We interrupt our regular posting for a very important announcement:

- Radiohead. US Summer Tour. I'm determined to finally see them live and am dorkily giddy about the prospect. Dates aren't up yet, so I'm going to have to keep on the lookout...

We now return to our regularly-scheduled Revelry:

Beth mentioned an instance from our senior year of college last night, and as we tried to remember the precise details of that evening, I realized I'd written about it at the time.

The details? Well, it involved a statue within our college's chapel. Keep in mind that we attended Catholic college. We were part of the Catholic tradition, albeit a very liberal interpretation, during years when students are stereotpyically cynical, smart-assed and questioning life and all that comes with it.

This means that students at my college wound up falling into one of three groups: 1) those who creatively (ableit good-naturedly) blasphemed, 2) those who came out of the closet (some not surprising, some an absolutel shock) OR 3) those who graduated more Catholic than when they came onto campus.

We were of that first group.

After finding the particular entry and bursting into laughter on multiple occasions (ah, the glory of having all the details right there), we found ourselves taking a trip down memory lane, laughing at what I'd written at the time. Random stuff we'd all but forgotten, but that rushed back with aid of my younger self.

3.22.2002

in odd coincidences that really make no sense...

driving back from my trip to the printer this morning, i drove past the 300s field and noticed a couple of birds that were startled off the road by my oncoming car. for some reason, i thought about when fabio was hit by a bird while riding a rollercoaster. i have no idea how the thought popped in my head, but there it was.

tonight, i was searching [entertainment news] and found a "celebrity birthday, did you know..." type of thing. and the three-year anniversary of fabio being hit in the face by the bird on the rollercoaster is this weekend.

????????

my thoughts exactly.

References to John Mayer and Howie Day before they were big and during their rises. The ever-necessary-in-college drunk posts, full of bad spelling and references to things I can't for the life of me remember now (and, of course, concluded with "I'm going to delete this in the morning," which means I most certainly wouldn't do any deleting). Crushes and romances, somewhat regular quirky updates and quotes from housemates that made us think of how different things are in retrospect.

V: "Wait. I actually went to the GYM during senior year? When did that happen? That must have been a one-time affair."
Beth: "Two-time affair! Let it be noted! On January 15, 2002, you and I worked out and kicked our asses!"

Beth: (reading out loud) I'm glad I wore the red sneakers. Smiley face. Valentine's Day didn't turn out so badly afterall.
V: HA! That's because I got a drunk dial. From Rhode Island. LAME!
B: HAHAHAHAHA
V: Sad thing? That's still the best Valentine's I've had. Hehehehehe.

Amazing to read that I celebrated my one-year blogging anniversary. That I couldn't picture life beyond college. That I felt old at 21.

Makes me wonder what I'm going to think of what I'm writing now, four years from now...

To be filed under either "Perfect Timing," "Wanderlust" or "...and then Everyone Else":

Ryan Montbleau Band will be back at Higher Ground on May 12. Which means a looong Friday night of music and dancing in Vermont.

This just impresses me infinitely. Of course I think the Burlington music scene is important, but it's outstanding to see that Ryan and the guys make such an effort to get to the area on a regular basis. It seems impossible, these days, for three months to go by without a show here. Which means I always manage to get a fix if Boston dates don't line up with my schedule; I always get to experience a different scene, different crowds, at Vermont shows even if I have or will get to a Boston gig.

Take a look at the band's schedule. Crazy. Apparently Ryan and company are incapable of staying in one place for too long (I know the feeling).

The timing works out brilliantly, I also must say. May 12 marks the night before I head down to Massachusetts to feel old and celebrate my brother's college graduation (Emerson dons the academic garb the following Monday). And the show happens to fall on the four-year anniversary of my own graduation.

That's the other part of the feeling old bit. But I'll be too busy dancing to think about it...

V: Hello?
Mom: Hey, good, you picked up.
V: I'd been planning on calling you, too. How surprised were you to hear the news?
M: Of...?
V: You haven't heard?
M: What are you talking about?
V: Bronson Arroyo.
M: What about him?
V: He was traded.
M: WHAT?
V: I KNOW!
M: Where?
V: Cincinnati.
M: Why?
V: For Pena.
M: Why?
V: I know! I don't know!
M: When did this happen.
V: Today. I didn't believe it 'til I saw it in print.
M: Wow. (Calls out, away from phone) They traded Bronson...Bronson...BRONSON. ARROYO. Red Sox.
Dad: (muffled) WHAT?
V: I KNOW!

It's not that I've never been organized, but that no one else could easily see the method to my madness.

I've always been creatively organized.

So does the neatness and clearly recognizable organization demonstrated these last few weeks signify boring/mundane/lemming organization?

The transition has been relatively smooth, although a few roadblocks have popped up from time to time. The realization that I just can't organize the clothes by where I would wear them because that leaves a random empty half-drawer where the "mostly casual, but perhaps professionally-permissable" is, or I know, Beth, it IS weird, but I just couldn't stand the thought of not getting this laundry taken care of and put away when I have the time to do it, and then I decided to hang up my scarves and reorganize a tiny bit.

But it always comes back to the same thing, whether the organization is creative or not. This morning, I put my "Look, I'm thinking ahead" breakfast/snack yougurt into my backpack, into which I'd placed my running gear the night before. I put my iPod in its proper place. My cell phone tucked away into the new, superbitchin, dark teal messenger-bag-purse-love-child bag I bought myself this weekend.

Coat on. Sunglasses brought along, just in case. Ready to walk out the door.

Where the hell are my keys?

Snippets from a suspended Saturday

Wanderlust prevails! My day was a giant, meandering pedestrian lap, precisely what I'd hoped for but thought too demanding to request.

It started at the Common; ended there, too. Although I use the term "day" with a loose, artistically licensed hand, as I'm compiling my scrawled snippets in Central Square, aided by a latte during the final business hours at 1369.

(Got a problem with my desire for symetry tweaking with time? It's my story, so suck it. Tee hee.)

I'm sitting on a marble seat at Downtown Crossing, waiting for the Red Line to swoop in and whisk me off to Central Square. I just got my fix of roasted almonds - or the scent of them, anyway, which is all I desired.

I never go out of my way to pass by the vendor, but it's a pleasant turn of each trip to Boston. I think time here would feel a bit incomplete without an intake or two of the smoky sweet air laced with salt.

(This moment, as always, has been sponsored by H&M.)

I've come into the city on my own this morning, having advised Michelle to sleep in and recharged her overworked and exhausted head. But it was a partially selfish move, I have to admit. I enjoy the chance to strike out on my own. Independence provides me the luxury of not worrying about the need to be considerate, no matter how accommodating my companions happen to be; I've the chance to walk playfully within the lines of the red paint road provided by the Freedom Trail and not feel too goofy or juvenile.

I also can let my feet bounce in time the private Counting Crows concert being performed into my ears. I danced a bit as I made my way up Temple Street. Why? Because I could.

***
"And the price of a memory is the memory of the sorrow it brings."
- ADuritz

***
Now, my train speeds travelers and I up high above the Charles, the sparkle of blue that keeps Boston and Cambridge at a comfortably cordial distance. The skyline extends behind me, the city working the kinks of a St. Patrick's Day hangover out of its system. I've been smiling knowingly at the lack of typical Saturday crowds, imagining the lines at diners and restaurants, where bleary-eyed patrons seek relief in Bloody Marys and mimosas...

***
"She sees shooting stars and comet tails, she's got heaven in her eyes, she says, 'I don't need to be an angel, but I'm nothing if I'm not this high...'"
- AD

***
My coffee cup is orange. It matches every fourth stripe in my sweater, the sleeves of which are pushed up as I sit with the sun to my back, the barista area stretched out before me, past the counter at which I'm perched.

I never come to this coffeeshop as often as I should. A double injustice, really, as the staff hooks me up. "You don't pay here."

I also don't drink anything less than divinity in a paper cup here, so it seems.

***
I can't tell you how far we walked.

"We're not going anywhere in particular. You know that, right? That's cool?" We left the Middle East and turned onto a side street, our hands both tucked into jacket pockets.

"That's great. Perfect." Cambridge ended back at the Charles. Over the BU bridge, down Commonwealth. We wandered through the open arches I want to investigate each time I drive up this road, Paradise-bound. Through Kenmore. Down some other random series of streets. Hang a right, hook up with Newbury and walk past the shops. Another turn.

Across the street from the convention center, he pointed out The Foggy Goggle, a pub that now occupies space formerly reserved for the Odinero. I'd asked about the Odinero more than a decade earlier, as we stood in line outside Hynes, waiting for All-Star weekend festivities. Think of it this way: two clocks. OdinerO. A blonde moment that became family legend.

Past the Pru. Past Copley. Down to the Common and Arlington, where he hopped onto the T - hours after our adventure began - and I turned back to return to the Pru and my impending Sephora meetup with Michelle.

I know that everyone - or, at least, the fortunate ones - boast about their siblings. Discuss how amazing they are. I would never be one to dispute their claims.

But this has proven, without a doubt, that I am sister to the best of the best, who just happens to be one of my favorite people on the planet.

Sorry, that's just how it is. Rest of you will have to learn to accept it.

***
To be filed under "Why yes, you do want to kiss me":

My lips now taste and smell like mimosas. Hello.

***
Postscript: To sit down and talk writing - to really talk writing - is rare. So I sipped my latte slowly as Michelle and I sat, open notebooks in front of us, and discussed the writing process.

Get into your head at the same time that you get out of it. Just write it. You'd better read it to me later.

Before I knew it, the chairs were stacked and it was time to return to the car and the journey home.

I cued up some Counting Crows...

Walking through an office building hallway this morning, Beth and I were still singing the chorus to "Since U Been Gone," as it had been playing in the house as we prepared for our days.

Note to self: when rounding a corner, realize one could be approaching in the opposite direction and take in the vocal performance. I got a big smile and, I have a feeling, some chuckles after I passed. Awesome. I didn't care. It was a fun start to the day.

Speaking of days...Happy St. Patrick's! One of my favorite holidays, thanks to the Irish in my blood and a love of the color green.

It was strange, walking up the street this morning and seeing a void of people...my senior year of college's St. Patrick's was ridiculous. Lines down the block by watering holes, full of my classmates (and I - hello, RiRa's) well before doors opened at 9...

...not at all related, the college decided to rearrange schedules the year after I graduated, so spring break just happened to coincide with St. Patrick's. Hmm. Wonder why. Pity.

In honor of the occasion, I'll redirect you to a song a chum wrote a couple of years ago to mark the day. The little ditty is known as "Green Kegs and Spam."

Here's to hoping that you and yours have a wonderful holiday. Be safe and have fun!

I think I'll go to Boston, I think I'll start a new life, I think I'll start it over, where no one knows my name. I think -

"A problem, V." Beth looks over at me from her cross-legged spot on my floor, where she perched when I told her I had to play a song for her (for the sake of accurracy, it should be noted that the request came out something like, "Sookay you reeeeeally have to hear this song already because it's soooooo good, okay, I won't spoil it for you, come here!"). I was stretched on top of my bed, mouthing along to the lyrics.

"'Where no one knows my name' wouldn't exactly work out for you in Boston."

Hmm. My last venture to the city came back to me and I chuckled. Duly noted. "But, um, still. It's a cool song, don't you think..."

We nodded our heads as the piano melody resumed its trickle through the soundsystem speakers.

***

Date, location, time. No words of invitation necessary for either party in the conversation.

I love this sense of informality. We both know I'll do what I can to be there; we also know that if I don't, there will be a next time soon. Because I'm always making my way back into town, I'm as regular a fixture as one can be, considering where I call home. This isn't technically my town, but that's mere technicality. Formality, if you will.

I'm relieved that we see no reason for formalities.

***

The strange sort of dynamic between Boston and myself reared its head yesterday evening. I was figuring out who I should call, with whom I should try to spend some time, what I'd like to do, what I haven't seen or done in awhile.

It proved to be a longer list than I would have realized. Family, friends, restaurants, shops, shows (the question: one or two?), activities. A trip to the gym? Time for the lattes and writing planned for Tthe Mary/Rhoda Summit? Bowling? Brunch with mimosas?

I'm only going to wind up doing half of what I'd like to do. The rest will go back into the shuffle for next time. As is usually the case.

Oh, Boston - you and yours. I never have enough time with you. You're not where I am, but you're filled with pieces of what I am. I'm always trying to touch base, check in, laugh with and otherwise connect with those pieces that go through their daily routines about two hundred miles away from me.

You haven't been a particularly restful destination for awhile now. Instead, you're a sort of second, suspended reality. And one I've wound up neglecting these past several months.

I'm definitely feeling the crunch to catch back up. Fortunately, you know I always wind up getting bored when I'm trying to relax, so I know I'm going to have a good time.

A Request:

I'm looking for new music. After the success that was a friend's recommendation to check out Augustana (hello, I'm hooked. If you haven't taken a listen, check out "All the Stars and Boulevards." I am particularly - and predictably, I suppose - infatuated with "Boston."), I realized it was time to again load up the iPod with a playlist of "New People To Listen To."

(Yes, I've had such a playlist in the past. The results were appropriately mixed between big hits and big misses.)

As I'll be traveling to the land of my favorite music store (Newbury Comics) this weekend, I'll have the opportunity to pick up some new things.

So what should those things be? I'm thinking both in the box - the tastes I've documented ad nauseum here - and outside...I think some new styles would be much appreciated.

In related news, a couple of shows to bring to people's attention for this weekend, while I'm off taking in Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins (tickets are still available, last I heard - Somerville Theatre, Friday night):

- Burlington: Ben Lee, Friday night, Higher Ground.
- Boston: Tides, Saturday night, Bill's Bar, Lansdowne Street.

I think the hints of spring are starting to get to me.

Despite knowing that the temperature is taking a nosedive as I write this, despite being completely aware of the fact that winter has at least one, probably more like two, punches waiting to deliver onto my face or into my stomach (because winter certainly likes a sucker punch), I'm feeling giddy. Grand. Groovy.

Just great.

I'm trying to leave things behind me, to blossom anew in time with the trees and the flowers. I know this metamorphosis is only a few weeks away, and I'm counting down the days - nay, I'll actually go with the minutes - until I get the chance to do so.

In the meantime? I'm just feeling great.

I realized yesterday that April is going to flash by with lightning tempo, as I took a look at the schedule and tentative calendar of approaching events and noted just how packed things are going to be. This city-town in which I live continues to surprise me with the lineup of people gracing local stages - April is boasting Charlotte Martin, Bushwalla, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!, Stephen Kellogg & the Sixers with Pat McGee Band, and Matt Nathanson (we'll ignore that whole "opening for Lifehouse" bit).

I'm a month and a day away from my first Red Sox game of the season. Augustana's playing in Montreal, and I think I want to make the trip for the show. I'll be continuing the running I've become a big fan of (and resumed this week, as the lingering effects of The Winter Cold v2.0 have finally rid themselves from me), and I'll be able to resume treadmill time with a NESN Red Sox soundtrack. I'll feel more compelled to wander around places when it's warmer.

It's all so close I can nearly taste it. And it tastes like iced caramel lattes and Great Harvest's hot cross buns.

So tantalizingly close...

OK. So. Rock for a Remedy. You've read about it before, and perhaps you've seen RFAR volunteers' smiling faces at food drives pimped out by the artists the organizations knows and loves so dearly. You know that I helped out with a few of the drives last year, during the short Guster run, and you might know that I got a little hooked on the amazing rush that comes with seeing how much people can do when everyone helps out, even just a little.

As Guster preps for the Campus Consciousness Tour, RFAR is also preparing - as the organization is going to be rocking food drives at most of the tour dates.

KJ, RFAR extraordinaire and good friend to yours truly, is seeking the assistance of some dedicated, energetic, committed volunteers willing to step up to the plate and help out with drives. I can tell you that it's fun and more than just a little rewarding to participate in these events - and Guster is a great band with which to get that first taste of grand concert karma.

Not to mention that Guster fans totally rocked the drives during the fall shows. Generous and so damn impressive.

That said. Interested in helping out? Volunteers are needed for the following dates:
4/13 Thursday @ St Lawrence in Canton, NY
4/30 Sunday @ Trinity in Hartford, CT
5/2 Tuesday @ Holy Cross in Worcester, MA
5/4 Thursday @ Fitchburg State in Fitchburg, MA

If you're game, contact KJ at iwill@rockforaremedy.org. Tell her I sent you. And then be ready for some feel-good rock vibes.

You won't be sorry!

I prowled around the racks and tables, eyes sharp. I don't believe either of my flatmates had ever partaken in - or witnessed, at least - this experience before.

"I want college-ruled lines. Or thinner. Maximium writing space. I can't stand journals with all of those empty borders. It's a waste of a page.

"I don't like bound volumes. I'll write a book, someday, but this is a journal. I don't want to worry about making a mistake, having to cross something out, and feeling as if I've ruined the book for all time. That's why the velvet-cover journal from college didn't work out.

"Anyway, those kinds of jouranls aren't comfortable. If it's book-bound, it cramps your right hand as you're trying to write on the left-side pages. You can't write as much because your hand gets tired. Spiral-bound makes much more sense.

"This one's promising - thanks! Cute cover, spiral binding. Lines are a little wide, but I think it'll suit its purpose.

"But, that said, is it too cute? It's just going to hold some really bad poetry, and it would be a little cruel of me to do that to a journal worthy of more..."

I bought three tiny journals, shrinkwrapped together in plastic. Eighty pages each, thinnest of thin lines. No spirals, but a bendable cover. Plain black. Sturdy, but nondescript.

It's also the brand Hemingway used, I suppose I should note. The labels boast about the great works that have been written in similar volumes.

But I'm not overly fond of Hemingway. I like that I can bind them in a hairtie after I'm done, store it away in a bookshelf and know it's there. And others won't even notice the sliver of black...

***
I went shopping.

I bought yarn for a knit-free scarf (because I haven't re-learned to knit - yet), and wound up pawing through tangled strangs of yellow-orange, blue-green and magenta-purple for what felt like hours (no wonder cats are so fascinated).

I bought journals. I wrote. A lot.

I bought Converse canvas sneakers - low-top - because I'd been wanting a pair for ages and finally decided making myself smile was reason enough to buy them (first pair I've owned since junior high). I spent a chunk of Sunday gazing deligtedly at my feet.

I went to a bakery that offers free slices of thick bread.

I came up with a list (short) of the things I want to do when I go to Boston this weekend, when I actually have time to SPEND in Boston (unlike last month's whirlwind venture). I'm trying to figure out which makes me more nervous: the idea of braving IKEA on a Saturday (I might nix this one) or walking into Sephora determined to only buy one item (she says now...).

I ran for the first time in two weeks (thank you, cold) and, while I didn't run particularly far, had a huge grin on my face as I started to feel the endorphins kick in.

I got into long conversations about how boys are stupid and we girls are bright, savvy, brilliant, knowing creatures that prove intimidating to cowardly fellows.

I walked around in messy pigtails and oversized sunglasses, sipping an iced latte through a bright orange straw.

I fell in love with a relatively-new-band-to-me band and was finally able to play something other than the Ani that has been dominating my iPod.

I watched Josh and Donna kiss on The West Wing and hooted and hollered in delight. This was followed about 49 minutes later by grouping Josh into the "stupid boys" category.

I wrote poetry, which I've never ever written before...

Early January plans finally unfolded in March. Only late. And different.

The setting had changed to my home turf and it was a couple of months after the fact. Cocktails instead of coffee. And, blessedly, no reference to Narnia.

I have fun, it's good to see him. I hope to again at some point, sooner rather than later. But I realize that all it took to rid myself of years' (embarrassed as I am to admit it) worth of a crush was an hour and a vodka cranberry.

And I think the outcome would have been the same with a latte months ago.

Better late than never?

I found myself bounding up a deserted cobblestone street, gracing the sparkling gold street lights (remnants of the holiday season, so it works) with a "Napoleon" reprise. Although, thinking of it now, perhaps I should have belted out "Good, Bad, Ugly" instead.

'Cause baby, I was feeling awfully fancy free.

I get home and write into a notebook before I turn off the light and drift off to sleep with a smile:

You can ask how I am. How work has been. To whom I've been listening. The next reason I'm going to be making the ever-so-frequent trip to Boston. What has been new and exciting in my life.

If you ask, I might just wind up believing that you care about the response I give. I might just feel inclined to share with you, and I might just hope you provide responses to the inquiries I plan to make.

But you decide to go with "How are things?"

And I realize there is no decent answer I can give, because well, busy, frustrated, groovy or fine don't give you any sense of where I am. I realize you either don't care about whatever I decide to include in my response, or you don't know how to ask me anything better or more specific. You might think that that kind of question is going to make me feel special that you asked anything of me at all - and, well, that's not so much the case.

My response is friendly, but vague. I don't follow through with my inquiries.

Because that's the moment I realized that this crush I've had for years has just ended. As much as it can. I mean, there's a Laugh and a Grin and a Smirk named after you. And you - or at least, the crush on you - has become kind of engrained in me.

But you have one opportunity to ask about me, and you decide to go with "How are things?"

I realize that I'm suddenly much, much better, so much that I almost want to thank you...

Ani's "Napoleon" has been in my head

all
day
long.

Granted, that might have something to do with the fact that I blared the song and sang along as I prepared for my day today.

But I also blared Nathanson songs. And Bushwalla's "White Girl." And Rilo Kiley's "Portions For Foxes." And "Peace Frog."

For some funny reason - heheahem - it's "Napoleon" that stuck.

***
The sun is shining gloriously, and the air is crisp and comforting. For the first time in a little while, it actually feels as if the sun is warming the world around me. Makes me want to linger outside and drink my lattes iced.

"Hey, come here for a minute."

Beth walked into my bedroom and turned to see the photograph I was pointing to, part of a collage I'd made years ago to depict our junior year of college.

She looked at the photo, then looked back at me and the yellow shirt I was wearing. Three-quarter sleeves, two buttons at the top, sunshine lemon yellow. She started laughing as she realized that I was pointing at a picture of my happy, yellow-clad self standing next to an incredibly tall singer-songwriter wearing maroon.

"This shirt met John Mayer." I sighed with over-the-top, sarcastic flair and started to laugh. It had been part of the grand unearthing that came with my mass reorganization, and I'd been delighted to find that it still fit and was still the shade of bottled sunrays.

See, this wasn't just a shirt. This was a pivotal part of V concert history, friends. It started a year-long trend of Yello Concert Wear, that led to the purchase of numerous yellow band shirts and my bright presence at shows.

This was The Original Yellow Concert Shirt. I'd worn it to some random show and had a great time, so I decided it was lucky. I'd worn it to my first show at Paradise (the epic VaCo/Howie Day/Pat McGee Band benefit) and others that I can't pinpoint right now. Because I'd wanted the Mayer experience to be a great one, I wore it during a February scramble to kick snow out from behind the car of the friend who drove us to Higher Ground. I wore it as Michelle and I laughed with John about the philosophical merits of Count Chocula, and I wore it as I whirled around with surprise to face the stage when I heard the first notes of the "Babylon" cover he played during soundcheck; the shirt's color must have paled a bit in comparison to the blindingly bright smile on my face as I joyously blew his laughing form a kiss. He was playing the song because I'd mentioned it was my then-favorite and I'd been delighted to hear that he'd been known to occasionally perform it.

I stopped wearing it sometime junior year, but always held onto it because of the memories attached. I wound up putting it away and only unpacked it this weekend.

Beth laughed as I talked about The Shirt and then cued up "Your Body is a Wonderland" on the iPod and began to dance and sing about.

Funny, thinking of what I did and didn't know the last time I'd worn it. I couldn't entertain the notion of life after graduation at that point; I didn't know so many of the people that are regular characters in my current days. I had no way of knowing who would come into my life and which of those would leave, or stick around - whether I wanted them to or not (or a little of both - ahem). I had no idea of what role Washington would play in my life or how I'd find my way back to Vermont, with whom I would settle into a pleasant little domestic space, even what music I'd come to enjoy.

I sure as hell didn't know Mayer would wind up winning Grammys, or that Howie Day would actually make it big (we'll ignore the whole legal thing, for the sake of nostalgia).

My concert gear has turned darker over the years that have passed - reflecting the change in color choices in the rest of my life, actually. Black. Dark.

But maybe I'll take a walk on the brighter side for a little bit. I think yellow's going to have to make an appearance at the venues a bit more often.

But not that shirt. I'm going to keep that one to myself - and hum a little bit of "Sucker" each time I happen to take it off the hanger...

A weekend of self-imposed reclusive behavior (intented to - and mostly successful in the attempts to - eradicate this cold) led to the decision to embark on an epic adventure of discovery and danger.

That's right. The First Annual Spring(ish)* Cleaning. The scene: my bedroom and closet. The timeframe: All - and I mean all of Saturday and a good chunk of Sunday (that which was not spent going to see Match Point** in the theater or watching the Oscars***).

Among the items unearthed during this process:

- One (1) bike helmet
- One (1) college graduation dress, previously believed to have been at parents' home
- Approximately forty-five dollars ($45 USD) in loose change
- Copies of the following books: The Natural, The Grapes of Wrath, The House of Seven Gables and a collection of Christopher Durang plays, all yet to be read by yours truly
- Ticket stubs from the following: Rufus Wainwright/Ben Folds (with special guest Ben Lee), circa last summer; Averi Paradise-headlining performance, circa 2004; Red Sox game, circa April 2005; MFA Art Deco exhibit, circa December 2004; Ryan Montbleau Band Higher Ground performance, dated March 17, 2005 (unused, as show was postponed until May 20, the date I was attending the Bushwalla double-header in Massachusetts); Melissa Ferrick, circa January 2005; Mason Jennings Black Cat-headlining performance, circa Spring 2003 (I am forever cursed by that Butterfly song. Ugh.)
- CDs
- Six (6) lip balms/glosses, four (4) of which are some shade of red
- Three (3) sweaters, completely forgotten
- Enough clothing to nearly double my wardrobe
- Two (2) large bags of clothing to be donated to the Salvation Army
- One (1) pair of slippers
- Five (5) belts
- One (1) jump rope
- One (1) softball, neon yellow
- Two (2) scarves
- Approximately thirty (30) pens, of which approximately twenty-eight (28) have blue ink
- One (1) journal, circa 1994 (eighth grade)
- One (1) brown loafer shoe, thought disappeared but joyously reunited with partner
- One (1) new, unopened jar of Vicks VapoRub, an item I had intended to actually purchase and a product I had not, as of Saturday, used since I was perhaps eight (8) years old
- One (1) vial of Pink Sugar by Aquolina perfume

It staggers the mind, I know.

But, in related news, the weekend proved to be just what I needed. I created order out of the chaos that had become my life. I found a way to be active that didn't involve running, as I'm still not allowed to partake in that outlet. I freaked out my roommates by announcing that I was going out to buy home organization tools, and I amused them with audible-behind-a-closed-door, cold-raspy renditions of musical singalongs (and one open-door dancefest to Kelly Clarkson's "Since U Been Gone").

Also question whether Reese Witherspoon deserved an Oscar, after viewing "Just Like Heaven" and was dazzled by the cinematography of "The Constant Gardener."

Getting better is feeling pretty awesome.

* I ignored the fact that there was about a foot of new-fallen snow on the ground when I began this task. March = Springish.
** I do not recommend this film, which is disappointing, as I was so anticipating the opportunity to view it on the big screen. I do, however, emphatically restate my belief that Jonathan Rhys Myers is an incredibly beautiful man.
*** How do I love Jon Stewart? Let me count the ways. I thought he did a brilliant job and should not be criticized for the fact that Hollywood proved itself to be slightly less intelligent - nay, strike that, a whole lot dumber - than it likes to give itself credit for. Also: George Clooney gives the best asides - and best speeches - in Hollywood.

Dispatches from my beautiful disaster piece:

I hope you can't overdose on Vitamin C, although I wonder what would happen if one did. I've been sucking on Vitamin C drops like candy, in an effort to combat the cold demons that wait to attack me until I wake up each morning and lift my head into the grogginess.

I don't want to be sick. I'm taking my medicine. I'm drinking my orange juice. And I'm sucking on Robitussin Sunnor Orange Vitamin C Supplement Drops. I like to imagine that my potential Vitamin C overload is making my blood glow bright and amber as it runs through my veins.

Amber seems warm and healthy.

I am feeling warmer, and for once these days, I'm not speaking of the temporary feverish bouts that leave me agitated and uncomfortable. I like to think that feeling warmer can be equated to feeling better, so I'll soon be able to happily resume my independent ways, without the longing for someone to swoop into my life to rub my back, make me soup or otherwise coddle me.

***

I meet up with a familiar face and bid a temporary adieu to another. We travel a short distance to our familiar place where I intend to order my usual, my favorite. An unexpected reunion takes place when I realize a friend is sitting at the next table. Familiar laughter, spices, tastes and conversation before meeting with those whose car we'd seen pass down the street from our high dining perch. We walk into a club that has also managed to grow familiar, and I give a quick tour after responding to the familiar waves from the friends on stage. Hugs and a toast from our red velvet alcove after I order the beer I know is in stock and recommend to others the specialty cocktail I know would be enjoyed. We sing and groove to the songs I know well until I see another familiar face and run over for a hug and conversation. I come to unnecessarily, as it turns out, introduce myself to faces I know and, somewhat surprisingly, know me as well.

All of this familiarity is, somehow, entirely unfamiliar. Not that I'm complaining.

OK, so perhaps standing out in the snowy cold of this weekend's Mardi Gras wasn't such a good idea. Particulary as I was just, you know, sick and all.

Ah, hindsight.

Yes, friends, I have managed to fall ill again this winter - another rip-roaringly good bout of general malaise and agitation. Whee! What fun!

I now alternate between sounding normal and sounding like Joan Rivers. I can't go running, which is probably the single most obnoxious part of all because I worry I'll lose all the progress I've made in that regard. I'm tired, I'm cranky, I'm a little feverish and I've been hopped up on DayQuil and NyQuil for the past several days.

Good times. Indeed.

Fortunately, between the bouts of illness that have struck me (which occurred on the weekends of both the Olympics' opening and closing ceremonies. Coincidence or Olympic allergy? You be the judge), there've been some good things packed in. My whirlwind jaunt to Boston was strange. Mostly fun...but strange, nonetheless. Unexpectedly running into friends, catching up with loved ones, then seeing friends new and old share a stage for an evening was more than a little surreal...It was a good evening, though. Glad Tides was able to join in on the fun with Bushwalla and Todd...

Grace Potter & the Nocturnals are amazing live, so you should trust me and go see them...

I miss being able to use my digital camera to a ridiculous degree...

...and I'm just really tired...

Lately, I can't tell where all this is taking me
I'm spilling over and spitting spiteful words
There was a time once when I understood my cruelty
But now I'm not so sure...

...I'm no longer so wide-eyed and full.
- Matt Nathanson

God, I've been lax as of late. My apologies.

Sooooooookay. When last we chatted, I left you with a promise to talk Montbleau. Well, really? I've sung his praises before - certainly sung the band's praises before, and I find that I've been parroting myself when talking about this most recent show. The words "consistency," "spark," and "jaw-droppingly goddamn good" have been popping up with not-so-surprising frequency.

So here is the thing about seeing RMB live: I don't have to wonder if I'm going to bear witness to an off night. The band actually seems incapable of having an off night. After seeing second-tier performances by almost all of my favorites over the years, I've grown accustomed to - and pretty accepting of - the occasional off night. It happens. It has to. It's unrealistic to think it doesn't.

But then there's the exception to the rule, and it doesn't make sense to me. The night after the biggest show the band has performed yet - the CD release at the Somerville Theater that I chose not to attend so I could instead drool over Ben Taylor (which, I assure you, I did) - and there's still more than three and a half hours of crazy intense music that packed the house and left my group of four dancing like mad right in front of the stage. Still incredible, still energetic, still focused...

...which is why there are two groups in my mind, when it comes to regional music: Ryan Montbleau Band and Everyone Else.

In other news. Shocking culinary turn of events to report here. Perhaps no more need for me to ever attempt the DIY Chipotle experience (although, let's face it, I will do on occasion because I'm good at it).

Why? Has Chipotle finally arrived? No. But Moe's has. And as I savored the close approximation to a beloved Chipotle CFB I loved so dearly during my DC days, I realized that this may just be enough to keep my Chipotle addiction satisfied until the real thing comes north.

At this time tomorrow, I'll be in Massachusetts. Which is great and weird at the same time. Weird that it feels weird, actually. I'll be ending my longest span of time without a Massachusetts fix in years - and I've been so busy here that the time passed surprisingly easily.

And, interestingly enough, I'll be back at a venue that occupied some of my hours last time I was in town. Another Thursday night at Felt...this time with some of my new favorite folks - Bushwalla and Todd Carey - teaming up with the Tides fellows.

I know. I'm greatly looking forward to it as well.

And the energy buzz that comes with impending journeys has come right back to me.

Or perhaps that's the homemade caramel Beth made for dessert this evening.

Hmm.

See? It's not entirely my fault. I'll only take as much of the blame as I deserve.

Here's the deal: I know that I may not be the most, say, realistic person some - fine, much - of the time when it comes to relationships. I know my expectations are exceedingly high, and I know I maintain illusions of grandeur that, well, let's face it, haven't exactly left me with a string of successful relationships.

(I know, I know. How can a string of relationships ever be considered successful, anyway? Neither the time nor place for such a philosophical debate. Let's file that away for some other time, shall we?)

But I ask you one thing: how can any woman be realistic, and I mean truly realistic, when one weekend includes the absolute aesthetic beauty of Ben Taylor, the musical decadence that is Ryan Montbleau and his band of musical merrymakers and, if those weren't enough, the speech delivered at the end of "Grey's Anatomy" by the single most endearing, adorable, lovable character on television?

Yes, of course I'm talking about George.

Can anyone honestly try to tell me that I'm not supposed to take all this in and hope for a little bit of something spectacular for myself?

I didn't think so.

A more comprehensive weekend roundup to follow, including an explanation as to why anyone hoping to succeed in the music business should begin to learn, adhere to and follow the work of the Montbleau band.

I sat on the middle cushion of a couch, my left arm draped over the back of the empty seat next to me. I didn't usually sit in such a manner - my arms are generally kept in my lap or holding a drink - but for some reason, it felt particularly comfortable that night.

The empty space was temporarily filled, then vacated, throughout the minutes I sat there. A revolving door of characters, each of whom sunk down into the plush cushion, rested their head back against the couch and my arm, and looked over at me with a smile.

It was comfortable. Easy. A group of people conveniently in the same general vacinity come together to laugh and celebrate the fact that they're all present, accounted for, and willing to spend some time.

Laugh. Dance. Sing. Discuss. Break down the walls that instinctively crop up, despite polite introductions. Laugh more.

It's what you always think of when you imagine this type of a situation. It was how it is supposed to be. Not like how it's been with others in the past.

But time and expereince has taught you to realize that this is the exception to the rule. This was a sublime combination of factors that worked out just right. Just good people.

This was the feeling of comfortable contentment that I'd come to give up on as I learned better.

Which was, at least partially, why my grin was so bright.

When the time comes to actually jump into the lake, you don't really have the spare seconds that might make you want to back out. I think they plan it that way.

Of course, there's a moment or two as you're approaching the waterfront, bundled in a heavy sweatshirt and the warmest coat you own, when you start to think yourself mad. After all, you're warm. The air around you is cold. You're holding a self-heating latte (thanks, Mom and Dad) to keep you warm until that last possible moment.

But when you sign up and get your number written on your hand, you sign away any time to second-guess. It's WHOOOSH - off to the changing room, where people around you are screaming and cheering and shouting with glee about what you're about to do. Then there are a few moments to laugh with your friends about the fact that you're actually about to do this when it's WHOOSH - off to the staging area, where you realize you're about to run into the water.

People are crazy. You're getting pats on the back from people you've never met before and will likewise never see again. You're laughing at people in Speedos or bikinis, and you're dancing around to the Beach Boys and any other song the organizers thought might somehow tie into a summer theme. It's almost like that traditional last weekend of college before finals, when everyone is such acting ridiculous because they can and they won't get in trouble for it.

And that's when it gets really weird. All of a sudden, surrounded by all these people who are doing the same thing you're about to do - and all in varying stages of inhebriation, might I add - it sounds great to run into icy cold water. Why wouldn't you want to do it? The people standing outside in the cold, without the luxury of a heated tend - those are the crazy people. They're missing out. You're about to do something that has your energy at its peak, your adrenaline racing through you and a serious case of the laughs running wild. You're dancing and you're jumping and you're cheering on a group of guys running around barechested.

And then WHOOSH - you're running. Out past people you may or, more likely, may not know, but it doesn't matter because you're going past them too quickly to identify any of them. The asphalt path moves straight forward, veers to one side or another a couple of times, and then it just dips down.

The water is right in front of you, and you just gun for it. In in in in SPLASH.

It's cold. Really, really, bone-jarringly cold. But when it hits you, your whole body suddenly heats up. Much like the days during late soccer season, when you'd run for the ball as your chest just burned from the cold air moving into and out of your lungs.

When I hit the water, I ran in a few steps and just let my body fall, so I could let as much of the water cover me as I could. Got up to just around my ears. The fact that it was cold went away, replaced instead by the fact that I was suddenly more awake than I've been in months.

The bottom of the lake was slippery, and my sneakers had difficulty gripping the rocks enough to pull me up. I don't remember feeling cold again until I stepped out of the water, reached for a towel and realized that my shirt and shorts were freezing cold, dripping freezing cold water against a freezing cold me. I, and everyone else in my group, awkwardly ran back up the path, past the mayor (who, frankly, should have been busy jumping into the water, instead of congratulating everyone as they jumped out) and back to the heating tent.

And that's it, really. That was the experience. You're prepped, you're sent, you're in the water and you're scrambling back for warm, dry gear. And you realize you're game with going through the whole thing the next time February rolls around.

Oh, and you get a hat. Which is nice.

My parents found us quickly, part of the parental cluster that somehow managed to form shortly after the jump. There were hugs when we emerged, bright-cheeked and laughing, from the dressing tent, and there were group photographs taken with the team members and the various visiting troubadors who had braved the cold to cheer us on. Which was really nice.

The group broke up, with promises to meet up later that evening, and I walked home with my parents, stopping - of course - for the required maple latte (which, P Squared, was much enjoyed) along the way.

What's funny is that I'm not at all a winter person. I keep bundled up whenever possible. But as we walked up the street in the direction of my apartment, it felt as if I might as well walk around without a jacket.

Don't get me wrong. I kept that sucker on.

But I think it was the warmest I've felt all season.

Let me get it out of the way right now: Happy Valentine's Day.

I'm not going to go into my annual discussion of February 14, mainly because it doesn't feel as if it's the actual holiday. I'm not with it enough to comment on it, I'm not energetic enough to be sarcastic about it, and I lack the stomach at the moment to consume chocolates, were I to receive any today.

I'm just sick. Recovering, but still sick. So it's not Valentine's Day, it's not Tuesday, it's not whatever. It's just T-minus approximately seven hours until I can climb back into bed and go to sleep.

See, here's how it worked out: For the past couple of weeks, I've been telling my body to push through and keep on moving. My body replied that perhaps I should think about taking it a little easier. I snarkily laughed, told my body to shut up and kept on moving. My body said it wasn't feeling so great. I called it names and kept going.

So late Saturday night, my body decided that it didn't need to deal with my shit anymore. It was taking a vacation.

Which is why I ended up in bed for two days.

I'm actually moving about today, and I was thrilled to discover that I was able to eat a whole bagel and a half of a hot apple cider this afternoon. But other than that, I'm feeling pretty vapid.

I feel pale, actually. If one can feel pale.

The good news is that I expect to tell you all about the Penguin Plunge tomorrow. Odds are good I'll also have photographs to share. I assure you that the venture was absolutely fantastic.

In the meantime, forgive me if I resume my process of counting down the minutes to a much-anticipated reunion with my bed.

But have a very happy Valentine's Day.

I'll update later, but just know this:

We plunged and it was grand. Thank you to those who donated, wished us luck, and/or supported us today.

So. Much. Fun.

I have the faint outline of an old school boombox imprinted on the back of my left hand. I tried to wash the stamp ink away this morning, and actually smiled when I realized that the thing just wasn't going to come off in its intirety.

I've been marked. Ghetto blasted, if you will.

Yesterday gave me delicious night of live music. And I needed it - I've felt stressed, frustrated and disheartened the last couple of weeks. I've been slowly becoming a bottle rocket of pressure was bound to spark and explode.

Yes, that's still there. But at least I was given a reprieve - in the form of dance, laughter, collaboration, tongue-twisting singalong and positive energy. I haven't laughed that much in ages. I haven't felt the urge to dance like nobody's watching in even longer.

I just haven't had that much fun at a show in a long time.

(And I haven't been called up on stage with friends to help rock the mic in, well, ever.)

In other, equally crazy news: I jump into the lake tomorrow. Beth and I realized earlier this week that neither of us have ever gone swimming in Lake Champlain before.

We will both take our first lake dips in February. Weather check? Today's current temperature: 9 degrees. Tomorrow's high: 25 degrees.

And the big one. Tomorrow's expected water temperature: 35 degrees.

I have writer's block.

I'm going to blink and realize that I'm on the other side of the next two weeks.

- My digital camera's battery charger is in Maine. My digital camera's battery is dead. In order to buy a new charger, I would need to contact the camera manufacturer. Boo. I am relying on others for photos of Saturday. Fear not. There will be countless cameras on hand.

- The stars have aligned in such a manner that this weekend is The Weekend To Be In My Town. To those who won't be? My sympathies, because they're going to be missing out...

- I'm determined to focus on laughing as I maneuver my way through the coming days. I started off the morning dancing around to LCS Soundsystem's "Disco Infiltrator," a song I'm mildly addicted to at the moment.

- Bushwalla, Todd Carey and Will at Metronome on Thursday night. The Plunge on Saturday. And who knows what between now and Sunday...

Let's learn from the error of my ways, ok? I'm officially stating my two newest rules:

- No one who is single should ever, under ANY circumstances, watch "The Notebook." Because if you do, you wind up tapping into bitterness you never knew you were capable of.

- No one, single or not, should ever, EVER watch "The Notebook" when settling in for a much-needed, sought-out evening of solitude. EVER. We won't get into what happens when one does not heed this advice.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with Jimmy Fallon and the Red Sox.

It's recovery time.

Earlier today:

V: Stephen Kellogg & the Sixers are playing here tonight, but I'm not going. I can't bear to cough up more money to see a band opening for OAR. I can't again justify attenting an opening set and then leaving the moment OAR takes the stage. No, I don't like OAR. I used to think OAR was pretty OK in college...yeah. But the only reason I went to that Boston show was because Matt and Howie were opening. So tonight's a no go. Which rather sucks, because I'd really dig the chance to see SK again. But I'm just going to hope that they get into town sometime soon. They'd do great here on their own. And hey, everyone else is playing here, why not them?

Later today:

V: That was weird. Seriously. Did you visit HG's site? Newly announced. Stephen Kellogg & the Sixers and the Pat McGee Band! I know! In April! How crazy is that? I haven't seen PMB in years. Yeah, since the Avalon show! And SK! Everyone really is playing here!

When I care about something - or, more appropriately these days, when I believe in something - I just find myself incapable of giving up on it.

It's maddening sometimes, and there are the countless instances in which I walk away shaking my head in confusion or outright disbelief. And it's tiring, frustrating on other occasions, when it's neither possible nor reasonable to do what I want to do, which is grab someone by the shoulders and give a shake to try rattling in some sense.

But I see something good there, something that could make others smile. Something that makes me smile despite my wish that someone would be able to grab my shoulders and shake some sense into me.

Which is why I find myself continuously setting aside the voice in my head, the one that's telling me that I'm an absolute idiot who should know better, and putting myself in the position I incessently find myself in.

The one that invariably ends with me saying to myself, "Stupid, stupid, STUPID!"

In other news, it's been six years since I saw a guy with funny hair and a funnier British accent playing guitar as I walked into my college's student center and eventually asked said funny-coiffed individual if I'd heard that last song on the radio, as it sounded pleasantly familiar to me and I'd really enjoyed it...

I need to find whatever journal I was writing in at that point to see what I wrote about that performance. I think it would be amusing to read now that I know I have heard it on the radio, time and time again...

I've settled into a practice of actually living in the city where I sleep.

I know.

It's a rather strange experience for me too.

I wish there was some uniquely V way of describing the way things have been going - the laughter shared during weekly jaunts to pub trivia, the jump-kick combo I executed several times earlier this week, each time I scored a strike with a hot pink bowling ball at a surprisingly hopping bowling alley. The feeling of fatigue laced with equal parts accomplishment and frustration that comes over me most nights as I prepare to go to sleep and the realization that it's been a month since I've been to Massachusetts.

That's got to be a recent record for me - and it appears that I'll be stretching that record a few weeks longer.

There's simply been a great deal happening here, and I've beeb having a lot of fun with it. And there's more coming up. Bushwalla, Todd Carey and Will a week from today. The Plunge in nine days. A trifecta of shows the week following.

And then, the week after that, I make a brief Massachusetts appearance for the Bushwalla/Todd Carey show at Felt - which I'm now pleased to say will feature Tides as an opening act on the bill. I've been looking forward to the show for some time now, and the addition of Tides makes the trip all the more worthwhile...

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.