As my parents climbed back into their car, preparing to leave Brandeis campus, on Aug. 25 2002, my mother turned to me and asked, "So you think you can handle New England?" Being the cocky teenager I was (and probably still am), I rolled my eyes and told her, "Of course." She just laughed and promised me that soon I would realize what a southern girl I really am.I hate it when parents are right.

Now, let me explain something. When I say I'm a southern girl, I'm not really a southern girl. Maryland, by southern standards, is about as northern as you get. If you drive out to the farthest reaches of the state, you will find people wearing Confederate Flag belts and speaking in southern accents. Where I live, Bethesda, however, is only ten minutes outside of the Washington D.C. line. We are officially in the "D.C. Metro Area," which means that not only do we not get to really be part of Maryland, but we also get our own Metro stop.

Therefore, it's pretty easy to say that Waltham was a complete shock to me.

It didn't shock me because it's a smaller town by the standards I'm used to. And not because people have heavy Boston accents that catch me off-guard. Really, it's because New England is something that I am not, and for which I nverwas prepared.

Let's start with the biggest problem as I see it. New England, why do you close at midnight?

Yes, four in the morning is usually a pretty dead time of the day (er, or night). Not a lot of people are out, as a rule. But what about those of us who actually like to be out at dawn? How exactly are we supposed to get around? The gas stations are closed, and the traffic lights don't actually blink, so you get stuck at two-hour red lights when all you really want to do is get where you're going.

And do you notice that I'm talking about driving? Why am I driving at four in the morning? Where is your public transportation, New England? Why does the T close at 12:45 a.m. on weekends? Maybe New York and DC spoiled me, but the earliest I'm used to being "stranded" in a city is three in the morning. Life in Boston stops as soon as the a.m. hours come a-knockin'! Boston, I promise you, there is life after midnight and it's actually quite fun.

Some of the best nights I've had involve wandering around a city or sitting in a diner at five in the morning, drinking coffee and talking about things that may or may not make sense, depending on how tired my friends and I are. In fact, at home there's a diner I practically live in where they literally know my name and have coffee on the table without my even asking for it. And it's not because I'm special or because I've earned any special treatment - why bother asking if I want coffee if I'm in there three times a day and ordering coffee all three times? The Tastee Diner isn't just a place where I grab lunch; it's my second home. And it never, ever closes.

Why do New England diners close? And so early?

Maybe it's the cold. But that's another question I have for you, New England: Where did autumn go?

Oh sure, you have the trees that turn all those pretty colors. In fact, trees are the only part of autumn you really have. Because autumn does not mean 70 degrees on Tuesday and 30 degrees on Wednesday! But somehow, that is exactly how you do it, New England, and I can't take it anymore.

What happened to my wonderful Maryland days of 50 degrees in October, strolling around and jumping in leaf piles? What happened to the first frost? There's no first frost in New England; there's a first blizzard! I need warning in my life. I need that little hint of chill that's my indicator that winter is around the corner, NOT a two foot drop of snow or sudden 30-below wind-chill. I need warning before I put snow tires on my car.

And cars. Oh, New England, I can see your love affair with cars. But for an area that loves to drive them so much, where in God's name did you learn how to drive?

I believe in lane lines. I believe in turn signals. I believe in braking before you get into an accident! I avoid driving in Boston like I avoid the plague, because I don't trust a single car around me. I cannot count the number of accidents that I've seen just barely missed, right before my eyes. And no matter who almost hits who, there's always an entertaining round of curse words following the near-miss.

And lanes! My God, define your lanes! Decide in advance when you want to be one-way! I beg of you, New England, because I need to know if I can turn beforeI try to, thanks. And please, tell me if I'm going to be turning onto a highway. I have never in my life seen so many highways in one place. I am thoroughly convinced that every route, every interstate and even those dinky local highways that aren't really highways, all converge at this location in the country for reasons that I simply cannot determine. And you are trying to get me to drive on them. All. The. Time.

I am not a southern girl. You will not hear a charming accent leave my lips any time soon, and I'm not about to put on a bell skirt. No debutante parties for me, and I'm not going to put on country music, ever. But I willbow my head to the pillar of wisdom that is my mother and admit to this: New England, you have me completely bewildered.