Y-M-C-A-AAAAAY

Editor's Note: You've seen my brain fueled by M&M's and Diet Coke, but have you ever seen my brain fueled by exercise? This, dear friends, is my brain on NATURAL endorphins.

6:30: I leave the office, a vicious war wagering in my brain. The bad side of my brain says: "Go home, little one. You've had a long* day and you only ate two slices of pizza for lunch. You don't need to work out." The good side of my brain says: "You are such a fatass. Think of all the ziti you ate last night! Not to mention the bagel, the bread and the brownies. AND YOU DRANK WHOLE MILK, YOU DISGUSTING SWINE."

7:00: After much deliberating, I reluctantly walk into my new gym, the Chinatown YMCA. The smell of gym mats and healthy people make me sick to my stomach, but I soldier on. I enter the locker room, only to be flashed by half a dozen Asian grandmothers. Looking good, ladies. Loo-ooking good.

7:10: I force myself into my too small Nike one piece bathing suit that I bought during my brief stint as YMCA coach during freshman year of college. I must have gotten taller, right? That's why this doesn't fit, RIGHT?

7:12: I fumble around the locker room, trying to find the showers. I walk in on a mother and a daughter who both yell at me and act like I'm a pedophile. GOD, I'M SUCH A ROOKIE.

7:14: I "shower". By shower, I mean I unsuccessfully attempt to put on hot water and screech as I get blasted by a stream of ice cold "peasant" water.

7:17: One last look in the locker room mirror confirms that I do in fact look like Michael Phelps with boobs and a gut...and less defined biceps.

7:18: I grab my hand towel and head to the pool, where I pull out half my hair in an attempt to get my bathing cap on. I then nearly break my brand new goggles and slip in the hallway connecting the locker room and pool.

7:20: I make it to the pool deck, where I see that a group of beautiful Australian swimmers are stretching before diving into the "fast lane". They call each other "mate" and ooze sex appeal. I pass them on the way to the loser lane, sucking in my stomach so hard that I hear my ribs crack. Self-loathing reaches an all time high.

7:22: I stick my feet into the slow lane, still out of breath from sucking (in my stomach. and at life). Three arthritic grandmothers are practicing their backstroke and judge me as I dive under the water and immediately get my few remaining strands of hair caught in the duct.

7:22:30: Screeching for the second of many times that evening, I pull my hair free. Most of my fellow swimmers are staring at me. Tears streaming down my face, I duck back under and focus on finding my inner Nemo.

7:23: I make it a few strokes before coming up for air. The AARP have swam past me, laughing at me as I choke on the chlorinated water.

7:33: After several*** vigorous laps, I look eagerly up at the clock, thinking that at least an hour has passed. Sadly, it has only been ten minutes.

7:45: I swim back and forth with the energy and stamina of my fellow lanies (I hope by making up nicknames, they will accept me as their own. I really want to learn bridge.)

7:50: Deciding that I've had enough of this exercise crap for one day, I emerge from the pool, hoisting myself up like a goddess. People stare as I exit the pool, obviously taking in my exquisite form and exceptional looks.

7:52: I enter the locker room and shriek at my reflection in the mirror. Apparently I was not wearing waterproof mascara and I resemble a drowned raccoon.

7:54: Defeated by my post-swim ugliness, I shower quickly, accidentally soaking my bag and jeans. Note to future self: the bench outside the shower is not protected from the stream.

8: I leave the gym, uglified but feeling oddly successful and pleased with myself.

8:20: I eat ziti and the icing from a stale black and white cookie. Gym again tomorrow, I swear.

*= Lie.
**= One

You know you're a mess when...

1) You confuse leggings for pants.

2) You wear last season's black boots and forget that they had holes in them. On the one day it rains in weeks.

3) You attempt to get up to go to the gym in the morning, but in a half stupor/sleep, you shut off the alarm and wake up at 8:47.

4) Your new coworker asks if you have cats. In complete seriousness.

5) You wear your new black leather jacket outside in the rain, without an umbrella, and ruin it.

6) You eat a mini 3 Muskeeteers bar for lunch and call it a diet.

7) Your paycheck fails to deposit itself and you overdraft because you spend 10 dollars on dinner.

8) Your immune system is so low that you get the flu shot and immediately get a version of the flu that you name Flu Jr.

Help.

My First Night With My Breathalyzer

Recently I overpaid in the good name of charity for my very own breathalyzer.

I've been wanting one of these for quite some time.

I always say "Wow, I got so drunk last night!" but I'd actually like to document how drunk I really was. Because let's face it, I overexaggerate.

So the other day my new baby breathalyzer arrived in the mail. I had it delivered to work because I was homeless when I bought it (but now I have a sweet apartment I can't afford!).

I then had the brilliant idea that I would use said breathalyzer to document how drunk I get and maybe even make a chart to show the rise and fall of my BAL (and dignity). The chart idea quickly went out the window due to laziness, but I digress.

So last night I decided to christen my baby breathalyzer at a douchebar (douchebar = a phrase I coined that means a bar in which douchey people play beer pong and quote Anchorman) in my new neighborhood with Declan and Meghan. I ripped the molded plastic open and much to my surprise, the damn thing needed batteries! I thought it just ran on the stanky breath of alcoholics and celebrities.

"Blurgh!", I exclaimed, to the chagrin of Meghan, who vehemently opposes my use of Tina Fey's catchphrase. I guess she doesn't know that my plan is to keep saying it until I run into Tina on the street and she overhears me and makes me assistant writer on 30 Rock. IT COULD HAPPEN.

Dead breathalyzer aside, I decided to just get really drunk and guess my BAL decimal. Just like math class!

So here we go:

.00: I arrive at the bar and chat pleasantly with my friends. I do not overuse the word Blurgh and I do not spill my drinks on anyone. I do, however, complain about being hungry at least four times.

.03: We left aforementioned douchebar and walk outside, only to run into Ross, who was on his way to meet me. I was unaware he was coming, due to a communication misfire, which made me realize that I was at .03.

.05: We decide to go to another, less douchey bar, to drink pitchers of beer. I order my favorite food in the world, chicken fingers with buffalo sauce and blue cheese.

.07: My food comes and I complain bitterly that the chicken is NOT fried! WTF?!

.08: Ross says "Wow, I think you're drunk. Your words are slurred." I respond: "Whart are you teaklkidndgsad about?

.10: That bastard Declan decides to buy us a round of tequila shots. I grapple with the decision of whether I should drink mine or not. Better judgment prevails.

.11: The gang raises their shots in celebration of the Yankee win (I think? I'm the only Yankee fan). I have a fit of genius and decide to fake drinking it but really, I dump the tequila on the floor.

.11 continued: Ross says "I think Kelly dumped her shot on the floor!" I lie, frantically, pretending he's a stupid hipster with great hair and a lying mouth.

.12: Meghan looks at me in disgust and then notices that I accidentally poured the tequila shot into her open bag. Screeching and smacking follow.

.13: I attempt to apologize but am laughing too hard. Instead I chug beer in an attempt to prove that I'm not a wussy.

.14: After realizing that I have work tomorrow, I lie and say that I have to leave because I have an early morning interview. This is laughable because a. I would never leave my job to interview elsewhere because I hate cover letters and sometimes my company gives us free booze and b. I don't have the authority to interview anyone! I barely have the authority to do expense reports!

.15: I stumble into my new apartment and find Jack, my amiable new roommate, attempting to configure our new wireless router. Memories are fuzzy but I'm pretty sure I'm going to be homeless again. In my drunken stupor, I remember that I need to breathalyze myself. I steal the batteries from the remote and blow a .15. After harassing Jack for a few more minutes, I stumble into bed and pass out.

.09: I wake again at 2 am and blow again. Still not okay to drive.

THE END.

Melodramatic Things I Write On The Train

There is no end to this, no end in sight. And so I will keep running around, living, looking at apartments and drinking and laughing and at some point, a point that has yet to be ingrained in my mind, I will accept It. That this is what happened to me. This is my story. And I'll finally be free, able to look people in the eye when they say oh you'll feel better soon, one day, this will all be behind you-- I will be able to look at them and say, no. I won't. And that's okay.

Because I'm still here.

What Living At Home Is Like /OMG GET ME A NEW APARTMENT!*

Just kidding, Mom.

Here, dear friends, are the pros/cons of living at home.

PROs:

1) I never have to do my own laundry! Every morning I wake up, surrounded by clean shirts, socks and pants. Everything smells delicious and brand new, like a newborn babe. When I was living in squalor in Brooklyn, my clothes always smelled like Febreze because for me, Febreze equaled Tide detergent. I've come to learn that they are not, in fact, the same. Yay Mom!

2) Sometimes, when my dad drives me to the train station, he says "Do you have any cash?" and even if I do, (rare) I say "no" and then sometimes, SOMETIMES, he gives me a twenty! For no reason! I think maybe he thinks I have to buy my ticket onboard SO NO ONE TELL HIM. Oh crap.

3) My mom cooks me dinner and even if I don't eat it, it's better than my old meals of Ramen noodles and vodka.

4) I'm saving money living at home. And by saving I mean having extra cash to spend on frivolous items like a mini Razor scooter and Miami and Seattle. WOO!

5) My brother Greg's secret candy stash. Now that he has left for college it's ALL MINE!!! HELLO, CAVITIES! Welcome to my mouth!

CONS:

While living at home definitely has its "perks", there are some days that make me yearn for my own place.

1) See the following conversation, which occurred when my mom decided to learn about this newfangled device called a hair straightener! Oh Golly!

Mother: Is it...on?

Me: Yes.

Mother: OW! IT'S ON! IT'S REALLY HOT!

Me: Yes Mom...much like a real iron...it is hot.

Mother: Oh wow, look at my hair!

2) Also, this conversation:

Me: I'm not staying home for dinner.

Mother: Why? I"m making rice!

Me: Yeah...so I'm not staying home for dinner.

Mother: Why not?

Me: BECAUSE REMEMBER WHEN I HAD CANCER AND I COULD ONLY EAT RICE?

Mother: Oh yeah. God, stop playing the cancer card!

3) And this one, too.

Me: Good morning.
Mother: THAT'S WHAT YOU'RE WEARING TO WORK??
Me: (wails) YES! (runs upstairs to change)

4) Oh, and this one too.

Father: Are you going to be around tonight?
Me: YES, GOD, I live at home now!!
Father: Can't you...sleep at Meghan's?
Me: NO!
Father: But it's Friday night..
Me: So?
Father: So it's date night... and your mother looks damn sexy with that new straight hair...
Me: (emits blood curdling scream) I hate empty nesters!

5) And finally, this one:

Father: So Patty Ann (my mother), should we tell her?
Me: (Frantically scanning my brain to what this could be. Is my mom too old to have a baby? What's menopause???) What?????
Father: Well...
Mother: See..
Me: WHAT?!! WHAT! WHAAAAT!?!
Father: Since your brother went to college...
Mother: We've been spending a lot of time together...
Me: (gagging) Yes...
Father: Well, we really like being empty nesters.
Mother: So, please.
Father: Find a new apartment soon.
Me: How rude!

------------

Unfortunately for them, I kind of like living at home. I'm a nomad for most of the week, so coming home to my warm bed, with my cable TV and my laptop, with the Reese's peanut butter cups and my cute dog, is kind of nice. Plus hanging with my parents is surprisingly fun. So nice and fun, in fact, that I may even stay for awhile.

Sorry, Mom and Dad!

*= Some details have been changed to protect the innocent and exaggerated to bring the funny.

LA LA LA

Warning: I curse and I LIKE IT, so deal. Sorry Grandma.

LA.

Here we go.

THURSDAY MORNING, all excited, fists pumping, airport ride, OP my driver, Gen's dad-- dang he's hot, get to the airport, Meghan's already yelled at me twice, morning time and she ain't so nice, not my fault that I'm high on that coffee bean, no tea leaf. We fly out, baller style, New York to LA, that's how I play. Arrival gate, Shanni pulling up in Pearl, oh what my favorite car, my favorite girl, 2Pac pumping, backseat jumping, WEST COAST, I break from Biggie love and show 2Pac some respect, bout to make a career out of my ability to freestyle, screaming the words like i'm an insolent child...

THURSDAY DAY, we roll up to Santa Monica, switching to songs with harmonica, it's chill, it's hot, it's warm, there's men and they are fiiiine, we are laughing in the sand, ocean splashing, waves crashing.

THURSDAY NIGHT, oh it's on, first night in LA, Shanni's got to show us a good time, text the promoters, find the show, oh wait, HANSON IS IN TOWN, whaddya know. I love Hanson, we all know that, i'm like oh it is FATE, secret show in LA the one day I'm in the county? Decide to go, and leave Meghan, Gen, CJ and Ray behind. But it's all good, I see the show, I get the pictures, I jam out, I cry a little bit, not a big deal, only made my life, you go through all the pain and strife. Leave the cafe, find myself a cab, New York-style, hands in the air, TAXIIIIIII, get in, go to meet the loco ladies, we roll to Coco DeVille, it's awkward in there, but vodka, tonic, whatever I'm ON IT, we chug, we drink, we dance, we laugh.

FRIDAY, hangover like you know I do, Zuma Beach, Malibu. towels on the sand, faces on our hands, we laugh and swim and remember our friends, write poems, write raps, performance space, all that crap.

FRIDAY NIGHT, feeling tired, don't wanna get fired, chill in ray's apt, true blood, what's good, rest up easy, tomorrow's gonna be breezy.

SATURDAY, a big day, i felt it, Hermosa beach, love it, beers, burgers and broads, we meet James and his soccer moves, buys us our food, nothing tastes better than cheddar without the dough, seriously best burgers though, so here we go, Saturday night, party at Matt's, looked like a fool but knew i was cool, they're going to the club and i gotta meet them at ray's pad. pass out in the cab and wake up to the driver saying 'hey miss-- are you a drunken rider?' pay the bill, enter the space, shower, straighten, easy as cake. i had a feeling this night would be huge, go to empire, male models, gen's a baller, i meet an uglier man, but at least he's taller (this time). we run around like crazy kids, drinking the fizz, not paying for drinks, i can't think, we're heading to mclovin's, we shout in the car, pull up Mclovin's crib, oh shit you know this will be big. too much of a crazy night to detail here, i got the pictures though so you KNOW IT'S REAL.

SUNDAY FUNDAY, the hangover lives on, Venice beach though--you know we gotta go. we see the muscles, the tees, ladies please, that man is mine, you know he's fine. We drinkin, we hanging, we friends, we bangin, all the sudden hangover hits, oh no, Ray's got the shits! Bathroom break, whole world shakes, but we rollin, the clock is tolling, faces burning and we know we're done. Starting to get sad because it's our last night, so we promise that we gotta do it right...

SUNDAY NIGHT, almost was a big fat failure, we made it out though, drinkin like a sailor, no fleet week for us, but the drinks were free, head banging, dirt nastyyyy, beardo on the stage with Gen's old 'do, meghan dancing, colleen prancing, rachel and the baldie swapping spit, New York ain't got shit on Party Hardy LA....

MONDAY, beach time, our last go around, hit the town, see the friends, see the boys, we're laughing, we're nostalgic, it's time to go. one last sunburn, one last drink, one last taste, pacific ocean, we loved this place.

So that's all there is
about our trip to LA
it was so fucking awesome
but now we pay
Credit card bills like you won't believe
sore throat, red face, gotta take some Aleve.
So peace out Cali,
you did us well.
See you soon, motherfucker,
if we're not in Hell.

(This post inspired by Malibu's Most Wanted. I actually had his voice in my head as I scribbled this down, son.)

What Might Happen While We're In LA

On Thursday, Gen, Meghan and myself head out to the great state of California to visit Rachel in her (new) natural habitat.

In preparation for yet another grand event, I have compiled the following list of probable occurrences.

1) Gen abuses the liquor cart on the plane and gets lost in transit. We find her coming through baggage claim six hours later, passed out inside her suitcase.

2) I realize my dream and make out with Frankie Muniz.

3) I accidentally on purpose make out with an underage Disney star (or two).

4) Meghan wears a slutty dress and gets mistaken for a hooker. She meets Eddie Murphy in all of the confusion and they marry in a lavish Vegas ceremony.

5) I get mistaken for a hooker and amidst no confusion but lots of alcohol, marry Verne Troyer.

6) Rachel flips out because our clothes are more Williamsburg than LA.

7) I stalk Kathy Griffin in a misguided attempt to make her love me and get arrested for trespassing.

8) I force everyone to go on a Celebrity Homes tour and weep when I see Merv Griffin's house (the man created Jeopardy!, people. He is/was a god.)

9) I give out my entire supply of business cards and get no emails/calls about my brilliant blog.

10) After a night of heavy drinking and "sexy" dancing, I go to Roscoe's to get chicken and waffles. Egged on by my dear friends, I dance suggestively on the table. Suge Knight is there and sees the brilliance that is my dancing and invites me to star in his next protege's music video. Fame and slutty outfits and yells of "I knew my love of fried chicken would pay off!" ensue.

L.A., here we come!