Posts Tagged ‘Seinfeld’

ALMOST CARRIE ~ Yadda Yadda Yadda

Friday, February 24th, 2012

When my life got out of control earlier this month (that two-week blur of torpedoed apartment, severed internet, and filthy hair), I took to watching Seinfeld for comfort and respite. My husband and I don’t have cable, so we compensate with streaming Netflix. With the internet (and all streaming options) down for a fortnight though, I was forced to dig out the box of old DVDs we keep under the bed. These are the discs that, no matter how much media is posted online, we just can’t bring ourselves to part with. The box is an eclectic mix of his, hers, and ours: The Lord of the Rings Trilogy, 13 Going on 30, Annie Hall. It is also where we keep Seinfeld seasons 1, 2, 3, 5 & 6.

I love the Seinfeld characters almost as much as I love Carrie and the girls, and they kept me company for eight hours straight last Tuesday when I took the day off to put my apartment back together. George’s neuroses was a balm on my frayed nerves.

The marathon reignited my passion for the show, and now I find myself craving Seinfeld all the time. Even with the internet back up, it’s all I want to watch, and every time Elaine does her signature “Get out!” shove, I get a fresh thrill. Even my husband, a serious Seinfeld aficionado, is sick of it. Yes, he concedes, it may be the greatest television comedy of all time, but why don’t we watch something new? He also made the following gentle observation: Between Sex and the City and Seinfeld, you’re really stuck in the ‘90s aren’t you?

Huh.

You know when he said this, I remembered reading something in the Times Style section not too long ago about how Elaine’s granny dresses, socks, and clunky shoes were making a comeback. I also remember thinking: Yes!

Is this why I still can’t get used to my cell phone? Why I am the only person I know who still religiously watches SNL? Why I am in love with Fred Armisen and Carrie Brownstein’s Portlandia, particularly this sketch:

My gut feeling is that I’m not stuck in anything, just simply behind. There is just so much media and culture to absorb, and I’m meticulous. Just a few weeks ago, I listened to Radiohead for the first time and thought hmm…not bad. And I bet in 2032, I’m sure I’ll really appreciate…whoever it is that’s hot right now.

Emily Sproch is a writer and a Sex and the City tour guide. Each Friday, she chronicles the fine line between reality and fiction in her column “Almost Carrie.”

ALMOST CARRIE ~ Almost Kramer?

Thursday, October 20th, 2011

"I'm gonna make people feel my gonorrhea..."

When you’re a tour guide in a city like New York, you often have to supplement your income with other jobs in order to pay the bills.  As regular readers of “Almost Carrie” know, my primary job requires me to follow in the footsteps of Miss Bradshaw.  What readers may not know however, is that my secondary job also requires me to follow a fictional New Yorker’s lead:  Mr. Cosmo Kramer.

I don’t moonlight at H&H Bagels, and I’ve never published a coffee table book about coffee tables.  No, my secondary job is even more specialized than that:  I am, like Kramer in Season 9, Episode 16, a Standardized Patient—a highly trained faux patient on which medical students practice their skills.  I’ve had an endless array of ailments, everything from headaches to panic attacks to cancer and MS.  I’ve been pregnant, promiscuous, congested, constipated, allergic, asthmatic, hyperthyroid, and hypertensive.  In Seinfeld, Kramer got gonorrhea; last year I got chlamydia.  And once I even had bacterial meningitis, “the Hamlet of diseases,” as Kramer’s friend Mickey dubs it.  I could have won a Tony for that meningitis.

I started doing this sort of work in college, when a local medical school came to campus to recruit freshman acting majors and offered twice as much as what I was making loading dishes in the dining hall.  I was eighteen and baby-faced, so my first role was a 13-year-old girl who just found out that she was pregnant.  Included in the character bio was a detailed description of the baby’s father: a 19-year-old who had already spent time in jail for selling drugs.  The school also hired two actors to play my parents, and the medical students had to talk to all three of us to practice their family counseling.  The outcome of the pregnancy was left up to my imagination; sometimes I’d insist on an abortion, other times I’d stamp my foot and tell my parents that I was marrying the drug dealer.  Mom and Dad always took the opposite stance in order to maximize the conflict:  They’d either be damned if they were going to let me throw my life away or be damned if they were going to let me go to hell.  Sessions ended in real tears and screaming matches.

Standardized Patients, or SPs as they are called in the biz, don’t just get emotional, they get physical.  Depending on the symptoms presented, medical students may test cranial nerves, assess motor skills, check blood pressure, listen to the heart, palpate the abdomen, percuss the lungs, and poke around to make sure the liver’s where it should be.  The SP, in turn, takes mental notes about the student’s ability and later writes an evaluation or gives oral feedback.  Yes, the otoscope has gone too far down my ear canal and it has hurt and no, the students don’t practice pap smears or rectal exams (well sometimes they do, but those SPs get paid a lot more).

Unlike in Seinfeld, the most important part about SP work is not teaching students how to diagnose per se, but teaching them how to communicate.  As anyone who has ever been to the doctor knows, good communication is an invaluable skill, and one that does not always come naturally.  Medical students may be bright, but that doesn’t mean they are good at telling a patient that her cancer has returned or that her mother has Alzheimer’s.

The pitfalls of this kind of work are twofold:  1) It is easy to become something of a hypochondriac.  After a few weeks of doing the MS case, I burst into uncontrollable sobs one night at my friend’s apartment because two of my toes were suddenly feeling numb (turns out I needed arch support).  2) You start to realize that a lot of doctors—even doctors you used to trust—aren’t that great.  Before becoming an SP, I thought that all doctors must be overachievers, but like any other profession, doctors vary in ability; some are competent and some, quite simply, are not.

 

My hands-down favorite case I’ve ever played was—believe it or not—a nasty bout of diarrhea.  My character has a sudden attack of IBS brought on by nerves.  What on earth would cause a patient to get so nervous that she’s crippled with intestinal strife?  A big job interview?  Fear of flying?  Tax audit? Nope, turned out she was about to go away for the weekend for the first time with her new boyfriend.

And just like that, we’re back to Carrie and friends.

 

Emily Sproch is a writer and a “Sex and the City” tour guide.  Each Friday, she chronicles the fine line between reality and fiction in her column “Almost Carrie.”

 

ALMOST CARRIE ~ My Blue Manolos (or My Manolo Blues)

Thursday, October 13th, 2011

The Dress

I got married in a BCBGMAXAZRIA party dress that I ordered online from Nordstrom’s for $288.  Because my dress budget was low, my shoe budget was high.  Until that point, the most expensive shoes I’d ever purchased were a pair of Steven by Steve Madden satin paisley d’Orsay pumps for $89.99, which I adored and wore into oblivion.  They made my ankles (something that everyone who knows me will tell you I am sensitive about) look—if not exactly slim—than at least slimmer.  For my wedding shoes, I wanted to splurge in a way I never had before.  I wanted the label to say one of three things: Louboutin,  Valentino, or Blahnik.  Not even Choo would do.

I also wanted the shoes to be blue, a remarkable coincidence considering the plot of the first film.  I don’t recall SATC: The Movie crossing my mind at the time, but in retrospect it seems suspicious.  Despite how much I disliked SATC1, those blue shoes must have gotten lodged in my subconscious.

My price cap was $700, and I spent months scouring websites and stores.  I learned two things immediately: 1) I couldn’t afford Valentinos and 2) I couldn’t fit in Louboutins.  The Valentinos that I liked, though exquisite, were over $800.  As for the Louboutins, every time I donned a pair it conjured this mental image of trying to squeeze my foot into one of those plastic corn-on-the-cob dishes from the 99¢ store.  I am only a size seven, but those Louboutins are narrow.

The Shoes

The Blahniks were the only way to go, and I must say that after immersing myself in luxury shoes, the Blahniks actually started to seem affordable.  The leather d’Orsay pumps were all $650, and they even had the blue that I wanted.  It wasn’t a deep royal blue like Carrie’s shoes in the film, but a bright, spring-like blue for my bright, springtime wedding.  They were the exact same style as those $89.99 Steve Madden’s, the most flattering cut for my insecurity.  With tax, they cost $725.00.  Both my mother and my soon-to-be mother-in-law were there when I bought them, two women as different as Steve’s Ma and Bunny MacDougal.  When my own mother asked about the total, I told her she’d be better off not knowing.  My mother-in-law, on the other hand, suggested I pick up a second pair.

I loved my wedding outfit.  I liked the shoes very much, but I adored them paired with the dress.  The whole ensemble made me feel fresh and light and fun, and it conveyed the exact vibe I wanted to create for the wedding itself.  In the end, we succeeded with the vibe.  The only problem was that a half an hour into the reception, one of my Manolos broke in two.

To be fair, it wasn’t entirely the shoe’s fault.  My wedding was on a rooftop in midtown, and the flooring was made from that same spongy material they put on high school tracks to help support your knees.  My sister’s best friend also snapped a heel (albeit a less expensive one), plus I was very excited and jumping about in a way that was probably not good for fancy shoes.  Still, one can’t help but think $725 dollars and they broke?

 

Like any good SATC guide, I had packed flip flops, and the truth was that I ready to change into them anyway.  But two weeks later, after regrouping and rejoining society, I boxed up my wedding Manolos and took them back to Barney’s where I was told that I wasn’t eligible for a refund, but that I would receive store credit.

Here’s the thing: walking around with $725 worth of store credit to Barney’s in your wallet is stressful.  When should you spend it?  How should you spend it?  Should you get more shoes?  Should you buy a fabulous coat?  Should you get two sale items that you kind of love or one full price item that you really love?  I got so tired of thinking about it that one day after work I went in and refused to leave until I spent the whole damn thing.  I decided to stick with shoes (there are no coats at Barney’s for $725, who was I kidding?).  I wanted basic black, something I could wear with anything for the rest of my life.  I went straight for the Manolos again, knowing that at least they would fit.  I found a pair that were different than anything I’d worn before.  They had a strap that crossed diagonally over the bridge of my foot, a look I didn’t think I could pull off, but they looked decent.  They were $200 more than what I had in credit, but with a wild desperation I plunked down the extra money just so I could finally put the whole issue to bed.

I have worn the black Manolos with the diagonal straps several times, and I’m sure I’ll wear them again, but the truth is I don’t love them.  Remember the skinny mirrors at Barney’s that tricked Elaine into thinking she looked great in that terrible black dress on Seinfeld?  They must have those same mirrors in the shoe department because out in the cold light of day those friggin’ diagonal straps make my ankles look huge.

The Outfit (right before the shoes broke)

The Outfit (after the shoes broke plus a few drinks)

 

Emily Sproch is a writer and a “Sex and the City” tour guide.  Each Friday, she chronicles the fine line between reality and fiction in her column “Almost Carrie.”