Kelly California?

Exactly three weeks ago, I arrived at LAX with sixty pounds of overweight baggage and two unnecessary fedoras.

The past three weeks have brought about such change that I could not possibly reflect on it now. The best way to begin writing about an expanse of time that you don’t quite understand yet is to make a list. 

So for you, dear and loyal readers, I have drafted these two little lists as a way to pose the greatest question this blog has ever asked: have I gone California on you?

Ways In Which I Am Different In Los Angeles

1)    I use a toothbrush made from old yogurt containers, because I am trying to be a better person and that means caring for Mother Earth and shopping at Trader Joe’s, a responsible supermarket.

2)    I use toothpaste that tastes like utter shit just because it has no chemicals and that insane Crazy Sexy This Diet Is Going To Kill YOU chick advised us to do so. 2.0!

3)    I run sometimes. Not every day—in fact, I haven’t since Friday but that’s totally because I’m sick and not lazy—but I do run now. And by run, I mean jog while holding my boobs up. The stuff of sports legends.

4)    I signed up for a 5K. A 5K that promotes DARE and NO Drugs! and all this stuff and all I have to say is I’m glad the 5K doesn’t run a drug screen pre-run. (Kidding, everyone! I don't do drugs.)

5)    I’m driving. Sure, it’s Rachel’s car and I have yet to get my own car but I’m driving and it’s with a non-expired license and I went to the DMV all by myself.

6)    While at the DMV, I saw that Jake Gyllenhaal goes to the same DMV as me and I didn’t even screech or ask the cranky DMV lady to take a picture of me next to Jake….’s signed Prince of Persia poster.

Ways In Which I Am Exactly The Same In Los Angeles

1)    I’m working at home, which unfortunately ingrains in me the same exact habits as office bee Kelly 1.0. In case you were wondering what these habits look like, find a YouTube video of a woman spilling coffee down her shirt and watch it on loop.

2)    You know that toothpaste I told you guys about five seconds ago? Yeah, after using that non-toxic crap for three days, I made up an excuse about it not getting my teeth clean enough and threw that shit out. Kelly Two Point NO.

3)    My unhealthy obsession with Hershey’s milk chocolate bars did not magically disappear when I crossed the country. In fact, it’s only gotten worse. I bought a family pack of the bars yesterday that is clearly meant for some family to make s'mores with while they camp and don’t die alone. In other words, they are not meant for me.

4)    Despite my vow to become less sarcastic about life and run toward happiness, I am still as awful as ever. I joked that my running mixtape is my mother’s voice asking me if I’ve gained weight. I made fun of the fact that I often wear my too-tight gym shorts while I run to remind my body why we’re running. I even tweeted that my new CA license picture makes me resemble Rosie O’Donnell. I can’t escape the snark!

5)    I mentioned above about how I’m different because I choose to shop at an environmentally friendly supermarket, but I really went to that Trader Joe’s because I read on Twitter that Jake Gyllenhaal shops there. I WILL MEET HIM.

6)    I had to write out an inspirational quote and tape it over my TV today so I could get some work done/write this blog.

So--does Kelly 2.0 really live in Los Angeles, or is this just a slightly more likely to get skin cancer tanner version of Kelly 1.0?

Do tell.

In Which I Prepare For My First 5K

So even though I've been juicing cucumbers like the 2.0 I am and staring in the mirror every morning saying: "God and a man probably love you", I hadn't actually been running much.

Enter Emily Posts. You guys know Emily, right? She's on Tumblr and is so sweet and nice and has these cute dogs and then...


she proposed that we all run a 5K in a few weeks. A bunch of people joined (you disgust me, you fitness types!) and Emily even told me about a 5K I could join here in LA.

(UGH LA! I hate you, what with your fit people and delicious burgers and HILLS!)

But I signed up. Even as it crashed my computer, which I took to believe is a sign from Steve Gods Jobs that OBVIOUSLY I SHOULD NOT DO THIS.

I paid the fee and I've been "running" ever sine.

Here's a breakdown of me "running".

Minute 1: "Oh, cool. I can do this. Yo, I can totally do this. BITCHES CAN'T STOP ME!"

Minute 5: "Why is...why...this hurts."

Minute 10: "LUPUS DON'T OWN ME. YOU WIN, KELLY! You are a hero! OMG WHERE IS THE EMERGENCY STOP BUTTON?"

Minute 15: (The hallucinations begin) "George Clooney is at the end of my treadmill. I can see Lake Como! And his arms are open, waiting for me!"

Minute 19: "One minute until I'm George's!"

Minute 19 and a half: "I may have a thing for old guys. File this for therapy later."

Minute 21: "George, I'm here!"

And then I collapse on the treadmill. If there's other fitness types in the gym, I skip the collapse. I immediately leave and lay down in the elevator that takes me up to my apartment.

8 more weeks, guys. Eight more until I run my first 5K and cure cancer.

They are both equally improbable.

Wish me luck.

Things I Said During DRIVE

(For all of those who haven't seen DRIVE, I suggest you don't. Unless you like blood. And Ryan Gosling's arms.)

1. I heard this was bloody but I'm sure it's not--oh god...
2. Omg. No. No. NO.
3. I don’t get it!
4. Is it? What? Wait.
5. OMG IS THIS OVER YET?”
6. Look at Ryan Gosling’s arms.
7. I DON’T CARE IF YOU DON’T LIKE MEN. ANY ONE COULD APPRECIATE THEM!
8. AAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!
9. I wish I was watching Never Say Never.
10. He’s about to die. Wait...
11. WHAT! No! JUST NO.
12. Thank God. It’s over.
13. IT’S NOT OVER? THAT’S NOT THE END?
14. This is so bloody! Are there any Junior Mints left?
15. OKAY, that’s the end.
16. I’m buying the soundtrack.
17. And marrying Ryan Gosling...'s arms.
18. Oh. Sorry Kristie.

Wherein I attempt to make light of my cancer

Note: I was diagnosed with cancer in 2008. As I approach my 'cancerveresary', I decided to bring this piece back from the dead, with some slight adjustments. Also, go see 50/50.
 

My cancer was so easy that I got embarrassed telling people I had cancer; depending on their sensitivity and sobriety levels, they immediately said something along the lines of OMG ARE YOU OKAY/ARE YOU GONNA DIE? The easiest way to deal with this was to say: Calm it, bitch, I ain't even gon' lose my hair. Now that I think about it though, it may have been an upside to lose my hair because a. I could wear a sweet blond wig  and b. I could find out what my true hair color is! (Never dye your hair, kids, don't do it.)

The upsides of cancer aren't spoken about often, but they definitely exist. I was lucky to have cancer during my birthday season. (My birthday deserved a season. I had cancer.) And boy, did the extra gifts pour in. I received no empty Happy Birthday cards that year; even distant relatives stashed a $5 bill in there! And we all know that opening a card without cash in it is is one of the worst feelings in world. (Besides after actually finding out you have cancer and, like, death or something.)

And best of all, my parents sent me to St. Maarten for my birthday! With my boyfriend! I can imagine how that conversation would have went PC (pre-cancer).

Me: Can you pay for my ticket to St. Maarten so I can frolic in the surf and sand, miss four days of classes, and share a hotel room with my boyfriend?

Mom: Drops dead or slaps me in the face and screams HELL NO, STUPID ASS!

But during cancer season, it was determined I deserved a vacation. To relax. Rewind. Share a hotel room with a boy.

After St. Maarten and surgery, I had to undergo a treatment called radioactive iodine to rid my body of the cancer cells. I was sent to nuclear medicine to learn more about the treatment. The Russian doctor/nuclear bomber went on for over an hour and half (during which I really had to pee and could not focus) telling me how the radioactive iodine works, the side effects, the possible infertility and more depressing things that I quickly tuned out due to the fact that I could not understand much of what he was saying. His monologue was probably the worst part of the whole cancer experience. Dude had a thicker accent than Putin for Chrissake! How the hell am I supposed to focus on my defective reproductive organs if I'm picturing the guy  in a Russian trappers' hat, staring longingly into Sarah Palin's window?

Because of the iodine dose I was given, I had to be in isolation and couldn't eat off of paper plates (I also had to flush the toilet six times when I peed). If I used plastic or paper utensils, Homeland security would detect radioactivity off of my plates in the garbage dump and arrest me for terrorism. And while that would bring me the fame and notoriety I've always dreamed of, I decided to play it safe and listen to Dr. Radioactive Russian's instructions.

After his spiel, I entered an iron-clad room to take the pill. Dr. RR was there, along with a radiation safety officer, who had a gun. (He should have shot me then.) The pill came out of a large silver box that was padlocked because of the drug's insane toxicity. Dr. Radioactive Russian handed me the pillow and a tape measure and then ran exactly fifteen feet away. The officer, Dr. RR, and another random guy in a lab coat all stared at me, creating a moment of intense suspense, as I swallowed down the horse pill. Then they all scattered like I had let one loose or something! (Come to think of it, if I had farted, it probably would have formed into a toxic cloud over Manhattan.)

After standing the necessary amount of feet from me, my mother proceeded to attempt to give me pneumonia by driving with all of the windows down from NY to central NJ. I don't know if it was the radioactive medicine coursing through my body or the NJ Turnpike, but I was convinced I smelled of toxic chemicals.

When I got home, I was ushered up to my isolation chamber, where my father had installed a flat screen TV and cable (love you, cancer). I had plenty of visitors, who had to sit far away from me or talk to me from the hallway. Everyone felt horrible that I was in isolation but secretly, I cherished the quiet. And since I couldn't get out of bed, my mom became my personal bitch. (I'm sorry---butler!)

I was gifted with DVD sets, books, and Wii games. I watched hours of mindless television without anyone bothering me to exercise or go outside or feel the disgusting chill of fresh air. It was almost as good as St. Maarten.

Three years post-diagnosis, I've faced serious medical issues and depression. And, worst of all, treatment-induced adult acne. Seriously, it's like ZITTY CITY on my face. I look like a prepubescent teenager who eats a pound of chocolate a day and plays Dungeons and Dragons. I've been to ten doctors, kept Clean and Clear in business during a recession, and switched my makeup, but it won't go away. Good thing I'm not that vain, or else this might really bother me.

Having cancer taught me a lot of things such as:

1. Be nicer, or people won't even care if you die.
2.Telling ugly men that you're radioactive is a good way to get them NOT to hit on you at a bar.
3. Prepare an awesome musical playlist for your funeral just in case you die and they play  some gospel shit instead.
4. Be grateful for the disease, for it not only gets you an obscene amount of attention, but allows you to stop and realize the very fleeting nature of this life. For a minute. And then three years pass and you kind of forget. Ah, life.

And in one weeks' time...

In six days, I'll pack up my room. I'll dump out the garbage bags that hold my stuff from my apartment in the East Village. I'll shove things into suitcases and I'll wonder how many pairs of underwear to bring.

How can I know how many pairs to bring when I don't know how long I'll stay? I'll need to go longer than the days of the week. But how much longer?What do the Good People® do in this situation?

With a week to go before I leave, I am focused on the very small picture, the one that fancy TVs have at the bottom of their screen. I'm focused on the E! channel and not CNN.

I'm wondering about the silly things, the tiny minutiae of daily life. I'm thinking about bathing suits and gym memberships. About car insurance and tire changes and whether I should get AAA. (Or if I should go to AA.) I'm asking Rachel--are there good laundromats in LA, like Kim's Laundromat in NY, who faithfully did my laundry every two weeks for $15? It only took them two hours to clean, wash and fold. Will I find a place? Will I do laundry on my own in Los Angeles?

What I really mean is this: will I be different in Los Angeles? What will be different in Los Angeles?

I'll drive. I'll drive in LA, and that's new. I'll buy a car and look for jobs and put on black pants that are too tight and I will go to interviews. I'll babysit. I'll go back to Skylight Books. I'll be happy when my friends are visiting, and I'll be sad when they leave. I'll sigh peacefully at the beach and sigh woefully in traffic.

In a week, I will live in Los Angeles.

--

After I wrote this, I looked through my old Flickr stream and what did I see but this--

November 2008. My first solo trip to California, a trip where Rachel and I pinky swore that we'd live here together one day. She was already there but I was in New York, home.

I came home on the red eye the Monday after Thanksgiving. I got out of my relationship and moved into Brooklyn and then the Lower East Side and then the East Village and there were other jobs, and boys, and fun mistakes but the entire time, I thought...

I just know I'll go to California one day.

I was right.

It just took some time to get here.

Sayonora, summer.

I quit my job and left New York on August 1st, almost two full months ago. That's a simple fact, something I can grasp and understand and remember.

It was a strange summer. But when August came, I was at home and so was Gen. We decided to enjoy our August, our late-summer regression.

And we did. We floated between bars in Asbury Park and Belmar, making bad decisions, proving that although we have learned much since we were 20, sometimes it was okay to forget that for awhile. We were on the rebound, from jobs and school and relationships and emotion. "We literally have nothing to lose!" became our battle cry, before we swilled down cheap vodka and set off into the evening. One step forward, two steps back.

When the morning broke, I walked the dog and felt myself--my body, my brain, my heart--settle. My heart rate slowed. I threw out the Xanax. My thoughts became simple sentences, a break from the anxious meanderings that have so dominated the last three years.

I slept better than I have in years. I slept through July, August and September.

But with the quick passing of this month, I know that summer is over. That our lapse from real world responsibility is gradually coming to an end and with it, a change.

I'll leave here in 12 days and wonder what Los Angeles will bring. I'll look into the future with something new--optimism.

I have always been able to predict the bad, the shitty things. When I was young, I was sure I'd get cancer one day. (I did.) This year, I knew I wouldn't go a year without a hospitalization. (I was right.)

These things are no accident.  There is a reason that I have been stubborn and there is a reason that I am finally changing.  

Thoughts become things.

I've let myself wade through it all, an innocent passerby to my own life. But this summer, for all its regression and wine, taught me the value of playing an active role in your life.

And it feels like waking up.

In Which I Try To Become A Better Human Being, or: Camping.

 

My name is Kelly, and I'm a dependent human being. (Hi, Kelly…)

It's common knowledge to all those close to me that I'm sort of...lazy. And tired. My family and friends (more commonly known as my minions) have been known to cook for me, to get me water when I ask for it, and to do my laundry when I'm sick all of the time. It's pathetic and embarrassing, but also so funny! For everyone to joke about! And um, really convenient for me.

So when I signed up to go camping in Colorado for a few days, I knew I was going alone, still weak from the past few months years. I was aware of the distinct possibility that I,  Kelly "The City" Bergin, would have to to pack my own bags and actually paddle and camp and do all that stuff. By myself. Without cell phone service to even tweet about the horrors.

(I think most people would be nervous to be stranded in the desert with complete strangers, but I woke up in cold sweats dreaming about having to put together my own tent.)

But I survived. I think I may have even thrived, for a few seconds there. My nickname on the trip became 2.0, because I constantly noted how a new version of Kelly Bergin was emerging. Kelly, 2.0.

There's something to be said for actually stepping out of your comfort zone, instead of just dreaming about it. I talk a lot of shit about ways I am going to change—plans to eat better, go to sleep earlier, exercise, write…but I never actually do it. Instead, I end up eating Fruity Pebbles at 3 am and watching montages of ER's famed couple Carol and Doug on YouTube. (This is totally not happening right now.)

I came back from the trip renewed, motivated to actually make some tangible changes in my life. This was never more apparent than yesterday, when I stood in a place far more foreign to me than nature: the cookbook aisle.

I haven't actually opened Vegetarianism for Dummies yet, and I did just send a panicky text to Gen asking if I could still eat eggs, but I'm confident that my new diet and exercise plan will make me feel better. And although I’ve had this fleeting thought before, I’ve never actually believed that I could feel better. I've only ever known what it's like to be sick and dependent on others for help. Illness is so deeply entwined with my identity that I wonder who I might be without it. I might just be someone who does her own laundry and doesn't use the motto "one life!" as an excuse to drink and accidentally make out with men who have neck tattoos.

I've spent so long stubbornly avoiding change, because I believed that by changing to accommodate my illness, I would not be normal. And for years, that is all I wished to be.

I felt something new as I paddled (okay...floated) down the Colorado River. For the first time in a long time, I felt empowered to gain control and take responsibility for my own life. Peace, in the form of a one way ticket to Los Angeles and a vegetarian cookbook.

And that's all I really want.

Postscript:

Important Things I Learned From My Trip:

1) How to pronounce quionoa. Hint: it does NOT rhyme with granola. Lesson learned.

2) When attempting to moon an Amtrak train that runs parallel to the river, watch your ass on the rocks. I have a bruise on my tailbone the size of Colorado.

3) Colorado is pronounced how it's spelled, not COLORADAAAAA (that one's for you, Mom.)

4) I can go 4 days without Junior Mints, shattering my previous Mint-free record of six hours.

5) Usted is not pronounced YOUSTED.

6) Never ask how many feet sea level is if you want to be taken seriously as an intelligent adult. (Note: It's zero.)

Post-postscript:

Please consider checking out and donating to Solo Survivors. And thank you to everyone who made this trip possible— especially Tracy Maxwell and Alli Ward. Connecting with other cancer survivors was truly an amazing experience, and I remain in awe of those I met on the trip. Thank you.