Favorite Store

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.

After two years, six rooftop photo shoots, a few mice given the same name, a fennec fox blog launch party, one trip to The Edge and back (the bar on the corner, not suicide), and two untouched bottles of Manischewitz, it is time to pack up our humble abode and scatter elsewhere in the city.  For me, that means moving just a few blocks up the street.  For Sylvie, however, that means setting up camp in a new neighborhood with a new zip code.  Considering I have only recently begun to feel confident about the number of zeros in my zip code, I’m glad it’s her battle and not mine.

I’ve done quite a bit of complaining, what with the paper thin walls and eccentric neighbors, but as I take down photos, seal boxes, and pour the final bottles of wine, I’m reminded of all that I will miss.

Favorite Store.  I will certainly miss that.  The inspiration for this blog, Favorite Store has never let us down.  Well, except for that time we were in search of hot fudge, although I’m writing that off as a fluke.  The delivery truck must have been stuck on the FDR.  My new apartment is not far from Favorite Store, but there is another deli in its way: More Favorite Store.  I have never seen so many kinds of hummus.  Sorry Favorite Store, you may have my heart, but More Favorite Store has single Tootsie Roll Pops.

I will miss the comments from the quirky people on my street.  Being told that one hopes you get punched in the face when you turn the corner never gets old.  Luckily I am gaining a new cast of characters.  The other day on the walk to my new apartment I was told I have an “onion head.”  Onions…layers…depth…genius…I’m taking that as a compliment.

Despite the fact that the members of the Hells Angels motorcycle gang prefer most activities to smiling, occasionally stumble out of their headquarters and narrowly avoid killing me on the sidewalk, and they’ve been known to throw people out of windows, I get a strange feeling of comfort knowing they are close by.  I think I’m beginning to understand them.  Just last week I learned that not only do they dislike people outside of their group, but they also dislike each other!  This was visible in their interest in ramming into each other’s motorcycles while impatiently waiting at stoplights.

I will miss the Super’s son’s inexplicable dislike for Sylvie.  He likes everyone else, and will even ask everyone else out on dates.  But not if Sylvie is present.  Her presence invites glares, coldness, and most often, complete avoidance.

It is really incredible how Sylvie’s room adapts effortlessly to the change of seasons.  Her window remains open year round, and one can never tell by looking out it what season or time of day it really is.

We own a signed photo from the Irish Tenors’s 2000 Christmas Show.  You probably don’t.

It has been Chanukah for two years. Opening dresser drawers yields a bounty of small dreidels, and the windows are adorned with menorahs and star decals.  The freezer houses three boxes of frozen latkes which are just fifteen minutes away from complementing a joyous occasion. I’d venture to guess that there are very few other apartments so equipped for spontaneous Chanukah celebrations.

At any given moment there are more dead flowers in our apartment than there are real ones.

There is a dog on our floor named Baby.  This is a clever name for him though, because he is old.  Baby and I occasionally meet on the stairs, and he stops to let me ascend or descend first, as my legs usually move faster.  He is the only considerate baby I’ve ever met.

We live above a Hookah bar and still do not know its name.  We are also continually surprised when it isn’t empty.

No matter the level of political unrest, there is a constant war raging in our building.  It is a war that usually starts around 11 PM and really picks up by 1 AM.  It is a war whose proper name is either Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare or Gears of War.  We’re not quite sure which.

I must now learn to live without the luxury of whispering through poorly constructed walls. I estimate that it will take several months to bring my voice back to normal speaking volume, as I’ve grown accustomed to imitating the cast members of Felicity.

Lots of other things happened here; the projector exploded and I thought I got shot, we watched every episode of MTV True Life, we cooked vegan meals with names like “Christmas Dish” and “Little Italy,” we fooled many visitors with decorative paper that looks like a Magic Eye but really isn’t, and we broke a whole lot of glasses as well as one toe.

Apartment, you were good to us.  I can only hope the next tenants will appreciate you and your quirks as much as we did.

Go little bass, go!

Where I’m from, Fourth Grade is the school year to look forward to, as it marks one’s ability to enter the town’s music program.  Perhaps I was a little more excited about this than my classmates.  After several failed attempts at sports, it was my final chance to join a team, the orchestra team.  I might not have been the fastest runner or the strongest swimmer, but I had the largest instrument.

I signed up to play the double bass.

The double bass is an excellent conversation starter, particularly in elevators.  It turns out it’s difficult to remain silent while sharing a small, enclosed space with a girl who may, at any moment, be swallowed by a musical monster on a large wheel.  The most popular comment inspired by the sight of my beast and me is, “Wow! That thing is bigger than you are!”  My tried-and-true response to this is “Yea…I really should have gone with the violin.”  Another possible response, which I admit I use less often than I’d like, is “No, it isn’t.”  I prefer this because it results in great confusion.  Clearly my bass is larger than I am, and when I refute this obvious fact, the comments seem to stop because I appear curiously out of touch with my spatial reality. There are times when strangers like to switch things up and catch me off guard.  A prime example being the twenty-something guy who offered, “Have fun with your trombone.”

I can fit in the case.  Yes, I’ve tried.  It makes a great Halloween costume when stuck in a rut.  I can also fit in my bass locker, which means that as long as I have a locker, I will never be homeless.

Although I’ve been playing the bass for about eleven years, it wasn’t until this past January that I gave in to the bass wheel.  It took an NYU security guard to convince me to make the switch.  This man, who reminds me of Detective Stabler on Law & Order SVU, and for all I know might be a head with no body (for three years I’ve only seen him behind a desk), took it upon himself to yell “STILL?? NO WHEEL??” every time he let me pass through the special exit gate.

Since adopting the wheel into my life, I’ve noticed a curious absence, following orchestra rehearsals, of the feeling that my arms are broken.  Also, the number of strangers who laugh at me struggling on the street is noticeably lower.  The downside is that my—previously—intimidating arm muscles are becoming less impressive by the day.

things have happened. which I have documented, but not mentioned here. so without further ado, I present a photo catch-up post the length and breadth of which will blow your mind all over your face!

jacq graduated.

some lady took a picture of it with her iphone.

some people wore silly hats.

jacq suddenly and quite without warning became desaturated.

sisters! …happened.

sisters, mama rose and dr. uke congregated under a portrait of the great avery fisher.

things of obviously great import were discussed.

pugs were very nice!

so was this pup.

and this one!

liz had big hair and looked bored.

a team was born and its photo taken!

and jacq and I brushed up on our corporate slang.

This is how I deal with rejection.

Last week I was rejected by Kaplan.

In order to weed out the weak teachers (me, apparently), candidates with qualifying SAT scores are invited to audition. Unfortunately, the Kaplan audition does not encourage musical numbers and monologues, but instead five minute “how to” presentations. Too bad, my Phantom of the Opera solo will have to find a different audience.

In brainstorming topics for my audition, it occurred to me that I have very few skills to teach. I’m not great at doing laundry, I can never get the sheets to fit just right on my bed, I follow recipes when cooking, and my list of mastered sports is shorter than I am. So I prepared a five minute audition on the one topic I do know, wine. I attempted, unsuccessfully it seems, to present tips for the amateur wine taster. I covered the basics: the preparation for a wine tasting, the steps in the actual wine tasting event, and most importantly, wine-related phrases that would undoubtedly impress the individuals pouring the wine. Speak of the herbaceous tones, the hints of citrus and green apple. Compare it to last week’s Pinotage, the signature grape of South Africa, a blend of Pinot Noir and Cinsaut.

Kaplan believes in consistency. If you fail to pass the audition round of the hiring process on your first try, that’s too bad. Because that first try was your only try. You are forever banned from the program. Your future does not include the possibility of working for Kaplan. This strikes me as a rather hypocritical practice for a company that seems to promote excellence in trying. Didn’t ace the SAT’s the first time around? Not a problem! Just sign up for a classroom course or some private tutoring, and do practice tests until you genuinely like analogies and bubbling in letters. Turns out the practicing is only for the student.

The most enjoyable part of my evening at Kaplan was spent observing the auditions of others. When people have the opportunity to speak for an uninterrupted five minutes about any topic they so choose, it makes for a good night. We started off with an initiation into the world of golf, and in particular, a successful swing. I will be trying out a new technique come mini golf season.

Golf practice was followed by “How to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro.” I think the entire presentation could have been simplified to one word: safely. The next candidate attempted “How to make a paper airplane.” I say attempted because it didn’t work. All audience members were left with unrecognizable pieces of white paper that will never know the joy of flight.

Also notable was the presentation on hair removal options. Laser hair removal is less painful than electrolysis and it can target a larger surface area, but it requires more sessions for upkeep. I think. Next was the woman determined to prove that Betta fish make for great pets, despite the fact that they eat their young. I suppose we all have our flaws.

The evening concluded with a man eager to enlighten us with his secrets for fighting off stress. They involved addressing the issue, coming up with a plan of attack, and practicing time management. Sadly he was the one candidate who failed to finish in the allotted time.

I may not have a future as a Kaplan tutor, but I sure as hell know to swing a golf club like a pro. And that is a much more valuable skill than being able to teach others the tricks of standardized testing.

When we're grown-up and living in New York, our bones will NEVER be broken!

Two days ago I woke up, wandered four feet into my living room, and dove face first into the tangled web of chords in the corner.  That right there is the face of unemployment.

Lying here with what may or may not be a broken toe has prompted me to muse on my past experiences with injuries.  Luckily there are few, as I’ve always been more susceptible to semi-unusual illnesses like Scarlet Fever, Shingles, and Pityriasis Rosea.  If it starts with an “S” or has multiple “S’s” in it, I’ve probably had it.  But in the broken bones department, I am a rare shopper.  Except for that one time I was six years old, it was snowing, and my mom and I were headed down to the frozen pond behind my house.  In an effort to practice safe mothering skills, my mom picked me up so that I rested on her hip, one small bundled up leg in front of her, and one in back.  As she put her foot down on a snow-covered patch of ice, she lost her balance, slid down the hill and landed on the ground.  Unfortunately, my right leg landed underneath her.

Back to present day Manhattan, fifteen years later: I became irrationally angry as I struggled to walk to the subway last night.  I should have been riding in the back of a red wagon.  My broken leg of yore resulted in my being pulled around as I sat like a princess in our family wagon.  My parents and sister took turns at the handle, rolling me around the neighborhood, my pink cast beaming under the winter sun.  I have never felt more important than I did those times I sat proudly in my red wagon, my large pink cast pointing majestically to the sky, a salute to all my neighbors.  The sympathy wasn’t so bad either.  Friends and family saw my pitiful appearance and took the time to draw painstakingly detailed pictures on my cast, a testament to my new place in society.  My sister looked on with pure jealously.  Before I was simply the spoiled youngest child; my accident in the woods transformed me into royalty.  No need to marry a prince when your mom can fall on you.

This time around I’ve received very little sympathy, probably because I have no one to blame but myself.  At the time of my accident I had my glasses on, was entirely sober, and had yet to engage in the distraction that is Bravo television programming.

Just as I experienced with my other broken bone, the novelty has proven transient.  I think I’ll give in and spend the money on some surgical tape to bring my toe back to life.  If people still won’t hold the door open for you when you’re visibly limping, there’s really no point in prolonging the pain.