I'm not one to strictly quote song lyrics, but I heard this on "Grey's Anatomy" last night and was just stunned by it. With that, the episode's storylines and the fact that I've developed an absurd television character crush on George (then again, who hasn't?) I was done for the moment the episode started. This was the final kick in the ribs, if you will, at episode's end.

Kendall Payne
"Scratch"

It's a big girl world now
Full of big girl things
And everyday I wish I was small
I've been counting on nothing
But he keeps giving me his word
And I am tired of hearing myself speak
Do you ever get weary?
Do you ever get weak?
How do you dream
When you can't fall asleep?

I've been wondering what you're thinking
And if you like my dress tonight?
Would you still say you love me
Under this ordinary moonlight?
I'm so afraid of what you'll say.

I'd like to know if you'd be open
To starting over from scratch
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To giving me a second chance

I used to think I was special
And only I have proved me wrong
I thought I could change
The world with a song
But I have ended up in India
With no lamp to guide me home.
The strangest place I think
I have ever been
And all this time
I thought that we were friends
My stubborn will is learning to bend.

I'd like to know if you'd be open
To starting over from scratch
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To giving me a second chance

I'd like to know if you'd be open
To starting over from scratch
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To giving me a second chance

It's a big girl world now
Full of big girl things

Let's do the math, shall we?

3: Number of Red Sox Fenway Park games (at this moment) I will be attending this season, barring the opportunity to purchase Green Monster/Yankees tickets.
10: About how many hours my computer was logged into the Red Sox Virtual Waiting Room.
30: Number of seconds that passes before the Red Sox Virtual Waiting Room refreshes.
1200: Number of times, using the previous two numbers, my spot in the Red Sox Virtual Waiting Room refreshed.
36,298: Number of people who can fit into Fenway Park (circa 2004).

And the kicker:
0: Number of ticket purchase opportunities provided to me for any of the Baltimore Orioles games at Fenway.

So, looking at the math, some loved ones and I decided to throw an X factor in. We created our own math, if you will.

1: Number of games at Baltimore's Camden Yards I will attend this season.
3: Number of days spent on late summer/early autumn baseball-prompted trip to Baltimore/D.C.

If Boston won't let me join the party when Millar rolls back into town, I'm going to be part of the Baltimore party when the Red Sox roll into town.

I'll update this with more explanation after my brunch and mimosas...

When you follow a baseball team - or any professional team, really - and you buy a specific player jersey or t-shirt, who you pick says a great deal about who you are.

Since I follow the Red Sox, I inevitably spend time at Fenway games examining the sociological nature of that particular team and its fans.

Tek, Trot or - tear - Mueller: you appreciate the hard-working, silent types. You're a fan of the ones who do their jobs and don't necessarily shy away from the spotlight when it's thrust upon them, but are most content focusing on the task at hand. You admire players who eat dirt on a daily basis, take the extra swings or fielding practice when it's available and grit their teeth when they're training on their own time. You know that hard work speaks for itself. You like your beer, you know your stats and you're the one likely to be calling out, "Tek. Buddy. I fuckin' love you, man!"

Schilling: you are the optimists. During the first half of the 2004 season, you were looking for something on which to focus your prayers, and you found it in the one man who promised you a miracle when he rolled into town. When the 2004 postseason rolled around, you were the ones crying happy tears into your beers (you like it, too) as you saw the bloody sock because you KNEW that there was no way this kind of sacrifice would go unrewarded. You also doubled in population after the World Series, but I hardly fault you for that. You may or may not be Republican. Just saying.

Ortiz: you note the importance and joy of a single swing, therefore you cherish the little moments in life. You cherish strength, and you adore it most when it's coupled with a face-breaking smile and what would certainly be bone-crushing hugs. You also, coincidentally, enjoy jumping up and down when you celebrate. Odds are good that you probably have a passion for spices, particularly when found in salsa.

Manny: you just want to win. You also can show passive-aggressive tendancies. You rail and complain with the rest when your player seems to shirk his duties, but you're the first to say "I told you so" when he steps back up to the plate, figuratively speaking. You tend to point a lot.

He-Who-Used-To-Be-Johnny-Damon/Bronson Arroyo: You are most likely female. You may, in fact, support your player with a shirt that features "Mrs." before his surname. You like pink, it seems, and may be most likely to sport the pale pink Red Sox hats that make me cringe every time I see them on your heads (sorry. True. Team colors are, if anything, red and blue. Accept it. Wear it. Move on). But most importantly, you enjoy the sparkle factor that baseball can provide. It's not all about winning to you - it's about being in the park or watching the game and focusing on the fun involved. Of course you want the team to win, but how can you keep your mind strictly on that when you have a slow motion shot of Damon's hair swaying as he runs, or that delicious ass so cruely kept from all but the bleacher or Monster Seat fans for so much of the game...yeah, you know what I mean. Haha. Yeah you do.

I mention this - in a mostly tongue in cheek manner - because tickets for most of Boston's season are going on sale tomorrow. And while I'd of course be overjoyed at the prospect of attending any game, I'm going to be waiting in the virtual waiting rooms of gloom at 9 a.m. tomorrow morning with one particular game in mind, and a backup plan of two particular series.

Because, as I believe I've stated here before (only a million times or so), when I invested in my first (and thus far only) Red Sox player t-shirt, I went for the one who made me laugh. I cheered most loudly for the one who wasn't perfect, but who made his team stronger with his imperfections. Who played wherever Terry told him to play because he just wanted to be out there. The one who was on the proverbial chopping block for a huge portion of the season but still managed to pull out a two-home run evening because he cared so much. And who, until the very end, hoped with every bone in his body that he would be able to stay in the city - and with the team - he loved.

I bought a Millar shirt. And tickets for two out of the three Baltimore series go on sale tomorrow. I want to go to the first Baltimore game for which tickets are available (first series sold out before Millar was signed to the Orioles), and I want to wear my Millar jersey to Fenway one more time.

(And, for those who might be curious: Who will my favorite Red Sox player be this season? If I buy another player shirt, whose name will be on the back? I'll gladly toast a beer with the members of the first group I psychoanalyzed. O captain, my captain.)

We interrupt your Friday afternoon for an announcement of extraordinary importance:

I'm going to see Jenny Lewwwwwwwwwwiiiiiiiisssss, Jenny Lllllleeeeewwwwwwwiiiiiissssss, the indie priiiiiiiiincesssssss, Jenny Lllllleeeewwwwwwwwwiiiiiiiiiiisssssssss.

Longtime readers know of my longtime appreciation for Ms. Lewis and her little band that done blew up and got big, Rilo Kiley. And astute readers who took note of my emphatic recommendations (or, actually, anyone who reads magazines or music websites) will probably know that Lewis released a solo album this week with the Watson Twins, titled "Rabbit Fur Coat."

Admittedly, I've been somewhat lax and have yet to pick up the album, but am planning on doing so soon.

And, thanks to Massachusetts operatives (who shall remain nameless despite the fact that any astute reader would know precisely to whom I refer), I have a ticket with my name on it (figuratively speaking) for the March 17 show at The Somerville Theatre.

Which, the most astute of astute readers might realize, is the location at which I attended my first Rilo Kiley performance.

This, really, is worthy of a "Yay" and perhaps a quick clap of the hands. But since I've done a somewhat lousy job of updating this space over the last couple of weeks, I decided to provide a little more content.

Besides, Jenny's great. She's worth a little extra space.

There is a lattice of sorts near the back door of my apartment, one I don't pay much attention to in winter.

In summer, even early autumn, that's a different story. The flower box on the ground in front of this partial wall blooms with a number of different kinds of greenery, depending on the month. First, tall shoots of green. Yellow flowers almost reminiscent of daffodils - but not quite - that appear in June and continue through early July, replaced at that point by orange flowers, for which I've substituted knowledge of their name with multiple photographs of their color.

When autumn arrives, however, I lose patience. Just gray lattice-work, without anything particularly stunning - gravel - to see through the carefully orchestrated holes in the wood.

Tonight, the snowfall and the wind have teamed up to create a perfect little pattern on the lattice. Each diamond of open space filled with just the right amount of snow, creating a gray and white pattern against the dark sky that makes me think, for just a moment, that the winter scene is fully intended to be seen strictly in monochromatic shades.

Peaceful. Quiet. Nice.

This is a problem.

I'm sitting in the third row of foldout chairs within UVM's Ira Allen Chapel on Friday night, savoring every agonizing instant of the most heart-wrenching rendition of "I Saw" I've ever heard. Matt Nathanson is standing before me, cast in blue and pink sidelighting, speak-singing the words with helpless shrugs and a broken voice that adds even more devastation to the song - something I didn't think was possible, considering some of the previous versions I've heard. From the sounds of things, I'm witnessing Matt's soul shattering right in front of me.

And I am crying. Not the all-out Cliched Girl Sobbing At the Rock Show kind of heaving sobs; I am happy to report that I have never been, nor would ever be, That Girl.

(My musical history has proven that in most cases, I'm a sigher. Not a crier.)

But there are a pair of embarrassingly bright eyes attached to my face, and they're full of all the tears except one, which has slipped out and fallen down my right cheek. I'm absurdedly aware of its presence, and I'm blinking like mad to prevent any other stray tears from giving me away.

What do I do? I can't reach up and wipe the tear away, because I don't want my friends to see that I'm a sap (despite the fact that they know it to be the case). And Matt can see me from this spot, and I certainly don't want him to catch me crying, because I don't want him to believe That Girl is in the third row of his show. But I can't let it stay there, burning a trail down my face because it's presence is all I can think about as he sings the song. It's distracting me and bothering me at the worst possible moment.

Left with no other possible courses of action, I lean down to move the purse that rests at my feet. As I do so, I take a quick swipe at my face. But Beth catches the maneuver, and I catch her catching me. I look up quickly, eyes just as obnoxiously watery.

Damn him and the decision to avoid the usual ironic musical composition. He's normally the master of coupling despondent lyrics with upbeat instrumentation and, likewise, drenching optimistic lyrics with melancholy chords. I often laugh about how he does so because he realizes the brutal intensity of his talent.

But here he is, with "Sad Songs," perpetuating the emotion with a straightforward and beautiful approach, making me cry and, likewise, making me realize that I love attending his shows. I adore knowing that I'm going to ruin any little videos or concert calls I make with the sound of my laughter coming through on the audio track. I enjoy the opportunity to be encouraged - nay, commanded - to belt out Journey songs at the top of my lungs. I look forward to the opportunities to hear entirely new songs, slightly older songs revised since last time or the familiar material of which my friends and I know nearly every nuance.

But I also have to realize that I have been waiting for weeks for the opportunity to have spent money for a few moments of feeling absolutely, brilliantly miserable. And that I'm loving each moment of it because it's the closest thing to a singer-songwriter completely reliving a moment or sharing an experience with an audience found playing in venues today. Agony, compassion, disbelief and all.

That and, well, that he'll start talking about MTV's new Ashley Parker Angel show and get me laughing all over again.

Burlington: The New Boston? You be the judge.

Matt Nathanson, Melissa Ferrick, Syd, Tristan Prettyman, Ben Taylor Band and, the most delightful of all proverbial icings on the cake, Ryan Montbleau Band. All before this point next month. Most within a short walking distance of my home.

It's not that I haven't wanted to get down to Massachusetts; it's just that there's so damn much going on up here that I can't help but stick around and revel in it.

I feel good. Grand, even. There are good shows and good friends with which to partake in the musical goodness. A number of local fitness centers are offering free use of their facilities for a week, starting today, so I'll be able to cue up the iPod in a different environment to get my regular endorphin rush (a change of scenery from that usually provided by the trusty treadmill will be nice). While I know winter will come back with a vengeance, it's warm and relaxing outside. There are things to do, people to see and plans to put into motion.

Cue up some James Brown, friends. 'Cause that's how good I feel.

***
The excitement is flooding into my friends' and my inboxes. We're all pretty giddy.

"it's MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTYYYYYYYY DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYY!"

After the brief concert haitus that began after The Mister Vertigo/Tides/Chad show in Boston last month, I'm ready to rejoin the audiences and file into venues.

And what a way to start. Nathanson. My favorite of the singer-songwriters to see live.

(A bold statement, I know, but I believe it to be quite accurrate, when I consider the available pool of songsters.)

I've been listening to live Matt all morning, singing along to the songs and wondering what the hell he's going to pull upon taking the stage tonight.

And I've been counting down the hours.

V: Know what's sad?
B: What's sad?
V: So last night, I'm getting ready to go to sleep, but I realize I kind of want to talk to him. And say, "How am I? Funny, that you ask, really. Desired, apparently. Yes, someone thinks I'm fabulous and told me so. And he isn't you. Even thought I've wanted you to tell me that for how long now??? The answer, if you're too stupid to pick up on it, is: longer than I care to admit. Is there anything you'd like to tell me?" But what I'd really say is something more along the lines of "Um, hi. Just wanted to say hi because I was, uh, thinking of you just now, how you doing?"
B: [laughing] Oh...that's harsh.
V: No. Harsh is reminding myself that I'd just get voicemail. "Hi, you're an idiot, why do you suck? Mmmkay, call me back. Bye."

I can't help but laugh. This date, a year ago:

Odd that I'm thinking of tomorrows today, during a day in which I've had yesterdays consistently thrown my way...

...But that's the point, isn't it? To have and remember moments - with the whole idea of learning and growing and, I daresay, maturing from them. That's why you keep on waking up and it's why I keep on writing after I open my eyes.

Oh, V. You foolish girl. Funny, how things can look so different in the context a year provides.

But, I'm pleased to report, the learning/growing/maturing aspect? Apparently I knew what I was talking about...

In other news. Golden Globes last night. Charlize Theron and Ellen Pompeo, fire your stylists. Immediately. Start asking around about who Keira Knightley has working for her.

Trust me on this one, mmmkay?

When the weekend rolls around and Mother Nature decides to throw a 50-degree-variable curveball your way (that is, balmy turns to freezing right before it's time to solidify nightlife plans), there comes the need for a little soul-searching.

Do you brave it, with the hopes of huddling among others in a drafty bar and striking up conversation with an intriguing stranger? Do you brave the roads to attend that out-of-town party to which you were invited? Or do you bunker in, curled up with blankets and snacks?

I opted for a run to the grocery store, multiple DVD rentals and a maple latte. Any stranger with whom I might like to chat would likewise stay home, if he had any sort of common sense. And I didn't feel like challenging the fates with another party venture on the icy highways.

Which means my hot dates for the weekend were Brad Pitt, Adam Brody, Sean William Scott, Johnny Knoxville and John Cusack. Rawr.

What can I say? A girl's got to keep warm.

Sometimes it feels good to just let myself recharge - to lounge around on floor or on couches with the flatmates, watch dumb movies and see C smirk as B and I aw or laugh in unison precisely when the Hollywood head honchos hoped we would (because we are Those Girls). Stay up until I'm tired and sleep until I'm refreshed. With a break early Saturday to help move a couch (a test of female independence that left me feeling victorious Saturday, sore as hell Sunday), and another early yesterday afternoon to get my running-prompted endorphin fix, relaxation was the word.

And it felt pretty damn glorious.

So take that, Mother Nature. Go ahead. Throw what you will at me whenever you want to. I'll still make the most of it.

Actually, as it's 9 degrees outside right now, let me rephrase. Mother Nature, gently toss in my direction whatever you want to.

Yeah, that's right.

File under "Inspiration ala Sylvia."

I need Plot: people growing: banging into each other and into circumstances; stewpot citizens: growing and hurting and loving and making the best of various bad jobs.

I have never found anyone who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I gave.

Life has been some combination of fairy-tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning.

I retreat and revel in poetry and literature where the reward value is tangible and accepted. I really do not think deeply, really deeply. I want a romantic nonexistent hero.

Let me live, love and say it well in good sentences.

Would it be too childish of me to say: I want? But I do want: theater, light, color, paintings, wine and wonder.

Can a selfish egocentric jealous and unimaginative female write a damn thing worthwhile?

It is sad to be able only to mouth other poets. I want someone to mouth me.

There are obvious advantages to the January thaw. As a reformed skiier (that is, I don't) and a could-be boarder (that is, I've never had much desire to brave the cold to try), and a strong proponent for winter hibernation (that is, everything I need to do, including exercise, can be done inside until the temperature rises), I love seeing the green grass and walking outside with scarves serving only as fashion acessories. Being able to stand outside a nightspot destination without losing feeling in my fingers or toes makes me happy - choosing a hot caffeinated beverage for its aromatic appeal more than the need to warm up is a perk.

On a quick walk downtown early this afternoon, I added another item to my mental list of things I like about unexpected winter warmth.

A busker. A BUSKER! Perched on a small staircase on College Street, a fedora on his head, a turquoise electric guitar strapped to his chest. A small amplifier on the sidewalk, piping out blues riffs and jazzy licks.

I don't usually see electric buskers around these parts, even during the summer months. It all tends to be acoustic on Church Street, and no one seems to dare attempt to take over the pan flute man's territory on the waterfront. So Burlington blues are rare outside the occasional club gigs.

But it was perfect for the feel of the day. The drip-drop melt of what little snow remained, gray skies and bare trees. Yet the pedestrian desire to be outside, to establish contact with the world during what normally would be a day of hiding from others inside. The blues - melancholy yet vivid as they bounce and echo off the gray and brick building walls. And the splash of color provided by a old-school turquoise and white color-schemed guitar.

I hope he picked up the huge smile that was sent his way from beyond the cars and across the street.

OK. Question for the night (or day, for Friday readers):

Does Mighty Mouse count as a superhero in your books? I mean, maybe if you're talking Danger Mouse, because that little mouse was badass. And British.

I strongly maintain that there have never been enough British superheroes. Which is why I believe I give him the superhero greenlight over his American counterpart. Counter-rodent?

In other, in less head-scratching news, or rather, a shoutout: a big thank you from T Squared (that is, Team Trouble) to one P Squared, who provided the delightful, unexpected (but ever so appreciated!) surprise of the day. Thank you so much!

Yes. One really large maple latte. OK, fine. Maybe five. And, considering the feat of plunging into the lake, something will probably wind up being added into the latte(s) post-order. If I remember correctly, butterscotch schnappes works like a charm in hot espresso beverages...

Please note the link! CLICK ON ME!

In a month and a day, this relatively sane, rational woman will be jumping - well, running, really - into Lake Champlain.

A very, very cold Lake Champlain.

See, one of the things we Vermonters do up here during the winter - you know, besides ice fishing and hockey and most of the wintery things that I generally skip in favor of hot chocolate or lattes - is raise money for Special Olympics Vermont with the Penguin Plunge.

Basic premise: you get people to donate money for you to run into a cold lake after the powers that be actually clear through the ice to give you a place to plunge. It's cold, it's wacky and it's always something that I've laughed and shaken my head about.

Until this year, because I'm, well, doing it. A group of us are going to embrace the event with the mentality that "it's something you need to be able to say you did at least once in your life." And since I'm 25, it's not going to be enough of a shock to kill me.

In theory.

The other bonus is that it's for a good cause. The Special Olympics Vermont does, of course, a ridiculous number of amazing things each year; that I have a cousin who could come to benefit from everything the organization does makes it particularly personal.

My teammates and I have set up a donation page, where you can easily support our crazy venture from the comfort of your own home/office/coffeeshop. Please help out if you can - we'd greatly appreciate the help! As you can see on the page, we need to raise at least a total of $900 in order to take plugne.

You'll be rewarded with a standing invitation to watch the festivities, stories here about the experience, photographic evidence (there's no way I'm doing this and not getting it on film) and, most importantly, my thanks.

Years from now, I'll look back on these days wondering why I made such a big deal over such minor details.

Why things that will look frivilous in the subjective light of passed time matter now to the extent that they do; why I couldn't see that those who demand of me garish, bold-faced 82-point font would come to filter off to faded strokes of a long-whittled-away pencil on the margins of the page; that everything would work out the way it was supposed to.

That the main characters compiled in this living autobiography, those most vivid and grounded in non-fiction, are those that will come to dominate the chapters. They're simply there - imperfect, honest and fascinating as a result. These are the "I just called you to say hi"s and, "You. Me. Coffee"s and the "Hi. Get this"es.

That they're the ones I'll keep around; likewise they're the ones who'll keep me around. If they only for the sake of comedic relief. Heh.

Those that make absurd twist and turn cameos? They're the ones who will make exists just as hasty as their entrances.

I know this and I conveniently forget this from time to time so I can continue to learn and realize that, in the long run, I am learning from them and benefiting from the space that they dominated for a time.

And although I'm a cynic and although I've developed into a more wary version of the naive girl I once was, I know I'll have a happy ending.

Not because I necessarily believe in any fate or any destiny that takes the control from me and passes it off to some unseen beings or entities. But because the sensible (if fanciful, frazzled and a bit prone to overly-romantic flights of whimsy) head on my shoulders would make the decisions that came to matter when the time called for them.

And that I'll learn, in time, not to beat a metaphor to death. Or examine a metaphor when I should have just abandoned writing for the night and gone to sleep...

It always makes for an amusing conversation.

Some individuals - who happen to go by the monkiers of Mom and Dad - have a difficult time sometimes, understanding why precisely their eldest is so often found trapsing off to concerts by people I've seen before.

V? Where are you now? Boston? Montreal? New York? Some place somewhere in between? Who's playing this time?

With the discussions about this disconnect - when either of them decides to give the discussion another try - comes laughter about how I've "just seen" whoever I'm going to see.

One show is the same as any other, after all. Right?

Nathanson's in town in a little less than two weeks, his first show in the area since headlining the old Higher Ground in April '04, which was the first in the area since the Coffeehouse show in 2001.

Of course, the parentals would point out if they could keep track of the shows I've attended over the last several years (a task even I find daunting, and I'm the one who went to them), I've seen him numerous times between these Vermont stops. Endicott College (otherwise known as The Night of No PA), Corporate Mad Lib Pavillion (The Night We Skipped OAR and Left After Matt and Howie To Go See Tides), the Orpheum (The Night Before the Earliest Trip Home Ever) and the stint at Paradise (The Nights That Led To What I Did On My Music-Prompted Vacation).

So what's the big deal about seeing him again? What's the big deal about seeing anyone numerous times? Why do you do it, why do you put miles on your car and why do you look so damn forward to yet another show, V? Why?

This evening, during the Load Up the iPod process, I finally made my way over to archive.org to get some more live material. I started downloading one of the Matt Does Paradise shows, periodically pausing to listen to tracks and songs I'm looking forward to hearing again, in person, shortly.

Mom, Dad, other people scratching their heads: this is why.

One of these days, I'm going to burn a copy of a Matt show and just leave it for the folks so they can take a listen, with the hopes that they get it.

This absolutely gorgeous evening of music? I was there for it. I stood in the balcony with my friends and I witnessed this in person. Each little variable, each joke?

There are no exact replicas of shows.

OK, maybe if you're going to see Gavin DeGraw. In that case, I concede.

And the possibility of what every evening could bring, what songs could be dusted off the shelf and, likewise, what songs could make brand-new-to-me appearances?

This is why I go. And, in this case, why I'm going to be so pleased to be standing in the crowd in a couple of weeks.

In other news, I made my first homemade soup this evening. I am pleased to report that it is exceedingly delicious. So exceedingly delicious that I almost don't mind that the recipe said it would yield four servings, when in actuality, it yielded something more like 12.

Beth at one point asked me what I was doing, as I clanged around pots and pans.

"I'M CULINARYING, DAMMIT!"

I've been informed that I have a truly original cooking technique. I think that was Beth's way of saying I cook like an idiot.

But I say if I'm cooking in any manner, that's progress. And if the kitchen has yet to burn down or otherwise be destoryed in the process?

All the better.

"Look! It's so easy!" My friends laughed as my face grew red and I attempted to cover it with my hands. I'd become an impromptu game, nice and easy to play with.

Look, see what V does! All we have to do is say a name and she starts to blush and grin like a fool!

Apparently, I have a crush smile. A crush giggle. A crush all-out laugh. And a crush expression when I'm doing everything in my power - unsuccessfully, might I add - to repress any of the above. There's even a crush wrinkle of the nose when I'm trying to keep from smiling.

DAMMIT! I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO HAVE TO PUT UP WITH THIS!

Crushes. The classic love-'em-and-hate-'em. You don't want to have a crush. You hate having a crush. Think about it. It's called a crush because it winds up kicking the crap out of your heart. It's not a good thing. It's BAD.

So why is it, when you're doing all you can to forget that you have a crush that you don't want, when someone says the name OF your crush, you grin like an idiot?

That's right. It's because you are an idiot.

I mean, it should be the opposite way around. There should be a crush scowl. A crush grimace.

The smiles should be reserved for a boyfriend. A relationship. Something in which you are actually benefitting from the situation.

So why do I, despite knowing that this is a bad thing, knowing that it's just going to continue to frustrate me until this process of elimination I have begun is successfully completed, still wind up SMILING?!?!??!?!

I DO NOT HAVE A CRUSH, OK? I had a crush and I'm getting rid of it. Purging, if you will. Saying, "Dude, you're such an idiot, so stupid that I won't waste my time thinking about you."

Except for the random girls' night out when he comes up in conversation and I wind up hiding my face in my hands and giggling through my fingers.

I'm very much looking forward to the time when the mention of him doesn't ellict this kind of response. In the meantime, I can at least I know that I'm getting there.

I don't tend to make resolutions, and I refrained from proclaiming that I was turning over any kinds of leaves - new or old - as the minutes crept closer to midnight.

Instead, I focused on the things that were important - debating the acceptable spin techniques used in the foosball game I was playing, making sure the glass of champagne waiting for the new year did not take a late 2005 tumble off the foosball table and onto the floor, and the rounds of hugs and kisses that waited for the ball drop.

So I feel okay, saying that the plans I've decided to put into motion aren't the stereotypical, quickly-broken, much-loathed New Year's Resolutions.

They're largely little things. More I Think I Shoulds than It's A New Year So I Wills.

- Wake up earlier in the morning and allow self time to dance around to the "Start the Day Early" Mix (10 points if you get the reference) that pipes through my iPod speakers around 7:45 a.m. (Status check: Handled the early morning relatively well today. Thank you, Black Crowes, for "Hard to Handle.")

- Retreat to bedroom early enough to allow guilt-free reading time each evening - and to actually get through the pile of books amassed over the last month or so. (Status check: Chuckled my way through Havel's take on "The Beggar's Opera" last night. Now I tackle an already-started Meg Cabot chicklit, "The Dante Club" and finish my re-readings of "East of Eden" and "Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs.")

- Wear more of the jewlery made this fall. Make more. And mix it up. (Status check: Rocking two necklaces today, just because I can.)

- This ties into the previous one: look spunky, feel spunky, be spunky. (Status check: Just knowing that there's a Doors t-shirt on your body as you're being professional? How can you not feel good when you can pull that off?)

- Write something completely honest - for my eyes only - each day. (Status check: So far, so good.)

- Get back into the running I've been missing - and make my schedule work around it, not the other way around. (Status check: So far, so good.)

- Don't keep things to myself as much. Open up. Be more honest. (Status check: Working on it, although I admit that this one's going to take a bit more effort than wearing two necklaces.)

And, thanks to New Year's:

- Play more foosball. (Status check: Who's got a table?)

When you're young, your whole life is about the pursuit of fun, then you grow up and learn to be cautious; you could break a bone, or a heart. You look before you leap and sometimes you don't leap at all because there's not always someone there to catch you. And in life, there is no safety net. When did it stop being fun and start being scary?

You have to know when to quote, how and why. The situation, of course, dictates the genre, the show, even the character.

When savvy women of a certain disposition realize one of their inner circle of female friends is experiencing man trouble, it's clear. "Sex and the City."

STAT.

Now, given the proper circumstances and proximity, the course of action is obvious and executed quickly. Brunch. Mimosas or Bloody Marys, depending on the particular taste of those involved. A small group of women - ideally four or five - sitting together to eat a little, talk a lot and basically commiserate and remind the woman of the unfortunate hour that she is incredible/a goddess/better than the guy/going to wind up stronger in the end.

Also applicable: apartment convention with pizza or ice cream or alcohol (always sipped, never greedily consumed. More of an accessory than anything else).

It all winds up feeling very much like the show. Because dammit, you are among a group of independent, talented, vivacious women who deserve to be dazzled and loved. And because all the women involved can quote episodes effortlessly.

(Besides, if lovable, yet kind of crazy characters such as Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, even Samantha can wind up happy in the end, you know your odds in real life are awfully good.)

Sometimes, however, the situation arises in which proximity works against the group of goddesses. That is, close proximity isn't an option. And because a bruised ego or broken heart still warrants remedy when it's miles away, plan C comes into effect.

I started out a day hoping to be able to relay to friends that "I believe him to be very cute." I ended that day thinking to myself about how this perpetual Big-like-character (because let's face it, every woman has one) "wasn't a crush. He was a crash."

I didn't feel I had any particular right to be upset about it, as it was just a screwy kind of crush that had finally reached a turning point. Unfortunately, a turn away kind of point, but a point nonetheless. And, as I'd managed to narrowly escape making a jackass of myself in front of The Personal Big, I'd been quite fortunate. Nothing was given away. Ego still intact.

Right?

So there was no real need to walk down to the corner store to buy Ben & Jerry's, the course of action I was contemplating before I channeled my focus into cleaning - nay, significantly redecorating - my bedroom, writing, singing at the top of my lungs to music and otherwise trying to forget TPB entirely.

This is where the power of female friendship comes into play.

Realizing that the fact that not feeling as if I deserved to be upset sure as hell didn't change the fact that I was - I just wasn't owning up to the fact that I was - the e-comments came quickly. And branched off, so that we all ended up reminding each other of our general awesomeness.

"Later that day I got to thinking about relationships. There are those that open you up to something new and exotic, those that are old and familiar, those that bring up lots of questions, those that bring you somewhere unexpected, those that bring you far from where you started, and those that bring you back. But the most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you can find someone to love the you you love, well, that's just fabulous."

"What if Prince Charming had never shown up? Would Snow White have laid in that glass box forever? Or would she have gotten up, spit out the apple, gotten a job and a health care plan and moved on with her life?"

"i will not be the first one to speak. And if he never calls me again, i'll always think of him fondly. as an asshole."

"you have to figure ... if the world's fattest twins can find love, there's hope for all of us. somewhere out there is another little freak who will love us, understand us, and kiss our 3 heads and make it all better."

So. That said. Imagine that you're preparing to leave your laptop for a bit, having thought about it and determining that you're fine. You're imagining yourself seen in a slow-motion shot as you narrate over your movements, and you're laughing and alternately cursing Sarah Jessica Parker. You have to smile.

Because "you girls are the loves of her life, a guy is lucky to come in fourth."

Absurdity of a silent, now broken crush be damned. Because you knew this was coming and you know you've friends who get it. Friends who love you and a friend waiting in the kitchen, purse in hand, to head down to the corner store.

Because, while you don't realize it right at that moment, there's a pint of Chubby Hubby waiting to be picked up, laughed over, and brought home.

The devil's in the details.

It was all about the details during this venture to Massachusetts.

The turned shoulder in a social setting.
The last letter in a word that made me look up quickly from my phone.
The fact that M and I were fine after the accident - that the cars' occupants were much better than the sight of the cars would have indicated.
The angle in which our car slid off the icy road and down the embankment.
The perspective that angle gave us to watch the other car roll down the hill.
The hugs of relief that met us as we walked through the door into the New Year's Eve celebration several hours after we'd intended.
The fact that the hosts made sure everyone had a cup of champagne ten minutes before midnight.
The faces on those serenading my friends and I as we laughed ourselves to tears on the couch.
The smell of the caramel latte as T and I chatted in the coffee shop in Harvard Square.
That Elliott Smith was playing over the sound system.
And, yes, a detail that rendered details I'd thought of mentioning absolutely moot.

It just feels good to be home, to know that I'm going to be able to curl up beneath blankets in my bed and sleep.