I haven’t been drinking.

So stop looking at me like that.

I don’t know if most of you (and by most, I mean all four of you lovely friends who read this partly out of obligation and partly out of pity) but the exchange rate here in Poland–yeah, I’m in Poland, it’s whatever–is baller.  How often does that happen to an American traveling in Europe?  I haven’t been to a bunch of Europe, so I dunno, but it beats the exchange rate in London.  The Polish currency is called the “zloty” (pronounced slot-tee), but that quickly became “slutty” (pronounced wun-tree-hill) to me.  Why do I blog about sluts so much?  Write what you know (and all four of you are huge One Tree Hill fans).  I don’t understand the sexual draw behind someone named Sophia Bush.

The slutty has been great, it’s gotten me great deals on a bunch of stuff, including (and almost entirely limited to) alcohol.  The language barrier here is deep, but so far people seem to be amused with my poor sign language.  They tilt their heads and look at me, eyes wide and lips pressed, like someone watching a puppy pee on a surface that can be easily cleaned up.

However, there have been some rough patches.  On the flight here, the pilot and flight attendants spoke entirely in Polish.  Every now and then we’d hit a bump, the intercom would come on, and the Polish Garrison Keeler would say something deadpan and guttural that had as much chance of meaning “WEEEEEE, right?” as it did “say your prayers.”

We are staying in a hotel that, last night, nailed a large piece of wooden plywood over its entrance sometime after sunset, and didn’t give any direction how to get back in.  What’s that you ask?  Did we simply yell Marco Polo until someone answered?  Yes, we did, because even though Rick Steves might fail you, those lessons you learned at the community pool never will.  But seriously, we yelled Marco Polo until someone answered.

Yestermorning I met a frail old woman in the boarded-up hotel lobby who asked me where I was from.  I said, “America,” and she grinned and replied, “Fun!” and mimed playing the keyboard.  She then told me that she likes Americans (keyboard mime) but hates all Germans and Russians, and that if I see one, I should “guard [my] goods.”  She pointed to her nether-regions as she said this, but my purse was sitting in my lap at the time.  I’ve been sure to keep my purse close to me at all times, and I’ve also been wearing a cup (over my underwear, thanks).

Accio paycheck.

Yesterday, at 1PM I set out to get my paycheck for TA’ing at NYU this past semester.  At 4PM, I got home and cried like the small bitch of a child that I am.

I went to the hospital where I was supposed to pick up my paycheck.  This building will forever after be known as Where I Later Publicly Cry.  In Where I Later Publicly Cry, I was directed to the payroll desk, where I was told that no, of course they do not give out paychecks at the PAYROLL DESK.  I will have to go to the building across the street.  A nice young man tells me this, so I thank him and go.
I notice his older mustached colleague, but I don’t speak to him, and I certainly don’t assume that under his mustache is the root of all evil.  I will later learn that he’s the reason Piggy (SPOILER ALERT for anyone who didn’t take an English class in high school) dies violently in The Lord of the Flies.

Building #2, which will forever after be known as Where I Am the Biggest Slut, is almost certainly where the Zombie Apocalypse will begin.  First, the elevator ONLY goes down.  There are no stairs leading up either, just a staircase in the middle of the lobby that leads down to what I can only assume is the prototype for the Phantom of the Opera’s raperoom.

I tap on the front window where the guard is sitting to ask him where payroll is, and he looks up at me with dead eyes and simply shakes his head, as if to say either 1) “I’m not your Helpful Goldfish swimming in The Bowl of Knowledge, why are you tapping on my place of work,” 2) “I know nothing,” or most likely, 3) “Go back while you still can.”  I wrongly go with the goldfish theory and sprinkle a few flakes of fish food on the desk to make amends before moving on.

The directory that is crookedly nailed to the wall tells me that Payroll is on Level SC2 (i.e. Subhuman Creatures 2: This Time You Will Die, For You Are the Sluttiest One in the Cast).  The doors open onto SC2, and the first thing I see is an abandoned desk with a knocked over fern. The computer chair is still slowly spinning.

A disheveled older redheaded woman comes trotting down the hall, and I realize that I’m safe now.  This woman is obviously a bigger slut than I am; she has sex-hair and no wedding ring.  She totally just got nailed. The Slut calls, “Do you know where Payroll is?!” and as she gets closer, I see she’s wearing a necklace with a small Crucifix.  Oops, she is married. To Jesus.

Now that I’m trapped in this horror sequel with the world’s oldest virgin, I quickly go back to the lobby, past the guard who munches his fish food and nods solemnly. I go back across the street to Where I Later Cry Publicly, forever after known as Where I Will Soon Cry Publicly, back to the first payroll desk to ask for help from the Nice Man:

Nice Man: Didn’t find it?
Weakling: No, is there anywhere else you know of that gives out paychecks?
Nice Man: Sorry sweetie, I don’t think so.
Weakling: Nowhere else in the building?
(the formerly forgotten mustached man turns violently in his spinny chair)
Beelzebub: Did you not hear him?
Weakling: (to Nice Man) Is there another location?  Because the payroll office must be closed, I looked all over the second floor–
Beelzebub: There isn’t any other location. Are you deaf?
Weakling: Is there a directory you can check–
Beelzebub: (rolls eyes) Yeah.  I just checked.  Try Wallstreet.
Weakling: OH, I’M SORRY, ARE YOU SITTING ON A KNIFE, OR ARE YOU ALWAYS THIS RUDE?

Then, as I hand over the conch shell and shuffle away, I start to cry.  Because I was mean?  No, because for once I tried to stand up for myself, and instead of it being effortlessly powerful and eloquent like it is in my dreams, it came out really stupid, and didn’t make any sense.

As I leave the building forever after known as Where I’m Crying Publicly, an old woman in a walker gently touches my arm and leans toward me.  She softly asks, “Do you know where the bathroom is?”  I choke back a sob and tell her no.  She looks at me angrily and scoots away.

Thanks, Mom!

I would like to thank my mom for commenting on my last post.  It reminds me of her unconditional support, and that she can see everything I write on here.

I saw Super 8 tonight (by myself), and as much as I adored it, and although I am now keeping a countdown to Joel Courtney’s 18th birthday, the best part of my night came during one of the movie trailers.  No, it was not the HP7 trailer (which is epic), or even the Cars 2 trailer (which is not).

Thanks to Michael Bay, that sucker of indie souls everywhere, crusher of the Juno sequel (Juno and the Plan B Pill), I got my biggest lulz before the first word of J.J. Abrams’ fantastic dialogue was spoken. I wonder if you can catch why:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sb8uD6go6iU

I admit it, my senses go all a-tingle when Shia LaBeouf screams “OPTIMUUUUS!” and when the boa constrictor Transformer squeezes that shiny building in half.

BUT WHY DOESN’T ROSIE HUNTINGTON-WHITELEY’S MOUTH EVER FUCKING CLOSE?

I don’t think anyone is that chronic an open-mouth breather (even during allergy season), or that naturally ready to have something (say, a penis?) shoved in their mouth.  I’m sure that her talent is as ample as her hotness, and that if my lips were less Laura Linney and more young Sophia Loren, I wouldn’t be channeling hostility.  Because I’m biased, I’m going to give her the benefit of the doubt and assume that she’s just really into hockey, and wears a clear mouth guard at all times.

I googled “perpetually open mouth” fully expecting to get a link to the trailer, but, interestingly enough, the first result read, “Does Prince William’s perpetually open mouth make him look sweet or like a village idiot?”

I personally think it’s sweet.

Fingerslam.

I went to acting school.  Don’t stop reading.

Right now I have a small part in this fantastic show with seven other extraordinarily talented people.  Because my small part comes near the end of the show, and because we haven’t opened yet, I get to sit in the audience and watch the show every day. I get to see these seven other actors work, see what they do differently, their new decisions, etc., and they truly are bundles of awesome.

Watching them reminds me that acting takes discipline, constant focus, and dedication that I will almost definitely never have because I’m addicted to checking my e-mail on my iPhone every few minutes.

Having accepted that these seven other people are much more talented and committed than I am, today I up and went to Subway.  “My part is small!” said I.  “I won’t be missed, they won’t need me!”  And indeed, I was not missed or needed.  But I still got bad Karma.

I walked into Subway and thought I was the only person ordering food.  No, not because I was alone in the store, but because there was only the ethnic guy behind the counter making sandwiches, and the ethnic woman in front of the counter talking on her cell phone.  Did I assume they were both working there because they were both ethnic?  Yes, I did.  Would any of the seven other actors have done the same thing?  No, they would not have, because they are not only better actors, but better people.

I realized that the woman on the cell phone was ordering food when she started smashing her index finger into the glass between her and the (fresh!) Subway ingredients.  She was getting a salami sandwich, and the guy behind the counter was about to put olives on it.  This was, apparently, no good.  This is how I know this:

Subway: I don’t know what that means.
Phone: (FINGER SLAM, FINGER SLAM)
Subway: That doesn’t help me.
Phone: (FINGER SLAM)
Subway: I still don’t know what you want on your sandwich.
Phone: I obviously want THAT. (FINGER SLAM)
Subway: Want WHAT?
Phone: PEPPERS!
Subway: Why don’t you order your sandwich and then have a phone conversation.
Phone: Oh, don’t you even.  Don’t you EVEN.  YOU. (FINGERSLAMS in my direction)  Can’t you tell that THAT (FINGERSLAM) means peppers?
Me: I, uhh.
Phone: See? SHE gets it.
Subway: (Pulls out his cell phone and dials a number) ALRIGHT. Go ahead, go ahead and order now.  See if I can understand you. What’s that? Chicken sandwich? Chicken–(into phone) Hey, one second. (Back to Phone) Are you pointing at chicken? CHICKEN? Because it’s easier to understand when you POINT instead of SPEAK.
Phone: FUCK you.
Subway: HAVE A NICE DAY.

Tomorrow I will eat dinner before rehearsal.

‘Bumblekee’?

It’s a sort-of-pun.  It’s a combination of my name (Keely), what I do at parties (bumble), and the fact that in 1991 my friends and I killed Macaulay Culkin in the movie My Girl.

This is not a self-help blog; it is a highly self-indulgent one. Bumblekee (the alias and I are now one in the same, much like Thai food and whatever Thai food is being fused with right now) is the product of:

1) post-college graduation lethargy,
2) the fact that I once got 30 comments on a Xanga post in middle school,
3) my dislike of sunshine,
4) a sense of self-worth that first blossomed after winning a Boy Scout Fishing Competition at age 6 (the prize was a Smokey the Bear softball),
5) and the fact that one of my very good friends wrote in my yearbook, “We have had some good times.  I’m sure we have, but I just don’t remember them because all of your wittiness occurs online.”

But why, you ask, should you harken to some random chick who emasculates young Boy Scouts with her natural gift for fishing?  Who ruined your adolescence by killing Tomas J. and then sold Vada’s mood ring for honeymoney?  I will tell you.

These are the top 25 topics I will be writing about from now until whenever:

1) Wistfulness for the Renaissance era, when lack of skin pigment and a tendency to retain water were en vogue.

2) Wearing Birkenstock sandals while still remaining a heterosexual woman.

3) Admitting that said heterosexuality waivers every time a new Emma Stone movie is released.

4) Speaking a foreign language whilst drunk.

5) Pretending to know all the celebrity students who were in your NYU graduating class.

6) Laughing when your guy friend makes a joke about kicking feminists in their ladyballs–and then weeping at Iron Jawed Angels.

7) The perks of having perpetually clammy hands.

8 ) Lying about being a vegetarian.

9) Claiming to know everything a vegan cannot eat.

10 ) Realizing that your thighs will always touch when you stand with your feet together, unlike your one hot Asian friend.

11) Finding yourself unable to resist any man with a well-defined ribcage and evidence of recent drug addiction.

12) Being a hypochondriac.

13) The unavoidable summer pit-stain.

14) Falling in like.

15) Judging people who walk slowly, no matter their age.

16) Faking political awareness.

17) Pretending to know obscure bands.

18) Having a cockeye.

19) An inability to resist baked goods.

20) Coming to terms with your penchant for patchy goatees.

21) Fearing children.

22) A tendency to chafe.

23) Preferring long-distance relationships because you don’t have to share the bed.

24) Mild hysteria.

25) Extreme punctuality.

If you’re into any of that, then you will be into Bumblekee.