Cewebrity or not, we’ve already discussed the fact that I’m a dork. I sang in an a cappella group in college, I covet strange tecno-gadgets, I think Dodgeball is a fun way to meet up with people, and I write for not one, but two blogs (this one and Gothamist Food). But there’s one more morsel of dorkiness hidden in my past — I went to and worked at a music and arts camp for about six years. Yep — band camp. The Aaron Copland Music and Arts Program (or ACMAP, as we all call it) was a county-run music and arts camp in North Salem, NY. You had to audition or submit a portfolio to get in, and we spent a significant portion of our days rehearsing and polishing our crafts — drama, singing, painting, dancing — you name it. Like any six-week overnight camp filled with 13 to 18 year olds, it was also a blast. I had many of my “firsts” there, like my first french kiss, and the first time I realized that a friend was not worth losing over a guy. That friend, like many others I made there, are still part of my life to this day, and so it was with great anticipation that I went to our ACMAP reunion this past weekend.

Gary & Jen, a couple who actually met at camp and later got married, held a barbecue at their house up in Westchester. It was wonderful to see so many people, some of whom I hadn’t seen in easily a decade, if not more. We came to the shocking realization that, for many of us, our first year at camp was twenty years ago. Twenty years!! Good lord. We got to share stories, engage in revisionist history regarding the stolen van, meet people’s kids, and hear through the grapevine where our fellow ACMAP-ers have ended up. Gary and Jen now have a daughter, who is already forbidden from attending overnight camp. “We know what goes on at camp — she’ll never go!”

You can see the rest of the pictures here. And if you’re a long-lost ACMAP person — shoot me an email!

* Blatantly stolen from American Pie. And no, I didn’t do that at band camp.

As a single woman, I have several well-meaning friends (most of whom are in couples) who, from time to time, mention that they’d like to set me up with someone. Now, although I am currently feeling somewhat laissez-faire about dating, I always reply positively. Sure, I say, just let me know when. Great, they say, we’ll arrange brunch/cocktails/dinner.

Which never happens.

I’m sure my reaction to this is somehow tied in to my feelings about timing and scheduling in general, but I would be absolutely shocked if one of these “set-ups” actually came to fruition. It’s not that my friends don’t mean well. They do. And even my family has tried to get into the game (Laren, we just talked to the Goldbergs and their 35-year-old son who lives in New York is single — isn’t that fantastic?!). But what they don’t realize is that it does me absolutely no good to hear that there’s some random guy out there they know whose company I might enjoy. I’m sure there are at least a few. The difference between the specific guy that has been discussed and the absolute stranger, however, is that there is someone I know, the aforementioned friend or family member, who can actually make a phone call or send an email to increase the odds that the two of us may actually meet. We may or may not like each other — who knows? But the bottom line is this — you are in a position to have some degree of influence over the situation. It’s not that hard to pull together a handful of people to grab a cocktail on any given night. I do it all the time. But if you’re not willing or able to make it happen, don’t even bother mentioning it. You might as well be saying to me, hey Laren, there’s this really cool guy I know that you might like; perhaps the two of you will bump smack into each other on a streetcorner one day. Yes, I respond, perhaps we will. There are only a few million people in Manhattan. I’ll keep my eye out for him.