6/18/09

The Adventures and Misadventures of One Trip to Bonnaroo: Not Censored At All. I swear.

Here's a story.

About four city girls who got in a truck and headed down to Manchester, TN.

Four girls with no knowledge of the open road and no knowledge of mechanics. Four girls used to the luxury of showers and clean water. Four girls vastly unprepared for the dirt and hard work that lay ahead.

These four girls, though excited for the journey ahead, felt unsettled for a life without crowded city streets, hair straighteners, and, most importantly, delivery.com. (Where would one of the nameless girls get her pad thai from in Tennessee?!?)

But--it was a journey! A quest to visit the great untamed South and immerse themselves in the musical stylings of their favorite bands.

It was all about the music.

These girls faced criticism for their decision to partake upon this sure to be arduous venture, but they persisted. Even when the Most Beautiful One's appendix ruptured, they carried on. "Not to be defeated by an organ that weighs less than an ounce!" was their battle cry. So they soldiered on, dear readers, they soldiered on.

They left the great state of New Jersey on Wednesday night, bleary-eyed but excited. During the long 16 hour drive, three of the girls nearly formulated a plot to assassinate the Most Beautiful One for a host of reasons, but mostly for her insistence on singing "I Drove All Night To Get To 'Roo". Conflicts resolved, they crossed into Central Time and into Manchester County.

Upon their arrival to Bonnaroo's magnificent (re: wasteland) grounds, the girls hopped out of the car, excited and somewhat high off of the Red Bull and Six Hour Energy drinks that they had consumed to drive through the night.

But it wasn't before long that tragedy struck in the form of a tent too complicated to be assembled. One of the girls (we shall call her Friz. Please see the picture.) struck herself in the head with one of the poles.

The girls had only been there for five minutes, and one was already in tears!

But the girls persevered and relied on what they knew would help them in this situation: flirting and cold beer. So the girls moseyed on up to the boys next door from Texas and before you knew it- Poof! a tent was made.

They quickly made friends with these adorable men from Austin and soon enough, they were having a grand old time. Friz stopped crying about the bugs, Nervous Nance stopped worrying about the truck, Burned Out B just continued on being calm, and the Most Beautiful One...well, she just focused on having a good time.

Over the course of the next four days, the girls would face a litany of disasters. The mud pile that almost drowned them all; the rain that made their hair frizzy; the maze of tents that inevitably had all of them lost at one point (except for dear, logical Nance). The girls faced each of these problems with a smile and a wink (or a drink), always knowing that they could rely on each other to fix it.

And these girls, these city slickers, they triumphed! They even experienced all that Bonnaroo had to offer.

The Most Beautiful One took a percussion class and then showed off her newest talents to any bum with a drum. (Look out for her soon to be released compact disc entitled "Sounds I can make by drumming on my desk at work".)



They enjoyed the music to the fullest extent and even got used to the stench that permeated the grounds (a mix of B.O., poop, and hippie). They held each other up when they could no longer walk (very large grounds), tucked each other in when one had passed out (from all that time in the sun!), and even welcomed each others new "friends" to the tent! The pact that these girls had formed was awe-inspiring. When one girl (who shall remain nameless) fell into a Port-A-Potty, the other girl with her didn't even try to snap an embarrassing photo!

When the four days were up, the girls reluctantly began the trek north, where they realized that they had quickly assimilated into Southern culture--they were now huge fans of Sonic, Wal- Mart and hanging with barefoot babies at the gas station (just like Britney, y'all!).

These four girls had a splendid time and would do it again in a heartbeat--although next time, it may be in a hotel room.

Until then, we shall bid adieu to Bonnaroo!

But first, please allow this list to summarize some of the lessons that one or all of the girls learned while on their grand adventure:

1) Talking about Harry Potter and LOST while drinking is a swell time but not necessarily attractive to the girls' male counterparts. Quizzing each other on Ron Weasley's favorite Quidditch teams did not go unnoticed by the neighbors, who mocked them endlessly for their poor and juvenile taste.
2) One girl can attest to the fact that Port-A-Potties are very slippery! She would like to give the following advice: if you do happen to fall in one, don't hold on to the toilet bowl for leverage! Especially after it's been four days in the hot Tennessee sun, used by thousands of asses around the farm. She regrets this poor decision the most.
3) Southerners do not appreciate you imitating their accents. One of our enterprising girls may have learned this the hard way. This girl would also like to add that it's not advisable to brag about winning the Civil War to someone who has a Confederate flag sticker on their car.

See you next year, Tennessee!

6/16/09

prologue

we are back.

we are alive.

i am quite sick. i am starting to realize that hey, maybe i can't go to the country and not sleep and run around and have a great time like normal people. i can't live like that without paying a huge price. the price being my ability to swallow or maintain normal body temperature.

the other three are presumably fine--tired, sunburnt and cranky--but fine.

unfortunately our fish (phish) has died as a result of leaving him without food for four days.

it was a sad welcoming party, watching old Langhorn flail around and attempt to eat. he suffered through the night and we prayed, prayed for his quick recovery.

but today, when we came home from work, we saw him. belly up and floating. d-e-a-d.

more on our adventures soon (when i get some pictures) but i will say this:

amazing. hot. sweaty. dirty. stinky. awesome. bruce springsteen is way hot for sixty. and joy.

and don't ever--ever--fall in a port-a-potty.

update--while writing this, i heard a flush. i called out "brenna?" in my sick voice (my sick voice is known for being very whiny, raspy and annoying). she then informed me rather nastily that she just gave "our" (re: hers) fish a burial at sea. rip langhorn (or whatever his name was). rip.

6/8/09

bonnaroo, here we come.




Originally uploaded by Kelly Bergin

in preparation for this grand event, i have prepared a list of likely scenarios.

1) i get really drunk and end up on stage with ani difranco. i steal the mike and sing "i believe the children are my future." bruce springsteen hears my angelic voice, scouts me out and makes me his new backup singer. (later, patti.)

2) i lose a finger trying to hammer in our tent.

3) gen gets lost and ends up in graceland.

4) in a crowd of thousands, i somehow find the long lost twin i didn't know existed. after pitching our story to industry types, we move to california to star in a white girl version of sister, sister.

5) i meet my soulmate, but then sober up and realize he is ugly.

6) i meet elvis costello and force him to father twins with me.

7) jimmy fallon discovers me, realizes he sucks, and picks me to be his replacement. his few fans weep.

8) we never make it to tennessee.

9) we make it to virginia and decide hey, that's good enough.

10) i drown in a mud pile due to my being shorter than the ditch in which the mud has accumulated.

if i don't make it back, i love you all very, very much. please transfer my debt to kristie.

kisses,

kb

6/2/09

What Not To Do: The Kelly Bergin Story

Don't...

1) Tell everyone (including coworkers) that an appendectomy is the best surgery ever because "you get to drink two days post-op but can't exercise for six weeks!". People will finally see you for what you are. Which is not good.

2) Give invitations to do shots with people you haven't seen in years. This is not the way to celebrate your reunion. It just reminds them WHY they haven't hung out with you in years.

3) Hop in a stranger's car because he offers you a ride home. Only do this if said stranger offers you candy or alcohol.

4) Ignore your cable bill so that you can buy an expensive camera. Your internet and cable will be rudely and abruptly shut off, leading to devastation and tears.

5) Wear a low cut dress and then hang out with a toddler. Your lady parts may become exposed when lifting squirming child.

6) Automatically click on every Twitter follower you acquire. This is how you end up looking at Twitter porn at work.

7) Pick up your hair straightener when it falls in the toilet. It will still be 360 degrees and you will burn your hand badly, leading to a chorus of expletives and tears. You will then have to attempt to type a blog entry with your misshapen claw of a hand, all the while cursing your stupidity and the hangover that caused such a lack in judgment.

8) Assume that you can shop and buy expensive things because your landlord forgot to take out your rent money. He will eventually remember and you will be left with 800 dollars to pay this month's rent, food, bills and gas for your upcoming trip to Tennessee. Prostitution, here I come.

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Should I pitch my idea of "What Not To Do: The Kelly Bergin Story" to TLC?

I think I could impart some serious knowledge.


5/21/09

I'm ALIVE!

I'm BA-ACK!!


You may/may not have heard that my appendix decided to commit suicide and rupture in my precious body.It all started last Monday. I was here at my office on West 22nd st when I started to feel...a bit off. My mind flashed to the day before, which was Mother's Day. "Hmm, what did I eat...what did Kelly eat yesterday?" Many, many things came to mind as I had decided that Mother's Day was my last full day of eating before my crash diet began on Monday. Cold cuts, Peppermint Patties, tuna, Sour Patch kids, old Passover candy I forgot I had bought...the list was long. I tried to stick it out at work for as long as possible, but when I started vomiting in the company restroom, I resigned myself to using a precious sick day. I headed outside where I promptly hailed a cab, hurled in a cab, and was questioned about the possibility of my having swine flu from the driver.

On Tuesday the decision was made to go to the ER. Mother came up to "Spanish Harlem" (or what she calls my Brooklyn enclave. Clearly not Harlem.) and took me to the ER. I had spoken with my doc from NYU. She advised me to head quickly to their famed emergency room. I googled "NYU ER", wrote down the first address that I saw and hightailed it to the east side of Manhattan, clutching a tupperware for puke the whole way.

We pulled up to Bellevue-NYU Hospital. In my drug-addled, dehydrated, hallucinating state, I didn't connect the name Bellevue to the notorious hospital that it was. Big mistake. Once there, I was directed to the pediatrics ER, even as I argued that I was an adult. ("I'm a grown up! A real girl!") But apparently the peds ER is also for "young adults" up to the age of 25. And thank God for that! The scary "adult" ER held all sorts of committed Bellevue prisoners, who were defecating on themselves and slurring at me. After a few hours, I went for a CAT scan down the hall and couldn't help but notice the scan room was right next to the New York City Department of Corrections. They brought a prisoner out and I got so excited. Just like on Law and Order! The prisoner even yelled at me and said "you'll be seeing me on the fucking news tonight." I made a mental note to tune in. He also kept checking out my mom, which made me jealous because I am insane.

To my great dismay, I wasn't able to tune in as it was decided that I indeed had appendicitis. And I spent the next four hours waiting to be taken to surgery. (Apparently gunshots and life-crushing tumors are more important than my suicidal organ.) Right after surgery, I woke up to an extremely high fever and alarms going off. My appendix had actually ruptured and I was in really sick. All I could think was "don't die: you get so many presents in the hospital." This is what I hold on for, people.

After they popped old appy out, I spent the next 6 days in the hospital. I ate Jell-O, accumulated numerous brusies from repeated injections, and learned Bengali from my neighbor (apparently screaming AH-EYYYY! means Get me out of here, I'm dying).

One morning I woke up and a woman in a Saree was staring over my body, attempting to extricate my Blackberry from my cold, dead hands. Now, I didn't really have a TV (It was from circa 1973, and I believe it was the first TV ever created. It also barely worked and you had to pay $5 a day to use it. I love Bellevue.) and my Blackberry was my lifeline. This woman, who I presume was the daughter of my Bangladesh bunkmate, mumbled in incoherently that her phone was broken and she thought she could just "take" mine. Now I'm sorry. But it was the only way I could check Twitter and reasure my tens of followers I was alive. I told her to take a hike and ask the nurse. I would have felt bad, but her mother was a real faker. Crying that much over kidney stones? I've had them. I've seen worse. Grow a pair, Bangla!

Fortunately she was dismissed from the hospital on Saturday, and I was finally allowed to leave on Sunday morning after a week of fevers and way gross stomach stuff. My dad claims that I hallucinated this in my fog of Morphine (I. love. drugs.) but I swear one asked me for a cigarette to sell. I know how things work in prison! I've read the memoirs!

All in all, staying in the hospital pretty much blows. I don't know where I got the romantic idea in my head that it'd be "fun" to stay in the hospital for a few days. It's no Club Med. Sure, I got to miss work. But they woke me up at 6 am anyway to poke at my belly. They also served really questionable food. Their "gourmet" dinner was fake eggplant parm, half cooked noodles, and some green substance that my mother called spinach. I'd have sooner ate one of Bangla's beads (which looked like they were made of pasta. Or her kidney stones.). 

But I had tons of nice visitors who appropriately enough brought gifts. Gen brought a balloon that said "Get Well Grandpa". This entertained her for her visit. And Brenna brought the best gift of all: laughter. When she came in and nearly fainted/threw up at the sight of my needles, I laughed so hard I almost busted my stitches.

As most things are, my hospital stay was a learning experience for me. Here are some things I learned from this latest go around:

1) Do not invite prisoners into your bed, even if they look like a young Montel Williams.
2) Don't mix NyQuil and ExLax.
3) Hospital gowns really do open at the back. Wear your best underwear at all times.
4) Always shower before going to the ER. It may be your last shower for awhile. (My parents can attest to the scent.)
5) Get a Twitter account and make sure everyone knows you're on your deathbed. You will receive a copious amount of gifts.

Thanks to everyone who called/ sent stuff (I especially enjoyed the Pookie books my aunt and uncle sent. Apparently Pookie is a pig, to which I can only say: fitting.)

Till the next time...

BERGIN OUT.

5/5/09

the kindness of others (or, the perks of cancer)

Hi Kelly,

This offer is for six months of free, unlimited yoga Strala Yoga at 178 5th Avenue. Because this is a valuable donation, we need you to confirm that you would take full advantage of this offer, and attend at least one class per week for the six months. If this isn't something you can commit to, we will happily put you on a wait list for a different pass (such as a 20-class pass), or one that better suits your schedule.

If you decide to take this opportunity, we need you to complete a 20-minute pre-program phone survey before starting class (there will also be a follow-up survey at 10-weeks).

Hope to hear from you soon!

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amazing.

thanks to glamour magazine.


5/4/09

The Itches

Every so often, my body plans a rebellion against all the medicine, fried food and alcohol I force into it. The Cells gather and have a conference. They decide against mouth sores (we just did that last week!) and go with one of their favorites: let's make her itch. The Cells must have some kind of feud going with my skin, as they are quite likely to attack it. Sometimes it's through a mountain range of perfectly formed zits; other times, it's through the itches.

These aren't your normal, mosquito bite itches. They feel like they are coming from inside, like a plant bud pushing it's way to the surface. They're sudden, and pinching, and itchy as all hell. Clearly whoever coined the phrase "mind over matter" has never had the itches like that. I've meditated, done my "yoga breaths" and even hummed CHURCH songs, but to no avail. (Thanks a lot, Jesus.) They just don't stop.

I would try to figure out which of the pills are making me itch, but stopping one or the other for a couple of days just isn't an option. So I browse Web MD, finding each medicine and reading its side effects. I then make a detour and type in one of my random symptoms in the search bar, just to make sure I'm going to get cancer again. Unfortunately, almost every medicine I take lists "itchiness" as a side effect, so I log off Web Md, and lay in my bed. Still. Very still.

Ten seconds later, I go on my computer, read some inane celebrity tidbit, watch an episode of "Friends" to help me fall asleep, and drift off.

Ten minutes later, my eyes pop open, and I scratch. My arms, my legs, my armpits. No body part is immune to the itch, and sometimes my feet feel like they are being tickled. I DON'T LIKE BEING TICKLED.

At this point I'm ready to scream "UNCLE! MONKEY!" or whatever you say when you want something to really, really stop.

But it doesn't.

And I itch, bitch and twitch until I finally, finally fall asleep.