InsomniPanic

1) All my laundry is at Kim’s Laundromat and I have been wearing thongs out of desperation, which are clearly meant for Sexy and Attractive People® and not me. They are so supremely uncomfortable it makes me clear on the fact that as women, WE HATE EACH OTHER. We wear these things to impress men? Why? It’s a permanent wedgie!

2) I got an invitation to a wedding shower, which also makes it clear to me that women secretly hate each other. Why would we force each other to sit around, make small talk with elderly relatives, braid a bow out of ribbon and watch our friend slowly morph into the kind of person who squeals over a crock pot? Seriously. Gender roles!

3) There are no sheets on my bed because they are at Kim’s Laundromat and so I’ve been rolling myself like a joint in my comforter, which is in a duvet cover, so about half of the comforter smothers me and the other half makes my body cold. And every time I overheat or shiver, I realize that my domestic skills have plateaued and there’s no hope for the future, not now, not ever.

4) The air conditioning is making my nose bleed and now I’m convinced I’ve become one of those people who get nose bleeds and I’m pretty sure those people, who walk around with tissues stuck in their nostrils and blog about nose bleeds, die alone.

5) It’s 4:26 AM and I’m watching Family Ties. I was going to make a commitment to watch an entire series of a show this summer and also read a Huge and Important Literary Masterpiece. I was going to watch The Wire and read Infinite Jest but now I’m thinking that Family Ties and Judy Blue’s entire Fudge Series might be all I can handle. (Edit: Reading Amazon reviews, it says the publisher changed the books to reflect modern times. This is so depressing that I don’t know if I can make it through the night. Peter Hatcher listens to records, NOT FUCKING MP3s. I mean, why don’t you kill my childhood right now? Why don’t you tell me I was born with testicles and raised as a female or something? Seriously, publisher? YOU ARE EVIL.)

6) At work they talked about summer wear and what we can wear and everything I own is inappropriate so I have to wrap myself in an unmatching cardigan or walk around with a notebook covering my chest. It’s demoralizing. And today I was getting up and my bag got caught in my chair and I flew forward and my bag spilled and Junior Mints went everywhere and everyone saw. Also the Junior Mints exploded in my bag and now everything in my bag is glued together with mint and regret.

7) I still have no new friends at my new job and I think it has to do with #6 and also because I’ve been introduced to 100 people and I have no clue what anyone’s name is. “Kelly, this is Blah Blah. Blah Blah does this.” “Hi Kelly! Nice to meet you!” “You too…appropriately dressed female art director!!”

8) It’s approaching day break. So, please get the tune of “It’s Hammer Time” in your head and join me as I sing…

“IT’S XANAX TIME!”

Goodnight.

The Ukrainian

The Ukrainian sat down at my table and said hello.

He was drinking a beer. So was I, alone--somewhere in the middle of London.

His English was broken and after I said ‘yeah’, instead of ‘yes’, he said my English was bad too.

“American English,” he said. “Very different.”

The Masters played on the TV above the bar and he turned to me, after a few awkward minutes in silence. He asked: “What do you think of Tiger Woods?”

An odd question, so long after the scandal broke. I told him Tiger was fine.

He didn’t ask about Charlie Sheen. For this, I was grateful. We went on about Obama and politics and the broken party system in America. I spouted off whatever I had heard someone else say on Twitter.

After ten minutes, I asked if he had children. He didn’t understand, so I used my hands. I lowered my hand, as if to indicate height. “Kids,” I said. He shook his head, misunderstanding my American English. “Son or daughter?”

I prodded like I had the right, even as he grimaced. After awhile, he answered.

“I have a son,” he said. “He lives in Canada.”

“Oh! Canada.” I pretended to know things about Canada. I pretended I’d been there. I repeated thoughts I’d had while watching the Winter Olympics last year.

The Ukrainian waited for me to shut up and then continued: “I have not seen him since he was very small. I do not speak to him.”

I asked if that made him sad. I was boldly looking for a story, some way to connect.

It had only been twelve minutes since he sat down.

“You know,” he started. “When you get old, you see this. Life is very simple; there are very simple things to be happy about. But life is very complicated too, and very beautiful and sad.”

I considered this, quietly.

He continued: “I don’t speak to him. He has a new father in Canada. He should only have one father. He does not know me.”

I nodded. I fidgeted with my phone and I took a sip of my beer.

He asked if I had children and I laughed. He asked if I was still a child. He guessed I was 20.

I said 25, and no. Not any children. Not yet, maybe never. “I’m not sure," I said. “I’m not sure about it.”

Our beers drained themselves. He asked if I wanted vodka. He told me he drinks a lot of vodka in the Ukraine.

I politely declined. I did not want to black out. I had to be safe. I was alone.

He told me, with a laugh, that I wasn’t very fun.  He repeated it when I declined his cigarette offer. “You travel alone, you do not drink vodka and now you don’t smoke cigarettes! You are not very fun!”

I agreed.

Eventually, I had to use the bathroom. I said I’d be back, and he said he’d have a beer waiting for me. 

Before I left the table, he said I’d make a terrible wife but at least I was sort of pretty.

I laughed in his face. I went upstairs and in the restroom, a young girl was sobbing at the sink. “Boy troubles?” I asked.

I was really looking for a story.

She nodded and went on about him. I went on about my own boy troubles and in the end, I handed her my card and told her to email me when she was visiting New York.

I went downstairs, 30 minutes later, and the Ukrainian was gone. He probably thought I had left for another bar, another place, ah, what a bad wife she’d be.

I sighed and drained the pint left for me on the table. 

I walked back to my hotel, alone, still looking for something I wasn't quite sure of.

First Impressions Rock (!)

Ways To Impress People + Make Friends At Your New Office: A List By Kelly Bergin

 

On day 1, trip headfirst into a conference room wall. Wait for reassuring laughter, and turn crimson as you are instead met with stunned silence.

On day 2, purchase a New England Clam Chowder in a bread bowl from the very smelly fish market in Chelsea Market. Bring it up to your desk, and when you think no one is looking, use a piece of the bread as a napkin. Quickly realize that your boss is watching in disgust.

On day 3, view a Hanson fan tribute video on YouTube (BECAUSE YOU LIKE THE SONG AND DON’T HAVE iTUNES), and get caught by boss again.

On day 4, make an ill-conceived joke about prostate cancer and turn red as a coworker mentions his father had it.

On day 5, dress inappropriately and walk around all day with a notepad covering your chest. You know, just in case anyone is watching.

I can’t believe no one’s asked me out for drinks yet.

My Italian Boyfriend

On the fifth night of my trip (Kelly’s Solo Sojourn Through Europe: Trail of Tears Edition), I took a late train out of Paris du Nord back to King’s Cross Station in London.
 

It was an evening train during the holiday week in Europe, and it was plenty packed. I had all of my belongings with me, a week’s worth of clothes, computer and camera shoved into two bags. It crowded the seat because I’m short and can never reach the overhead compartment. Usually some gentleman offers to stow my stuff, but I was in France and did not speak French. I wanted to keep to myself. It had been my goal of the trip, my raison d'aller—keep to yourself, let it wash over you, write what you can.
 

An old lady stopped at my row and inwardly, I groaned. Three hour train ride with this old broad? She stared at me until I moved my bags closer to my chest, prepared to be uncomfortable for three hours. But I got lucky, because she noticed an empty seat upfront and quickly moved.
 

After she got up, I spread my bags out across the two seats and that’s when I noticed him. Blonde, curly-haired with pink cheeks. He was speaking with his parents in a language I didn’t understand. Soon I realized it to be Italian. Almost immediately, he noticed me and we locked eyes.

(If you are thinking that finally! Finally I made a love connection overseas, you are wrong.)

This happened often, this attraction. I was known for this ability, this weird tendency of infants and small children to gravitate towards me. I jokingly call myself The Baby Whisperer, and in a way it is true—children flock to me, and I am silly enough to relate to them. 

This boy couldn’t have been more than two. We were on a French train, with different languages between the both of us. But I played along as he stared at me across the seat. I moved my sunglasses up and down on my face, a game of peek-a-boo. He laughed, clapped his hands together. Then he reached toward me, and his mother looked at me, surprised. I didn’t want to seem like some sort of weird, single, childless pariah, so I looked away and back into my book. The boy began to cry until I looked up again. Then he reached for me.
 

His uncle, a slight man in his twenties, possessed some English. He sat in front of us, across the aisle from me. He spoke briskly with the little boy’s parents and then said to me “We are so surprised. Frederico hates strangers, he won’t even go to me most times.” I laughed nervously and asked, hopefully: “Would you like me to hold him?”
 

The boy crawled toward me and settled against my chest. He lay there and we wordlessly played with my sunglasses and his snow globe. It felt like a long time passed, but it could not have been more than ten minutes until I gave him back to his parents.  “What a sweet boy,” I said, helpless in my English. His uncle translated, and then again expressed his shock that the boy went to me, he never goes to strangers, he is so shy.
 

I smiled, sudden warmth flowing through me. “I just have a way with kids sometimes. He’s a beautiful boy,” I said.
 

I rested my head against my seat and closed my eyes, overcome at this feeling of peace. Finally, it seemed I was sedated against the heavy and constant flow of anxiety that had become so much of my trip, the inner monologue that hadn’t stopped since I landed. The warmth of a child on my chest, a boy who immediately loved me, had sated my anxiety at last.
 

Before we disembarked, I looked at Frederico once more, his chest sleepily rising and falling, his face pressed against his mother's. I reached for my bags, looked back once more and smiling, slipped out the door and into the black London night.

A Song For My Mother

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.


Love,
Your delinquent firstborn

Happy Birthday, Greg.

It’s my baby brother’s birthday today. He’s 20 years old.

Twenty years ago, my sister and I woke up to find out we had a brother. We held hands and jumped up and down on the bed.

This kid and I have gotten into so much trouble over the years. When we were little, we wrestled for hours at a time, breaking many household items in the process. When he was trying out for basketball in 5th grade, I practiced with him daily and told him he couldn’t handle my ‘street ball’. To this day, if I sing the words ‘street ball, street ball’, he gets angry.

Greg is sensitive. He’s smarter than he knows. He’s also a pain in the ass know-it-all.  He’s cocky. (Sample Greg line, as he stares into the mirror: “Damn, I get better looking every day.”) But he is a beautiful, beautiful boy, one I’ve loved watching mature into a sensitive young adult.

I love him and my sister equally and unconditionally. The three of us are a team. We will always, always be.

Happy birthday, Greg. Mets tickets on me.

The Uncared For

I study the elderly, the drunk, the crestfallen as they sit on park benches, as they dance  without pants on in Tompkins Square Park.

I look at them and wonder where they went wrong. I wonder at one point did their friends stop caring. I want to stare at them, search their clothing (or lack thereof) for a piece of information, for a pin or paper that says “In this year, my parents threw their hands in the air and said that they had had enough.” I understand that it is not easy to care for the mentally ill. I understand it is difficult to give your love fully and completely to an alcoholic. But it’s hard to give yourself to anyone, really, because you know that they have the power to twist that love into something else, something that can only hurt.

Was he happy once, this drunk dancing with no pants on? Did he love someone and only lose it after it was lost? Could I maybe lose it one day, too? The powers of human transformation haunt me.

I look at the man, his pants slid halfway down to his knees. I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry, whether to exploit him with my iPhone camera or to just leave well enough alone. As we watch, I take one shot and briskly walk away, my friends trailing me quietly. “You don’t see that much in Boston,” they say. I don’t respond. I turn back once more as I walk through crowd and head to the bar, where I can forget him, for just a little while.