I'm a snob and now my whole family has written proof

Email I sent out this week to my parents, brother and sister:

hi family,

i’ve decided i’m only giving books for christmas this year. aside from that unreadable trash that is sarah palin’s memoir, is there anything you would like? (coughmomcough) actually, never mind, don’t tell me. i’m just going to buy you books that are awesome* and that you would like and should read.

dad, you said something about lewis and clarke?

also i’m not buying anyone anything that has dan brown or malcom gladwell as the author.

snobbily yours,

the first born.

*preapproved by kelly bergin, who holds a b.a. in english and a weekend subscription to the new york times (AS OF YESTERDAY!)

Another One Where I Get Stopped In The Street By My Neighbors

This morning, as I walked to the F...

Hip New Yorker: Excuse me
Me: (Takes off headphones that are blaring Joshua Radin, don't judge me) Yes?
Hip New Yorker: Do you know you have all this white powder on the back of your jeans?
Me: (Screwing my body around to see) Oh wow. No.
Hip New Yorker: And a Forever 21 tag sticking out.
Me: Oh.
Hip New Yorker: Yeah see?
Me: Oh! Haha, wow, so that's where my gram of coke went.
Hip New Yorker: (Silence)

I really need a full length mirror.

Religiosity

I walked into the church, noticing immediately the crowds, the dispersion, the families with the toddlers and their strollers. I want to be inconspicuous so I sit, inconspicuously, in the middle. In the middle I blend in and I don’t invite stares because my head is down, iPhone off, hands folded.

I remember how to do this because I’ve been here a thousand times before. The knee rest comes down and with it my joints hit the padding, not immune from the painful wood that lies beneath. I bow my head to say a prayer; I recite the ones I know, the morning prayers from Catholic school. The Our Father, Hail Mary and Glory Be.

The Mass begins and for me it is a time warp, a reversion to the child I Once Was. Reverent, wicked, funny. Sometimes we’d laugh in the pews, shoulders shaking in desperate silence. Everything was funnier when we were shushed, one finger to teacher’s lips.

The priest takes to the pulpit for the first reading and I take it in. The smell of incense, the families huddled together in silent prayer. The Bible passage that I can remember so clearly, the Septembers when the light would hit the stained glass in its morning gaze and I would close my eyes and listen. I watch the families now. They each pray separately and I hope that their wishes are one and the same; that their prayers are for each other.

As a child, I always believed. I believed that if I asked God to spare my family pain, he would. I believed that Santa Claus would bring me a bike and the Easter Bunny, the marshmallow eggs I ate with admirable ferocity. Mostly I prayed that God would make me good, show kindness to my family, keep his distance but show his love too. Occasionally I’d get sick enough to pray for myself, for a reprieve. I like to believe that I received it. That I was immediately relieved.

A miracle was created here, every Sunday. Every Sunday we were given something to believe in, cling to. And I don’t regret it for a second. It taught me to see outside of myself, to have faith in the things I could not see.

But things didn’t get easier, they only got harder and I floated more and more away from the child I once was, the cross I once wore.

I don’t need it. This is what I told everyone. It was easier not to believe than to believe because I am tough and that is the story I told. I don’t need religion, I said. To save me, cure me. To make this journey easier.

But I’ve found that for me, there is no absolutes and so there is part of me that wants to to go back, back to those musty pews and incense candles, to the thrill in the boom of the priest’s voice and the unique feel of holy water, caught on my cheek.

Back to when belief wasn’t a dirty word and our objections were met with answers that I could cling to.

Back to a time when I didn’t know I lived in a land of make-believe.

Fancy Feast

Last night, we went out to...

Er. Forget it.

I could tell the story.

Or I could sing the story.

I present to you my latest song, off my new album I've Lost My Goddamn Mind, "Fancy Feast".

How I Made A Good Impression In My New 'Hood

I recently moved to the East Village/ Lower East Side (my apartment is kind of on the border and some people say I live in the EV, others claim it's LES--all I know is that it's filled with good-looking hipsters and lots of bars for me to drown my sorrows in). It's a "cool" neighborhood, so naturally I barely fit in. Despite this, I'm really trying--I keep buying scarves and fake leather jackets and Chuck Palahniuk books and boots that only Uncle Jesse or Harley from Boy Meets World would wear. I love the neighborhood but my building isn't the nicest-- despite the fact that it has a "doorman" (who spends a lot of time yelling at soccer games and only occasionally mans the door), it also kind of feels like a college dorm, complete with weird murals on the walls and smells of Chinese food and vomit lingering in the halls.

There’s tons of young people living here so I had hopes that I would stumble upon a group of coffee and whiskey swilling , who would incorporate me into their group and call me Choebe (combo of Chandler and Phoebe). But it turns out most of my building's inhabitants are symptomatic (snobby and awesome) of the neighborhood, so unfortunately I haven’t found a hot new musician boyfriend yet, or made best friends with a former child actress, or befriended Natasha Lyonne (I saw her on my street and I think I can save her!!).

Anyway, onto my story...

After working late the night before, Wednesday morning started out like every other, beginning with an hour long fight with my snooze button and followed by another particularly brutal fight with myself over whether i needed to shower (a quick look in the mirror awarded TreSemme the win). After crying in the shower in anticipation for another day at the office, I emerged in a towel (both scarring my roommate and myself). Walking into my clothes, paper and book strewn room, I had to make my big decision of the day-- what I should wear to work. Little did I know that today's decision would provide to be one of my top ten embarrassing moments, a list that seems to grow with each passing moment of my sorry life.

I personally believe that the day's incident stems from my newfound refusal to wear pants. See, I hate wearing the devil's denim because every pair of my jeans are tight on me right now and it hurts to wear them, especially when I sit down or eat food. Plus when I take them off (the second I get home from work), there’s all these judgmental red marks on B.O.B. (belly over belt) that remind me I need to get back my ass back to the Chinatown Y. (For both the workout and the flirtation I’ve started with Li, a personal trainer who not only taught me what a flex band is but also showed me what love is.)

In my denial of my denim, I threw on the leggings that I got in the children’s section of Target. They are super cute with lace on the ends and they only cost $4. (They're a kids size 14-16 which prompted my mom--as she did my laundry-- to ask me if they were actually a women's size 14--thanks Mom, not there yet).

I also put on my favorite underwear, a lime green pair from Old Navy kids (Don’t judge. They are super cute and have a picture of a bird on the butt! Risque!). I then threw on a T-shirt that was apparently not long enough to cover my ass and walked out the door.

As I walked through the lobby, a scruffy and beautiful hipster I had stared at longingly before stopped me. Yes, I thought. He’s finally going to ask me out. Maybe we’ll even go to that secret bar with no name! “Excuse me. Do you live here?” “Yes,” I replied, attempting to bat my stubs of eyelashes. “Well, you might want to run back upstiars. Your tights are kind of see through”. I choked on my Activia drinkable yogurt (it tastes really good! Jamie Lee Curtis is a hermaphrodite genius!) and said “Oh. Oh. Um. OH. okay. Thanks.” I ran back upstairs, changed, and spent the rest of the day with a red face.

And now every time I see Max (I don’t know his real name but he looks like his name is Max), I hide.

Because let's face it-- there’s really no recovering from that.

someone once told me i should write more serious shit on my blog so this is what happened this week, no jokes or nothin! DEAL, BITCHES.

My tooth hurts on Wednesday and by Thursday I am in agony

and by Friday I am in the dentist’s chair

and on Saturday I am swollen but fine

and I miss Halloween because I cannot

will not

drink for the fun and the costume.

And even though i think that this is my chance to shine

I’m tired and this year is not last and this is not fun and I do not

have the energy to create and drink and forget.

And Sunday I wake up and my face is a wreck

all shapes and circles

all the hard lines disappeared under this mask.

In the ER they call it edema

and because I am special and worthy,

and because once in Philadelphia

they called me the mystery child,

They Are Confused.

And because I am entitled and young and susceptible,

I get a bed in the wing for old people.

And because of my shitty luck, a scalpel meets my skin

and my gums bleed

and I kick the sheets

and I scream on the inside

and I am told how tough I am.

By Monday night I am released,

and Tuesday back at work.

I am tough

right?

That is what they said.

DOES ANYONE MISS ME AT ALL?

I've been insanely busy with life, work, promotion, hospital, Yankees, beer...

So!

I haven't gotten around to writing.

But I will, I swear.

Coming soon!

A) Kelly's diet tips
B) Kelly's tips for surviving the ER (scalpels not included)
C) Other stuff I'll think of before I hit publish post

.....


D) Ha. Thought of one. Bearded men!

See ya soon, SUCKERS.