrow. This recent bout of illness and search for a cure make it near impossible to blog on a regular basis. Thus I apologize for the lack of new material and ask for your patience while I regain the strength and livelihood required to write new posts. Alas I am not sure how long it will be until you hear from me again; until that time, good night and good luck!