Turn and Face the Strange, Ch Ch Changes

The aspect of change is the scariest thing in the world. Actually, running out of toilet paper is -- but change is a close second. 

Most people prefer to experience minimal change in life. We become so comfortable and accustomed to our daily routines that anything different will freak the shit out of us. I will confess: I really hate change. It makes me anxious, overwhelmed and sweaty. For instance: I've had the same exact hair style since I was 9 years old. To this day, before every hair cut, I've tried to convince myself to do something new -- cut it short, change the color, get cornrows. But, I never go through with it. I'm too afraid to just temporarily change my appearance. I mean, what if my face looks fat or my cat doesn't recognize me anymore? It's so much easier to go with what you're used to because you already know the outcome. 

Today, I was offered a job at an amazing advertising agency. It's an opportunity that I couldn't pass up because I know it's ultimately the best decision for me and my (potentially) budding career. I have been at my current company since I graduated from college, so the amount of change I'm about to experience is terrifyingly frightening, yet also extremely thrilling. My mind is consumed by worry -- how will I adjust? Who will I eat lunch with? Should I openly admit my love for karaoke? 

With that said, I am happy/anxious/overwhelmed/tired/scared/excited/hungry. I am ready to begin this next chapter of my life and take on new challenges. I'm eager to learn and overcome new obstacles and be able to call my parents and be like, "hey guys, look what I did at work. Aren't I just great?! Aren't you so glad you created me?" 

What I'm trying to say is: change is a bitch, but it's essential if you want to evolve and become the best version of yourself. I'm sorry if that sounded completely lame but it's the truth and you know it. 

Lastly, I want to dedicate this post to two women who have impacted my life beyond words. Ty and Raina, you are way more than just co-workers to me. Over the past three years, we have formed a connection that exceeds many work friendships. You guys have played the roles of mother, sister, friend and therapist through out each and every day and I am so grateful to have had that support from you. Thank you for always listening to my stories, laughing at my jokes and most importantly -- not judging me. You guys make leaving really difficult but I will always cherish the amazing memories we've created over the years. I love you both from the bottom of my heart and I am so thankful to have such strong, beautiful women in my life. 

Throw Back Thursday -- Sleep Away Camp

When I was in third grade, my parents sent me to join my brother at sleep away camp in upstate New York. Geographically, I was only three hours from home -- but in my mind, I felt like I was in a different country. Before I dive into this story, let me paint you a little picture of what Ariel Klein at 8 years old looked like:

I was the trifecta of awkward. I was the only kid my age to have braces and headgear (I was an orthodontist's dream), I had the most heinous bangs across my forehead and, worst of all, I was so chubby. I mean, my legs looked identical to little Italian sausages. Also, at the time my mom worked at the GAP. This meant my entire wardrobe consisted solely of overalls, which was really just the icing on my painfully unattractive cake.

My parents dropped my brother and me off at the camp buses, which were located in the Bloomingdale's parking lot (could sleep away camp be anymore Jewish?). My dad packed me a cream soda and an Italian hero from my favorite deli because he knew eating calmed my nerves (still does). Finally, it was time to say goodbye to the parents. My brother, Jesse, gave them a quick hug and kiss and eagerly hopped onto the bus to sit with his friend Jake. I had more of a dramatic farewell as if I was leaving to serve our country for a year. There were tears. A lot of tears. I was the only kid crying and the last camper to board the bus. I sat in the very front row with the counselor -- which was such a rookie move. Everyone else was sitting with the friends they had made in previous summers. My only friend was my sandwich. Which, I began eating at 10am. Word to the wise: DO NOT eat an abundance of Italian meats and mozzarella before noon unless you want to sweat profusely and endure extreme nausea on a three hour bus ride with total strangers. 

Sleep away camp signifies fun summer activities, lifelong friendships and memories that will last a lifetime. At least that's what it meant for everyone else. I was not athletic and was extremely antisocial, which resulted in me having one friend. Her name was Emily and she brought her violin to camp -- need I say more? 

To say that I hated sleep away camp would be the biggest understatement of the century. I remember on the first night, I found my brother and told him I was going home. I had been there for almost six whole hours and I just knew sleep away camp wasn't for me. Jesse brought me over to the camp director, George, and he told me that if I was still not having fun after two weeks, I could go home. TWO WEEKS?! Hell to the no. I was sure after I spoke to my parents, they would hear my misery through the phone and come to my rescue. FAIL. They told me to give it a fair chance and to be open minded. Eff that! 

I had to devise a master plan. Something clever and flawless that would free me from this camp prison. AH HA! I had the perfect idea! Or at least it seemed genius to my 8-year-old self. I wrote a letter to my parents' best friends and told them I broke both of my arms and needed them to come pick me up. I mentioned that my mom and dad were on vacation, otherwise they would come get me themselves. Needless to say, this plan failed miserably the moment they received the letter and called my parents. 

So, I spent the remainder of my summer hanging out with Emily and tagging along with my brother when I could. As the last few days of camp were coming to an end, my brother was called into George's office, which usually meant you were in trouble. Little did I know, one of Jesse's bunk mates, Sam, had been incessantly making fun of me for being a chunky, overall-wearing, brace-face loser (he wasn't half wrong). To get revenge, Jesse stole Sam's stationary and wrote a letter to his parents pretending to be him. The letter was along the lines of:

Dear Mom and Dad,

I fucking hate you. I'm never coming home. 

You're the worst parents in the world. 

Fuck you. 

-Sam

It was a beautifully premeditated vengeance, but unfortunately Jesse's counselor witnessed the entire thing and reported the crime to George. Jesse spent his last day picking up trash and was asked not to come back to camp the next summer. When we returned home, we were both terrified of what our parents would do. But, to much surprise, our parents were really touched that Jesse took initiative and stood up for me -- even if his method was borderline psychotic. 

The following summer, Jesse went on a teen tour and traveled around the west coast with some friends from school. I spent my summer at a religious day camp as a "counselor in training" and my overalls were a huge hit. 

Everything will be O.K.

My overalls are most likely under the sweatshirt

The #1 Fan of Sports Fans

I believe every man has one true love in his life. Like any relationship, it involves a great deal of compromise, trust and devotion. It's a bond that embraces love and the ability to give and take. It's an emotional connection that, at times, will make you sweat, scream and cry all at once. The love affair I'm referring to is between men and sports. 

Being born and raised in New York, you learn from a very young age the importance of being a loyal sports fan. Often times, new parents will decorate their baby's nursery with their favorite teams and dress them in tiny jerseys and hats. Some crazy parents will go to the extent of naming their kid after their favorite player. 

Growing up, my dad would take me to a ton of games in hopes of me developing a love for sports. I remember as a little girl, we arrived at the Garden on the earlier side so I could see the Knicks as they were warming up. I thought it was pretty cool how tall they were, but that's as far as my fascination went. We then made our way to the seats and my dad bought me enough processed food to give me instant type 2 diabetes (he's a cool dad). After I was finished inhaling a hot dog, cotton candy, ice cream and Cracker Jacks, I tugged on my dad's arm and told him I was tired and wanted to go home. It was only 3 minutes into the first quarter. So, I sat there patiently with the worst stomach churns and observed everything but the actual game. I watched the fans, the snack vendors and the Knicks City Dancers (the only time I even looked at the court). I truly admire my dad's effort, but even at that young age, I knew I would always appreciate Haagen Daaz ice cream more than basketball. 

My next sport outing was to a Rangers game when I was 7. My dad figured since I loved Rugrats On Ice, maybe I would enjoy giant men on ice chasing after a piece of rubber. He took the same approach as the last by feeding my face (which is still the only way you can bribe me to go somewhere I don't want to). There was something about the hockey game that I was beginning to enjoy. Maybe it was the spirit of the fans or the coolness of the ice. I definitely preferred the red, white and blue color scheme over the blue and orange jerseys. I was actually really excited to watch the game with my dad. As we stood for the National Anthem, I felt a small nudge on my right arm. I disregarded it and continued eating my popcorn. Then, within a matter of seconds a drunken middle aged man came toppling down from behind me. My dad's first instinct was to grab the back of his shirt to prevent him from falling on his face, but it was too late; it all happened so fast. The dude did a somersault into the bleacher next to me and split his lip wide open. It looked like a scene from the "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" -- there was blood, so much blood. I.WAS.TRAUMATIZED. I haven't been to a hockey game since and I still have a fear of bleachers. 

Although these were my weird and uncommon experiences at sporting events, I have a fascination with professional sports and their accompanying communities of fans. Men (and certain women) from all walks of life have this mutual love for a game. It's a fun little world comprised of athletes, stats and regulations that will excite you whether you're 12 or 42.

My boyfriend, Craig, is a walking encyclopedia of all things sports. You could ask him about any player on any team and he could tell you where they played in college, their shoe size and their mother's maiden name. I've witnessed Craig at his saddest and happiest and both instances were in regards to his sports teams. I know his lifelong dream is for me to wake up one day and know how football works, but I just believe that a touchdown should only be 1 point. I mean, who decided to make it 7 points? And it's not even really 7, it's really 6 points and then you get a chance for a bonus point. It's very confusing and gives me a headache when I think about it too much. I'm sorry, Craig -- we'll try again next season. 

The thing I love most about sports is the interactions between fans. For instance: Craig was wearing a Rangers jersey yesterday as we walked through a street fair. Countless men shouted "LET'S GO RANGERS" AND "GO BLUE SHIRTS" as he walked by. He received infinite high-fives, fist pounds and one guy even chest bumped him. That behavior would NEVER happen between women. If I see a girl with a cute top on, sure, I may ask her where she bought it -- but I would never be like "hey girl, sweet romper! Let's hug!" or "holy shit, we're wearing the same essie nail polish, gimme a high-five!" 

While I may not be the best sports fan or even know the rules of most athletic events, I find the bond between sports fans and their teams a really beautiful thing. It's a love that originates from the time you're a little kid and lasts until you're too old to read the scoreboard. It's a cult of supporters who display an insane amount of faith and loyalty no matter what happens during the season. If I had a dollar for every time Craig has yelled, "GOTTA SUPPORT YOUR TEAM," I would have a lot of dollars. So, even though I can't contribute to a conversation about whether Lebron or MJ is the best NBA player of all time, I can consider myself a fan: I'm the #1 fan of sports fans. 

I took this photo at 10am yesterday

The game didn't start til 7:30pm

Because nothing screams festival of lights like lighting the menorah in your Eli jersey

Brian's dad raised him as a Packers fan. 

He is also a big fan of cheese, so I guess it makes sense

This is what my future child will look like

White Girl Wasted

It's been three years since I graduated from college and, boy, have things changed. While in school, I would go to the bars Tuesday through Saturday and still uphold wine nights on Sunday. If this were my current lifestyle, I would be classified as a raging alcoholic, but this behavior is completely standard in college. In fact, if you're not drinking four days a week, you may as well drop out and pursue a career in freak management. 

Since college, I've become a real adult human with a real adult job and real adult expenses. It's terrible. The combination of being responsible and working 40 hours a week is grueling. My social life has taken a hit, too. Friday nights used to involve kegs, shots and short skirts; now they consist of Seamless web and sweatpants. Sadly, staying up 'til 11:45 is considered a wild night for me. 

My pathetic behavior has earned me the nickname "grandma" by friends, and I'm not even upset about it. First of all, if I'm a grandma then I have the complexion of a 25-year-old and impressively perky boobs -- so, thank you for the compliment. Secondly, I am almost always productive on Saturdays since I'm not nursing a hangover from the night before. And lastly, I'm not on a quest to find a husband, which makes watching Bravo and eating bolognese a completely acceptable Friday night. 

I'm quite positive a 7-year-old has a more exhilarating social calendar than I do -- but when I do go out, I get "turnt up" (is that how the kids are saying it?). Give me four shots of Jameson and I'm your new best friend. Give me six shots of Jameson and I transform into a white girl dancing machine. Most girls try to look sexy while dancing by displaying their moves on a table or grinding up on dudes. Not this girl. I'm probably the only person in the United States who still "raises the roof" and requests Motown at a bar filled with people in their mid 20's. I have about as much rhythm as a mom at a Bar Mitzvah. The worst part is: once that Jameson warms my belly and "ABC" comes on, I am convinced I'm the sixth member of the Jackson 5. In my drunken stupor, I'm certain that my moves are a hit and everyone is digging them -- I mean, why else would strangers be crowded around me taking videos? This is usually the last memory I have from the night.  

The morning after is always agonizing. These are usually the chain of events after I wake up: 

1) Intensely chug a bottle of water

2) Make a vow never to drink again (seriously, this time)

3) Realize there's makeup all over my pillow because I slept on my face

4) Make a vow always to take off my makeup even when I'm drunk (seriously, this time)

5) Whine and moan in bed for 30 minutes

6) Order a bacon, egg and cheese on Seamless

7) Begin receiving texts from friends containing videos of me dancing like a straight up freak

8) Make a vow never to dance in public again (SERIOUSLY, THIS TIME)

I guess the reason I don't go out as often is that I can't bounce back the way I used to. In college, I could drink until 5 am and still be able to make it to my 12 o'clock class and then go out again that night. Now after a night of drinking, I wake up with bruises, muscle aches and a hangover that lasts for the better half of the week. It ain't pretty. 

I always have a blast when I go out and I would go out more often, but the truth is: I don't think you guys could handle it. 

This is me at Craig's sister's black tie wedding

I sure am a classy broad

This is me ruining a really great moment for the bride and groom

This is me practicing ballet at a bar

This is me definitely singing Whitney Houston 

and definitely not knowing who that hat belongs to

This is me dancing by myself without a care in the world

This is me after I stole a banana costume

Craigy No Likey

My boyfriend, Craig, is truly a wonderful fella. He is everything I could ever want in a man - handsome, supportive, kind, funny -- and he puts up with me which is quite the accomplishment. Although we are totally smitten, there are things about your partner that will really irk you -- for Craig, it's the majority of my wardrobe. 

I would say my personal style is a cross between Ellen DeGeneres and a six year old boy. Being comfortable is essential to me regardless of where I am. My go-to outfit is usually jeans (95% spandex), a tee shirt and a pair of kicks. Do I look like an adorable lesbian? Yes, I do. Am I comfortable? You bet your ass I am. Though Craig doesn't mind my standard look, here are some items in my closet that he loathes:

Leather Jackets

Not only are leather jackets the perfect addition to most outfits, you feel like an effing bad-ass wearing one. Whenever I throw on a LJ, Craig will immediately say, "Oh, is Shawn Hunter coming out with us?" He says I even make this face while I'm putting on the jacket as if I own a Harley and roll my own cigarettes. Welp, sorry to break it to you sweetheart, but everyone and their mother's rock LJ's these days so it's time to embrace it. 

How I think I look in a leather jacket

Oxfords

Ladies oxfords are a huge hit right now. They're casual, comfy and oh, so cute! For months, I have been on the hunt for the perfect pair but couldn't decide if I should get them in metallic or a bold color. I showed Craig the two pairs that I was deciding between and his response was, "gross." My initial reaction was to show him a pair with a tassel but then I realized he was referring to all oxfords in general. He said they make him "uncomfortable" and can't stand when he sees women wearing them. He also said if a pair were to arrive at our apartment he would burn them, throw them out the window and reimburse me. 

Blazers

Blazers are ideal for a casual or formal outfit and are extremely flattering for most body types. I have enough outrageous blazers to be the next Liberace. Craig detests blazers so much that he calls them sports jackets. I incessantly tell him the difference between the two, but he refuses to correct himself. What's most embarrassing is when we're in public and he'll loudly make a comment like, "you got food on your sports jacket" or "it's hot, why don't you take your sports jacket off?" Let me be clear: Craig Sager wears sports jackets, women do not. 

Okay, maybe I see his point

Face Time

Yesterday, I treated myself to a facial at Bliss. And by "treated" I mean I had a gift card. Usually for my birthday, I will ask for a Bliss gift card because: 1) it's my most favoritest spa, 2) it's two blocks from my apartment and C) it smells of lemon and sage...yummay!

After checking in at the front desk, I was led into a locker room that I imagine looks very similar to heaven. It was all white and light and very spacious. If I was capable of doing a cartwheel, I would have. I then put on the robe and slippers they provided and went to unwind in the waiting room. 

If the locker room is heaven, then the waiting room is a blissful afterlife (see what I did there?). The peaceful, dim-lit room was fully equipped with citrus ice water, tiny snacks and a speaker playing a jazz rendition of Hall & Oates "Sara Smile." I poured myself a glass of water and took a nibble of cheese, barely restraining myself from eating the entire plate. I was in a fancy spa -- I needed to be Fancy Ari. I then took two slices of cucumbers and placed them over my eyes as I sat and waited for my facial. 

I heard another spa patron enter the room, so I took the cucumbers off of my eyes. She was giving me a weird look, and I knew it was a weird look because it's the same exact look I give whenever I think someone is acting like a freak. I felt really insecure and figured it had to be the cucumbers. I knew I should have just eaten them. But then, I realized why she was looking at me that way. My robe was WIDE open and my left breast was nonchalantly hanging out. I was giving this poor woman an unwanted peep show. Just when I thought I couldn't embarrass myself any further, I muttered to the woman, "sorry about my boob." SORRY ABOUT MY BOOB? WHAT? WHY? Why do I do this to myself?

Luckily, I didn't see her again after my facial. So, I went back into the locker room, stole enough samples to get me arrested for a felony and then headed home. 

Way to go, Fancy Ari.

I should probably stick to at-home spa services

The Future Mr. and Mrs. Klein (woah!)

Remember in my last post how I said I never wanted a sister growing up? Well, I was lying. Good news for me though -- I finally have one! Yesterday morning, my brother proposed to his longtime girlfriend, Ali, and let me tell ya -- it was AMAZING!

Although they are officially engaged, I always knew Ali was here to stay. Ever since they started dating over 5 years ago, she has been a part of our family. I'm really glad he put a ring on it (and a GAWGEOUS one, might I add). 

Jesse and Ali a day before their engagement. She had no idea--muhaha!

Here's how it all went down:

For years, Ali and Jesse have shared a love for Gramercy Park. For those of you who are unfamiliar with GP, it's a beautiful private park allowing key access to surrounding residents and guests of the Gramercy Park Hotel only. To say this park is extremely exclusive is an understatement. Having never been inside, the two viewed the park with mystery for years... that is, until yesterday morning. 

Originally, Ali thought they were meeting my family for brunch to celebrate Jesse's birthday a few weeks early. Since my bro is a badass real estate broker (email him for all of your real estate needs: jklein@pp-nyc.com), he told her that he needed to stop by an open house in Gramercy before brunch. As they walked alongside the park fence, he "noticed" someone was exiting the park and "pleaded" to let them in for a few minutes. At that moment, I expect Ali was thrilled to finally be entering the beautiful Gramercy Park, whereas Jesse was sweating profusely and crapping his pants. 

After strolling through the secluded park and taking "selfies," Jesse led Ali to the spot where he would ask her to be his wife.

Gramercy Park 

This is the exact spot Jesse got down on one knee

If you don't have tears in your eyes -- you're not human and I don't want to know you

Ali said yes, of course, because she is a very smart lady. Now remember, Ali thought she was going to brunch with just my family. Much to her surprise, Ali's entire family was there waiting outside the park. 

Entered the park as boyfriend/girlfriend -- Exited as Fiancés 

(I know you guys hate that term, but tough noogie's) 

Jesse, I am so proud of you. Your plan to sweep Ali off her feet was executed beautifully. Good job, you little romantic, you! Thank you for allowing me to be such a huge part of the process. I will always be your sidekick through out every endeavor and I was honored to witness the best day of your lives so far. Even though you keep fighting it, I will always consider myself as your best man. I love you beyond words. Also, I would just like to point out that you confided in me 3 months ago about proposing and I didn't spill the beans -- I rock!

Ali, I honestly feel like nothing has changed except you now have a sparkly new friend on your left hand. I have always considered you and loved you like a sister. You are such a bright, generous and beautiful little toad and we are so lucky to have you officially join our family. Through out the years you have been one of my biggest supporters, cheerleaders and often times, my therapist. Thank you for dealing with me regardless of the dilemma. I am so happy you had such a memorable day and i'm REALLY happy I didn't blow this surprise for you. I love you madly. 

Mr. Craig and Mr. Klein 

MAZEL!

    

National Sibling Day

I'm almost positive 'National Sibling Day' was created by Buzzfeed, but I don't mind acknowledging it. I'm sure most of you think your siblings are the greatest, but they have nothing on my brother. Although Jesse is older, we like to think that we're really twins born three years apart. I'm also pretty sure my parents' initial plan was to have a second son named Steven -- but hey, shit happens. It turns out, little sisters are even more fun to torment than little brothers, anyway. 

Plotting our next evil venture.

I can't recall a time when I wanted a sister. I was always happy to be Jesse's sidekick. Unfortunately, I can't say the same for him. I still have memories of Jesse telling me his troll doll was his real brother and I was adopted. I wasn't even upset about possibly being adopted -- I was more concerned with the fact that this troll looked nothing like Jesse or my parents. 

As we got older, Jesse didn't mind my existence as much. He would let me tag along to watch him and his friends play roller hockey and sometimes he would even let me be the ref. I had no idea what I was doing. 

"The Denim Duo"

Don't be fooled by those adorable punim's. We. Fucked. Shit. Up. If I had a dollar for every time our parents said, "what's wrong with you?" we would be retired. 

I can go on and on about my favorite pastimes with my brother, but I don't think you really care that much. 

Jesse, if you're reading this (which I know you are because I just told you to), thank you for being such an unbelievable role model and human being. I am so incredibly lucky to have a bright, funny, loving brother and I hope to be half the man you are one day. You will always be my very first and best friend. I love you more than Dad loves saying, "I sneezed on the truth."

Klein Kidz 4Eva

Happy National Sibling Day, Jman!

Love,

Your liddle sisder

GET IT WHILE IT'S HOT!

I must warn you in advance -- this will not be my only post on the topic of food. Although I don't consider myself a "foodie" or use the hashtag "eeeeats", I've had a love affair with food since the day I was brought into this world and first latched onto my mum's nipple.

There are many contributing factors to why food rules my world:

• I am Jewish

Jews love two things in this world: money and food. But mostly food. Whether it be a baby naming or a Shiva, you better believe there will be a lox spread. I'm not talking about just some bagels and shmear, I'm talking about enough white fish and macaroni salad to feed the entire lower east side. When I walk into my parent's house, the first thing they ask is, "are you hungry? you want a little snack?" Of course I want a snack. I think I've turned them down a total of five times in my entire life.  

• Friends

All of my friends LOVE to eat. I mean, if they didn't they sure as heck wouldn't be my friends. Our obsession with food is borderline psychotic. For example: One of my friends received a wheel of brie for Christmas last year. That's not even the gross part. My initial reaction was, "sweet! when can I come over and destroy that bad boy with you?" Another instance of our food craze was for my birthday this year. I was eating pizza with a different friend when she handed me my gift -- a ticket to a food festival in Brooklyn. Can you say "best gift ever?!"

• Living in New York

"The city that never sleeps." More like the city that never stops fucking eating. Where else in the world can you get wine, burgers AND warm cookies delivered at any given time? Seamless Web is slowly killing me. They just make it so damn easy to get a quick order of cheese fries delivered at 9:30am. Also, we have events like restaurant week and food fairs -- I'm getting hungry just thinking about it. You must be wondering, "well why don't you try to have a little self control?" Why don't you mind your own darn business, Jillian Michaels. 

Bottom line is: I eat because i'm unhappy and i'm unhappy because I eat. 

A Love Letter to Andy Cohen

To my beloved Andy,

I will try my best to convey my love for you in this letter, but it’s truly difficult to put the extent of my feelings into words. Let me begin by saying: you, Andrew Cohen, are my very own Susan Lucci.   

The year was 2008. It was a rainy and bitter day in Hartford, Connecticut, so of course, I decided to skip class. As I lay in bed surfing the tube, I came across two attractive blonde women screaming at one another. And just like that, I was hooked.

After extensively “studying” each of the cast members via Google, I then came across your handsome mug. I instantly fell in love... Bravo love! Initially, I was disappointed to learn that you were gay because I thought maybe, somehow, I could make you my Jewish husband, but I soon realized I would totally settle for being best friends. Over the years, I have become what I like to call a “Bravo-head.” Not only am I an avid "Real Housewives" junkie, but Bravo is the only network I watch (aside from the "Today Show," but it’s all in the same building and who could resist Al Roker?). At this point in my letter, you’re probably wondering what sets me apart from the rest of the Bravo fans. The majority of your fans will call into ("Watch What Happens Live" and go on and on about how much they love you and send you tweets and fan mail. But I go home every night after work and say a prayer that one day, we will meet, you’ll realize you need a funny blonde side kick, and we’ll go to 16 Handles together. Do you go to 16 Handles? I bet you go somewhere fancy like 40Carrots in Bloomies or maybe somewhere too trendy for me to even know about.

Honestly, I’ve made an immense effort not to hide in the shrubs outside of your apartment. I made a promise to myself that when you and I eventually cross paths (oh, and we will), I would do my best not to seem like a complete lunatic. I just feel like our senses of humor are really similar and we’d make a compatible duo. I mean, how is it that I love EVERYTHING on Bravo? You are like a magician, but with a better wardrobe. Anything your beautifully manicured hands touch turns to production gold. You are such a star, Andy - - I can’t even imagine how proud Evelyn Cohen is.

            Although I try to refrain from stalking you, I did go to your book reading for "Most Talkative" in Bryant Park two summers ago. Ya know, the one with you and Willie Geist? I saw that you were going to be there and I literally annoyed the shit out of my boss and coworkers about how excited I was to see you in the flesh. The book reading didn’t begin until noon but my boss let me leave at 11 because I was so irritating. When you approached the front of the crowd, I began sweating profusely and felt as if I was going to vomit on the lady’s head in front of me. Maybe I should have, then you definitely would have noticed me. Sadly, 20 minutes into your reading, my boss texted me to come back to the office. I could have killed him. He knew how important this was to me. So I hesitantly got up from my seat (which was seven fucking feet from you) and begrudgingly walked away from the most glorious moment of my life. As I made my way from the crowd, I took about 60 pictures of you -- so at least I had those to look at while I wept at my desk the rest of the afternoon. That was the first and last time I ever saw you in person. Le sigh.

The purpose of this letter is purely to express my admiration for you, Andy. Above all else, I respect your talent and work ethic and truly consider you a role model in countless ways. I have been writing and performing stand up as well as practicing improv for the past few years and my ultimate goal is to pursue a career in writing. I am truly happiest when I am working creatively and I know that is something you can relate to. I hope you don't think this is a scheme to guilt you into helping me chase this dream of mine. Although, I would not be opposed to being a guest bartender on WWHL. Bravo and the "Real Housewives" are my world, but you, Andy -- you are my heart. I look forward to the day we finally meet, whenever that may be. I will warn you in advance that my hands will most likely be very clammy, but just know that it comes from a place of love.

 I hope this letter didn’t make you uncomfortably creeped out and I really hope you don’t file a restraining order against me.

Did I mention I love you?

Your forever loyal fan & potential BFF,

Ariel Klein

From Lady Gaga's new music video: "G.U.Y"

It's like she hacked my brain. 

No Pants Dance

Hey you! Welcome! Why don't you take a load off and have a seat? Oh, you're already sitting... okay, well let's get to it then. 

Today is the second official day of Spring and I could not be more thrilled. I have been hibernating since late October and, as much as I love wearing sweaters and leggings everyday, I am friggin' pumped to break out my sundresses. After all, there is no better feeling than not wearing pants. 

From the time I get to work at 9 am -- eh, 9:15 -- I'm already daydreaming of getting home and taking my pants off. I imagine this yearning for release is the same a prisoner feels while serving a 35 year sentence. You must be thinking, "Woah Ariel, are you some kind of freak?" or "Do you wear extremely tight pants?" and the answer is: yes to all of the above. Personally, I don't think it really matters if your pants are tight or baggy...  they all suck just the same. I would say in my 25 years of living, I have probably tried on every style of pants (including chaps), and nothing feels as good as frolicking bare-legged around your apartment while blasting Celine Dion. Am I right, sisters?

If I were a man and didn't have the privilege of wearing skirts and dresses, I would most likely have a wardrobe consisting of nothing but kilts. So what if I'm 100 percent Jewish? Kanye did it and it was a hit. 

All I know is that this is America and if not wearing pants is wrong, then I don't want to be right.