Being Smart, 6.0

Technology is advancing at a slightly unnerving rate. I know this sounds ridiculous in a Terminator original series kind of way, but I wonder sometimes if it's all moving forward too fast, if we are taking inevitable steps closer to our own destruction. In fact, just this very second I realized I have been spelling the word "forward" incorrectly my entire life. Instead of learning that I spelled it wrong the first time, SpellCheck from my Windows 1 1993 computer corrected it. Now I feel like an idiot. Thanks technology, epic fail.

The worst part of this (in a slightly less dramatic but no less irritating way) is the Smart Phone. I'd like to first point out that I do not have a smart phone- but every 12 year old I know has a Blackberry. Seriously? Does your grammar school child have a Skype Meeting in China tonight? I'm the only designer for Playboy's White Label Lingerie line and I have an Envy2. A 2! Not even the latest version! I don't check my Facebook on my phone or write TPS reports on it. Hell, most times I don't even answer the damn thing! What exactly do pre-teens do with phones capable of internet connection, touch screens, 6 mega-pixel cameras and an MP3 Players all-in-one? Business meetings in Indonesia your parents don't know about? Seriously important math quiz you need to Twitter about, like, IMMEDIATELY? Does your phone even call people? I should look it up. There's probably an app for that... hmm no smart phone. Guess I've got to do it the old-fashioned way with the laptop...

I got a phone when I was 16 ( I skipped over the whole beeper phase. Thanks for the page Dad...let me go find a payphone in Greenlawn.) It was the Zach Morris phone. It was huge and fluorescent pink and came with a prepaid plan, so my Dad didn't get an astronomical bill every month. At the time, I thought it was lame and archaic while my friends had shiny silver flip phones with pull-out antennas. (Ironically, now also archaic). But as an adult I see the glimmer of intellectualism my Father had that parents today lack. He was smart. I wanted a phone and he got me a phone. A limited capability, pre-paid, enormous and sort-of-embarrassing, probably didn't have a text feature phone. He had constant contact to me at all times, which is the point of a 16 year-old having a phone and didn't have to pay billions so I could chat up my friends. And he taught me that if I wanted something shiny, and expensive and full of features I better go get a fucking job. Thanks for the life lesson Dad.... but I still have a shitty phone.

More than anything else I hold onto the stupid little phone I've got out of two things- being way too cheap to pay $150 a month for an Iphone and the fact that I just don't want everything I own to be that much smarter than me. My car is smarter than me. It has BlueTooth. It calls people, possibly other cars when I'm not around. So really I don't even need a phone, because of the car. My camera is smarter than me. It automatically adjusts for light when I take pictures so they come out good, even though I'm a shitty photographer. But my phone takes pictures, too. So really I don't need the camera. My Ipod is fucking smarter than me... it knows the time of day and date when I don't! Do you see where I'm going with this? Pretty soon my toaster and my blender will be scheming to burn my apartment down, collect the insurance money and move to Miami before I even get home from work!

Also, I know I sound like an old lady, but I just can't figure out how to do simple tasks on those things. Why do touch screens even exist? You can never hit the key you want to hit, so you inevitably get frustrated and slide out the keyboard anyways. Whats the point? Honestly, do you need 327,242,234 aps? There's aps for aps you didn't even know you had aps for. I don't even like having a regular phone. I hate people knowing where I am at all times and even more, I hate being on the phone (yes, even with you). If you're that close to me you'll see me before the week is over, so save all that crap you were just about to tell me for then, so we're not staring at each other over dinner, wishing we could ignore each other and mindlessly text other people like the table next to us.

Don't get me wrong, I like computers. I spend most of my work day on one. I come home, and spend even more time on my laptop. Technology today has made advancements so huge we've created cars that run on corn, found cures for many fatal diseases and of course, been introduced to the Wii. I know, relatively speaking, these advancements are for our benefit...to make our lives easier....or something like that. But is it so much to ask to see just one freaking movie NOT in 3D, or answer a phone with a button I can push instead of turning on it's music play list, taking a picture and making a BLT? When was the last time you read a magazine? Or took your real camera out in the city to take some nice pictures? I like my 46" plasma hi-def TV (I think it also folds laundry, but I can't figure out the feature) but sometimes, honestly I'd just rather read a book.

Can the kids you know imagine a world where there are no computers? Imagine not having a cell phone? Will they ever know the once-glorious joy of going into a music store and listening to new albums for hours with friends, instead of sitting alone, staring mindlessly at a glowing screen with ITunes open? Our grandparents remember a time before internet, before TV, hell some remember a time when cars were new. It makes me wonder what we'll be nostalgic about when we are grandparents, and our children can't remember what we used casettes and CD's for, or why we were excited to go rent the newest movies at Blockbuster because movies now play inside your glasses when you think about them. No one needs a laptop, because their cell phones do everything. Book stores close, because all books are now made for the cell phones. And music stores don't exist. And renting movies is a thing of the past. And sleepovers are done via Skype.

It's sad, but it's not that far of a stretch anymore. And we are truly moving closer to those days. Call me old fashioned, but I'll always choose a beautiful new book over a Kindle. I felt a pang of loss when the Virgin Megastore closed in New York City, but I will covet my CDs and even the records my parents saved for me, because believe it or not, the sound is incomparable. I will keep my Envy2 until there are no more options left for me but a smart phone, but when I finally am forced to break down and buy one, I will go unwillingly. And I will save the relic of my old phone for my kids to laugh at some day, if people still talk to each other in person then. And I'll talk about buying new CD's, and seeing movies on a regular screen, and owning a Polaroid Instant Camera and they'll call me old and I'll smile.

Technology is good in it's own way...even if it's moving too fast. I'll let it bypass me for now. Maybe someday I'll catch up, praise Bill Gates and Dell for their unbelievable technological advancements. But tonight, I'm just going to go read a book... and lock my toaster in the bathroom.

Pie

The world is separated into two groups of women. Women who love to hang out in their living rooms naked, and women who cover up every inch of themselves at all times and possibly wear a raincoat in the shower. I'll bet you can all guess which one I am :)

In light of the festivities of the season I can inevitably spot the Raincoats walking down the street- counting mental calories, deducting side dishes, cocking their heads to one side on the subway when add up the portions from this week and where on their bodies those portions have added up. The worst part, of course, is that all of these women are so beautiful and they have no idea. Thanksgiving is the all American excuse to eat until we throw up...or at least can't stand up straight comfortably. Every year, the men congregate on the living room couches, clutter the floorspace to enjoy football (whatever that is) and digest after each round until they can burp up enough air to make room for dessert. The women flock in droves to the kitchen where they bitch about having eaten too much, regret painted over their shiny lips and look painfully at the dessert their dying for a slice of... I like to think I'm a lady 9 times our of ten. I keep my pinky up when drinking,  could outrun your ass in heels any day of the week and niceties are second hand vocabulary to me. But listen ladies- I'm sick of hearing you whine and bitch over your beautiful bodies so much that I've taken up a spot on the living room floor with the men. I'd rather watch grown men in tights attack each other over a ball than listen to your crap one more time. One slice won't kill you...and if it does, well at least you died happy...

I've spent 25 years watching my gorgeous perfect friends getting ready to go out...standing in front of mirrors pinching nonexistent fat and rubbing thier hands down thier sides, imagining themselves three sizes smaller. When I pop up in the background with a stupid face and push-up bra. I've never been modest. I know for sure I'm no super model, but I think I'm pretty in my own way and I like my body, no matter it's size... it's curvy in nice places and soft and I know I've got pretty eyes, because strange men tell me so on the subway all the time...So what my thighs touch? My legs look killer in stilettos. And who cares if my tummy isn't a perfect flat plane? There's a sexy little dip where each of my hipbones push against my skin. Maybe my lips could be fuller but I've got sparkly eyes and stellar natural black eyelashes...thanks Mom. For every thing about your body that isn't perfect, I'll bet I could name two things that are. Stop wasting time counting your imperfections.I think I can speak for most men when I say they like the softness of your skin, and the curve of your butt and the the little dips and valleys of your body that you freak out over. It's what makes you, you. And not every guy is dying to cuddle a stick figure every night at bedtime. Bones are uncomfortable. End of story.

My guy friends however, and boyfriends (past and present) mostly make goofy faces into the mirror, flex their muscles and simply think "Hell yeah, I look good today". And of course, the girls agree with them as they lean back to look at how big their but has grown...

I've never been a Raincoat. I'm not the type to turn down dessert...I've also never been skinnier than most of my friends and almost did a cartwheel last week in Saks when I fit into a size 6... (mental high five, girl!!) I like hanging out in my house with no clothes on and even better when there are mirrors around so I can make goofy faces. Where as my skinny beautiful friends and perfect sister stand with their goddess-like bodies and cringe at every wrinkle, every dimple and every plane not as flat as pavement. Their skin is glowing, their eyes so bright and glossy and I just can't understand how creatures so beautiful can look into any reflective surface and not think "Hell yeah, I look good today!"

Everyone has certainly got imperfections. But when your boyfriend sees you naked, believe me it's all he can do not to fall on his knees and thank god you let him touch you. He doesn't think, "Oh, my God, her thighs touch!" .. and if he does, he's gay. I've seen so many men almost crash cars trying to stare a little longer at these women. How can people so obviously fawned over ever think "I'm not pretty?" Give yourself a little slack this year girls. Everyone's tired of listening to you bitch anyways. Your boy friend, an his friends, and the pizza delivery guy all think you are very sexy just the way you are. In fact, the pizza delivery guy has been trying to get your number since high school... I'm just saying... So when your man goes to sprawl out on the living room floor and contemplate exactly how much he'll be able to eat for dessert, go cuddle with him, and pretend to watch football, and have a slice of pie. He'll still love you...he'll still think your perfect and sexy and when you go home that night, I promise he'll still try to get in your pants.And tomorrow when you guys look into the mirror, standing next to each other naked you can both say, "Hell yeah, I look good today!"

Happy thanksgiving everyone. Let's eat some pie :)

Hope

I hope in heaven. Most of me wants to say I believe- unconditionally and faithfully- but the realist in me just clings to that sliver of hope we open every Easter and Christmas. A heaven I can touch- maybe not the glittering pearly cityscapes built on cloudy platforms, the dreams of our childhood- but something more than the whatever nothingness is. Because to think that this is all we have is beyond sad. And it fills me with everything void of hope to believe that this world, where hatred is so casual and so cruel is the gift I leave to my children, who will look up to me one day and ask where heaven is and will they ever get there someday? And even if I don’t believe  I will paint them pictures, little sugar covered lies to inflame some sense of hope in them until they are old enough to fear for themselves. So now I wonder if it’s comforting to know that the entire human race, so many cultures, so many people on this one little planet are all stranded together in the murky tossed tides of hope. It’s comforting in a sad way.

Everyone deals with this trial differently- at a young age we are asked to step from the shadows cast by our parents and question these things on our own. How permanent is death? Where is heaven and how far away is it?  Will I ever get there? But so many of our childhood questions get shelved with the other unanswerable voices. Our curiosity fades with time, our adult selves marrying science and philosophy and leaving the religious fairy tales for later dates, when we are old maybe. When we are close to death. No one talks about death openly, or heaven or religion or what to believe in - more for fear of offending someone  than  the idea that you might comfort them.

And it isn’t until we are faced with the truly cold sting of death, when someone we love or knew or was so close to us dies, do we question it. Something sparks inside us, we are left with those unanswered questions from our childhood and so the child and the adult in us battle for some kind of common ground to come up with answers that make sense. Suddenly, no matter our age, we are children. Children forced to grow up in a truly unfair amount of time. We are terrified and scared, screaming inside, tearing at the walls built up around us, engulfed in an unnamed fear for someone we loved, unmoving for no real reason except that they do not breathe. While the adult of us is forced to smile and try to make sense of it, arrange plans, hold hands for the others around us, all looking lost. That one fragile thread of loss and pain and the fear of hope connecting us like spider webs. The silhouette of a human form like glass on the table. The "Thank you for coming, I know the snowstorm is bad." Suddenly, like the breath we all inhale as one, is cold. You’re fighting to stay afloat while the internal battle you’ve been waging is dying to explode... It's electricity illuminates the air, sparks off your skin, burns every fiber of your being.The back of your black high heel is cutting into you, the flowers are all made of a sickly sweet poison, suffocating everyone, fluorescent lights cut sharply through red rimmed eyes. But you can’t feel anything for some reason. It's like you are evaporating. Every sensation is numbed down by grief and hopelessness and fear. So you just smile. Is this the death we were afraid of as children? Because standing in the memory I wonder who had it worse. The person on the table or the crowd crying over the lifeless form?

Eventually the flowers die too. And the cars pull away and the questions fade back into your subconsciousness as life swirls and goes on. And your sighs are heavier than they once were but they’re still the testament that you breathe. Cold sharp air that hurts, but feels good. It’s everything backwards and upside down and we lock all those awful images and feelings away for a time in our future when we can fully understand them. When we are older…

So it isn’t until you’re sitting on the cold hardwood floors of the old bedrooms do you feel that sharpness. In the face of a tiny black hairbrush lined with blond hair. In the glimpse into a vanity mirror reflecting a person who were so sure you knew... now just a sad shadow. Some unnamed emotion overruns you like a tidal wave. Something so painful and poignantly sad it steals the air from your lungs, until your lying on the floor, without enough life even left to cry, just hoping this horrible feeling washes away. You find yourself praying to a God you weren’t sure was even there. The god you once thought you spoke to in the warm glow of a Christmas mass. The light streaming through the stained glass, throwing color onto the snowy fields…and everything smells like incense and Christmas trees. And everyone was so happy...

Can he hear you now? While you’re cold and alone on the floor. Praying for something real, anything, even if its painful, to crash through the open door, collide with you, make you feel something other than this horrific emptiness.Praying for her to feel something, too. But now, eyes glassy, you’re too old to believe the fairy tales of childhood. And so the tears come. And you can try to understand how and why life works the way it does. But in the end you won't...so you simply hope. 

For her sake, for those before and after, for all the fear we feel stretched between us, past the generations and race, and cultures I feel it now. Igniting something like the will to live, the desire to move forward, I feel it. Burning in the tear tracks on our faces, and the cuts on the back of heels and the sad smiles we share when we are confronted with death. Maybe our blurry visions of the pearly city aren't so far off... maybe heaven is just the feeling of being safe after this world dissolves around us, or the idea that while we make the actual journey by ourselves, we won't be alone. I don’t have any real answers.  And now I know, realistically. I don’t know for sure… but I hope.

Autumn in New York City

Autumn is hands down the best season in New York.

The weather is a blissful 70* all season long, the trees are fiery shades of red and gold, there are no bugs and even better- the tourists go home for the season! I still haven't figured out why NYC is most densely populated during the blazing heat of summer and the dead frozen tundra of December- go figure. Alas, that leaves the very best of the year (Autumn and Spring) to the locals who are free to prowl the streets, knit scarves wrapped snugly around necks, to enjoy the last golden rays of a fading summer and bask in the golden glory of the season to come.

Most people think I love Winter best of all seasons- I always seem to be several degrees warmer than everyone else and my friends use to joke that my mood swings affected the snowfall- and while I do not deny my Winter Princess Barbie tendencies, Autumn has come up as the very best of everything I love- the food, the spices, the fashion, the holidays- all culminating in one dense explosion of color, wool, and the smell of pumpkin lattes. I experience a slight twinge of jealousy as I see the girls getting off the subway, school uniforms pressed crisp, pencils tucked behind ears, chatting about the physics quiz... Who knew that season we once dreaded could inspire so much longing in our 20-something selves? For every Autumn I see now, that golden red streak of Back-to-School Fever illuminates the whole picture, until I'm lost in the blurry visions of my kickline uniform, and the smell of the auditorium and textbook covers and highlighters and chalk dust.

While the summer lover's lament of the dying tulips and the leaves falling like paper airplanes all over the city I revel in the golden glory of every shadow elongating, every crisp breeze lifting my hair and the warm cinnamon smells that envelope the whole city like a hot toddy. Every store puts out the cranberry cashmere sweaters, and the Italian leather boots and the fashionista's of New York come out in droves to parade whats what on the real runways- the city sidewalks. Orange and pink wool scarves, and wine colored plaid skirts, and brown leather purses slung low over barley exposed shoulders...while the fine misty rains obscure their vision and their rainbow painted galoshes splash in the glassy puddles- I can't do much but glide forward, smiling, letting the drops cling to my glasses, wondering how this wonderful time of the year goes so frequently unnoticed.

While they mourn the daffodils I douse my apartment in Halloween decorations, and silk maple leaves and baby pumpkins I draw tiny faces onto. I boil orange peels and cinnamon sticks until the kitchen is glowing with the spicy smells of apple cider and bake about 4 million cookies from here until December. I prepare my 12 halloween costumes, cover my apartment in cottony spiderwebs and pull out the orange and black napkins, and lay my collection of glittery masquerade masks over my bookcases and windowsills where they sparkle the fading afternoon sun. I begin my favorite Autumn recipes- pumpkin pies, pecan tartlets, spiced apple cider with rum, homemade apple butter and hearty chili and stews... Come spend a week with me- you'll need a gym membership before day two.

There's something wonderful and sort of secretive and alluring about Autumn in New York. While the tourists pack up and go, New Yorkers can breathe a little sigh of pleasure at the long walks in the fading sunshine and the empty sidewalks and the old bookstores begging us inside. It seems all my favorite people were born during this time of year- I seem to be inherently drawn to the haunted magic that gleams in the dusty sunlight and stretching shadows. Even those who are sad to see Summer go can appreciate the simple beauty of the leaves in Bryant Park burning up the sky in orange and red or the happy little tick-or-treater's toddling down the block or the first bite of the seasons apple pie. It's New York's best kept secret. Christmas may be the most wonderful time of the year- but Autumn is golden start to the magic of the season.

Ps- I just learned how to can my own fruits and vegetables. And it's easy and yummy and they make great Christmas gifts- so here's the recipe for Homemade Apple Butter :) xoxo

Apple Butter (yields 9 half pints)

9 Quarts of applesauce (I made my own by cooking down apples, then mashing them :) )
2 Tablesppons ground cinnamon
1 Teaspoon gorund clove
1/2 Teaspoon allspice or nutmeg ( I like nutmeg- it's spicier!)
4 Cups of sugar

Cook applesauce, cinnamon, clove, nutmeg and 2 c. of the sugar in a slow cooker for 12-15 hours. Just leave it overnight on low- you want the applesauce to reduce to about half. The next day, add the rest of the sugar and let the apple butter cook for one more hour.

The sterilize your canning jars in a large pot of boiling water for five minutes. Put the canning lids in hot but not boiling water for five minutes. Pull the jars out and ladle the hot apple butter into the hot jars, leaving 1/2" at the top (it's called headspace and you need to ensure the jars seal with a vacuum seal). Wipe the rims cleans and put one lid on each jar- then scre the screw band on until you meet resistance. Then process (boil) the jars with 2" of water covering them for 15 minutes. Pull the jars out and set them on a towel in a cool dry place- you'll hear the jars seal with a small ping! Leave the jars untouched overnight. The next day, check to make sure they sealed properly. If the jar lid pops up and down (like a snapple top) it's not sealed. If it doesn't pop then congratulations- you've just made Apple Butter! It's good warmed up on vanilla ice cream, or on toast. It also makes a great Christmas gift :)

Just an American Girl in the Tokyo Streets

Some of you may know I recently flew 14 hours to the other side of the world to get some soba. The plane ride was successful after 2 Valium and a cocktail of Aspirin, Benedryll and Juicy Juice. You could've flown my ass to Antarctica and I would've been thrilled. Nonetheless, I landed, 14 hours later and completely wasted, at Narita Airport- Woozy, but for the most part alive.
I feel like you can determine the awsomeness of your trip based on the airport you land in. Everyone ignored me in Paris, the roof was made of straw in the Dominican Republic and Disney Posters inevitably line Orlando International. Three distinctly memorable vacations...
Narita International is clean. Like, robots come in the middle of the night, there are not trash-cans, because there is no trash clean. And there were signs in English brightly proclaiming "Welcome to Japan!". God Bless the Japanese.
There are approximately 2,345,424,824 subway lines in Tokyo... And each is owned by a different company- like if I owned the A line and you owned the 6 Train...or something like that. And there isn't much in English once you get past customs apparently... tricksy little hobbits.  So getting on the train from the airport to the station our hotel was near was, well, interesting. Did I mention the station our hotel was near is the largest subway station in the WORLD? You think you've seen a lot of people in NYC, then take a trip to Shinjuku. Everything about this city is completely overwhelming. Getting off the train is like walking into a literal sea of people. And there is no 5- foot-radius rule in Tokyo. If you're in the way you will get run over. End of story. I suppose they feel that any inch of a building not covered in neon or forty foot television screens or posters of Ken Watanabe vs. Darth Vadar (yes, that was a real poster) is an inch wasted. It's like being drunk, getting thrown in a ball pit filled with glitter and rainbow paint , then shaken and spit out onto a sidewalk where you're not allowed to throw up...only pleasant.. am I making sense?
We found our hotel, checked into our tiny room, took pictures of the view and promptly passed out. We woke up at 12am Tokyo time starving and ready to hunt for food, sake and cheap business men to sing karaoke with. Mission accomplished on all accounts.
The food is unbelievable, if a little repetitive. We ate soba noodle soup for breakfast, gem colored sushi off conveyor belts that was probably caught that morning, fancy pants scallion pancakes we cooked ourselves on open table top grills and shabu shabu- essentially tastier-than-American fondue.I'm not even going to get into the crepes they sell on the corners, or the Japanese Coldstone or Chocolate Koalas- but let me just say the trip was worth it for the food alone. Everything was colorful and fresh and delicious- including the copious amounts of sake we drank with very nice businessmen at the Izakaya on the corner... anyway...
We saw the sights, beautiful temples built before our country was even a thought, paintings glazing the ceilings, shrines and pagodas 5 stories high, when all you can think is how the hell did they build this?! Tokyo tower, (a larger stolen Eiffel Tower with better lighting), the beer building, the giant Japanese Lantern and the techno Ferris Wheel at Odiba- a raver kids dream. The parks are covered in bonsai trees, there really are zen sand gardens and every time you turn around you seem to bump into a shrine of some sort. It's unbelievably amazing and breathtakingly beautiful in a historical way Americans can't even comprehend.
But I digress... what did I really go to Tokyo for? The shopping of course! Shinkuku and Harajuku and Shibuya, just to name a few. Department stores packed 6 floors deep with ridiculously cute neon pink shoes, jackets and lingerie covered in fur, mini skirts (I mean MINI skirts), cable knit sweaters with skulls and fur pom poms to hang on your expensive leather handbag. Everything is one-size-fits all. And that seems to work for Japanese women, because well, they are one size fits all... But every bubbly salesgirl was just dying to try and stuff my 36E chest into their sweaters, jackets, t-shirt and button downs. Then they would giggle hysterically as the zipper slid to a halt just beneath my underwire. I heard a lot of "Oh, you lucky guuuuul, you so big!" Haha, it never got old to them.
Their are rules so foreign to us but clockwork to them. They recycle everything, to the point that each component of your garbage is broken down, from your left over coke to the straw you were using it in. They don't eat on the streets - not even ice cream. Ever. They take stairs when there are escalators (very FEW escalators) and stand up when there are seats on the subway (what!?). They're polite to you even when you don't speak their language. They're beautiful and dark eyed and sexy but try so hard to look American. Men were obsessed with my hair and women were obsessed with my chest.... In America it's the other way around... They're really good at drinking, and even better at singing American songs at Karaoke. The sidewalks are so packed with people you can hardly move but the flow of the city is consistent and powerful.
And it makes you simply want to be there to look at it all and try to take it in, in the very few hours you have there. The overwhelming intricacy of their everyday life would make most Americans faint, but its like going on a new adventure every time you step outside.
If you can, go to Tokyo. You need to see the fashion, and walk in the quiet of the shrines and taste the unbelievable flavors of the food. You need to meet the people and draw pictures on cocktail napkins to communicate and walk around the parks in the rain.
Tokyo has a surprisingly romantic, intense feeling that was so apparent once you were there... all I could think was Why have I never come here before?
The 14 hour flight was worth it and I was surprised by how sad I was to board the plane back to my most favorite city in the whole world. The organized chaos will stay with me forever.

You should go to Tokyo.

CitiGurl123

When I was 12 we got the internet at my house. We only had AOL, our modem took 20 minutes to sign on and when anyone called- well, you remember...
I remember sitting in the phosphorescent glow of the screen, as brain cells slowly leaked out my ears, IMing 18 friends at once, the universal ping resounding in the living room like an alarm clock. Prrng. Pinnnng. Prrrng. Pinnng. My dad removed our speakers in less than a week...
But the single most internal joy was of course in creating your personal identity- your screen name! A small, usually completely inappropriate name tag the world would look at to make inaccurate assumptions about who you were, where you were from, how old you were and of course, how cute you might be. It had to be stellar, and different and not too long and speak volumes about your intellectual creativity so the entire freaking planet would know you were cool. It always ended up being something completely stupid.
I mean, seriously, who has kept the screen name they chose when they were 12? Or moreover still has an AOL account? Right, I mean right? Hasn't everyone moved on to Gmail and Earthlink and some-crap-that's-hard-to-remember.net? Yeah, about that...
Before you get all up-in-arms about my still having an AOL account- and yes, I literally still have the 12-year-old version of my digital self- let me just say a few things in my defense.
1. AOL is only 3 letters- It's easy to remember, and everyone knows it. I almost never have to spell my email address when I sign up for useless crap. Ok, maybe I thought I was being edgy when I spelled it CitiGurl- but come on, I was 12, and my middle name is spelled Kristyne- yeah, figure that one out.
2. 123 is actually my birthday. January 23rd, not December 3 in case you were wondering. Another thing that's easy to remember. I'll bet you thought I just chose 123 to add some fucking numbers didn't you? See, my 12 year-old-self was a smart bitch.
3. I've got about 4,526,324 email contacts already saved to Citigurl123's mailing list. And don't say, well you could transfer those names- because this is already becoming way too much work.
4. You guys all change your emails so often that I literally have no idea what any of your addresses are anymore. All I can remember are your AOL account screen names...
5. Some total asshole already took Jennie.Hurd@Gmail.com- seriously? WTF? How many of me are there in this world? Obviously, at least one too many.

Citigurl123@aol.com.
It's for realz, but don't email me... I never check my emails...