Oh, sorry...Wait. Whoa...you got big.

When I was 11 my mom hauled my ass out of my nice and comfy Upper East Side appartment and brought me here. Monroe.
If you live in Monroe, you know why this needs no further clarification.

And so the years rolled by, I aged, I matured...okay, at least I aged. And my promises to keep in touch, scrawling down e-mail addresses, telephone numbers, and screen names dwindled down until I wasn't talking to any more than 5 or 6 of my old friends. And as one would expect, within a year I had pretty much "misplaced" all of the e-mail addresses, telephone numbers, and screen names.

Now, I've gone to summer camp since I was 8 years old. And no, I am not (that) ashamed. Because of all of these random yet entertaining summers abroad, I've met many amazing and wonderful people, most of which I'll never see again.

From my experience, by the time school starts back up after the summer, thoughts of bumping into any of these glimmering friends pretty much gets swept to the back of your mind and stays there.
So, when inevitably you do happen to find someone who you met at one of these various excursions, thinking of something to say to them might get a little tricky.
For example: yesterday when I bumped into a well-kempt young man in the middle of a Manhattan block all I could manage was "Oh, sorry. Hey, don't I kn....OMG, you're Max?!". Probably followed by a "tee-hee" giggle of some sort.

It's times like these when I my feminine quintessense really shines through full-throttle.

Anyway, after his response and the initial moment of awkwardness, I found out that "OMG", he was Max.
A short history on Max: during one of my four summers at Bucks Rock I met this kid named Max, we became instant friends, then we departed, es todo.

Four hours and three Starbucks beverages later, we were still talking, catching up, laughing, etc. All of which I'd sum up as perhaps one of the better conversations I've had since I mastered constructing a sentence that can include both the word whore, the name Oprah Winfrey, and the phrase Palestinian-Israeli conflict all in one.

And so by posting this, aside from recounting a nice chat I had with an equally nice person, I am now committing to my promise that I will finally make the effort to keep in touch.
So that hopefully, a year from now, I won't have "misplaced" Max's phone number or the next time I bump into someone from years past I'll be able to muster up something that doesn't include the ever-so-suave "OMG!".

What to do When You're a New York City Girl who likes Lynyrd Skynyrd

While making a mix tape this morning, I realized that I was breaking an ancient time-honored taboo. I had put Neil Young's "Southern Man" right in between Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Simple Man" and "Sweet Home Alabama". Now, I'm sure you're all aware of the beef that these two artists had against eachother. But rather than continue this feud, I decided to once and for all unite the two on CD-rom format.

But this unification made me question my music choices as of late. As a democrat in the North Eastern part of the United States there are certain codes that I must abide:

1) George Bush (junior or senior) must be mocked at least once a day
2) References to any of the five boroughs should be thrown into an assortment of no less than 4 conversations per week
3) You are obligated to love things like wheat grass and feng shui
4) Mace must be kept in every coat pocket (back pants pocket is acceptable during the warmer seasons)
and 5) You're not allowed to advocate the listening of country music (notice I say advocate, this gives a little leeway to those closet Shania Twain and Willie Nelson fans)

Love 'em, or hate 'em, these are the rules.

So, I believe that I am in a bit of a crisis. No matter how hard I try, I can't deny my desire to listen to artists like CCR and Stevie Ray Vaughan.

Let's just hope that this is a phase, and that I will continue to only wear my cowboy boots in the privacy of home. Although, those nipple tassels do give me a new appreciation for the ways of the South.

Now, just to maintain my fierce Manhattenite appeal, I show you this site:

www.fuckthesouth.com

Exercise, verb: to get off ones ass before ones ass needs a forklift

I have made the decision to join the ever-growing coalition of fiends, over-worked mom's, and narcissists that I had planned on holding off for another couple of years.

Oh yes, I have joined a gym.

I figured it was best to take action before my current salacious physique morphed into the pleasantly plump stage of womanhood.
Which would then be followed by the "large lady that little children are scolded for staring and pointing at in a grocery store" stage.

Yes, this is me being productive. Cherish it while you can.

See, I live the average suburban teenage life.
Friends, family, stupidassmotherfuckingdumb high school, sleep.
You need not covet me, not matter how tempting.

Despite my current riveting routine, I thought it was time to switch it up a little bit and throw a couple 7:15 am cycling classes into the mix.

And so for all of you ladies and gentlemen that also have the honor of attending stupidassmotherfuckingdumb high school, I warn you, watch out.
'Cause there's a new girl in town. And she knows pilates.