What a way to start the new year! Check out, below, the long-awaited and edited video of me and Jacq singing Janis Ian and Phoebe Snow’s “Hymn” with fellow Glastonburian Mike Cabral at Uke Mansion. Next time with Dr. Uke!
There’s no excuse for our lack of pictures and posts these long, ever-cooler months, so instead of waxing apologetic any more than this, here’s a picture of a plastic dinosaur on a candystriped candle!
Great talk, see ya out there. In 2010, oh snap!!
I have a rocky history when it comes to doctors. My stomach and I haven’t gotten along since fifth grade, and as a result I’ve spent a good deal of time visiting different docs, hoping that one of them will solve the unsolvable. What I don’t have is a diagnosis, but what I do have are stories.
Greenwich Village, Gastroenterologist
Crazy Doctor Lady’s office was in an apartment building close to campus. When I arrived, a minute or two late, she was nowhere to be found. After fifteen minutes spent hanging out with the doorman, the doctor arrived, flustered. She led me into the office, sat down behind the desk, and handed me paperwork. It was then I realized that this would be no normal appointment: she was her own secretary. While it wasn’t odd that a doctor with a small practice would also act as receptionist, it was odd that when I booked the appointment on the phone, she pretended to be one. I believe her exact words had been “The doctor is pretty busy on Wednesday but there’s a possibility she can squeeze you in. Let me check with her and I will get back to you.” It suddenly made sense why she had called me back so quickly. “Checking with the doctor” simply meant hanging up the phone, thinking to herself “I guess I can squeeze this girl in at 3:30,” picking up the phone, and dialing my number.
She praised her excellent record as a medical detective. When a man walked into her office complaining of stomach pains that had remained undiagnosed, she sent him away with news that he had a tapeworm. I obviously felt very comfortable. And even more comfortable when my seemingly normal tabletop examine turned into my being hooked up to an EKG machine. Suddenly I was covered in electrodes connected to a screen she was monitoring. And then came the questioning. But this was not normal EKG questioning, whatever that might be. No, the first question she posed was the most inappropriate one possible.
“Jacqueline, do you like my sweater? I was going to go with a yellow one but then I thought, this baby blue shade goes better with my eye color.” Her craziness was no longer camouflaged. She was insane, and I was hooked up to a machine.
I managed to survive the rest of the appointment, after validating several more of her fashion choices, of course. Not surprisingly, no other patients ever entered her office that afternoon.
Union Square, Psychiatrist
Next I tried a different approach for my stomach, a psychiatrist. Because, well, why not?
This doctor’s office was also in an apartment building. And while I guess that’s very common for a city doctor, after my experience with Crazy Doctor Lady, this should have been a sign. The appointment started out well enough. We slugged through my laundry list of symptoms and my medical history. And then I apparently made a huge mistake: I confided in the doctor my observations regarding effective treatment. I told her my stomach likes wine− it calms it down. She was suddenly very interested, squinting her eyes and asking, “How often do you drink this… this wine?” I responded with “A glass every other day? I’m not a heavy drinker. I just enjoy a glass of wine and it seems to calm down my stomach.”
And now her pen was down.
“Does alcoholism run in your family?” “No, not at all.”
And then came the kicker. “You, young lady, are on an extremely dangerous path. A path that ends with you injuring your body with alcohol. You need to get on the right track before this gets out of hand. I’m going to give you some pamphlets.”
No wonder so many people aren’t honest with their doctors. Tell the truth and you’re diagnosed with alcoholism.
Hospital, Gastroenterologist
I thought it made sense to see the gastroenterologist at a university hospital. I hoped he might have a new perspective on my situation, seeing as a majority of his patients were twentysomething students.
It turns out that his vast experience with college students made him adept at critiquing their academic choices. My stomach wasn’t the problem. The problem was that I believed creative writing, urban studies, and food studies comprised an acceptable concentration. According to Dr. Academic, one should only study history. And if not history, than economics. It seemed that in his opinion, my stomach problems were most likely the result of my inappropriate scholarly interests.
No, he had no brilliant ideas regarding my physical ailments, just a strong conviction that I was walking down the wrong academic path by taking mindless courses. And his opinionated diatribe went on so long that I was late to my next (pointless) class.
So what have I learned from these doctors? Well, nothing relating to my stomach. But I did learn the following: I’m well on my way down two dangerous paths, one toward substance abuse and another toward fruitless career goals, and you should never let a stranger in a blue sweater hook you up to electrodes.
A modern take on the Macarena?
MTV’s “My Super Sweet 16” is clearly an adaptation of the birthday concept I personally created: It’s my fucking birthday so if I say you’re going to play your clarinet and attempt break dancing, that’s what you’re going to do. But I’ll let MTV take credit for the elephants and custom designer duds.
When I was in third grade, I decided that my birthday party had to be in the form of a talent show. Guests could choose from a limitless list of talents; all musical genres were fair game, and all dance moves were possibilities so long as they could fit on the mini “stage” in my basement.
I can see now how this party theme could have been interpreted as incredibly cruel. For those who fear the spotlight, an invitation announcing that a performance of some sort was the only ticket to a slice of cake and the highly anticipated goody bag—come on, why else did we ever go to parties? —is better left unopened.
Because it was my party, I didn’t stress over my indecision, I went with it. Unable to settle on one musical genre, I allowed myself two performances. I chose to explore two very different fields: show tunes, and pop hits, namely “My Favorite Things” from a true classic, The Sound of Music, and another one of my favorite things, the “Macarena.” Who needs a guest appearance by Rihanna when you can choreograph your own moves to Los del Rio and save valuable time by not having to wait for an Escalade to roll in fashionably late?
There were a surprisingly high number of standout performances considering I might have been the only party girl in favor of the theme. One friend who shared my love of Broadway sang “Castle on a Cloud” from Les Miserables. My basement stage may not have housed an elaborate set of barricades, nor were there huddled masses of peasants, but there is no doubt my friend gave Cosette a run for her money. Another extremely talented friend opened our eyes to Carnatic music. I also convinced a few friends to be my backup dancers for the “Macarena,” because that song should never be performed alone. In public. Or anywhere for that matter.
My love of talent shows only continued to grow after this party. I became that girl who performs epic ballads in the middle school talent show. Sixth grade was “The Wind Beneath My Wings.” Seventh Grade I paid tribute to the late Selena with her hit “Dreaming of You.” That one got pretty emotional. And Eighth grade was the year I attempted to out-belt Christina Aguilera by performing “Reflections” from Mulan. There were none of the candles and lily pads of the Disney music video, but I found my own way to call upon nature and tranquility. I wore an obnoxious, and bright red, animal print tube dress.
I never celebrated my birthday this year. Maybe it’s time to revisit an old theme… But this time I’m going to have to call in the big guns since MTV has been trying to steal my thunder for six seasons. Has anyone ever descended a grand staircase atop an AmeriGlide stair lift?
This is how I feel about speed dating.
People were urging me to join JDate. So I did. For seven minutes. What turned me off online dating in those seven minutes was not the caliber of the candidates, nor was it a personal belief that I was not yet desperate enough to go that route. Instead it was my laziness toward making a member profile. I really didn’t feel like listing the qualities I look for in a man. I’d rather be reading the “Real Estate” section of the Sunday Times. Not interested in rejoining JDate, or any other online dating service for that matter, I researched another option: Speed Dating.
The organized structure of speed dating is so awkward that, as it turns out, it isn’t awkward at all. Women sit at two-person tables and men play musical chairs, moving from table to table every four minutes. There is no fluidity, no sashaying up behind a prospective romantic interest with a pick-up line or a drink offering. Speed dating is methodical. You have a number, a nametag, and a paper for checking yes or no. Of course the decision making must be done as discreetly as possible, because the person being scored need only move his or her beer mug to see into which column the slash falls.
Matches are made online after the event ends. Each participant checks off the names of the dates with whom he or she believes a connection was made, and if there is match, the speed dating company releases each participant’s email address to the other. Then it’s up to the daters to pursue this “match,” or write off the experience as just another Wednesday night.
In my opinion, speed dating is rather cost effective. When a $30 event promises 15 dates, that’s only $2 a date. I’d say that’s a pretty cheap date. Cheaper, anyway, than the dinner my friend was invited to where her date ordered bone marrow and caviar, (two dishes my friend makes it a point to avoid) and then was displeased she didn’t offer up her credit card.
In preparation for the event, I explored the dating company’s website for tips for the first time speed dater. New York EasyDates suggests daters come prepared with several fallback conversation topics to use if things get awkward. According to the site, the weather is always a great topic. The “Guide to Speed Dating” also gives appearance-related tips: “Hair that is too long, glittered or not clean is also not a good thing.” Have they had problems with glittery-haired individuals being rejected indiscriminately in the past? I have to wonder how common this “glittered” hair is. On second thought, I myself fell victim to this look circa 1999 after insisting my hairdresser give me gold highlights. I wanted hair the color of winners.
The theme of my event was Single Professionals: vague, but one of the few categories for which I qualified. There are a surprising number of events reserved for Tall Individuals. I also had to scroll through the Cougar events as well as those designed for Ivy leaguers and singles with advanced degrees.
My date with “Eli” started painfully. I described myself as a freelance food writer. He responded: “You should do me!” We were off to a great start. Eli should have stuck to weather. Instead he launched into discussing the weight loss that followed his most recent relationship. He also slipped me his business card and invited me to be his lunch date the next day for restaurant week. It’s amusing to me that with just four minutes to find a connection with someone, either romantic or platonic, one would choose to discuss a failed relationship and a struggle with weight.
Apparently I was not the only person with whom Eli felt a connection. I attended the event with a close friend who was seated two tables from me, and after getting “Hello my name is…” out of the way, Eli declared to my friend, “You are the girl of my dreams! Where do I go from here?” She directed him to table 12.
My conversation with “Scott” turned into networking. He took pity on me after I made several comments about the difficult job market, and offered to send my resume to the human resources department of his advertising agency.
No pursuable matches were made, but I went on fifteen dates, had a few drinks, and confirmed my belief that there are some subjects better left to a fourth date. At least.
Next time I’m going to pretend to be a firefighter.
Here is a tribute to our favorite e.e. esq. Put on your prettypants; it’s gonna be a long one!
It all started two and a half years ago, when I took forty pictures of e.e. for the good of mankind. This was one of them.
Then she came to New York, and other things happened.
Good luck at law school, come back soon, and remember: NO DISPOSABLE CAMERAS. You’re prettier than that.
Look everyone, it’s a real life fox party! Courtesy of our lovely friend Brittany’s world-famous artist pop Scott Zuckerman! Go on and check him out, and why not become a fan while you’re at it? He likes foxes. He paints foxes. And we know that if you’re reading this blog, you like foxes too!
You know the L.L. Bean catalogue your parents gets? You see the forest scene on the cover there? HE PROBABLY DREW THAT.
Woo! Fox party!
Let's pretend I'm pointing at "Favorite" instead of "Google"
July 26th was a Sunday. It was also really important day, because it was the one-year anniversary of Hello Favorite Store! It’s less than common to undergo a name change before reaching the one year mark, but Hello Favorite Store, formally Favorite Store, is not like most blogs.
There is only one appropriate way to celebrate this anniversary, and that is with a cookie cake. My childhood was filled with cookie cakes. They marked birthdays, end-of-school celebrations, and the one dinner party my house has seen since its construction in the late eighties.
Cookie cakes are easily accessible and the most inclusive of all celebratory desserts, because most often they come from a mall. Or at least they used to. Now they come from Penn Station. And because I try to avoid this portal that allows me safe access to New Jersey, I’ve decided to honor Hello Favorite Store in a different way: I would like to take a look back at this day in history, the day Favorite Store took its first exclamation point:
On July 26th, 2008, I was in an apple orchard. Or rather, the clubhouse of a community club within an apple orchard. I was there to celebrate a friend’s graduation. At the party I was asked to convince a hesitant mother that a nose piercing does not automatically send one down a path of rebellion, illegitimate children, and unemployment. I can only vouch for the first two.
This time last year I was in the market for a hostess position. Unfortunately this career objective never materialized because I lacked two things: restaurant experience and headshots. Apparently, one is unable to be a successful host if he or she is not in possession of headshots. This seems to suggest that taking reservations and seating parties require a fair amount of posing. “Your waitress will be right with you!” (sultry pout). “The wait is around thirty minutes” (piercing stare with intensified jawbones).
Needless to say I quickly gave up the hunt for a hostess gig, and instead spent my time last summer in the Whole Foods Market café, writing essays about the anonymity of the urban environment. Of course I did have an ulterior motive. I was determined to end up on Craigslist’s infamous Missed Connections.
“Petite girl with temporary tattoo and messy brown ponytail. You seemed in the midst of an intellectual quandary. Or maybe you were just hungry. I was by the window, dressed in a plaid button down and moderately skinny (but incredibly masculine) jeans. Are you out there?”
No. I never made it on the site.
But back to happier things! Like blogs! Because this is the anniversary of my blog, and not a Manhattan eatery, I can host my cookie cake and eat it too.
Happy one year Favorite Store. Let’s say hello to a few more years.
I’m going to move past the fact that it’s been forever, and just give you what you’re here for: PICTURES OF DR. UKE AND ME AND JACQ. At a dive bar. In our New York City debut at Otto’s Shrunken Head.
Everyone looks silly singing. But everyone looks awesome in photo booth pictures with a zebra background!
So, to sum up, I like Otto’s, and Otto’s likes ukes. And Dr. Uke had such a great time that he’s promised to play more gigs in the city with us!
STAY TUNED…OR DIE.
Take these from my hands! Please!
Moving can be depressing. Rooms that were once adorned with lantern lights and holiday decorations are suddenly void of any character. Arms grow sore from strenuous box lifting, and voices grow loud during the inevitable who-gets-to-take-what conversations.
The most depressing point of my recent move came when I visited the old apartment after the movers drove away. I entered my room, expecting it to be empty save a few dust…friends. What I found was more disturbing than any rodent or mountain of dirt. Sitting on my floor, now unearthed due to the removal of my bed, was a box. A box given to me by my mother. A box I had been trying to forget I owned, and had successfully done, until now. A box labeled “Breast Enhancers.”
I was depressed on moving day.
Speaking of busts, moving day wasn’t a total one, as I was able to bond with the movers. There were three of them, one Russian, one with a ponytail, and one who was rather ambiguous. The pony-tailed mover stole my heart just a little but it was the Russian with whom I forged a special bond. He liked my new apartment, I liked his accent, and the fact that he could lift a couch with the greatest of ease.
Unpacking is worse than packing because the options for where items can go are endless. In order to get through this nightmare, I have developed a system I refer to as “unpack one or two things and get a sizable reward.” My rewards are most often in two forms: movies, and carrots. Unfortunately, the incredible amount of unpacking has left my hands more orange than usual, and I’ve no choice but to favor the movie option.
A lesson I learned the hard way: do not watch “Fatal Attraction” as a reward for a session of unpacking. No, this movie is a punishment. Glenn Close is terrifying, there is too much blood, and Michael Douglas is more attractive in his later films. Should have gone with a carrot.
In order to complete the move, Sylvie and I need your help. Aside from the normal things like pencils, quarters, and Breast Enhancers, we’ve discovered countless items we no longer need, but believe others do. These items have been placed into a box, aptly named the “Free Box.” To make things easy for potential takers, and to allow ourselves one final photo shoot in the old place, we put the items into categories, or rather “Collections,” and took pictures to display them to potential buyers. Two such collections are the “Romance” collection, composed of a single dried rose and a half empty box of Hershey’s Cocoa Powder, and the “Back to Skool” collection, a lunchbox I scored in a secret Santa exchange, a Japanese pencil case roomy enough to hold one pencil, and a package of name tags. My favorite collection is probably the “Random” collection because the photo for this allowed me to balance items on my head. I didn’t drop them, and I felt pretty proud of myself for the rest of the day.
Please request these free items. You would be doing a disservice by letting such gifts pass you by, as the state of the economy requires we be smart with our spending. And what’s smarter than not spending at all and still coming away with a plastic frog and handful of dreidels? Not a lot.
