Hey Faux Hillary's,
Gossip Guy here. Looks like Faux Hillary is on a much needed vacay down in New York City. But maybe our intrepid Village rat is a little bit out of his league? Spotted outside of the Frick - K. and FH slogging through the slush.
Perhaps FH doesn't yet understand the rules of the UES. How can you spot a Park Ave. neophyte? Its all about footwear. Word to the wise FH - on The Upper East Side - even the dogs wear Uggs.
You know you love me,
xoxo
Gossip Guy
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Friday, February 15, 2008
Bardly There
A Faux Hill Conversation - in Haiku Form:
"Some bitch stole my uggs."
"How do you know?" She asked me.
"They all look the same."
"Some bitch stole my uggs."
"How do you know?" She asked me.
"They all look the same."
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Confessions of an Applicant
"There comes a time in everyone's life - when you truly have to ask yourself: do you want to go to law/business/med school?"
- Thanks Nada Surf, for allowing me to rip off your mid nineties ironic hit, Popular.
January and February are grad school application months. Your average Faux Hillary is busy tracking down their favourite university professor to ask for a letter of recommendation for their application to the London School of Economics, or busy booking their interview circuit at various medical schools. To quote El Huerd - re. medical school interviews at U of T, where they give you only two weeks notice, "the entire interview system is biased to help your classic fourth year psych major at Western, its not like she has a job that she has to miss to come into Toronto for her interview! Besides - she probably comes home to Toronto every weekend anyway."
In times like these my collective class is lying awake at night thinking of potential answers to the "tough questions" they're going to have to answer on their application or in the interview.
Although the words change per application the basic query is as follows: "Why do you want to be a lawyer/ doctor/ ruthless business person?" And just as the question is basically the same for every application, so are the answers. Only in these situations, we all spend our days fluffing up our answers with feel good stories. Take Bold Sharon who is currently reading application essays herself (as part of her ability to be both a mom and successful career woman). Do you know how many stories she's read along the following lines: "meeting "johnny" who was dying of cancer, precipitated my life-long love of pediatrics, and its why I'm applying to medical school today - so I can make a difference in kids like johnny's life." 50% of medical school applicants contain a variant of that story.
So instead of fluffing up our reasons for further education, why not simple and brutal honesty?
Take for example, my NYU application, which asks the following:
Think about the decisions you have made in your life. Answer the following (750 word maximum):
(a) What choices have you made that led you to your current position?
(b) Why pursue an MBA at this point in your life?
(c) What is your career goal upon graduation from NYU Stern? What is your long term goal?
Don't think I didn't slap something together about public service and working in a not for profit and becoming a leader in the community, because I did.
But what if I actually wrote what was really on my mind, something along the lines of this:
"Dear NYU Stern School of Business:
Having dated my way through most gays in the Faux Hill and RosedAle - I feel like it is high time that i move to New York City so I can meet a proper Upper East Sider with a trust fund. And if all else fails completing an MBA will allow me to maintain the lifestyle I'm currently accustomed to.
Best,
Jonathan
p.s. do I get points for being under the word limit?"
What is it? The truth will set us free?
- Thanks Nada Surf, for allowing me to rip off your mid nineties ironic hit, Popular.
January and February are grad school application months. Your average Faux Hillary is busy tracking down their favourite university professor to ask for a letter of recommendation for their application to the London School of Economics, or busy booking their interview circuit at various medical schools. To quote El Huerd - re. medical school interviews at U of T, where they give you only two weeks notice, "the entire interview system is biased to help your classic fourth year psych major at Western, its not like she has a job that she has to miss to come into Toronto for her interview! Besides - she probably comes home to Toronto every weekend anyway."
In times like these my collective class is lying awake at night thinking of potential answers to the "tough questions" they're going to have to answer on their application or in the interview.
Although the words change per application the basic query is as follows: "Why do you want to be a lawyer/ doctor/ ruthless business person?" And just as the question is basically the same for every application, so are the answers. Only in these situations, we all spend our days fluffing up our answers with feel good stories. Take Bold Sharon who is currently reading application essays herself (as part of her ability to be both a mom and successful career woman). Do you know how many stories she's read along the following lines: "meeting "johnny" who was dying of cancer, precipitated my life-long love of pediatrics, and its why I'm applying to medical school today - so I can make a difference in kids like johnny's life." 50% of medical school applicants contain a variant of that story.
So instead of fluffing up our reasons for further education, why not simple and brutal honesty?
Take for example, my NYU application, which asks the following:
Think about the decisions you have made in your life. Answer the following (750 word maximum):
(a) What choices have you made that led you to your current position?
(b) Why pursue an MBA at this point in your life?
(c) What is your career goal upon graduation from NYU Stern? What is your long term goal?
Don't think I didn't slap something together about public service and working in a not for profit and becoming a leader in the community, because I did.
But what if I actually wrote what was really on my mind, something along the lines of this:
"Dear NYU Stern School of Business:
Having dated my way through most gays in the Faux Hill and RosedAle - I feel like it is high time that i move to New York City so I can meet a proper Upper East Sider with a trust fund. And if all else fails completing an MBA will allow me to maintain the lifestyle I'm currently accustomed to.
Best,
Jonathan
p.s. do I get points for being under the word limit?"
What is it? The truth will set us free?
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Finally Faux!
I sauntered down Yonge Street yesterday in a bid to get a present for someone - (my boss wanted a faux Louis wallet, long story, just go with it) - and seeing as I can charm the pants off retail employees, Terroni waiters and straight women, my purchase of said tacky wallet, the store clerk threw in a change purse for the low low price of free. WWSD my friends. WWSD.
And so - I am now the proud owner of a faux Louis Vuitton change purse - next time you see someone (ie me) buying a latte at Starbucks and counting their pennies out of what appears to be real Louis - look closely - that shit is Faux.
Living my faux life in Luon (the Lululemon fabric) I found myself with Maglet at the Opera last night. I fancy myself a future patron of the Ahhhhhhhhhhhhts... I told Maglet not to "salt my game". Standing in Jack Diamond's "City Room" I couldn't help but look at the assembelled crowd of whitey's thinking - surely I must know someone. And not to sound racist, but I mean, doesn't every white person sorta look the same? Especially mid-to-late twenty wannabe yuppies:
She: Blond Hair. Check. Skinny Jeans. Check. Oversized Bag. Check.
He: Awkward expensive denim bought for by girlfriend. Check. Banana Republic Black Wool/Cashmere Blend Coat. Check.
But I'm digressing from the Opera, wherein I ran into a cornucopia of people from my past, perhaps exemplified by my run in with the Whiterocks Great Aunt Peggy. You may remember the Whiterock family from previous dinner parties (Mrs. Whiterock told me that the St Clair streetcar shouldn't run through Faux Hill, as your average Faux Hillary wouldn't be caught dead on the TTC). Aunt Peggy - properly British, is well known for her exacting table manners.
For example Christmas Dinner, Whiterock Household, circa 2002. Desert was served, Sim Sim Sima was caught nibbling on some grapes, to which Aunt Peggy replied:
Sima, my dear, why don't you use the grape shears? Picking grapes off the vine is like picking flesh from the bone.
And that really is, at the end of the day, class distinction at work. Similarly - don't think I wasn't sitting in the cheap seats at the Opera clutching that faux Louis Vouis change purse for all it was worth.
Sigh...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oh - and to answer the all important question as posed by N (who was spotted outside of the JCC, where she could found doing a little less schmoozing and a little more schvitzing): Dickensian is a word. I don't make stuff up.
And so - I am now the proud owner of a faux Louis Vuitton change purse - next time you see someone (ie me) buying a latte at Starbucks and counting their pennies out of what appears to be real Louis - look closely - that shit is Faux.
Living my faux life in Luon (the Lululemon fabric) I found myself with Maglet at the Opera last night. I fancy myself a future patron of the Ahhhhhhhhhhhhts... I told Maglet not to "salt my game". Standing in Jack Diamond's "City Room" I couldn't help but look at the assembelled crowd of whitey's thinking - surely I must know someone. And not to sound racist, but I mean, doesn't every white person sorta look the same? Especially mid-to-late twenty wannabe yuppies:
She: Blond Hair. Check. Skinny Jeans. Check. Oversized Bag. Check.
He: Awkward expensive denim bought for by girlfriend. Check. Banana Republic Black Wool/Cashmere Blend Coat. Check.
But I'm digressing from the Opera, wherein I ran into a cornucopia of people from my past, perhaps exemplified by my run in with the Whiterocks Great Aunt Peggy. You may remember the Whiterock family from previous dinner parties (Mrs. Whiterock told me that the St Clair streetcar shouldn't run through Faux Hill, as your average Faux Hillary wouldn't be caught dead on the TTC). Aunt Peggy - properly British, is well known for her exacting table manners.
For example Christmas Dinner, Whiterock Household, circa 2002. Desert was served, Sim Sim Sima was caught nibbling on some grapes, to which Aunt Peggy replied:
Sima, my dear, why don't you use the grape shears? Picking grapes off the vine is like picking flesh from the bone.
And that really is, at the end of the day, class distinction at work. Similarly - don't think I wasn't sitting in the cheap seats at the Opera clutching that faux Louis Vouis change purse for all it was worth.
Sigh...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oh - and to answer the all important question as posed by N (who was spotted outside of the JCC, where she could found doing a little less schmoozing and a little more schvitzing): Dickensian is a word. I don't make stuff up.
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Great Expectations - The Bird Lady
Like any great Dickensian novel this blog is semi-autobiographical (comparison to great literary figure in first sentence is a new record for my own self narcisism). Veiled allusions to real people and real events ensure that I still have friends when I walk down the Forested streets of the Village... the big gossip remains deep in my soul and I'm not spilling the good stuff, unless someone offers me a book deal, then I'll whore myself out like a cheap Amsterdam street worker.
I got yelled at last weekend by a good friend for placing too many expectations on people; bit if a best friend can't give you Dr Phil tough love then who can, right? So, in an effort to understand why I have such Great Expectations I found myself curled up on my couch late Friday night reading the Sparks Notes of Great Expectations (like I have time to read a Dickensian novel on a Friday night) and by reading, I mean Googling the Sparks Notes.
Miss Havisham, Chuck Dickens', great literary trope holds a heart to many a Friend of Dorothy (FOD). Why? She just may be the ultimate fag hag. Mascara - check. Scorned by a man - check. A little bit of the crazy - check. Don't you just wanna hang out at Satis House, eat chocolate, drink red wine and talk about how much men suck? I know I do. "And then this one time... that bastard Compeyson totally stood me up..." Tell it like it is Shammy. Sing it sister...
Today's query then: is this literary archetype - Wealthy Girls Gone Wild (holla holla to my boy Joe Francis) - a commonality round the Faux Hill? Well - in my limited experience it does ring true... more money, more problems.
While perusing the Real Estate section of the Globe on Friday, which I like to do for sadomasochistic reasons; its more effective then cutting my arm and less messy... I noticed that $1.8 million now buys you a three bedroom house at Lawrence and Avenue (the poor cousin of the Faux). How the fuck am I ever going to afford that? As friend KKK (not her real initials, but amusing nonetheless) once told me over coffee, "Why do think I'm applying to Law School? I may as well just be brutally honest with UofT admissions board: 'Dear UofT Law admissions - having been reaised in an upper middle class neighbourhood I'm pretty sure that if I don't become a Bay Street corporate lawyer I may not be able to ever afford to move back there.'" Thankfully we edited the truth to a more palatable "law school is an avenue to complete my career growth and continue to work for the betterment of Canadian society..." Who wants the truth anyway; falsities are so much more pleasant?
However, my weekly read of the Real Estate section let me know about a lovely RosedAle woman who had inherited her parents house and maintained her residence there until her death, save for a brief respite to Faux Hill. The house was built in 1912 and is basically in its original condition (on offer for the low low price of $6 million). Such a story couldn't help but make me think of the Faux... where we have our own Miss Havisham in the likes of the Bird Lady. The Bird Lady, an esoterically eccentric woman, lives down the street from the Two-Fer in a house that was originally owned by her parents.
Now instead of time having stopped at twenty of nine (the time Havisham learns of her fiance's deceit) the Bird Lady's house is stuck in a time capsule to the year her parents died. Think nineteen fifties Eisenhower chic. The Bird Lady's childhood bedroom has never been remodelled; its still decorated with pink wallpaper and filled with original Nancy Drew novels (which I used to borrow and read during grade school, prompting some kid to look at me and say: "only girls read Nancy Drew novels." Girls and fags read Nancy Drew... Why do you think Ned Nickerson never got near Nancy's pants - Ned was a closet 'Mo).
The Bird Lady HAS however maintained the family house in conjunction with her parents input long after their death. How? Well when deciding to repaint a couple of years ago - the Bird Lady hosted a seance where she asked the rents what shade of grey would work best with the exterior stucco. Good to know that you get the Benjamin Moore Colour Wheel in heaven eh? I hope there's internet porn up there too.
So why is the Bird Lady called the Bird Lady? Well... the Bird Lady has turned an entire room of her house into an aviary. Approximately twenty budgies have free reign of the front room because - the Bird Lady doesn't believe in cages [to quote Bold: Isn't the room just a giant cage anyway? Sing is sister. Update from Bold: she's in Mexico, Feliz Something]. I once had the opportunity to care for the Bird Lady's animals. Instructions were scrawled on a piece of paper: "Miss Josephina Pussy Willow Cohen [the cat] - likes her food strewn about the house. Don't use a dish - just throw a handful of food wherever you want. She'll find it." Crazy thine name is...
There is something quite charming in these eccentricities. The Bird Lady is a complete and utter rebellion from the manicured lifestyle of your typical Villager. There ain't no Uggs to be found in her front hall, par example and in fact her front lawn is so overgrown that Canada Post threatened to stop delivering her mail. During the great blackout of 2004 the Bird Lady was the only house on the block that actually had power (thanks to her solar powered roof). Who was laughing then?
Not sure of the moral for today's story, expectations lead to hurt, while living without expectations lead to being a crazy bird lady? I'm sure the answer is some shade of grey (preferably picked out by your dead parents) but in the meantime - perhaps this will be a choose your own ending _________________________________.
Happy February.
~FH
I got yelled at last weekend by a good friend for placing too many expectations on people; bit if a best friend can't give you Dr Phil tough love then who can, right? So, in an effort to understand why I have such Great Expectations I found myself curled up on my couch late Friday night reading the Sparks Notes of Great Expectations (like I have time to read a Dickensian novel on a Friday night) and by reading, I mean Googling the Sparks Notes.
Miss Havisham, Chuck Dickens', great literary trope holds a heart to many a Friend of Dorothy (FOD). Why? She just may be the ultimate fag hag. Mascara - check. Scorned by a man - check. A little bit of the crazy - check. Don't you just wanna hang out at Satis House, eat chocolate, drink red wine and talk about how much men suck? I know I do. "And then this one time... that bastard Compeyson totally stood me up..." Tell it like it is Shammy. Sing it sister...
Today's query then: is this literary archetype - Wealthy Girls Gone Wild (holla holla to my boy Joe Francis) - a commonality round the Faux Hill? Well - in my limited experience it does ring true... more money, more problems.
While perusing the Real Estate section of the Globe on Friday, which I like to do for sadomasochistic reasons; its more effective then cutting my arm and less messy... I noticed that $1.8 million now buys you a three bedroom house at Lawrence and Avenue (the poor cousin of the Faux). How the fuck am I ever going to afford that? As friend KKK (not her real initials, but amusing nonetheless) once told me over coffee, "Why do think I'm applying to Law School? I may as well just be brutally honest with UofT admissions board: 'Dear UofT Law admissions - having been reaised in an upper middle class neighbourhood I'm pretty sure that if I don't become a Bay Street corporate lawyer I may not be able to ever afford to move back there.'" Thankfully we edited the truth to a more palatable "law school is an avenue to complete my career growth and continue to work for the betterment of Canadian society..." Who wants the truth anyway; falsities are so much more pleasant?
However, my weekly read of the Real Estate section let me know about a lovely RosedAle woman who had inherited her parents house and maintained her residence there until her death, save for a brief respite to Faux Hill. The house was built in 1912 and is basically in its original condition (on offer for the low low price of $6 million). Such a story couldn't help but make me think of the Faux... where we have our own Miss Havisham in the likes of the Bird Lady. The Bird Lady, an esoterically eccentric woman, lives down the street from the Two-Fer in a house that was originally owned by her parents.
Now instead of time having stopped at twenty of nine (the time Havisham learns of her fiance's deceit) the Bird Lady's house is stuck in a time capsule to the year her parents died. Think nineteen fifties Eisenhower chic. The Bird Lady's childhood bedroom has never been remodelled; its still decorated with pink wallpaper and filled with original Nancy Drew novels (which I used to borrow and read during grade school, prompting some kid to look at me and say: "only girls read Nancy Drew novels." Girls and fags read Nancy Drew... Why do you think Ned Nickerson never got near Nancy's pants - Ned was a closet 'Mo).
The Bird Lady HAS however maintained the family house in conjunction with her parents input long after their death. How? Well when deciding to repaint a couple of years ago - the Bird Lady hosted a seance where she asked the rents what shade of grey would work best with the exterior stucco. Good to know that you get the Benjamin Moore Colour Wheel in heaven eh? I hope there's internet porn up there too.
So why is the Bird Lady called the Bird Lady? Well... the Bird Lady has turned an entire room of her house into an aviary. Approximately twenty budgies have free reign of the front room because - the Bird Lady doesn't believe in cages [to quote Bold: Isn't the room just a giant cage anyway? Sing is sister. Update from Bold: she's in Mexico, Feliz Something]. I once had the opportunity to care for the Bird Lady's animals. Instructions were scrawled on a piece of paper: "Miss Josephina Pussy Willow Cohen [the cat] - likes her food strewn about the house. Don't use a dish - just throw a handful of food wherever you want. She'll find it." Crazy thine name is...
There is something quite charming in these eccentricities. The Bird Lady is a complete and utter rebellion from the manicured lifestyle of your typical Villager. There ain't no Uggs to be found in her front hall, par example and in fact her front lawn is so overgrown that Canada Post threatened to stop delivering her mail. During the great blackout of 2004 the Bird Lady was the only house on the block that actually had power (thanks to her solar powered roof). Who was laughing then?
Not sure of the moral for today's story, expectations lead to hurt, while living without expectations lead to being a crazy bird lady? I'm sure the answer is some shade of grey (preferably picked out by your dead parents) but in the meantime - perhaps this will be a choose your own ending _________________________________.
Happy February.
~FH
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