My Butt- Coming to an infomercial near you

Newest adventure I am embarking on is a path towards a better behind. [SEE PICTURE- I also have stopped wearing velour sweatpants as well-- big changes going on here]

And how am I going to do this you ask? Well I happened to have gone on a casting call for an infomercial that needs girls, ah hem, women [ I may have lied about my age by 2 years and even opted to scour the streets for a fake ID vendor. ] who want to improve their ass. A “butt diet” [company's words not mine] if you will. And I guess I wasn’t the only one who found my backside sub-par since they chose me as part of this test group. So now for the next 2 months, I say good bye to waking up with pizza and tiramisu in a cup from my corner “The Bread Factory” - I actually choked on the cinnamon layered on top of this delicious treat while ingesting it at a very fast rate on Sunday morning. We can all agree this is another warning sign that I have a horribly skewed relationship with food, both with quantity and speed of intake.

I will be given a lunchbox full of food daily after my 10-11 workout at the Equinox near Grand Central Station. I am being so specific of the location for either two reasons- I want you to come check out how great my ass looks in 2 months or I want my parents to be able to locate my body when I burn down the place with me inside it. [ I tend to overreact when I am hungry.]

So Day One. Hiiiiiii. We are all wearing name tags and are handed lunchboxes. First day of elementary school? I’ll take it. I still wish it was socially acceptable for my food to come in a Pocahontas lunch pail. But I fight back the urge to inquire about this since I am pretending to be 2 years older than I am [26 GASP!?- Do you think I’ll have my very own accountant or investment plan by then?] The instructor picks me out amongst all the other girls waiting and says “Why don’t you go hop on a machine before we begin.” He motions to an elliptical and I hop on and stare longingly at the other girls forming the best friendships ever, while I am left with my Iphone [new purchase!!] and Mariah Carey doing that weird screeching thing on the top of her lungs.

We enter class 15 mins later and within 30 seconds I am grabbed by the hand, like the lunchbox toting, name tag wearing child I am and put in the center of the room. The instructor knew immediately that my hand- leg coordination and basic steps were all over the place and I clearly needed more direction. It also could have had to due with my giggling whenever he referred to the butt as the "boom, boom." I'm sorry but when you tell me to "Put my hands on my boom boom" I just lose minor concentration. But halfway thru the butt blasting, which including a variation of squats and lunges combined with jumps and twists, one of the instructors yelled “Yes Katelyn! You are really rocking it today!” with more enthusiasm then I have when I see a hot dog street vendor. WOO HOO! I almost passed out and--- continuing with the elementary school theme- I couldn’t wait to go home and tell my mother what the teacher said about me!

One woman got a bloody nose- which of course I somehow found a reason to be jealous about because I have never gotten a bloody nose and I am afraid I might be missing something- and another threw up apparently in a trash can in the bathroom.

I also have always been amazed at women’s locker room etiquette. I figured since we are all a group of women who were told that we need to tone and tighten up, I figured we all wouldn’t be showing our stuff in the beginning. It was enough for me to know that the woman next to me on the elliptical in my regular gym liked to carve designs into her public hair but now I have to be with these women everyday for the next 2 months- I would rather not know their nipple size/coloration when they are sweating next to me in class. I am often too observant for my own good.

I take my lunchbox and I call my grandmother because she is the only person I can think of who will relish in the fact that I am being forced to eat healthy free meals. As of today I have had a chocolate protein shake that I actually pretended was molded and crafted to perfection from McDonalds when I closed my eyes and a zucchini egg white omelet for breakfast. A apple, vegetable soup, ground turkey and asparagus for lunch and a snack and for dinner I have zucchini stuffed tilapia and green beans. I hate zucchini since I made a promise to myself that I would never eat anything that came from my mothers garden, which was a short lived affair, back in 1992. Now I fear I am turning into a zucchini since I have eaten it three times today.

I wonder what will happen on my way home from work when I walk past “The Bread Factory” and there is chocolate mousse staring at me through the window. I will either have a near death experience from the realization that I could possibly be changing my eating habits or that I ingested the top layer too fast and I can’t get enough air. Time will tell.

Put off with "Putting Out"

A guy I know came up to me in the bar the other night, we’ve hung out a few times and he’s a nice guy. He stumbled up to me, put his arm around me and said, “You know I’ve heard about you before I met you.”

“Oh, really.”

[ A million thoughts raced through my head- maybe he heard I was really good at geography and can do more pushups than most of my male friends—you never know. …Stuff like that can get around New York City right?]

“I heard you’re like a STEEL TRAP.”

“Uhhh, what? A steel trap?”

“YEAH- NO ONE is getting in.”

[reference my V.]

I was not even insulted. I thanked him, put my beer down and realized I needed to think about whether this was a good thing or not and where it actually came from. I started to reflect upon my year or so living in NYC and it hit me. Holy shit, I am a PRUDE.

As much as my father would love to hear that no one in the tri state area knows if I like it from the front or back, how did I get like this? I am still young, reasonably attractive and shit, I got voted best personality in HIGH SCHOOL, and we all know no one has a personality then. And then I looked to place the blame… and I placed it on you, New York City. You have corrupted all the men that live here and since then I have locked my shit up and threw away the key, into the Hudson River never to be found again. It may have started with my first day on the job here; I joyously went to get my first NYC lunch and a stranger whipped out his dick and winked at me on the street. No one batted an eye and I stopped dead in my tracks with my mouth wide open and covered my eyes. What have you done to your men NYC? Okay I get it- he was probably homeless and in desperate need of meds but there are 5 broads to every guy here and because of that, your men, errr boys think they can act however they want. But I guess I can’t really blame you all. I still act however I want and I’m on the shit end of the statistic. And apparently that has turned me into a complete and utter prudish bitch.

The last boy I had in my bed I stopped dead in his tracks and said, “One day we are going to have really great sex, but not tonight.” Really Katelyn? You said that? That makes me cringe. And apparently him too since he never came back to see if what I said would actually deem to be true one day.

As I reflect on my year of dating mishaps it doesn’t surprise me that I am this way. When I write them all down it makes me want to give up on the men of NYC all together.

It started when I first moved here and met up with a college acquaintance if you will. I ordered a giant cookie smothered in chocolate sauce and ice cream and we started sharing. Sharing is good start, right up there with being over 6 feet and not owning a cat. At the end of the night he asked me to come home with him. I would soon learn that this is a stapler in the NYC dating life. EVERYONE asks you to come home with them.

“I don’t have any clothes for work tomorrow so I can’t.’ [A fine excuse]

“Oh you can borrow my sisters.”

“You live with your sister? I thought you said you had a studio.”

“Well I do, we share. You can wear her clothes, she never minds usually. She’s your size or maybe a little smaller. They should fit.”

“Maybe some other time.”

Eh, not so bad right? Well this was the beginning of a downward spiral. Next up, a guy I met through the NY Post. They do a tacky dating section where a guy is given little info on three women and chooses which one he wants to take on a date that The Post pays for. [Yes, my dating life has resulted to this…] I was an easy choice, since one of the girls had teeth coming out of her nose and the other listed “board games” next to what she does for fun. He was 2 hours late, copied everything I ordered [he later told me this was out of fear that I might ask to share his food/drinks, god forbid, if he ordered something different than mine] and chewed with his mouth open. While walking me home he jokingly pushed me and I tripped and fell into a GIANT PILE OF NEW YORK TRASH on the side of the road. I was literally pushed into trash on a date. I thought it couldn’t get any worse so I went with him to his friends “studio” which turned out to be a drug den in Soho. There his friend grinded coffee in his bare hands and handed me a cup. The two of them then went into a back room assumably where the meth is made and I escaped through a back door. There was no way I was going to let my mother identify my body after falling into a pile of trash and being locked in a meth lab in Soho, all because of a date the New York Post sent me on.

Then there was the boy I went to a Yankees game with and out for drinks afterwards. He was kind of a jerk but nonetheless entertaining as he told me he was trying his hand at being a stand up comic. On the walk home he turned to me and said, “What would it take for you to come home with me?”

“You’re the one who does stand up. Give me your best comedic line.”

“If I brought you home…..I would come all over your tits.”

“That was beautiful…. good luck with the stand up.”

Call me a lady or don’t, [I expect the latter] but I don’t think any woman has ever been wooed with the hopes of getting a bodily fluid sent flying at her most prized possessions after knowing someone for a few hours.

And then there is obviously the stalker thrown in the mix. Everyone has one. The guy that tries way to hard it totally freaks you out. The one who jumps the gun just a little too quick, ignores all the signals and pretends that contacting you on every front cancels each other out and you won’t notice that you’re going to be Fatal Attractioned soon. It’s my fault really, since I gave him an inch and he aggressively grabbed a mile. His texts came so erratic and passive aggressive I had to block him entirely.. But it all started with a few immediate warning signs… and a total disregard for proper texting etiquette…

Me: “Have a good Christmas.. maybe I will see you when you get back.”

Stalker: “Oh ok I see how it is.”

15 mins later:

Stalker: “Sorry if that came across wrong, I just really want to see you when you get back.”

10 mins later:

Stalker: “Or not…”

10 minutes later:

Stalker: “You seem totally uninterested in me…”

Me: “What? I said have a good Christmas and maybe I will see you? You need to chill out.”

Stalker: “No I don’t need to chill out, because I don’t care.”

10 mins later…

Stalker: “I didn’t mean that, I do care.”

10 mins later…

Stalker: “Or not…”

I stopped responding entirely.. and continued to receive pictures of his nieces/nephews and minute by minute updates on what he was doing. “At Olive Garden with my family! I hate this place! Unless you want me to bring you here?” “Going to the Pat’s game tonight!! Can’t wait!” “Did you get a lot of snow- we got over a foot!” No. No. No. Too much. Too strong. We will never come back from this.

Then the friend of a friend… we chat all night… I tell him it was nice talking to him and I am going home at the end of the night. He throws a temper tantrum and blames me for him missing the last train home to Long Island. “You made me miss my fucking train!? Are you serious?!?” Somehow this boy assumed since I showed minimal interest in him and our conversation that that obviously meant that he was coming home with me that night. He left the bar in a huff and came back twice, knocking over stools and people to tell me how angry he was with me and how I ruined his night. Please good sir forgive me, I would be angry if I was forced to go home to my mother at 4am as well.

Another friend of a friend, he changed the lyrics to the Fresh Prince of Bellaire to ask me out on a date somehow. Corny but clever in a way so I went. The following week he somehow manages to find out what party I am at and shows up. My ex is there and he picks up on it, corners me in a hallway, has a gorilla roid rage and yells at me for not paying attention to him. I go to leave, he grabs my arm, my coordination fails me and I hit my head on the wall. I usually wait until the second date to be borderline assaulted. Which leads me to my next guy, who during a heavy make out sesh on my couch slaps me straight in the face and asks if “I like that.” No I do not and yes you will be sleeping on my couch and not in my bed.

Then there’s the boy who takes me to a certain ethnic restaurant that I don’t necessarily enjoy. I get sick and have to leave early, this was not his fault but it is his fault two weeks later when he tells me “he loves me.” Too soon buddy, too soon. OH and let’s not forget about the boy from work who was dating his ex and I at the same time. And then got promoted to my supervisor two weeks after I confronted him. Another two months later he brings in an A Cup bra he found between his sheets and asks if it’s mine. 1. How often do you do your laundry? And 2. Regardless of how short of a time we “dated” you should remember one thing: I am not nor was I ever an A cup.

Boys, I am not perfect. I am often rude, abrasive and have a serious problem with height and Abercrombie and Fitch t shirts. I don’t like small hands, when you wear sneakers to bars and certain colognes you wear makes me nauseous. I am loud, abrupt and demand a lot of attention. I get it, some of you would rather remain celibate for the rest of your life than try to get through my newfound chastity belt. I don’t blame you, but you have to take some responsibility. Congrats you made it to New York City. You don’t live with your mama anymore and you’re enjoying your twenties. But where is the chivalry!? I have been thrown into trash, slapped in the face and screamed at here and you expect me to invite you back to my overpriced apartment to partake in some extracurricular activities? How is that fair? You don’t deserve it and I am waiting until one of you does. Or until desperation sets in… I’ll let you know.

Snow makes New Yorker's hurt people

Look everyone! It's snowing! Make sure you don't forget to freak the fuck out!

Why does snow make everyone insane? I saw grown men push elderly women and babies in strollers falling down stairs today as I ascended the 6 train platform and then the herds started pushing and shoving and a train caught on fire. It's just a little snow New York City, we will get through this. No one has to be shoved off a platform or their hair caught in an escalator [although this is something I have always secretly wanted to see.] for you to get to work on time.

I just wanted to go to Trader Joe's and get some frozen healthy entree I will forget about in my freezer after I can’t resist the street meat truck on the way home. I walk in and the place looks like the Apocalypse, broken bottles of 2 buck chucks and dented cans splattered around. People going out the in door and in the out door. But do not worry- everyone here is “green” and brought their reusable bags, so all is good in the world today. The college student holding the “end of the line” sign is being pushed out the door because the line has circled around that many times. I walk an ave to Whole Foods.

Helllllooo Whole Foods, you have a whole lot of overpriced shit but often give me free samples of items I will never buy so I frequent you. This place is also a mad house and I start to wonder if snow makes people more hungry? Do they think the snow is going to barricade them in their homes for weeks and they must stock up on $17 a lb salmon and risotto or they will surely die? I stop and look at the diced onions, carrot sticks and bags of prepackaged lettuce- it amuses me that people pay so much more money to have things cut for them when they could easily do it themselves and then BAM- I hit a lady with my cart.

She’s on the ground. I am holding a months worth of diced onions in my hand when the expiration date says it’s only good to next Monday! Oh the humanity! She’s looking at me and I feel like this is her own fault. She knew what she was getting into when she walked in here. People needed their goat cheese and jars of almonds at a premium and they would kill for it, or severely injure you to get it. Was she eyeing my diced onions? Was she too lazy to dice them herself? Maybe she has someone to dice them for her! She deserved to fall then. She was being too aggressive over the onions and no one likes an overly aggressive, spoiled woman who can’t even chop her own food. She is still down on the ground and now moaning in pain and rubbing her side. I start to feel bad, or “responsible” if you will. Then I hear the “Sorry” come out of my mouth and it’s as harsh as the “Hey bitch you cut me in line’s” that are going on in the checkout line upstairs. My merciless “sorry” surprises me but I know that it came from the New Yorker in me. The same part of me that immediately thought that this woman deserved to fall: The “if you couldn’t handle Whole Foods than you shouldn’t have came” mentality that applies to most things you experience here. i.e. You can’t afford to pay $1200 in rent a month here? Well then you shouldn't have came to New York. You can’t handle getting sideswiped by a taxi? Then why did you walk in the street? You’re crying about getting your precious IPhone stolen from you on the subway? Then why did you take the subway?

Why is she still whimpering on the ground? The only people that attend to her are the ones who are paid $8.75 an hour to do so. They nod at me knowingly, almost to say: “This bitch got a little overzealous about the veggies and got in your way.” If someone knocked me flat on my ass in a Whole Foods in Union Square you better believe I would get right up, rip an item straight from her hand, get me some more free samples, maybe a little “Kiss my Face” lotion freebie and be on my merry way.

But I decided that the frozen burrito and almond milk in my cart aren’t worth having to witness any more of this scene. I get a glimpse of a street meat truck outside. A chicken gyro for $3.50!? That’s my cue to leave and I elbow a few people on the way out the "in" door.

Wanted: Better Looking People to take the NYC Subway

Lately, I have been overly concerned with why no good looking people ever take the train. I may be over generalizing just a little and since I take the train every day, I am also insulting myself. This is fine, I'll just blame it on the lighting for now.

GASP. Are all the beautiful people scheduling a mass killing underground to get rid of uglies for good? Or are they merely being chauffeured back and forth to their high status jobs while the rest of us are being [monotone train man voice] "delayed because of the train traffic ahead of us?" It can take me upwards of 35 minutes to take the F to the east side and all I would like is some appropriate eye candy. Do the good looking men enjoy walking to work? And is that why they are so good looking? Are they in fact sprinting to work, avoiding the train and in turn maintaining their buff and perfect physiques? Or is it the persona of the train in general that brings us all down and makes us become unattractive? Here we are again, drudging along, spilling coffee on one another and crossing all personal space boundaries. It's hard to keep up good appearances in this type of environment. Or is just that good looking people don't want to be surrounded by the masses, so they choose not to? Does life come so easy and go so well for them that they never have to share poles and seats with the train people? They can take cabs and horse drawn carriages but no way are they squeezing in between the homeless man with an even teeth to toenail ratio and the cat lady whose dandruff has covered her 15 shopping bags.

Sometimes when I am thinking about where all the pretty people are hiding, [I realize it's above ground] I try to figure out what I could do to make the man in the tight swoosh swoosh [sound they make, unsure of proper term] athletic pants and giant oversized Union Bay circa 1998 sweatshirt, rocking out to Rod Stewart and looking at himself in the window, better looking. Then I look down and realize I am taping my foot to John Mayer on my chunky Ipod [very 1st edition] and am rocking sneakers that are supposed to miraculously make my butt firmer but actually just look like space shoes. Him and I are the same and we don't need anyone else.

The last time I saw an attractive gentlemen on the train I got so excited I ran to sit next to him, when the train jolted ahead and sent me flying into his lap. He got off at the next stop. I had no chance to ask him what it felt like to be apart of our world.

I have been in close physical contact with more people on the train than in real life. I have also felt more comfortable telling fellow train people that their fly is down, they have something in their teeth, they have dropped their tampons on to the train car, or give them a look of disgust when the crop dust me, more than people I have close intimate relationships with. I honestly got jealous when, during a huge snow storm last month, some A train passengers were trapped in the car over night. WHAT!? Why couldn't that have been me!?! The thought of playing games and singing songs to pass the time with my fellow commuters would make me gush any day. Yeah sure, most of them want my money, and I want to gut punch them when they try to get into the car when I haven't gotten out yet, but these are my people! Yes they have tripped me, stolen seats and fallen metrocards, reeked of Indian food and/or body odor [sometimes I can't tell the difference] but we share a common goal. We need to get somewhere timely and efficiently and we need to do it together!

It took me so long to learn the NY subway map, that now that I do, I've also developed a soft spot for these people. Whenever train people are waiting for more than 60 seconds on a stopped train, a common bond is formed by everyone of that car. We groan, roll our eyes and make some sort of statement aloud insinuating that we know what everyone is going through and we are going through it together. Fuck this stalled train! How dare they! Does this train not know that we are important people who have places to be!?! Train traffic!? What! Get your shit together. Can you believe that fair increase this month! Nuts!!!! But we will never not take the train. Oh, no, no- you may have made us late, irritated, and angry but you have never forsaken us NY transit! Except on a random weekend when a C train switches to an A and goes express from 59th to 125th St and we are trapped inside like rats. All because the conductor mumbled when he closed the doors in your face. Then we may take a day or two break. But we always come back to you. Always.

But back to my original point....OH good looking people why won't you just come along for the ride and give me something to do! I understand all my fellow, ugly and creepy commuters but I'm curious about how you function. I've run out of People Mags and can't bring myself to purchase a Kindle in fear that I may lose that along with my Ipod touch. Sit there, look pretty and let me stare. That's what train people do. We stare and then don't look away, we make you look away like you were the awkward person staring from the beginning. And that's how we are always one step ahead of you. And that's probably why you won't venture down to see us. So hey, you may be good looking and have better means of transportation- but we have a lot of other things to offer. We have music and snacks down here and there is always some source of entertainment; a domestic dispute, wrestling match, rat infestation. You don't know what your missing.

What? I didn't fall in love with a millionaire?!

I think I started being oh so famous when Justin Timberlake called me up and wanted me to be oh his highly rated show “The Phone.” And since he is just such an old, dear friend of mine (The No Strings Attached album had a lot of inner workings from yours truly) I decided I would help him out. I was really busy walking other people’s dogs, eating strangers leftover pizza sticks at a really hip restaurant, teaching the youth how to braid with string and selling most of my possessions on the Ebay, but I knew he needed me for the ratings. So what did I do? I came through. He promised to serenade me and my hubby with “This I promise you” at our wedding in exchange for my time (if something like this were to ever take place.) So after taking down the mob and saving the innocent lives of the citizens of Boston (You can thank me later guys!) I walked away with 20 grand and split half of it with my partner. I know, I know, how much more charitable could I get? Seriously, I knew I gave the money to the right person when I saw him spin out in his red Mustang after the show was finished shooting. So since then I feel like I need to help more reality shows achieve such a status as “The Phone” did. “The Bachelor” didn’t need my services, because they needed to make the show fair for the other women and “The Real World” was sooo 1992. I then set my sights on “The Millionaire Matchmaker” because who doesn’t enjoy being whisked away to the French Rivera for a date by a middle aged bald man. I do stuff like that with my dad’s friends all the time. The things I will do for a free meal really scare me sometimes.. but I digress…

I love going to castings like this because people don’t realize what stance I am taking on the whole experience. Like most things in my life, I don’t take reality TV that seriously and if [GASP] I don’t get chosen to continue on this creative path to low brow television, I will not lose sleep, unless there was free coffee at the actually casting. If it’s free I will come and overindulge in it as well.

So I find it rather alarming that women will come out in droves to be insulted by a heavyset Matchmaker from New Jersey and not be able to emotionally handle it. If Patti Stanger told me that I needed to fix something with my appearance or that I am too young to date her 40 year old, cat loving millionaire I would be the first one to agree. The first thing I planned to do when I got on that show was to ask this millionaire, whoever he may be, why he needs a matchmaking service to find him a lady? Isn’t that the first red flag? There are five girls to every guy in Manhattan and I could point out five that would go home with you the first night, either in my office or the place I frequent for lunch. I don’t need to find a rich date or a matchmaking mentor and neither do most other New Yorkers, I just think it would be something interesting to add to my list…. and did I mention how I feel about free food?

But god love the fucking people who show up to these things. I bought a black and gray ruffled dress that I left the tags on and returned to Express the next day. Back on the shelf along with all the other sequins and tight skirts overpriced and poorly made, yet something I still bought and then had the audacity to return. I switch from flip flops to heels in the elevator and do a full sprint into a room full of 20 girls in tight black dresses and a table with double that in Subway sandwiches. I mumble something about “Eating Fresh” and realize this is going to be a hard group to break until everyone checks everyone out and starts feeling more comfortable about themselves. The "She may be skinnier BUT my boobs are bigger" or "She has great hair but look at that cellulite on her thighs" thoughts sink in and girls start addressing their neighbor. First it’s about the real things in life, OhMyGawd, “your shoes are so cute’s” Start flying around and no one seems to notice that they can’t possible like everyone’s shoes, they have to be lying about at least one pair. I even got a, “I love her shoes? Don’t you?” Now I feel like I need to make a decision, whose shoes do I really love? Such big decisions and a millionaire hasn’t even been decided on yet! Then they move to “You are so tiny! Much tinier than me!” “ We have double zeros at my store, you should come in!” The double zero, gasp, may only be a singular zero and she pretends to blush and insists she isn’t that small, and said girl is actually much smaller. One girl turns to me and asks who is in fact tinier. I don’t know what gives me the authority to decide but I mumble that they are in fact both tiny and turn my attention to play Brick breaker on my BlackBerry. I immediately judge them and tell myself my high score on Brick breaker will outshine anything they have ever done in their stupid double zero lives. Then comes the exchanging of astrological signs and what they say about you, favorite designers and who has free entrances/tickets to metro area clubs or the newest in the Twilight saga. I scarf down two 6 inch subs during this time frame and try to read the height and weight the others put down on their info sheets. I decide some are lying and commend myself for my honesty on writing 140 (yikes! How did it get this bad?), even though at 5"7, I probably weigh more than that. I find some names on the sheets too and while they are discussing bartending licenses and agents, I Google them. Samantha Sparx (what a convenient last name she was blessed with!) has a bigger forehead than me (rare) but she’s a model for a no name catalog and works at the AMC in Times Square, that is why she has free Twilight tickets and is making friends easily. Shoday is from Staten Island, works at FAO Swarts 3 days a week and calls herself a fashionista because she has been bleaching and cutting her jeans since she was 12. (she is ahead of the times.) Becky, the girl next to me, starts a conversation about WeightWatchers and her new dog, she graduated this past May and lives at home with her parents. Her sister met her recent husband on Match.com and she seemed quite sincere about really meeting a guy. I liked her and started to picture us going to the beach near her home in Long Island because when I rarely meet girls I like, I instantly imagine our nonexistent friendship together. Very sad.

Some girls started to go up and get sandwiches, I decided that these were the girls that I would talk to. Two Russian girls with accents and plaid outfits sit down. They have a worse fashion sense than me, so I think we can be best friends for a few hours. I ask them if they had ever seen the show, can’t understand their answer, smile and turn back around. We are then told by a producer to say in our interview with that matchmaker that we LOVE animals no matter what. I give my spiel about how I work in TV and I know how this all works. The more dramatic you can be the better chance you have to make it on camera. They don’t understand that these 4 hours of filming are going to be condensed into 6 minutes of the overall 21-23 minute show, after commercials. A girl bends over to pick up a broken nail, I see she is a fan of a certain wax. I telepathically commend her on going through the pain but don’t necessarily appreciate knowing something so intimate about her.

We are herded into a room where Patti can give us a speech about how we should act to obtain the “right man.” She asks the women eh hem, young ladies how many dates they should go on before they sleep with someone. One girl answers 5 and the number dwindles down from there. “I usually sleep with them the first date if I like them,” exclaims one scantily clad girl with bright red hair and disproportioned eyebrows. This sends poor Patti into a conniption fit where she shoves her engagement ring (she has since called it off) in these lifeless girls faces and tells them they “WILL NEVER GET ONE OF THESE” if they don’t clean up their act. “You will know when a real man gives you a real diamond!” Emphasize on “real” – thank you Patti. I have learned so much from your “Who is going to buy the cow if you can get the milk for free?” mentality. Last time I checked anyone who had a mother that gave a shit about them and their lady parts told them this exact same thing before they had breast buds.

After Patti pops a Xanax and calms the fuck down, we are divided into groups of three to be picked apart by her and her mohawked and badly styled minions. This is no exaggeration by any means, since she actually relies on these gothic gone seriously wrong people to help her match suitors for her company. (Which we are told, she takes “very seriously” several times over) This is to block out any thought that this perhaps was all put on for the sake of the show. This is a real business here you naysayers!

The “models,” “actresses,” waitresses and bartenders were herded in like cattle for this round of gold digging and then I find a self proclaimed “stunt woman” in the mix of these generic professions. I am startlingly impressed and secretly hope the job I am over exaggerating makes me look equally as cool. Major fail on my part and she’s the first one to volunteer to go up on the chopping block.

Every threesome comes out with a story… One girl had to get her ID because Patti insisted she was lying about her age, one was too fat for Patti’s liking, one too skinny, one dresses too frumpy, one dresses too sexy and just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, one girl was told she had bad teeth and I held her in my arms for a mere 30 seconds before I realized that her teeth may actually fall out on my lap. Touche Patti, touché.

My own threesome consisted of me and my soon to be returned dress, a 5”11 blonde 20 year old model and an attractive 5”3, 32 year old construction manager who, upon immediate arrival poured out her eagerness to be married with 2.3 children in the next year. I was asked if I was Jewish, would I date someone old enough to have fathered me and do I like animals? I wondered if these are some usual questions you would find on online dating sites, but before I could answer, The mohawked wingman told Patty I look too young for this mysterious “David.” Pish posh, It must be the ruffles on this dress! Patty insisted she would save my measurements and other extremely qualified information held on 5 stapled pieces of paper in her hand for another, younger, millionaire. The South of France will have to wait to be graced with my reality TV star presence. But with just my luck, my date with this “David” character would have resulted in us going to Medieval Times in New Jersey. If you watched the show you would know that this already happened people!

But I would call this reality casting a success overall since I was forced to stay there a full hour after I was dismissed by Patty and her colorful minions. The “chosen ones” gathered in a corner and discussed what they were going to wear for the next day’s mixer. One girl came over and pitifully put her arm around me. It was all she could muster to tell me that it was going to be alright in her best “better luck next time” voice. Thank god she was there holding me together. But the real gem that came from this conversation was when she slipped me her personal escort card and whispered, “I’m not really a bartender per say. Don’t tell anyone.” AND THAT ONE ADMISSION, WAS THE REASON WHY I GO TO THESE THINGS.

I won a gameshow.. do you like me now?

http://www.mtv.com/videos/misc/376820/the-mobster.jhtml#id=1610080

When I think back on the things that I have done and gotten myself into, I still feel a sense of regret that I was never on a Nickelodeon game show. I can obviously blame this on my parents, like most things i.e. any weight gain, sense of righteousness and horrible Boston accent. When in doubt, everything is their fault and if they don’t like it than they shouldn't have had me by accident. But even though I never made it on “What Would You Do?“ Or “Guts” [I somewhat got over this one after dressing up as a Gut's contestant for Halloween] I did in fact find myself on the hit MTV show, “The Phone.” Correction: it wasn’t a hit and I was not the breakout Snookie star of this MTV flop, produced by Justin Timberlake, nor did I even get to meet JT. I still sense bitterness creep up as I type this. OH really Justin, you can play me like that? You can go on Leno and Letterman and show clips of me being shot at and screaming my face off but you wont invite me to your premiere party!? I made that show what is it! And that was a total bomb….not the kind you “pretended” to throw at me during the show so I would scream and yell things in a Boston accent either. A miserable failure for you and your production team. But we all bounced back didn’t we? I cant wait to see your Yogi Bear impression in your new movie with Dan Akroid by the way. I hope you invite him to that premiere party too.

But besides my bitterness towards the first guy I had a tacked on my bedroom wall, [NSYNC circa 1998] I had the best time filming the show. Yes, I was sequestered in the same hotel the Craigslist Killer killed a call girl in and I did have to wear the same clothes three days in a row after continuously rolling around a junk yard and boat loft in them. None of that mattered when I was running after imitation money flying into Boston Harbor and dodging fake bullets from Mafiosos [paid actors off Craigslist no doubt] in over sized mink coats. Just like a Nickelodeon show, and similar to getting slimed or hit in the face by fake boulders coming off the Agrocrag, competing for money and making an ass out of yourself on nation TV can be exhilarating.

I was unemployed for a few months after graduation and divied my time between watching children, dog sitting, serving people mediocre food and selling my worldly possessions on Ebay. This left me ample opportunity to scour Craigslist for game shows to get my sorry unemployed ass on. [This is now the third Craigslist reference and I am starting to see a trend/become a tad concerned.] I came across one ad calling for adventurous individuals. I’ve swam with sharks, scaled a few glaciers and taken my fair share of flaming 151 shots so I applied. I included a picture of me falling out of an inflatable slide which happens to be my family’s business [another story for another day] and what doesn’t scream “adventure” like bouncy inflatables? I got called into an interview and wooed them with my stories about returning clothes I had already worn to department stores, pretending to be married to get free Target gift cards, and dealing with my boyfriend's mother who often saw dead people. [All individual stories that deserve their own blog posts.] Six months later, and two weeks after I had actually gotten a real job in NYC, I heard back that they wanted me on their Boston episode. I panicked and made up a false illness that I needed immediate medical attention for and skipped town. If you must know, I told my employer that I had Crohn's disease and needed three days off to remove a piece of my intestines. I don’t know who the fuck I think I am and have since donated to the cause out of guilt. I later learned that most people with Crohn's disease carry around a colostomy bag, so if anyone ever needs a quick fake illness I do not advise taking this one as your own.

The producers gave me as minimal information as possible, assured me I wouldn't die but made me sign a shit ton of paperwork just in case, took away my cell phone and any means of outside communication and locked me in a hotel room with tape on the door, in case I should try to escape. It was in that room that I ordered an insane amount of macaroni and cheese, filet Mignon's and pay per view movies. I taught myself the dance to "Slumdog Millioniare" and sang the Star Spangled Banner until I convinced myself I was good enough to sing it at the Superbowl. I prank called other rooms and asked them what they were wearing and made a fort between the two queen sized beds and lounging chair. I vaguely recall reading the bible and talking aloud to myself. If I were there any longer I would have developed an imaginary friend or a concussion from flipping between the beds.

No one on the production team was allowed to communicate with me and I began to lash out and tell them:

"Well even if you actually talked to me I wouldn't like what you had to say anyways!"

It's amazing/embarrassing what you will say to people who pretend they can't hear you. They had a very attractive South American boy blind fold me every morning, grab me by the waist and direct me out of the hotel. He was not allowed to talk to me either and for a moment I thought I must be on a show where they torture people. I often pretended to trip or become disoriented so he would come to my rescue.

"What's your Christian name?"

"How old are you?"

"What's your favorite food?"

"How can you live with yourself ignoring me like this?!?!"

These were all met with an excruciating silence. I sat in a car with him for three hours a day while they set up the shots. He would turn up the music real loud when he was sick of my begging pathetic questions or when I was singing the Star Spangled Banner too loudly.

The first day after laying blindfolded in the backseat of a car contemplating if this boy would ever truly love me, I was yanked from the vehicle and pushed into a park. All the people there were frozen in place and they would not speak to me either. I thought it was me, since my social skills had taken a major hit after being met with silence for the past 12 hours. Then I heard a phone ringing. I ignored it and tried to make these frozen people talk to me.

"Do you know what I am supposed to be doing here?"

"Crazy weather we're having huh? Aren't you cold in that jacket?"

I even poked one of them in the leg when he flinched a little. I ignored the phone ringing for the second time and then realized the little information I had gotten was that this show was actually called, "The Phone." It was then I heard someone through a loud speaker scream "PICK UP THE PHONE." I found it under a bench and answered.

"Hello?"

"Who is this?"

"You called me."

"Ask who this is..."

"Is this JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE??!"

It turns out that it was not JT. I hear the same person on the loudspeaker yell "CUT!" and a woman who previously ignored me, runs over and directs me to pick up the phone and ask "Who is this?" apparently this is a crucial part of this production. I do as I am told and a guy falls off a roof and I hear gun shots, I find my partner and meet the team we are "playing against." We are instructed that it is our job to take down the mob and protect the citizens of Boston. AND THAT IS EXACTLY WHAT I DID. You can thank me later Boston as I did a great service to you. I expect a statue of me scantily dressed for all to admire upon my tragic death, most likely by sharks as I believe this is the best and most talked about way to go.

It wasn't an easy feat taking down the mob that day [or 3 days condensed into one for the sake of "reality.] When I won the trivia question at the end of the game, [because how can you take down the mob and restore peace in the city of Boston without trivia?!?] and I told my partner that I would split the 20 grand with him, I knew, despite past mistakes, stereotypes and judgements, along with lots of alcohol, sex and bad manners and ultimately receiving my 1st holy communion even though I somehow skipped out on confession, I was actually a good fucking person. I just gave a total stranger 10 thousand dollars, who in their lifetime can say they did that? THIS GUY. [me] And I knew I gave the money to the right person when I saw him spin out in his red Mustang after the show was finished shooting. My Toyota Avalon would agree with me wholeheartedly.

So yes it's true. I won a game show and I did it with such grace and charisma as I yelled, "I GOT THE PICT-CHAS!! GET OVER HE-AH!" If you ever need to be reminded of my 10 minutes of fame please purchase Episode 103 "The Wise Guys" on ITunes for $6.99. The best $6.99 you have ever spent? Duh. But that's only because we live in NYC and lunch will cost you double that.

http://www.mtv.com/shows/the_phone/episode.jhtml?episodeID=153794

New Direction...

I totally forgot this blog existed and I totally forgot how lame I was in 2009, living in New Jersey, starring in failed reality shows and making grammatical errors. But it's 2011 bitchessssss! And that means we're taking control of this blog and turning it into a self deprecating work of art. I am a bona fide New York-AH now, so for some reason I feel that I am more entitled to things, like your time and attention. Please stay tuned as these posts are going to change America! And they are going to change for the better! You can bet your new years resolution on it. Did you sign up for the gym this week like the rest of the world? Did ya? Well while you were signing up, I was canceling mine. No, really I had to- it was like a car payment.