Don't judge me, man.

I know that I look silly. I'm crouched down along the edge of a puddle-turned-pond in the Common, snapping photographs of the duck calmly wading through the shallow water, moving toward me with no concern.

I could justify the apparent goofiness if I feel the need to, you know. And here you are, gazing at me with a quizzical glance beneath your three-cornered hat.

Paul Revere, you're probably the last person with any right to pass judgement on me. And you're musket's crooked.

We exchange quick smiles as I walk away and he moves in to toss bread to the ducks. Bread stored in his musketball pouch. Ahem.

The smiles clearly translate. I won't ask if you don't.

***
Little known fact: The Milly's Tavern site falls within the New Hampshire equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle. It's true. I don't know what the NH triangle is called. Or if it's a triangle, even - it could be a square, a hexagon, maybe even a trapezoid. I'm not aware of anyone investigating the crazy stuff that happens there. I don't expect to see a Time Life book about it.

(Anyone else remember that book? I had it. I was obsessed with reading about paranormal events when I was younger. I blame Robert Stack and "Unsolved Mysteries.")

It's pretty trippy, though. Time stands still. The Red Sox are always playing a game, no matter when you happen to walk in. Full pints of beer are suddenly empty, and then there's another one waiting behind it. Long sets pass by at the blink of an eye.

There's just something that happens on when you walk down those steps and through the door. I'm sure of it.

More than seven months had passed since my last trip to Manchester -- back in AT (Averi Time). And yet I fell right back into the familiarity. Our regular seats at the back of the bar were open and waiting for us. The ballgame was airing from three televisions within easy view. The sound guys were still making me wince with the soundcheck feedback.

It's just how Milly's rolls.

But it felt good to be back. It's not my favorite venue -- not even close -- but I always have a good time. Some of my favorite show experiences have transpired between Milly's walls.

And this evening managed to join the shortlist of favorite concert nights. For two reasons.

First, the music. Great performances. They didn't suck (as I deadpanned at the time). Syd and Patrick Thomas, Mieka Pauley, Chad with Dennis and Steve.

Frankly, it would take a lot of effort to screw up a lineup like that. Two people who just bring me joy; someone I've wanted to see live for quite a long time; and, well, Chad, Dennis and Steve.

The sets were goofy and brilliant. Humor and talent woven together to show just how good you have to be to make silliness really work.

Trying to describe specific moments is tricky. I was determined not to overthink this show. No analysis, just fun, which means I can't look at the moments with a critical eye now.

Besides, it was an evening that made much more sense sense if you were there. Let's say I decided to tell you about P's face when C personalized the "Freak Me" tease. It's an image that is now seared into my brain. It's hilarious. But I'll guess that you'd get puzzled -- or disturbed -- the moment I mentioned the nipple rubbing, right?

Well, it made perfect sense if you were there. Sort of. Anyway. See my point?

There were many highlights: S's smile as he sat in a chair onstage, bobbing his head as he mouthed along the words to "Metaphor." Hearing "The Way It is" when it was not being butchered by my car karaoke rendition. The delight I felt in hearing "Used To Dream" songs come alive, interspersed with older songs presented in an entirely new context.

I suppose what I can say is that there were many smiles in the audience. Mine among them, from a little spot near the soundboards. It was the first time in a (really, really, I can't even begin to tell you how) long time that I went to one of these shows and just enjoyed it.

Second, the people.

See, I tend to be pretty quiet by nature. With many people, I find it difficult to let down my guard. Can't help it. I'm shy.

But among those in the crowd were people with whom I've never felt anything but comfortable. So my inner extrovert came out and I was ready to celebrate.

Laughter, shared stories. Conversation that included earnest catching up. And hugs. A lot of hugging went on, and it felt glorious.

There was one moment, in which a small group had come together. An overall conversation was underway, and people would contribute to that while falling occasionally into smaller chats. Part of this organic assemblage, I looked around me with a smile, realizing that I adored each of those around me and there was nowhere else I'd rather be right then.

A little cheesy, I know. But hey.

Don't blame me, blame the New Hampshire Parallelogram.

As I drove north on 89 yesterday evening, bobbing my head along with the Eliot Morris sampler I'd recently received (good stuff, I recommend checking it out), I noticed a white car zooming up from the passing lane behind. With sparks flying out from behind.

Having just seen the trailer for "Ghost Rider" earlier in the day, I half-wondered if Nicolas Cage's demonic alterego was going to lean out of the vehicle as it passed, lashing a fiery chain whip at my innocent little spark-free vehicle. He didn't, I'm pleased to report. But the car did flash by me, probably going about 80 or so (for once, I wasn't speeding myself), its muffler dancing along the pavement as it clung precariously to the car's metalwork.

Four thoughts went through my mind:

- Thank goodness that wasn't Nic Cage. I don't like him much.
- Who speeds along the highway that fast when there's a MUFFLER SPARKING AS IT DRAGS BEHIND YOU?
- That muffler is going to fall off the car and smash into my windshield. It is going to suck and I'm going to be pretty pissed off. Or hurt.
- That driver probably had a pretty lousy weekend and just wants to get home. I did not.

I was worried though, standing beneath the rain-drenched awning on Stuart Street on Friday evening. Everything that could have gone wrong with the trip up to that point had - capped with a walk from South Station to the theater with no umbrella (left behind at the T station from which I'd departed) and plenty of rain.

The part of V would be played that night by A Drowned Rat.

That's when things turned funny. I'd arrived at the theater ready to take in a friend's show, accompanied by another friend and a whole bunch of people I didn't know.

By the time the house lights dimmed, I was sitting with L, a new acquaintance (hello, Nicole!), M's parents, another acquaintance and a whole bunch of people I didn't know.

And my friend was walking out on stage with the other four ladies of "I'm the Rhoda."

Now, I know I mentioned the show last week. And you can naturally assume that I would get a kick out of being anywhere a friend - let alone one of my best - is debuting a show, so I would come back to you with glowing things to report about the performance.

And it's true. I knew that the odds were good that I was going to enjoy myself and be thankful that I was there. But if anything, my expectations were even higher than they might be for another show. I knew who the Rhodas were and I knew of what they were capable of accomplishing.

They rocketed right up and through the high bar. Seriously. If you're in the area, you should just trust me and go to see that show while you can (the next three Friday evenings). If you're a woman, you'll connect with the funny-because-it's-true-but-the-truth-also-hurts frankness of the piece. If you're a man, you'll hopefully get a clue. And if you at all appreciate seeing vulnerability beautifully shown on stage, you'll want to hug all of the women by the end of the night.

I found myself wiping at my cheeks a few times - some because I laughed so hard, but also because I was just so incredibly proud of everything that The Rhoda Five accomplished.

I felt my grin beaming through the darkened house as I watched Michelle lean forward in her chair and describe a Sunday brunch in Southie, with four friends assembled to share, laugh and sigh.

L's face shone as she listened to the same description and remembered the experience.

And M, shortly before wrapping up her piece, looked at the two of us and blew us a kiss.

Turns out that all of us were misty-eyed at the same time.

But I did NOT spill that candy bowl, thank you very much.

Celebration turned to Cambridge, a shot of tequila (brief dalliances with Jose Cuervo always turn out well, it's the serious relationship-caliber encounters that leave me with two-day hangovers), and 80s night. Dancing like mad, hair in face, arms raised, livin on a prayer.

I'll get into Saturday tomorrow.

Consider this intermission.

You know how it goes: you're riding along Wollaston Beach at 2:30 a.m., quoting the instant classic line from a Pete Thurston musical movie review:

"Snoop Dogg, hell yeah, he's Huggy-to-the-mothertruckin-bizzer."

Good times, you Know what I mean?

Wait, you don't? Is it just me?

Huh.

An Open Letter to My Electric Company

Dear Electric Company:

I would like to thank you and your dedicated crew members for going above and beyond this morning, providing a personal wake-up call at 7:50 a.m.

See, I have a habit of sometimes hitting the snooze button, and this morning was no exception. I'd been planning on giving myself an extra twenty minutes or so, so I reset my alarm and drifted back into peaceful, sublime slumber.

You, the wise beings you are, knew that I should have awoken. Since phone calls are done to death by hotels and overly chipper parents, you took early morning cheer to a whole new level. You parked your utility vehicle about seven feet from my sleeping head and just let 'er run! Flashing lights, idling engine and all!

Wow! You guys are great! There was no way any sleeper, even a deep one such as myself, could block that out! A really big, loud truck! Parked in the driveway right by my bedroom window! You did all that, just for me?

I truly thought that it was the ultimate gesture -- risking me running out and beating your head against the hood of the truck and all (you know how cranky I can get when I've been unexpectedly woken up).

But then? Oh, then you improved upon yourself.

In order to maintain the facade of general public service, you cut my power! You knew that the best way for me to fully awaken would be for me to have to shower in the dark. To find clothes in the dark (because, after all, I did appreciate your efforts, but I wasn't going to open the blinds, let light in and flash you), and brush my hair in the dark!

And you were right! Did I wake up quickly or what! Unfettered with the things that usually provide early-morning distractions -- such as, you know, light, music -- I was a real spitfire this morning! I mean, you should have HEARD some of the really fully-conscious things I was saying to you guys as I walked around, squinting into my mirror! I was in rare form, that's for sure. I don't know if I've felt that AWAKE in a REALLY long time!

Now, I don't want to take up too much of your time. I know there are a lot of people out there who are still sleeping, maybe tossing and turning a little bit, waiting for you guys to roll on up with your flashing orange lights and serious muffler issues.

So, in conclusion, I just want to say again that that really meant a lot to me. It demonstrated that special something, the way you all rolled out of your beds at an unspeakably early hour so you could force me out of my own before 8 a.m.

I'll never forget this gesture, Dearest of Electric Companies. And if you ever do it again, I'll be able to wake up really quickly and thank you in person.

I apologize in advance for slamming you into your vehicle's orange hood.

With utmost appreciation,
Victoria

After popular, overwhelming demand (read: Hi, Michelle):

Irish accent. An impressive tan, close-cropped hair, blue eyes and a blue shirt that matched perfectly. Strong build. I decided he was a footballer.

An Irish footballer. Did I mention the accent?

There I am, standing outside an Irish pub. I have a pint waiting for me inside. And an Irish footballer is walking up to me.

Hi. Hello. Hellllloooo.

That's when he asks me if he could give me a piggy-back ride.

?????

Did I mention he asked me for a piggy-back ride with an accent?

Thank God I am on the phone with Beth, who can now vouch for the authenticity of the exchange.

A piggy-back ride? Haha, no, no piggy-back rides. I'm on the telephone.

"That's OK. I'll run fast."

The double entendre is making me laugh out loud. And he is laughing too. A wonderful, warm Irish laugh.

Did I mention the accent?

Now, maybe it's just me. But when did introducing oneself - wait, no, not even introducing oneself, as he's still known only as Irish Footballer in my mind - with a piggy-back ride offer become something that's done? Why does this happen when my friend is inside the pub, completely unaware of the fact that I'm weighing the pros and cons of accepting a piggy-back ride from an Irish stranger who could run fast and carry me away to God knows where?

And why do I somehow decide that I don't accept piggy-back rides from strangers - even of the hot, Irish, could-be-footballer kind?

Questions for the ages. Harumph.

Now, in other, non-requested news. If given an opportunity within the next few weeks, here are some things I recommend doing:

- Feel like a walking iPod commerical (in a good way). Walk around listening to any of the following: Ryan Montbleau Band's cover of "If You Want Me to Stay" (04.29.06, available on archive.org); Pat McGee Band covering "Stuck In the Middle With You" (04.23.06, on archive.org and from a show I attended) with Stephen Kellogg and the Sixers and Tyler Hilton; Matt Nathanson's "Amazing Again" (10.20.05, on archive and also from a show I attended). Feel your footsteps dance along. Check your shadow to make sure it's not going crazy as it trails behind you.

- Really look closely at flowers, plants, shrubbery ("You must return here with a shrubbery!"). I've been taking a number of photographs of greenery lately, as it gives me good practice working my digital camera's closeup features. But it's turned into something that's fascinated me for two days.

- Ride in a convertible/top-down Jeep south on 93 in Boston. At night. Stare up at the bottom of the roadways and the top of the Zakim Bridge. If you've done so, no explanation is necessary. If you haven't, just do.

- Go to see the debut of a new show at The Tribe. "I'm the Rhoda" will grace The Tribe Theater's stage on Friday night, and I'll be there to support some of the funniest, most glorious ladies in Boston. You should be there too. Info about The Tribe (which always provides a good time) is available right here.

Click above to see the latest.

Sometimes you simply luck out. One thing leads to another and you realize you have, for whatever reason, been given a bit of a reward.

I stood alone in an elevator traveling up, and I knew that this was the one bit of alone time I would have to be able to express the brilliant jubilation I'd been trying to contain.

So I did what I'd like to think anyone would do. Taking advantage of the moment, I jumped up and down, squealed and danced about for a good solid 15 seconds. And when the doors opened, I walked out into the hallway - and one of the most surreal, fun experiences I've ever had - the very picture of composure, style and grace.

***

I can't help it. This kind of thing doesn't happen at home, but I always wander into magical moments in Davis Square. Which is why...anyway.

I'd hopped from the green line to red, on a trajectory that would land me at the Someday in time to meet up with M and R before Anna's and a singer-songwriter night at The Burren. I'm standing on the corner near the cafe, and Michelle has just told me that she's parking her car and will meet up with me in a moment.

The trees in the park glitter, golden lights shimmering among the leaves. Everyone seems to be taking advantage of a gorgeous night that will be followed by a leisurely Monday - most of the benches are full, the tables are spoken for and people are eager for any other available flat surface.

I cross the street and lean against a lamp post as the busker launches into the familar hum of "America."

(When it comes to all-time favorites, I tend to select songs over bands. "America" has long been among the top five on my list, and I have been voraciously listening to the Ryan Montbleau cover of the song downloaded about two weeks ago.)

The busker's audience - young, old, couples, singletons - nod heads in time, sighing and smiling as they close their eyes or lean back to look up at the sky and the twinkling lights...

Let us be lovers, we'll marry our fortunes together, I've got some real estate here in my bag...

***

Red walls, dark tables. Benches and booths, with a clientele that seems composed of regulars who sip their favorite pints of beer.

As I drink ale with an orange slice garnish, I could see why. I would be a regular at The Burren as well - in the meantime, I might have to make a habit of stopping by.

The band performing has prompted a guy and gal near our table to dance like mad. I think a lot of beer also helped them along, but hey. They're funny - drunk, but definitely not obnoxious drunk. I'm dividing my attention among the band, the dancers and the guy in the corner booth who caught my eye.

When the band launches into a cover of "What I Got," we bob our heads and sing along - and suddenly Drunk Dancer Guy is taking my hand and trying to pull me from the bench.

"DANCE with me," he says as I laughingly shake my head and point to my beer. He's persistent, so after several refusals, I laugh at M and stand to dance in the tiny space between our table and the stage.

Applause breaks out and my face turns bright red. The table behind us cheers and hollers as a huge grin breaks across Drunk Dancer Guy's face. I shoot M playful death daggers. She's too busy laughing to care.

The song ends and I receive a Drunk Dancing Guy kiss of the hand. Which, when all is said and done, is awfully sweet, in a hilarious sort of way.

Added bonus? Shared smile with Corner Booth Guy.

Teehee. I love this place.

I walked up the street this afternoon to meet up with Beth. I was feeling plucky in my "Welcome back, sunshine" skirt and ballet flats. As we walked toward Starbuck's for our iced lattes, I found myself skipping.

It felt great to actually feel good.

Georgie James!

Yes!

Know when you hear a song or an artist for the first time, and your ears perk up and you really start to pay attention?

It's something like that.

Ever the embodiment of grace and poise, I've already managed in two hours to outdo my usual self. Hiding away within a roll of bubblewrap today might not be that bad an idea.

8:30 a.m. - After accidentally (read: half-consciously) ignoring two alarms, wake up. Realize one doesn't feel particularly well, attribute this to Monday-itis. Roll over, reach for contact lens case.
8:32 a.m. - Finally find contact lens case after it falls under the bed. Open case. Drop contact. Growl menacingly at contact lens. Contact lens does not respond.
8:33 a.m. - Reach for towel. Drop towel. Pick up towel, reach for other towel. Drop other towel.
8:34 a.m. - Walk toward bedroom door. Run into dresser.
8:56 a.m. - Realize one has nothing (read: a whole lot but nothing that seems quite right today) to wear.
9:01 a.m. - Drop hairbrush.
9:05 a.m. - Realize boots one wants to wear have fallen into Bermuda Triangle.
9:10 a.m. - Realize boots are precisely where one left them - and where one already looked twice.
9:12 a.m. - Misplace phone.
9:13 a.m. - Find phone.
9:20 a.m. - Prepare to turn off bedroom lights, realize one hasn't packed one's phone.
9:21 a.m. - Realize one doesn't know where phone is. Again. Briefly consider Calling In Destructive. Decide instead to take one's chances.
9:23 a.m. - Find phone. Explain morning to laughing roommate and wonder what calamities await oneself if one decides to run on treadmill later in day.

Blame it on the rain...yeah, yeah...

C'mon. How could I not bust that out? I haven't heard any references to Milli Vanilli during this whole Shoutout to Noah experience that began for me in Massachusetts last weekend and continues now for me in Vermont.

Frankly, I was rather disappointed in such a grievous oversight.

But, in all seriousness (as much as one can be serious when referencing the MV lipsynchers), I could blame (or at least attribute) the rain for a lot right now:

- for not asking myself what the hell was going on at 2:15 a.m. Saturday morning, as friends and I scurried to our unexpected detination

- for having to rock my little black dress with little black and white Chuck Taylors as I watched my brother graduate (this was funny and fitting at the same time)

- for wanting to check in with various potential flood-ees

- for jumping into a huge puddle so as to document the (absolutely minimal) flooding in my grandmother's driveway (I made my way through the Great Floods of 2006 in as equally as fortunate - and wussy - a manner as I got through Hurricane Gloria in '86 - only this time, I didn't get a t-shirt documenting my presence for it)

- for longer than expected (and decidedly less relaxing) drives to and from Massachusetts last weekend and early this week

- for feeling lethargic, cranky and tired all week

- for agreeing to, and feeling happy to, see "The DaVinci Code" this evening, even as the reviews suck

- for feeling absolutely certain that the storm clouds have followed me from Massachusetts to Vermont

- for looking into how much it would cost to round up two of every animal and herd them all into some big boat

- and for the vending machine giving me a Sierra Mist when I selected an Orange Crush just now, the one time I decide to drink a soda.

OK, so maybe the last one has nothing to do with the rain. I'm blaming it anyway.

'Cause the rain don't mind
And the rain don't care
You got to blame it on something...

Why commencement activities are more fun in 2006 than they were in 2002
OR
Why text messaging rules

CAST:
T - A student, sitting among his graduating peers in the orchestra seats
V - T's sister, sitting in the front row of the balcony

T: this is the WORST stage production i have ever seen.
V: oh my goodness. ouch.
T: Omg. wtf.
V: lol
V: (during Kerry commencement address) Beer? tom cruise? MANNY? wrong on so many levels.
T: ha! indeed. wait. does he even know which one manny is?
V: isn't he the one who went to new york?
T: Yeah. big pappi manny ramerez
V: this is kerry gone wild! i think he needs a hug. i'll give you ten dollars. dooo it.
T: Somehow i feel that would end badly.
V: Define badly. taser?
T: whos hungry? dis kid right here.
V: (shortly before T walks to accept his degree) Don't trip. Heh.
T: Yer mom tripped.
V: I adore you.
V: (after T accepts degree) Wouldn't it suck to have to walk that if your foot was asleep?
T: Yeah, it would. i want food.
V: pizza, row ten? eat your degree.
T: Mmm. $120000 of yummy.

Shortly after this, I left the ceremony to walk up to Winter Street. T spent the first moments of his post-collegiate life enthusiastically devouring a falafel I had waiting for him upon exiting the theater.

After all, our parents would have been terribly upset to find his degree marred with bite marks.


(A whole slew of new photos are available on the trusty flickr account - click on the photo to go to the rest.)

Let's kick things off with a moment of thanks sent to the Boston Red Sox, for defeating the Yankees and keeping Johnny Damon hitless after five at-bats. Lovely!

So. A series of high-energy days approach.

Tomorrow (I write this Thursday night, referring to Friday) brings traveling friends and local friends together to watch the five men of the Ryan Montbleau Band tear up Higher Ground (a show, as my prior post indicates, to which I am very much looking forward). At some point this weekend, I steer my trusty steed, DT, onto familiar highway territory, as I'm Massachusetts-bound. I'm to get my graduation glam going on before attending/celebrating my brother's acceptance of a degree from Emerson College on Monday. (Insert sisterly pride here. This is also the spot at which we ignore that Friday marks four years since our narrator graduated from college.)

Good times. I'll return with tales and digital snapshot goodness, as my camera has returned from the black hole into which it sank when I left my battery charger in Maine over New Year's. All charged up and ready to go - er, snap, capture? Right. Moving on...

In other news: I recently wrote a music biography - my first - for singer-songwriter Chad Perrone. The bio, which includes information about Chad and his upcoming debut solo album, is now up and running on his website, so check it out - and note that a few of the tracks are available for your listening enjoyment. The album, "Used To Dream," drops on May 23, and I highly recommend it. Those liking what they hear (or those who just trust my music recommendations - AHEM) can pre-order "Used To Dream" from the fun, friendly computers that keep things orderly over at the Awarestore.

4:48 a.m.

I'm lying on my side, staring at the window near the corner of my bedroom. I can see the faint glow of early sunrise seeping in, casting subtle illumination against the walls.

I'm not a fan. I wasn't a fan of staring at this window when it was midnight. Or 2 a.m. Or at 3:12.

I've been tired, stressed and dangerously close to tears all week. But I haven't cried - I haven't let myself. I'm instead gritting my teeth or biting my lip until the point comes in which I need a release.

That said, I haven't found myself lying awake in the middle of the night until tonight. Or this morning. Whatever.

It doesn't feel like I'm there quite yet. But I'm awfully close.

9:47 a.m.

And now I'm living the real-life, driver's version of "Paperboy" - and I'm hating my younger self for loving the game as a youth.

Two routes I could take on my daily morning drive. The usual - a turn to the right - is blocked to one lane by power line maintainance. I turn left instead. Another quick left - and the road has been reduced to one lane for the same damn thing. I navigate. I avoid the woman who opened her car door a nanosecond before I passed by. I steer around the bicyclist, around the utility vehicle, stop short when the car ahead decides to suddenly switch lanes AND avoid the UPS truck that has parked in my lane (as well as the large truck approaching in the opposite lane). As I pull into my parking lot - avoiding the truck that is blindly trying to navigate its way out, I notice the my hands have an iron grip on the steering wheel.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow. I just have to get through two more days before I receive my reward - hours of stress relief, through dancing with friends and singing along with Ryan Montbleau.

For the first time in a long time, I feel myself preparing for some serious musical theraphy. My focus is entirely on myself feeling better. I've earned the right to be a little selfish.

In the meantime: keep the eyes focused ahead and get through.

V: (Answering telephone) Hello?
Mom: Are you sitting down? I have bad news.
V: What's going on? Real bad news or fake bad news?
M: Are you sitting down?
V: Fake bad news. OK. Yes, I'm sitting.
M: Your brother is smarter than you.
V: Huh?
M: He's smarter than you. You just have to accept this.
V: How is he smarter than me?
M: He got his GPA today.
V: And?
M: (Says a very admirable, magna cum laude grade point average.)
V: Oh, come on. He's a film student. All he has to do is make things pretty.
M: He said you'd say that. After all, he's smart like that. Don't worry, your father and I still love you. You're still special to us.
V: Uh, huh. Thank me for being your guinea pig.
M: What?
V: The trial run. You know, you have the first one, work out all the kinks, then have your superior child.
M: You've been a good guinea pig.
V: Thanks. Besides, it's your own fault.
M: How's that?
V: Well, if you'd wanted me to be smart, you should have pushed for me to be a lawyer or something. You know, with a lot of Latin.
M: I'm glad you're taking it so well.
V: Don't worry, if it starts to bother me, I'll consult my wiser brother. The Tommy Lama.
M: Call me later?
V: If I remember. Don't blame me if I don't. You know how it is. Remembering things is tough on my feeble little brain.
M: I love you.
V: But just remember this - I was always a smart kid! I was a marathoner! Tom's a collegiate sprinter!

(Later)
Tom: (Answering telephone) Hey sister.
V: Hey brother. Thanks a lot.
T: What?
V: I spent 25 years cultivating my reputation as a smart person. It only takes you four little years to shatter that.
T: (Laughing) Mom and Dad told you, huh?
V: Congratuations. You suck.
T: Ha. I love you too.

My little city-town is known neither for its taxicabs nor its catcalls.

So forgive me if I seem a bit puzzled today, having walked up the street past two groups of people in the midst of a taxi hail-off and then back down the street, past a man who actually whistled and drawled "yummy" as my friend and I passed by.

So where am I today? I knew I should have taken that left turn at Albuquerque.

Thought for the day - er, night:

"Songs are what I listen to, almost to the exclusion of everything else. I don't listen to classical music or jazz very often, and when people ask me what music I like, I find it very difficult to reply, because they usually want names of people, and I can only give them song titles. And mostly all I have to say about these songs is that I love them, and want to sing along to them, and get cross when these other people don't like them as much as I do ..."

- Nick Hornby, Introduction to "Songbook," a brilliant collection of essays about songs that if you love music, you need to read. If you haven't already. I'd love to assume that you have. It's one of the three books I'm reading at the moment, the only one of which I am re-reading (for the millionth time).

The man sitting at the window table has light brown curls, a pair of sunglasses atop his head. His eyes are down, focused intently on the book he's been reading, but I'm imagining them to be warm and light brown. Perhaps with flecks of amber in them. For some reason, I've always looked for a pair of eyes like that - but the ones I've found have always been either chocolate brown, blue or one particularly memorable pair of green.

He is foppish, I've decided, strictly because the word seems to suit him. Beth and I will later debate the proper meaning of the word and how it applies to a man in a coffeeshop, but foppish it is. In the Hugh Grant, pre-prostitute manner of the word, with more of a New England, master's degree spin.

The analysis is making me giggle a little as I sip my latte and converse with my friends. Although the giggles may also have been helped along by the margarita I enjoyed with other friends about an hour prior. Who knows. What I do know is that I had a lunchtime drink and am now drinking coffee, a combination of upper and downer that makes me feel mellow and caffeinated at the same time. I'm rather fond of the sensation.

Muddy's is as sublime as it always is on spring Sundays. We sit at a three-top, one of us working through a stack of papers, two of us reading our respective books. I have Chuck Klosterman's latest propped open before me, and I'm chuckling regularly at the healthy doses of self-deprecation included within. Reading Klosterman is an experience aided by today's coffeehouse music selections - a mix of obscure and familiar pulsing through the speakers and eliciting headbobs from my chair. One particular song kept me guessing about the band until I jumped up to ask the barista.

Death Cab, which explained the sense of familiarity, but (surprisingly) a song I'd never heard of, which explained the puzzlement. It was included in his iPod playlist, and we chatted about the tune for a few moments before I grinned and returned to my chair. I wondered during the short walk whether he was the same employee I'd chatted with about Bright Eyes' "First Day of My Life" several months prior - that gent had been equally charming, but was a different kind of handsome.

That past guy had also been foppish, actually - this one was more James Dean than Hugh Grant.

(And I've demonstrated in the past a particular penchant for James Deans.)

A few minutes later, a song is playing that possesses elements of both rockabilly and alt-country (yes, Virginia, there is a difference) that sounds a bit like Ryan Adams when he's playing with the Cardinals, but I'm not confident enough to make a guess.

(No, I'm not returning to ask James Dean about another song. I will write down snippets of lyrics and find that the song is actually The Weakerthan's "A New Name for Everything" and purchase the song off iTunes.)

I feel good. Better than good. A puzzling mix of sensations running through my body, a good book to read, a hot latte and friends. And - and I believe this to be important - my hair is in pigtailed buns and I have Chuck Taylors on my feet. It's a Sunday afternoon and I am ignoring the work I should do because I've been thinking about it all weekend and my pre-margarita shoulders tensed just thinking about it. I am imagining flirtations with men who make or drink coffee, men I can imagine to be caring and charming, possessing admirable tastes in music and who will likewise appreciate my own.

I'm rebelling and relaxing at the same time. Two things I rarely do, combined to form another mixture of upper and downer, all nestled next to a warm pot of peppermint tea.

I'm sure these will be rants heard from throughout the world of Radiohead fans today, but I'll be damned if that doesn't stop me from chiming in.

- Scalpers sure cleaned up with this one. While concert hopefuls were busy scrambling to type in the right cryptic words on Ticketmaster at 10 a.m. this morning, scalpers were already posting hundreds of listings for overpriced tickets on various websites. Stubhub is now at $223. Meanwhile, those hoping to actually ATTEND the show, were shut out.

- A two ticket limit? Even if my flatmates and I were lucky enough to get tickets, we wouldn't be able to take in the show together. I don't live in a group house here, people. There are three of us. It shouldn't be impossible.

- Tickets were sold out in five minutes.

- Ticketmaster doesn't offer any indication about when a show has sold out, leaving hopefuls such as myself still clicking Web buttons, still typing in stupid words, an hour after tickets went on sale.

- What's up with those words, anyway? Who comes up with them? Who butchers the spelling intentionally? And does that individual look up to the heavens and chortle, "Take THAT! I am writing this WRONG! On PURPOSE!"

Suffice it to say, I will not be taking in my first Radiohead show on June 4 at the Corporate Mad Libs Pavilion. And I'm not particularly pleased at the moment.

After hours of scribbling and starting over, and the pointless death of at least a small tropical rainforest worth of trees, I had to admit the truth:

Ashlee Simpson is ruining my life.

Chronicles of a Red Sox apartment:

I'm sitting in the living room, half watching the game on NESN, half working on a project at my laptop. A Red Sox rally has temporarily pulled me away from the project, but I consider it a justifiable diversion.

Big hit. "WOO HOO!" I feel the typical silliness when I realize I'm cheering in an empty room, until I hear clapping from the back room. C, also getting some work done, he electing to listen to the game on the radio.

He comes scurrying into the room, his sock-clad feet sliding on the wood floors a second before he falls into the couch cushions. "The broadcasters are going nuts, so I need to see this hit."

We watch the replay, cheering and grinning. He lifts his hands to his head, to adjust the brim on an imaginary cap.

"I need to get a new hat," he says. "I left my other one in Beijing."

I nod. We pause for a moment, silently noting the imaginary elephant suddenly standing in the middle of the room. Do I remark on it? Of course I have to.

"Extra points for you, being able to pull that off. 'Oh yeah, you know. I left my other one in Beijing.'"

Oh, sorry. Were you looking for profundity?

The other day I thought of throwing everything away and moving. Without that whole "be both patient and proactive so the right time comes" frame of mind I've adopted.

I could just work at a coffeeshop, write a novel - or four - and ride around the city on my bike.

Then I wondered what I'd do for a coffeebreak when working at a coffeeshop. As I looked out the window, I also thought of how pissed off I'd get trying to navigate puddles and train tracks on my bike. And how many times I'd fall.

I suddenly felt better.

Would you have booed Johnny Damon if you had been at Fenway last night?

It's been the question du jour, with opinions flying around from every possible angle. Some applauded the majority of those at the park last night, others rolled their eyes and said they were disappointed in the response.

Me? Well, I felt a bit ashamed reading Mama Jackie's column in the Globe. Because much as I know she's right, much as I know I should be mature, I know damn well that I would have booing with the rest of 'em.

It's not mature. It's Red Sox-Yankees rivalry. Damon knows it, Jackie knows it, I know it and the 35,000-odd fans at the park knew it last night.

I really don't hate Johnny Damon. I think the behavior demonstrated in the time leading up to the move to New York was juvenile, and I think it's been laughable, the manner in which he has said he's moved on while demonstrating the exact opposite. Everything in Damon Land winds up relating back to the Sox in some manner. He incessently brings up the decision to relocate. He discusses the fans, the front office. A spotlight in New York, with light tracing back to Yawkey Way. A full-page ad in the Globe, interviews, et al.

Compiled, it's so much that it rings of insincerity.

He was a great Red Sox player, and I adored having him on the team. I don't think the Sox would have won the World Series without him. He's still in a framed place of honor on my wall of photography, stretching out the front of a Duck Boat at the victory parade, a grin on his face as he extended his arm in a victory salute.

The helmet tip could have been seen as classy, were it someone who hadn't already put into motion a calculated approach to keeping the discussion going. I felt it was a manufactured gesture. Cliched.

Which is why I own up and admit wholeheartedly that I chortled with glee upon seeing fake (and real, the word is) money tossed onto the warning track behind his place in center field. And why I most certainly got a kick out of the fact that he went 0-for-4 and that Ortiz's home run (the glorious wind-defying shot that it was) happened to land tantalizingly close to Damon's final spot near the bullpen.

So you know what? I'm sorry, Jackie and those who said it was in poor taste for those in the crowd to heckle him so incessently. I'm not going to try to stand on a soapbox and chastize. I would have been right there, doing the same thing.

And I'm awfully OK with that.

Besides, screw Johnny Damon's return to Fenway. How about Doug Mirabelli? I started cheering in my living room at the glorious sight of a #28 uniform jumping out of the police escort and running breakneck back into the green park in which it belongs...

Of course, it's the moment I decide to change things around here that I get pulled away to everything other than focusing on, you know, changing things here.

Oops.

In "Elizabethtown," Kirsten Dunst's character urges Orlando Bloom's character to, more or less, dance like nobody's watching. "I say make time to dance alone with one hand waving free" is the exact line. And while watching Orlando dancing away within a tree-lined tunnel was a striking moment, I didn't heed the wisdom of the lines until today.

I found myself in a deserted stairwell, the Ryan Montbleau Band's "Quickie" working its smooth way into my ears. No one around to hear my footsteps. And before I knew it, my little head-bobbing and silent singing had morphed into full-out dance. Swinging around the railing kind of dance. Fun and goofy and
a little saucy because I could be. All by myself in a stairwell, just doing it for the sake of doing it.

And I felt better than I had all day long. The grin on my face was bright as I returned to the daily grind, which suddenly had felt a little less...grinding.

I suppose that's my way of recommending that one heeds the words of Cameron Crowe. The dude knows what he's talking about.

In other news. My notebook will get a workout during the coming days, as I attempt to let the various adventures (misadventures too - fear not) from the last several days spill out from my head onto a page. The driving, the people, the moments - they deserve to be told properly, and I'm looking forward to the challenge.

But I can tell you that it's been fun. Tiring, taxing - so tiring that I actually went through Sunday with a fatigue hangover (that is, symptoms of a hangover when not a drop of alcohol was involved). But fun...

4/20 doesn't make me think of Burlington. It often feels as if I live in a city that, save perhaps Amsterdam, celebrates the date with more laid-back panache than anywhere else I know or have heard of. Yet I think less Vermont in April, more upstate New York in July.

Woodstock '99 gave me my first DMB experience, a whole lot of anecdotes and my first (and thus far, only) stories involving medical tents and IVs. Each night I attempted to sleep in the humidity-drenched discomfort of my tent, I'd listen to the sounds of the campground between, say, 2:30 and 6 a.m. I'd hear the call echo from somewhere between Abbey Lane and Strawberry Fields.

"4:20!!!!!!" The shout was followed by cheers, whistles, cowbells or whatever else someone had handy. And then a collective moment of silence as, from my sleeping bag perspective, everyone lit up.

Every half hour on the hour. Which was funny to be, considering that the actual time doesn't fall on a half hour.

I walked outside this afternoon to enjoy a little bit of the sunshine when I heard the call come from across the street.

I checked the clock and was surprised to see that I actually was hearing the rally cry at the proper time.

Go figure.

In other news. Each night, for about the past week, I've said goodnight to whomever was inside whatever residence at which I was staying. I've climbed between the sheets of whatever bed in which I would sleep. And I've opened my notebook to write about whatever day happened to be coming to a close.

Considering that I intended to post the contents of those notes on this space...and there hasn't been anything posted in a week...well, you figure out the rest of the story.

I'm a writer. It's what I do. I write when I'm happy, I write when I'm sad, I write about writing. I'm one of those "I'm going to write a novel" people. And while I suppose there's material worthy of being blogged, the utter exhaustion that has dominated the past few weeks leaves me absolutely brain-dead when it comes to writing it.

And what would I write that I haven't already written? I feel like a broken record. Same things, same people, same whatever. Same me.

It's not that I'm complaining. I am tired, this is true. Each day feels more rushed and tiring than the one that preceeded it, with the weekends often even busier than the days for which they are intended to provide relief. But I gave up the right to complain - and, in many respects, any reason to complain - the moment I decided to spend two weekends zooming from Burlington to Boston and back again.

I just don't have a hell of a lot to say. And the more I really want to write something, the fewer words I'm coming up with.

So earlier this afternoon, I was online, reading other people's blogs while cursing myself for continuing to neglect my own, when I found myself reading a commentary.

And then, somewhere between the bedsheets and 6 a.m., I realized something: Blogging wasn't helping me write; it was keeping me from it.

Wait. What's this? She went on:

I had come to this realization before, but the moment would pass, and I would find myself percolating with small, quotidian stories that I wanted to share

Amen, sister. I'm still with you...

...Thus the blog I started, thinking no one would read it and secretly hoping they would. The blog was the perfect bluff for a self-conscious writer like me who yearned for the spotlight and then squinted in its glare. When I needed to pretend that people were reading, I could. When I needed to pretend that nobody was reading, I could...

Hello, kindred spirit. I clicked over to her blog, where she had reflected on the space she had occupied for about five years.

...it is a verbose, at time cringe-inducing, record of the last five years. I like this. I am ridiculously nostalgic...and having a public record of my life pleases me, makes me feel a little taller in the world.

She was describing precisely what I had tried to say several times over the years - usually when either my parents were asking me why on earth I'd put my life out there on THE INTERNET for STRANGERS TO CONSUME, or when I was getting into one of the (rare) arguments/debates about the merits of writing out of my mind and onto a screen.

I kept on reading, seeing phrases and thoughts that had recently come to my mind. It wasn't just me! Hallelujah! I'm not a doomed would-have-been writer burnt out or forever incapable of stringing together a witty or heartfelt sentence!

Back to the commentary - titled, I should note - "Why I shut down my blog."

As much as I loved writing online, it's a relief writing offline: taking time to let a story unspool, to massage a sentence over an afternoon's walk, to stew for days - weeks even - on a plot line. What a modern luxury.

And that's when I started to feel better.

Posts might be less frequent for a bit, as I'm going to try getting back into this whole "Love Thy Notebook" mentality. I'm not shutting it down...but don't wonder if I've run away or anything.

I haven't yet, anyway.

But please note the link on the right.

Email.

I love receiving it. I love writing it.

Want to know what's going on? How I'm doing?

Just ask me yourself.

I just received my first "Sweet Caroline" call of the season.

Love it.

Off to Boston for another long weekend. And Fenway.

Happy Easter...

it depends on how you look at things
whether or not you can consider yourself
one of the special ones

maybe you know something that we
as a populous are largely unaware of

it depends on what the world and
the people well above it
consider to be special

because in every story of the heroes
and the saviors and great ones
there are infinite passers-by and which one are you?

because you walk past a lot of people
in any given day on the street

and maybe they're on the way to finish
the great american short story
or lead the men into battle

there can only be so many special ones
and i don't think we know which one we are
until the moment we realize we're about to be gone.

because until then, anything could happen
and you could, in any way, change the world.

someone may consider me to be something special
but if they do, i don't know about it and i suggest to you:
tell the special ones that they are so much that

because lots of us will go away, soon,
without so much the idea that
you were there and that you loved us.

- ben chappel, simplesimon mailing
"just a word before tomorrow," 04.15.01

I never met him. I never wrote him. He never knew of me. I was just an email address on the mailing list to which he sent little anonymous packages of insight and poetry. And they just happened to impress me. I made numerous references to them in posts during college, about how I looked forward to the next time I would be surprised to find a mailing waiting in my inbox.

I thought of him again in November, went back through the mailings, reposted this piece (it had always been my favorite). And again I thought of how much I liked knowing that he was in the world...

Odd, these Internets. You can never hold a conversation, exhange a hello or even share a breath. And yet somehow you feel like you've come to glimpse a side of a person. Otherwise, you may have never known that person - or perhaps that side of that person - even existed.

And hearing of that person's passing saddens you. But you're glad to have been given that glimpse.

I'm thinking of those who actually did know and love him.

i never quite figured out the
spacing
involved
in being a poet, and i never could get the plot together, the words forever, to be a novelist, and i never quite managed the lifestyle it takes to be a rogue, a rebel, a writer. i always wanted to know what they know and see the world like that,
think in line breaks
and fragmented
bits
and pieces
of sentences
with only a couple words
here
and one or two
there but
you really just know
what i'm trying to say

Since a cold has left my head really foggy and thought about much else leaves me either frustrated, seething or exhausted, I'm going to continue my Red Sox theme.

See, my cousin is preparing for her first Sox game. My parents - saints and otherwise a stellar set of aunt and uncle - will introduce her to all that is Fenway tomorrow night. I had initially hoped to be able to join them, but it wasn't in the cards, so I'll instead take in the game on the television.

Since this is the first Fenway venture for her, however, I'm putting together a little list of things to look for/do/think about while she's there. And while I've come up with some ideas, I thought I'd solicit your advice or suggestions so I have a great little suprise for her tomorrow.

So what are your little Fenway quirks?

Among those I've already included, condensed for this format:
- Fenway Frank (unless vegetarian or vegan, of course). If there's one time, one place all year that you consume a hot dog (and, with the exception of Spike's vegan dogs, this was the case for me last year), it's a Fenway Frank at a Red Sox game.
- Take a second to grin when you first look at the ballpark after you walk up the ramp into the grandstand. I got into a long coversation about this over the weekend, prompted by the cinematography in "Fever Pitch" that so aptly captures the moment. As someone explained to me, "When you walk up the ramp and look around, it's what I imagine Dorothy felt like when she stepped out of the sepia Kansas house and through the doorway into technicolor Munchkinland. And it's like that every single time."
- Walk around Yawkey Way. Take in the sights, the sounds, the smell of the roasted peanuts. Look at the banners along the side of the park and the sight of endless red, white and blue t-shirts and jerseys. This is the event part of the ballgame.
- Learn the words to "Sweet Caroline."
- Look around for Theo. If found, give him my number.
- Watch the vendors as they throw the peanuts across rows of fans. Note the impeccable aim and wonder why they weren't signed by a team. They're that good.
- And, following family tradition, call me during the seventh inning stretch.

So. Anyone up for helping me add to the list? Keep in mind: the girl's about to turn 13. So obviously beer and the like is off the list...heh.

Beth, whilst waiting for Starbucks goodness, proving yet again how she is capable of making me laugh even as I'm ready to cry. Oh, and following the news I'd just broken (bad choice of words) to her about the status update involving one Coco Crisp:

Well, good. Because I'm not going to see him play until August. And since I liked him BEFORE he was a Red Sox, I want to horde him to myself. Less time for everyone else to think he's amazing.

I could see her logic, much as I responded with a dropped jaw and impulse to hit her in the arm - oh wait, I believe I did actually do that - but there's one problem.

I was supposed to see him play on SATURDAY.

No, this works out better. Because when we see him - er, THEM - in August, we'll be in the bleachers. His territory. It works out PERFECTLY.

The good news? Well, I do find myself always rooting for Adam Stern anyway...

...and it sure as hell made me laugh when I really needed to.

Oh, and sign that you're a complete and utter dork when it comes to the written word: you notice, and are a little shocked and distressed by, the change of FONTS of the letters spelling out "Fenway Park" on the grandstand.

And you point this out to others, surprised they didn't notice.

No, it used to be more of a Times New Roman or Bookman style font. And how it's all Arial Block-ish. No, I'm serious. I'll show you some photos from last season...

A Wishlist (in no particular order):
1) An hour, to cry myself into exhaustion
2) Another hour, to nap
3) A shoulder rub
4) A bag of Luden's Wild Cherry Throat Drops
5) A Frappuccino, to sooth my throat

Since items 1-3 just aren't gonna happen and I don't really need need item 4, please excuse me as I go to check item 5 off my list.

By the time I walked through the door yesterday evening, I was tired. Pale tired. Roommates ask if you're OK, you're so pale tired.

But good tired. Mostly. I think.

My last Boston venture included a lot of writing time - in coffeeshops, on benches, on the T (that I can actually read that last collection of notes still amazes me). I have pages upon pages of thoughts that resulted, much stream of consciousness recorded because I simply had the time to think.

Not so much this time. I'd planned on having streches of alone time, armed with my journal, iPod and the book Beth and let me borrow earlier in the week. And while I did manage to devour "The Lovely Bones" (note to anyone: read it. Just read it now.) during a voracious late-night reading session, the other items were quickly rendered unnecessary.

I'm a strong proponent for me time. But it felt lovely to set that aside and focus instead on feeling loved, spending time with the people I care about. So it was a busy, tiring weekend. But a good one...

- The window bar at Starbucks was hot property. The only property, actually. The only available seating space consisted of six or seven chairs positioned below a narrow counter spanning the floor-to-ceiling window. There were about 10 people in line, with five seats already occupied by patrons in various stages of coffee consumption. The odds weren't good for those hoping to sit and sip.

But then I saw people start to stand behind those finishing up their drinks. Not close enough to encroach on the person sitting, but close enough to warn off anyone similarly minded. My spot. Find your own. The caffeinated version of parking spot battles, minus the blinkers.

Yet one seat was free. One without counter space, thus rendered impractical by those carrying messenger bags or laptops. But perfect for me to settle into, my latte in one hand, the book I was about to begin in the other. And no one to stand behind me and grimace as I fell into Susie Salmon's narrative...

- Instores are strange. Or at least this one was - and I haven't any other experiences to which to compare it.

It's the middle of the day, and you've studied every single copy of Ryan Adams' available discography, including the German import of a Cold Roses album with two stickers. One marking up the price by six dollars, the other proclaiming the import status. Other than that, no difference to the good ol' American copy.

But this is your spot, in the As, among those who have cut class, ducked out for a long lunch or taken a similar trip to partake in mid-day music. You're not going anywhere, they're not going anywhere, and the instore has yet to begin. So you study the albums. Again.

You turn back to check out an Aerosmith box set when you see the beautiful grin of a dear friend you hadn't expected to see here; you happily relinquish a spot alone in the As for a place next to a friend in the Fs and Gs.

You and she are a different kind of instore audience, demonstrated when the set begins and you're both still absentmindedly flipping through the rows of CDs. You see her long fingers pass over the merchandise, her eyes down with a soft smile on her face. You're reveling in the warm consistency of music that manages to soothe you, make you chuckle and sigh at the same time. Matt's music brings you subtle joy, and this atypical performance setting makes you take a step back and just let it comfort you.

While the giddier fans crane their necks for a better view and belt out the words, you and she just hum along and smile.

- My presence in City Hall Plaza is unusual enough. But a circus ringmaster, top hat and all? A patriot I can write off, but this is just strange. He tips his hat as I walk by with a quizzical look. I can't help but giggle.

- The breeze that has been whipping my hair about gusts up as I cross an intersection of Cambridge Street, and I temporarily feel as if I'm being hurried by nature down the road to the base of Beacon Hill.

- I'm pleased to see that chivalry isn't dead. I am a highly independent, self-sufficient kind of girl. But it's lovely to be looked out for on occasion. And if the occasion happens to be the moment a maiden fair realizes rain drops are beginning to speckle cars - and that she has seemingly everything imaginable in her bag other than an umbrella? All the better.

- She jokes that she's unintentionally ruined two of my favorite songs for me by linking them to real life, and I playfully grimace, roll my eyes. But she hasn't - I'd long ago created the same links in my mind. That's actually why they are among my favorites...

- I meet him in Central Square, and we chat as we walk to the T. We continue on the red line, to the green line, the walk to Allston. About 45 minutes of animated, comfortable catchup.

When we settle into our chairs at Grasshopper and the waitress sets down the pot of tea, he folds his arms and looks expectantly across the table at me. "So..."

I burst into laughter as he explains that he'd been waiting for me to bring it up. He wanted to ask as soon as he'd seen me, but he forced himself to hold off until we were sitting face to face, armed with tea.

So.

- Two things:
1) I like vegan cheesecake ala Grasshopper almost as much as I like real cheesecake.
2) I really, really, REALLY like cheesecake.

- We were both heading back to Central Square, so we settled into seats and stared out the opposite windows. Both tired, full and content, we let each other sit in comfortable silence, our minds dozing since our bodies couldn't. Occasionally, I'd rest my head on his shoulder. Sometimes he'd do the same. I loved the fact that we didn't need to fill every moment of our meetups with the act of catching up. I might be a few hours away, but we are still close enough siblings that we have time to just sit there.

- First song of the set: All Been Said Before. Need I say more?

- I heard the scratch of pen on paper as I edited a monologue and smiled. Our writing summit had resumed, and I was happy to see what had come of the previous venture.

What I Love About Friends, Reason 73824: The writing sound was the act of card composition. A thank you to me for helping with the project. Yet there I was, feeling flattered, honored to be allowed to assist...

The bodyguard

I'd joked that I was the bodyguard.

By the time I realized his post-show spot would be directly in front of where I had stood for most of the evening, I hadn't many relocation options. The crowd swarmed around him on all sides, save mine. I was comfortable in my spot, neither he nor his manager seemed to mind and I was available if either of my friends working merch needed assistance. So I leaned back against the wall and folded my arms. I laughed over to L about the responsibility I had decided to assume and then worked on looking tough.

It offered a fascinating view. From his perspective.

I watched as giddy faces took on new expressions as he turned to them. Some coolly nonchalant, others unabashedly giddy. There were a few that flickered between demeanors as their owners tried to settle on one particular approach. Almost every set of eyes widened significantly during the initial exchange of greetings.

It was overwhelming, the number of shining faces and blinding smiles that spread out before him (and me). I thought of riding in the backseat of my parents' car as a youngster, staring ahead at the nighttime road. I could never understand how my mother or father could tune out the line of painfully bright headlights well enough to keep the car on the road. I always had to blink or close my eyes entirely. It was too much - far too bright.

I leaned my head against the wall as I watched the greetings. Some offer a simple hello before extending a CD case, ticket or bookmark. More outgoing individuals mentioned previous shows or cities, where there had been another exchange of mutual admiration or photo opportunity.

And that was what struck me most about the display before me. Mutual admiration. It truly seemed as if he wanted to be sure to thank them for coming, just as they wanted to thank him for putting on a show. He sought out names if they weren't offered, and he found ways to tough a shoulder or elbow. Camera mugs involved hugging. He laughed, he joked, he showered each with a special moment of undivided attention before one more thank you before a turn of the spotlight onto the next person.

I had my own copy of the album in my bag - same as I'd had it earlier in the day at the instore - and could have asked for a similar turn with silver marker. But there was no reason for me to. I'm not an autograph seeker (unless we're talking about something where it's funny or exciting for the person signing), and I liked standing where I was. I had no desire to go onto the other side of the exchange. I'd been surprised into saying a hello and making an introduction earlier. And I found that expereince preferrable to this.

Although as I watched him, I did feel an impulse to hug him, thanking him for never ceasing to amaze me.

But I was the self-proclaimed bodyguard - and hugs aren't tough. I kept my arms folded instead.

With the days of the maple latte winding down to their ultimate, expected-yet-still-distressing end, there's no doubt where one will find Beth and myself supplementing our caffeine addictions.

During this precious time, the other coffeeshops will serve as no succedaneum(1) - we will turn to them for solace soon enough. At that point, without the luxury of maple-drizzled decadence, we'll find ourselves feeling pococurante(2) toward precisely what concoctions we consume.

In our latte world, right now, there's maple, nothing else. No caramel yet. Vanilla? Maybe soon.

The cambist(3) manning the counter this morning, whom we greet by name each day, commented on how we're sticking it out until the maple end. We laughed about the empty void that will appear in our lives. We've been given the euonym(4) of The Maple Girls, those who nod and grin when asked if we'd like The Usual, who get our names and smiley faces written on the cups containing brunneous(5) java goodness.

I'm going to miss the eudaemonic(6) routine the maple latte has provided. Meet up, place an order without really placing it, sit around at a tiny table, laugh at the beginning of our days. It is a brief respite from the elucubrating(7) necessary for the rest of the day.

And it works our minds - as we sat today, pouring through a box of cards that had been left on the table. We laughed as we realized how few of the words we, two pretty intelligent, well-educated women, happened to know. And the lack of short-term memory demonstrated when we had to relook at cards to recall their definitions?

Well, that just made us feel antediluvian(8).

1 - Succedaneum: a substitute
2 - Pococurante: indifferent, apathetic
3 - Cambist: one who's skilled in currency exchange
4 - Euonym: a well suited name
5 - Brunneous: having a dark brown color
6 - Eudaemonic: producing happiness
7 - Elucubrate: to produce by working long and diligently
8 - Antediluvian: extremely old and antiquated
(Thanks, Starbucks!)

To be filed under either "You Know You're Tired When" or "Um, Yeah, Go With It":

"I learned relatively recently that there's Newfoundland blood running through these veins. Apparently my people were a whaling people...yes. Exactly. If you're ever in a dingy on the open seas and a whale comes along, fear not. As long as I'm there with a plastic knife, we'll be good to go."

The above quote is all me. Apparently, I really have lost my mind.

Some musicians you like, some you admire, some make you laugh. And then there are some that you feel this odd impulse to protect, promote and celebrate, with recommendations given to those who will really appreciate the music and love the maker.

On an entirely unrelated note, email sent to Matt Nathanson's mailing list. Or: email sent to The Guy Whose Live Album You Should Totally Buy (and Download Bonus Tracks Off iTunes) Comes Out Today's* mailing list:

hello my fine, classy peeps!

i am currently in a hotel room just outside of washington, D.C.,
enjoying a little Law & Order: CI and a snickers bar, and thought i would drop you all an email.
tonight was the start of the solo, mini tour... not to be confused with the solo minotaur,
who wanders greek mythology alone, with the head of a bull and the body of a man.
tomorrow, my new live record, 'At The Point, comes out. and by friday...i figure, i'll be
as big as the Beatles. so this might be my last chance to take time out of the juggernaut
that is superstardom to write to you all myself...

seriously though, i'm psyched...
i think this record is a really great representation of a solo, live show.
just me, my guitar, the usual goofy between song stuff...and a whole truck load of swears. oops.
also, this CD is my first real attempt at releasing something in stores and on-line/iTunes on my own, using
completely independent channels. no big corporations to help or hinder the process... so, every little bit helps.
if you don't find it in one of the stores you frequent, tell the manager of that store to order it...
and then go buy it at a store that DOES carry it!
and if you can't find it at all. order it here: www.awarestore.com

anyway, enough of that. it comes out tomorrow... please buy it, spread the word and all that good stuff.
you are all superstars! i can't wait to hear what you think!

that's about it for me.
most shows in the first part of the tour are sold out... thank you for that!
but there are still some shows where tickets are available.
check out www.mattnathanson.com for all that info.
also, there is more touring to come. so if you haven't seen your city yet, don't fret, you will soon.
all sorts of other cool info listed below, so make sure to read on...

see you all on the road,
matt

******************
Tuesday, April 4th:
'At The Point', my first live record, is released in stores and online!!! to huge fanfare.
the streets are flooded with people trying to buy it. like the cabbage patch kid dolls, and
playstation 3 before it, supply can not keep up with demand. pandemonium ensues.

wxpn, a fantastic radio station in philadelphia, will have me on air at 4 p.m. EST for a quick interview
and a song. and later that evening, at 8:30 p.m., they will have a live broadcast of my entire show from World Cafe Live.
both of these events can be streamed by anyone with a computer, in real time, on-line at www.wxpn.org

Wednesday, April 5th
I'll be performing a few songs live on the air for my friends at WBOS(92.9) in boston @ 8 p.m.
for all you non-bostonians, this can be streamed, in real time, on www.wbos.com

*********************

below is a list of INSTORES i'll be playing. they are FREE and OPEN TO EVERYONE!
some of them are happening around lunch time, during the week.
i highly suggest ditching school or playing hooky from work. it'll be way more fun.

Boston, MA
Friday, april 7th
Newbury Comics - Government Center
1 Washington Mall, Boston
@ 12:30 PM
(617) 248-9992
* parking is a real pain , so make sure to come early if you drive. or take the T. *

Chicago, IL
Wednesday, april 12th
Borders/State Street
150 N. State St, Chicago
@ 12:30 PM
(312) 606-0750

Austin, TX
friday, april 14th
Waterloo Records
600 A. North Lamar, Austin
@ 5 PM
(512) 474-2500

St. Louis, MO
saturday, april 29th
Streetside Records
6314 Delmar Boulevard, University City
@ 1 PM
(314) 726-6277

Happy Matty Nay Day, gang.

*If you're in the Burlington area, I can assure you that you will find his album in both FYE and Borders. Look on the special shelves above the Ns. Somehow the album found its way to the eye-level shelves, in front of other albums (sorry, Neil Young, but it's not your day and you belong in the Ys anyway).

Amazing how a phone call that starts out with "I just wanted you to know that I'm fine" never fails to freak the recipient out.

"What happened?" I started to imagine the worst. Work-related accident? Fire? Another run-in between his bicycle and a car?

My imagination wouldn't have been able to come up with a crane crash situation.

"Oh my God, are you OK?" Amazing how a phone call that starts out with "I just wanted you to know that I'm fine" still makes one ask if the person on the other end is fine or not. Huh.

He was perfectly fine, didn't see it, but wanted to make sure he'd checked in with me. He knew that I'd come across the news shortly - he knows of the frequent Boston.com checks I make throughout the day - and figured that Emerson would be mentioned in whatever news was reported (a good assumption, as the college was included in the first breaking news reports). He was in one of the college's buildings, two doors down from the scene of the accident.

And he was fine. A little spooked, but fine.

I told him I loved him and that I'd talk to him later in the day before hanging up and realizing that "I'm fine" is a necessary start to a phone call or conversation...the only thing one can really say to start off a call like that...

...but talk about the second worst possible start to a conversation one could think of.

One more thing today and then I'm done. I swear.

How's everyone doing? I ramble and rant and all that jazz on here, but how about you guys? See, I have this comment feature, and I love to be able to use it...

So. How are you? What's been going on? Who are you? What's on your mind? Got a question about this random girl who writes about herself and music and whatever else strikes her fancy? Ask away and I promise to answer - honestly, candidly, etc. (unless it falls under the "I don't discuss my job" rule, that is.) Just want to say hi?

I'm in the mood for some conversation. Please, drop a line.

(This idea has been partially inspired by Krissa over at petit hiboux, who never fails to come up with brilliant ideas at just the right time.)

I'm not one for complaining.

OK, fine. I'm not one who LIKES to complain. Particularly when it's related to something I think it a pretty positive turn of events.

But the concept of the early show irks the hell out of me.

Unless I'm referring to a show that is specifically labeled a DAY show - with the exception of the wonder that is the summer sunset Battery Park concert series - I should begin a concert recap with "So last night I saw..."

That said, late yesterday afternoon and early yesterday evening, I partook in Charlotte Martin's set at Club Metronome.

AHEM.

There are various dilemmas posed by a 6 p.m. start time on a Saturday. Do you eat dinner before the show or after? How do you get past looking out of windows and seeing daylight? What do you do when you get out of a show at 9:15 and the bars have waiting lines? When precisely did a Pavlov scenario arise, in which the show ends and you feel that it's been a long night? Do you shake the suspicion that ordering a drink - your usual procedure upon entering a venue - is ill-timed or do you hold off?

I appreciate the fact that Metronome's increasing the number of shows - and bringing in the likes of Charlotte - but c'mon. This is tough stuff here.

The show itself? Opener Zak Clark gets props for putting himself out there, but it seems he has the Ben Folds awkwardness without the Ben Folds charm. That is, Ben Folds KNOWS he's awkward and he works it to the extreme (kung fu moves atop a piano, anyone?). Zak is young - 19, I believe - and I admit that I felt a certain impulse to root for him as he was doing his thing.

But "he's only 19" only gets you so far. My first experience seeing Howie Day live was back in the day when HE was only 19.

It had been about two and a half years since I'd seen Charlotte Martin opening - here's synergy for you - for Howie Day at Avalon in Boston. I'd picked up "On Your Shore" and enjoyed it, although the album never became a frequent play. For me, Charlotte is one of those There Artists. It's great when they're There, I was happy to see that she was playing There and I was definitely going to be There for it.

Dynamic and intense, capable of transforming her voice into one of anger, then sweetness, then back again, she's incredibly talented. Her lyrics just scream for a female listener to cheer out loud, thanking her for saying all the things the listener has wanted to say. "In Parenthesis" became a favorite song during the first listen and remains one today.

It was amazing to see what's changed since the "In Parenthesis EP" was the principal purchase at the merch table. A ring of white roses circled the keyboard and organ, and the catalogue of songs I've missed during the time gap made me realize I have some catching up to do. There's more of a focus on percussive beats (recorded and brought into the performance) these days, with a funky style that gets the head bobbing and - in the case of the die-hards in the front row - bodies grooving.

It took a few songs to get into it, but I believe that to be primiarly because those particular songs did little to speak to me. But she got into her groove and she rocked out, reminding me yet again of how many artists I've been turned onto thanks to that Day guy.

I'm working on a review review of the evening - I'll let you know when that's done and posted somewhere (if you're interested, leave a comment and let me know).

In other news: There's a distinct possibility that I'll I will be making a trip to Massachusetts early Friday morning and will be in the area until sometime Sunday. I'd been disappointed that I was going to miss Matt Nathanson's Paradise show on Thursday (with Blu Sanders opening? Hello.), but Beth reminded me today that I have a long weekend. And while I can't make the Thursday show, I could will playfully chuckle at that which is the Newbury Comics instore. And I could make now have tickets for the Friday night show in Providence.

Yes, I'm in Boston the following weekend for the Red Sox, but when has that ever stopped me before?

Anyone going to these shows? Lemme know.

And, finally, I was absolutely delighted to see the feature on Ryan Montbleau in yesterday's Globe (heh, the reference to Burlington - hello, crazy Nectar's gig - made me grin). Check it out here and enjoy...

I cheated.

I've been eagerly awaiting the release (Tuesday!) of Matt Nathanson's "Live at the Point" album, but a friend mentioned to me last night that the album has already dropped onto iTunes...

...which means I had to go check it out and see what made the cut. I'd even held off the tracklist, planning to be oblivious until I gave the disc its first spin.

And then I had to download one track. I'm still waiting until Tuesday for most of the album, but I had to make the exception.

I used to hate it when I was asked what one song best embodies who I am/my personality/any other variation on the topic. There were so many possibilities that reflected the various aspects of who I am that I found it hard to pick one.

Until I realized that one song did sum it up. "All Been Said Before" is me. If you want to figure me out - fine, let's be accurate here - if you want to have a starting point for figuring me out, Matt unknowingly provided you a starting point.

So I couldn't NOT download it, right?

(By the way, it sounds GLORIOUS.)

So, that rant aside. I'll be writing later in the day about seeing Charlotte Martin perform at Metronome last night. Look for it...

I love the vibe that emanates from the city-town's South End.

It's the artisian area, full of lofts and old factory buildings-turned studio spaces. Large window spaces broken up into iron-latticed squares of glass that offer glimpses of the industrial style within.

Funny how buildings tend to best reflect the modern style attempted in more contemporary counterparts.

It's the neighborhood that comes together annually to transform shops and restaurants into art galleries for the Art Hop, the area that takes a self-assured step away from the ever-examined spirit of the downtown. While Burlington tries to figure out if it's crunchy or metropolitan, progressive or quaint, the South End knows what it is, what it's been and what it's going to be.

It's comfortable. Consistent. Confident and, as a result, a cool place to spend some time.

Saturday mornings are meant for breakfast at Great Harvest. A bread company that offers you a thick slice of warm bread when you walk through the door, a free treat to tide you over as you try to figure out what selection you will make. A wire-dangled chalkboard outlines the day's selections, each marked with the time they were pulled from the ovens.

The employee manning the counter will laugh with you when you order a cinnamon roll and she actually asks if you'd like one that has been iced.

"Silly question, I know." Exactly.

Cinnamon complimented by coffee as you sit at a table near the window, watching the rain splash onto the panes or observing a young child pulling at the massive teddy bear the staff set in a corner. Periodic bursts of chocolate, maple or honey air that warms your face as you smile and inhale.

Relax. Take your time. Enjoy your treat. Stay awhile and hang out. We're glad you're here.

(This post was written while listening to the unexpected treat provided to me yesterday...I'd pretty much given up on ever finding the mp3 of Jeff Buckley's "3 is a Magic Number" cover. Through the wonder of technology and message boards - RKOP - someone knew I'd been looking for the song and sent it my way. J is my new heroine; I'd forgotten how much I love this. Thanks again...)

I have the afternoon free.
It's 70 degrees.
Sunny.
I've been shopping.
I'm going to go running.
Then maybe shop some more.
Write while sitting on sunbaked steps.
Meet up with friends.
Dinner?
A movie?
Ben & Jerry's?
All of the above? (The most likely option)

Go outside and play, friends.
Stop reading a blog.
'Cause I'm done wasting time inside writing.

xoxo,
V

p.s. COUNTING CROWS SUMMER TOUR!

I think I'd decided to be in one of those moods even before I opened my eyes.

Just felt appropriate. I needed a day to feel sad and think about things and whatever else I wanted to do to sulk.

Today won't let me. And I thank the day for it. I'm grinning, feeling an extra bounce in my step. Laughing. A lot. Giving compliments away freely, delighted to find myself receiving even more.

And I was able to finally blare some Josh Ritter today.

See, I'd been waiting for months to blare a certain song and really feel the words.

Patience was required. I'm not good at being patient. But I held off.

Until today. I cranked up the volume, lowered the windows and kept the percussive beat on my steering wheel.

I'm not walking around in short sleeves and sandals - like SOME PEOPLE in this town are - but I certainly understand why Burlington has scrambled to shed its winter skin as quickly as humanly possible, having grown cranky and antsy to load the bulky layers into trunks and storage space.

We know that the temperature is expected to dip back down in a few days, but these last few days have been a step in the right direction. And today, amid the skirts, capris and, I'm not joking, tank tops visible along Church Street, I've been delighted with the appearance of outdoor seating, street vendors and even more of the buskers I enjoy so much in warmer weather.

Screw the lack of budding trees! The rally cry ignores that the grass is more brown-green than green-brown! Spring! Spring! Spring! We're free!

If you have this song, I recommend playing it nice and loud. If you don't have it, I recommend getting it. And then playing it nice and loud. You'll feel glorious and like a brand new person.

Well, not a brand new person, but a whole lot better.

Snow Is Gone

Birds beneath my window dustying their wings upon the lawn
I hear them in the morning light giving last amen to a migratory song
They’re never looking round for me — their eyes are on the sky or the ground below
But I’d rather be the one who loves than to be loved and never even know

Hello blackbird, hello starling
Winter’s over, be my darling
It’s been a long time coming
but now the snow is gone

You were beautiful when I first saw your feathers and confectionery airs
Like the earth it up and promised you the stars but you really didn’t care
I sang in exultation pulled the stops — you always looked a little bored
But I’m singing for the love of it — have mercy on the man who sings to be adored

Hello blackbird, hello starling
Winter’s over, be my darling
It’s been a long time coming
but now the snow is gone

I’m underneath your window now — it’s long after the birds have gone to roost
and I’m not sure if I’m singing for the love of it or for the love of you
But I’ve flown a long way, honey, hear my confession then I’ll go
I’d rather be the one who loves than to be loved and never even know

Hello brown one, hello blue one
Last night’s feathers exchanged for new ones
Hello blackbird, hello starling
Winter’s over, be my darling
It’s been a long time coming
but now the snow is gone

I'm not one of those runners who can just zone out and listen to the sound of one's breathing. Or whatever it is runners listen to without an iPod soundtrack.

I have to have some music going. The beat, as you might expect, is pretty important. And in those instances in which I find songs on zee ol'* iPod-io that match the beat I'm creating with my feet, watch out world.

The reason they had to rely on The Six Million Dollar Man and PF Flyers back in the day can simply be chalked up to lack of iPod or otherwise easily transportable audio systems. Because when I get the right song or artist playing, I really am better, stronger, faster. I can run faster, jump higher, yadda yadda yadda.

Well, fine. I'm not sure about the jump higher bit. I haven't tested that out yet.

So. Ramble aside. Once I come across great running music, I tend to set it aside strictly for the running experience. Ryan Adams' "Rock N Roll"? Don't listen to it except for when I'm on the treadmill. Other certain songs or albums are equally reserved.

This is due to the fact that I naively carried the selections from Matt Nathanson's Paradise show over into the other parts of my life. And wondered why, while driving on the highway or organizing things in my room, I started to feel winded.

Hmm.

Yesterday, I made the should-have-been-common-sensical discovery that my LCD Soundsystem music collection is an absolutely brilliant compilation of quick-paced beats suitable for running. Seriously. My workout raced (no pun intended) by, and I was having so much fun rocking out to the tunes that I only had to half-push myself to up my distance.

(Keep in mind that "upping my distance" is an extraordinarily relative term.)

I was torn over this discovery. Great - good running music! Boo - have to save it for running!

I tried. I really, truly, honestly did. But today, driving in the car with windows down and the temperature at a getting-there-so-I'll-take-it-for-now-55-degrees, I couldn't not break the rule.

I dare you to not be similarly invigorated by cool - NOT COLD! - spring breezes and "Movement."

Double dog dare you.

Technically, it's spring. OK, fine. Fabulous. We'll soon be springing forward our clocks, allowing for that extra hour of sunshine. The spring portion of the major league baseball season opens, what, a week from tomorrow?

(A fact that, surprsing no one, leaves me bouncing up and down like a child just thinking about it.)

All these technicalities, set dates, are all fine and good...but I'm waiting for the actual to arrive. And I'm actually getting more than a little impatient.

See, I've done my part. I have the spring (and summer and fall and until I get sick of them) sunglasses ready. I have the spring wardrobe ready, hanging in the closet, folded in the drawers. I have sneakers, open-toed shoes, sandals lined up and ready. I have my tickets for Fenway (and, come fall, Camden Yards) carefully set aside and the Red Sox calendar pinned to the corkboard behind this computer.

Game dates circled. Heh. Less than three weeks until the first one!

I spent a chunk of the weekend at my parents' house, relaxing and catching up with them outside of Massachusetts - which seems to be the exception to the norm as of late, as all three of us turn to the highway when we have more than a day of free time. Even they got into the spring swing of things. Shopping to make sure my mother actually buys herself the things she says she's been wanting (apparently I'm required to serve as the "bad" (read: good) influence in this area); discussion with my father about the tantalizingly close start to spring golf; the surprise black, white and pink track jacket and pants they'dbought me because they thought it would help my transition into running outside come cooperative weather.

We're all there. We're all waiting for it. We all have spring fever.

Only thing missing? Spring itself.

Any day now...

It was a marvel to behold.

A smile that remained on her face, even when her lips had lost their upward turn. It all started with the eyes, the visible glow that radiated out from her face, her frame as she leaned against the back of the bench on which we were sitting. Irrepressible, even if she'd wanted to downplay her happiness.

Which, we both knew, she didn't.

This isn't the typical "It's great to see you and how happy you are" kind of moment, this was bearing witness to the kind of joy and beauty that leaves those fortunate enough to see it absolutely dazzled by the transformation.

It's almost as if the happiness had reached her formerly jet black hair and lit it up, set it into an auburn blaze.

"I'm so happy for you" did nothing to properly describe what I wanted to say, but she knew what I meant.

"It's about damn time, girl!" or, even, "Thank you for being happy, because it makes me realize that I am going to have that for myself, and I really needed a hopeful reminder."

If you head on over to Todd Carey's website and sign up for his mailing list, you'll get the password to "Crazy Fools," a new section with exclusive material...

...INCLUDING a video clip of Todd and Bushwalla's show here in Burlington AND a chance to hear the van-made recording of "Anywhere But Memphis," which was created during the trip up to Burlington. That song, while cool in the demo version, just sizzled beyond belief during the two chances I had to hear it live (thank you again, Burlington and Boston). How I adore me some Todd and B, and how amazing it is when they team up. That song just rocked the venues something fierce...

...but for those who couldn't experience it live, at least you get a chance to hear a hint of it piping through your speakers.

Go check it out! You won't be sorry. And catch Todd at a show, next time he rolls into town. Midwest crowds can soon prepare to be dazzled by Todd AND Ryan Montbleau Band (a lineup I was lucky enough to experience at Higher Ground last year), and I'll be envious of you all.

This one falls under "Sugar, spice, such a freakin' girl":

It wasn't just a dress. To paraphrase a Tom Cruise movie line from an idyllic time, a time before he scared the bejeezus out of me, it was an Audrey Hepburn movie - and I was in the mood for breakfast at Tiffany's.

Black silk, strapless, fitted bodice with a skirt that flared out slightly before falling at the knee. Ribboned waist with slight pleating in the front. The little black dress that not so much screams as quietly demands a string of pearls and a pair of kitten heels.

I have the kitten heels and I'd sure as hell buy the pearls for this number, I thought as I stood, staring wistfully at the dress as it flattered a mannequin behind the shop window. The little black dress to end all little black dresses - and this statement would never ever go out of style.

My mother instilled in me, at a young age, that every woman needs the little black dress. And while I have a dress that is little and black, I've always been on watch for The Dress. And here it was, at the Pru. Simple and elegant and absolutely gorgeous.

Michelle watched me drool and asked if I wanted to try it on. I declined, postponing the moment I either fell completely in love or realized it was actually The Little Black Dress That Doesn't Work On Me. So, instead, I bid it one more wistful glance as we made our way to the T, discussing the little black dress lifestyle.

Now, I'm not so much of a little black dress kind of girl - or at least, I don't appear to be the type. I'm more of the perfect pair of jeans kind of lady. Jeans that fit in with rock shows, a casual day at the office, a latte and conversation or a drive on the way to an adventure. Dress 'em up, sure, but usually, I dress 'em down - in a good kind of way.

The question arose: would either of us want the little black dress life? Of events over get-togethers, dainty heels over heeled boots, up-dos instead of ponytails?

Well, actually, I kind of would. At least, every once in awhile.

The next day, we found the dress at another shop, at another shopping center, and I tried it on. The store employee asked me what event the dress was for as she led me to a changing room, and I replied that every woman needs a little black dress. She nodded knowingly.

It fit, it flared, I felt like Holly Golightly. As I opened the door and twirled, Michelle remarked that it looked great, but it wasn't typical me.

I thought to myself, "You know, that may be just what I need." I haven't bought it, but I'm still thinking about it. Mulling it over.

(Praying it goes on sale sometime soon.)

I'm not talking about giving up Red Stripes for vodka martinis, but I find myself trying to bridge the gap between the jeans lifestyle and its more "sophisticated" silk contemporary. A lean a bit toward my girlier, fashionista side these days. Or at least a step toward it. In fact, I considered recently wearing my favorite pair of jeans with a pair of black stilettos.

Of course, then I remembered I don't own a pair of stilettos because I always thought I'd break an ankle (in fact, my most recent shoe purchase? Chuck Taylors. Ahem.) But then I thought about buying some. Why? Because some of them are pretty and I'd feel particularly pretty in them. Besides, they'd be special occasion shoes, not ones for everyday.

(Ay, there's the rub. Even when feeling flighty and fanciful, practicality rears its sensible head.)

I've started to compile a list of materialistic, clothing-related wants. I always have one, of course, but this time, I'm starting to lust after things I wouldn't have otherwise considered. Still me and my style, of course, but decidedly different facets of it. Surprisingly so.

Which makes me wonder two things:

1 - How in trouble I'm going to be when my tax refund arrives.
2 - Where I could wear a perfect little black dress.