So I sold the couch last night, and now I wait apprehensively for the phone call telling me that our lovely college student will be coming to claim her wares. I feel quite blessed that last night she only brought her mother with her, which meant they couldn't rightly carry the behemoth sofa down two flights of stairs -- it's a sleeper with a queen size bed and weighs more than my car -- and I wasn't about to help out since I can barely stand. So the couch remains, and I remain on said couch. It's a flawless spring day with the sun and breeze and cloudless sky and I am medicated and inert, packed ass-to-elbows in ice, mourning the loss of my spine.

It is the Donovan curse -- a slim and wavering spine, vertebrae stacked like a haphazard Jenga puzzle, begging to crack at any moment. My back has picked better moments to slip a disc or two, and this is not one of them. Not only am I enduring the inadjectivable physical agony, but I am rooted in one place, forced to survey the litany of undone things in the apartment as the calendar hangs itself right in front of me. The anal-retentive control freak in me is squealing in torture. There are unlabeled boxes to attend to with a sharpie! There is a yard sale to organize! My socks are on the floor of my bedroom because I sold my bureau!

My mom's been watching QVC. She sent me a pack of those space-age shrink wrap bags for clothing. There's a vacuum involved and my pillows are now the size of novels. Playing with the pressurized suckers has been my favorite part of packing so far. I'm trying to figure out what else I can put in there to shrink. Like Eddie with the cantaloupe in the fruit dehydrator. Maybe I should try water balloons.

I don't know how two slipped discs and herniated vertebrae are going to fare for 70 hours in a car. Or hiking to the Grand Canyon. Or stumbling about on Cobblestone in New Orleans. Oooh -- we've got big plans for NOLA. My oldest dearest friend is in New Orleans, and I've been inspiring (threatening) her to finish a proposal she's working on so she can come play with us in her city of jazz and crawdads. I have also inspired (threatened) her to join us for a leg of our cross-country trip. We will be scooping her and her boyfriend up and forming a caravan en route to the Grand Canyon.

And I figure between Amanda, Rogers, and Mon Frere, they should be able to carry my stretcher just fine.

Maybe I'll get one of those lofted rooms on stakes that royalty used to ride in, poles on the shoulders of my friends, carried regally through the United States. That might be fun. I'll have to look into that.

I've been looking forward to this Jump show since, well, since the last one. Which was many moons ago. Six of them, to be precise. But the Features -- who knew? I fell in love with this band in under 12 minutes. The first song was fantastic, so I gave them a second, and then by the third I had to leave the balcony and go down to the floor so I could watch this insane drummer up close.

I don't have much technical knowledge about percussion but I know good rock and roll when I hear it. And this kid was all over it. Two other really good indie rock drummers I've enjoyed come to mind: one of them was Bare Jr.'s rockabilly boy, and the other was Simone Pace of Blonde Redhead. But this guy blew them both out of the water.

The thing that struck me most, and I think this is can be true of pretty much any instrument, he was playing the drums. I mean, playing on them. Playing with them. Playing. He was having a good time. And kicking ass in the process.

The Features' sound was a bizarre mix of 80's sensibilities, country boot kickin, and raw, textured 60's vocals. Catchy, but with substantial lyrics and an undeniable sense of urgency. I loved every song. I almost forgot that I was there to see Jump.

They finished the set with this huge leaping song and our Rollum Haas was galloping about on the drums, center stage and carrying on a wordless conversation with the guy working lights, and after his solo (audience screaming wildly) he sat heaving on the stool while the rest of the band started breaking their stuff down. He was breathing so hard he couldn't even get up. Soaked. Obviously blissed out and somewhere else.

I ran back to Mon Frere and Charity who were digging the Paradise's new pizza menu (I'm boycotting their kitchen on principle that I ordered a nine dollar bowl of guacamole and got six chips, one of which the waitress dropped on the floor, and then with 3/4 of the dip left they wanted to charge me four bucks to bring some more chips). I was bouncing. "Did you see... ? it was... they were...yay!!!! So good!!!"

Some shows I go to early because I know the openers will be good. Jump shows are not one of them. Their openers almost always leave me either embarrassed for them or bored. The only reason we came early to this show was that neither Mon Frere nor I, over the course of two months, could find our way to the box office for tickets. I wanted to be sure I'd get in before it sold out.

Which brings us back to the hope for humanity part. When we got to the door of the club, and the boys from Jump milling about (and Mon Frere raising his eyebrows and nodding at Matt Bivins standing beside me, becoming more and more toned-down each time I see him, lacking eyeliner and chartreuse silk this time, actually donning little wire rimmed glasses and a tie). Charity gets her hand stamped and heads into the club and as I'm holding out my wrist, Mon Frere chooses this point to tell me he doesn't have ID.

Needless to say, Big Tough Door Guy wouldn't let him in. Shea of course, understanding clearly what a moron he was for losing his passport, and also that BTDG was just doing his job, backed down immediately. I was bewildered. I stood there, looking from the hallway to the club where the band was presently strutting and back at the city sidewalk where the groups of smokers huddled. "Go ahead," Mon Frere says. "Go." Torn, I decide I'll go in and get a ticket and come back out to hang out with Shea until Jump comes on. It doesn't help that I drove and they usually play a two hour set. He was going to be hanging out with the smokers for a while.

My stomach was sinking. Dragging my feet, I sadly got my ticket. We had been planning this show for months. Shea waited quietly and patiently outside for me. Apparently, the following conversation ensued:

BTDG: Sorry, man. You know they got a camera on me. I wish I could let you in.

Shea: It's okay, I understand. It's my sister's favorite band so it's more important to me that she get her ticket than miss the show on account of my mistake.

BTDG: (tear in the corner of his eye) Right wrist.

Mon Frere walked very quickly into the warm, dark womb-like hallway of the Paradise without looking back. We slipped into the main room and spiraled up onto the balcony, crisis averted. After catching our breath, we mused on the good karma that had enveloped us that evening. First, a good parking spot, and now this… we said a silent prayer of gratitude for BTDG and ordered pizza.

At this point the Features came on and then we're back to the beginning of this story.

Before Jump comes on, I go out to the bathroom. Little Drummer Boy from the Features is standing in the hallway.

When I enjoy a show, I find the musicians and tell them. As a music fan, I think it's important to support a job well done, and further encourage the continued performance of good bands. There usually ensues an interesting conversation about equipment or tour or who else they've been playing with or cities we've both been to. If it's a band I've caught up with before, it's always good to chat them up about what's new or talk about an upcoming release. I do this at most shows; it only makes sense. It's one of the things I love most about seeing live music.

But unfortunately, I'm a girl.

As I'm entering the personal space of Drummer Boy, I put my hand on his back to get his attention and he turns around suddenly and we're face to face, eye to eye, a little too close. He smiles. I blush furiously. He's got that haircut -- the cheekbone-length I'm So Cute and Sometimes It Slides into my Eyes and I Toss It Aside haircut. This is a cue for the confident, educated music fan in me to disappear and the moronic, socially-awkward shy girl to come out. Rabbit in your headlights. Stand there waiting for me to say something stupid. I won't disappoint.

Me: Hey. That was an amazing set. Really. (Okay. That was plenty. Shut up and walk away.)

Drummer Boy: Thanks! It was a lot of fun.

Me: Yeah -- you looked like you were having a good time. I hadn't heard you guys before. I'm glad I came early. I don't usually come early. To the Jump shows, I mean. Because their openers suck. Normally, I mean. But you guys were good. Great. So coming early was a good thing. In this case. Because you didn't suck. (Shut up shut up shut up)

Dummer Boy: Hey thanks. I'm glad you made it.

(Run away run away run away)

Me: Okay bye.

Drummer Boy, grabbing my hand as I run away: What's your name?

Me: Um. Um. Um...

Drummer Boy: I'm Rollum.

(ROLLUM???!!!)

I swear I tried to get away. But suddenly we're submerged in a real conversation and it's out of my control. His hair keeps dusting his left eye. I want to go make out with him behind the club. I don't remember what else was said.

Jump was phenomenal. They opened with the most gripping of the songs off their new album -- Between the Dim and the Dark -- which came out a couple of weeks ago and which I already know note for note. They are getting even tighter, and their sound more unified. There were two girls standing behind me who had never been to a show before, and I enjoyed eavesdropping on their conversation. It sounded like one of them had heard some songs and liked them and was dragging her friend to see them. As usual, Matt was leaning into his accordion and she says"He looks so fucking scary!" But she had that tinge in her voice that Matt girls get -- the "he's so scary, but I'm wantonly attracted to him for reasons that would frighten my mother and maybe even get me arrested." When he took the mic for "Body Parts", the sound of her jaw hitting the floor was deafening.

There was one distraction, however, that I could not get past the entire night. It was an added feature to the performance that at first shocked me, then irritated me, then filled me with distrust. I became cynical and bitter almost instantly. I felt I had been deceived. Lied to. Let down. Abandoned in my discontent. All over a little gold ring on Jay Clifford's finger as he played that beautiful guitar. What the hell. How can you sing about break ups and love sucking, and get me all sympathetic and feeling like you understand my pain, and then go and get married on me? How can I take you seriously? How can I ever trust you again?

Bait and switch.

But after all the screaming and dancing, only Jump could unplug their amps and get a club full of 500 people to stand silently while they played completely acoustic.

My fake tooth came dislodged but I caught it before it went down my throat.

Rollum. Christ.

I called in an order for Thai food last night from the place on my block. Twenty minutes later I went in to get my food and the tiny sweetheart, who always takes my order and smiles excessively, scurried to get my to-go. She came back with a delicately furrowed brow. "You not order Thai iced tea tonight?" I laughed. Then I told her that I forgot to order it. After I hung up the phone I was like, shit. I forgot to order Thai iced tea. But with a proud smile, she emerged from behind the counter brandishing a heavenly container that I just knew was chock full of sweet and creamy goodness -- prepared just for me. "I remember!" she giggled her tiny giggle as she put the cup in my bag.

So on my way to work this morning, I smiled when I passed East Asia. I didn't realize I ordered that much Thai food.

I dopped into the Laundromat to pick up my laundry. I never have the ticket. It's one of those things that I can't seem to hold on to. In my wallet is 75 receipts from Au Bon Pain but my laundry ticket, I can't find. Doesn't matter. Laundry Dragoness comes running over in her red satin shirt with my bag -- she knows which one is mine. She puts it up on the counter. "Light this week!" she says. "Usually so heavy!" She freakin noticed that I've replaced my nubby sweaters with little spring tees. Am I creeped out? I'm not sure.

Though as a side note, I had a hard time reconciling someone else washing my underwear for a while. It freaked me out to have someone else touching my underwear. Don't ask me why. I used to take the underwear out of the laundry bag and wash them separately myself. I got over it a while ago though, and I think it's brought me and the Laundry Dragoness closer together.

And as an additional side note, I'm not lazy. I just hate doing laundry with such a violent passion. And, it actually costs the same if you spread the math out over a long enough time line. (Though on a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero.)

Okay?

Continue my mission on, laughing to myself over what an implant I've become in Davis Sq. I wave hello to Mike, the guy from the half-way house up the street. He's deaf but verbal, so he yells and his voice is frightening and uncontrolled. He's also frustrated by his inability to communicate, which makes him seem very violent, which he's not. One morning I was in the Someday, and Mike came into the crowded cafﾈ and announced that he was going to commit suicide right there and then. It was terrifying. He was in the middle of a full-blown panic attack, and couldn't breathe. I grabbed him and sat him at a table and made him breathe with me. Got him chilled out. Asked him why he wanted to kill himself. He had my attention. I asked him to explain it all to me. He said he wanted to kill himself because no one ever listened to him.

I see Mike every morning and every night -- he takes the first bus in the morning to his bench and takes the last bus home at night. He sits on the bench all day, chain smoking, trying to talk to everyone who walks by. Most of them ignore him or run away. He's an intimidating guy. He waves his hands around a lot, one of them always containing a lit cigarette. Once a day he runs frantically into the Laundromat across the street and in his lurching voice demands that the Laundry Dragoness give him five dollars so he can buy a pack of Marlboros. Usually she threatens to call the cops. If it's busy and she wants to get him to leave, she gives him the money.

Further down College Ave. is Lil' Fella. He's got the whole window of the Realtors to bask in his sunny tank, little turtle head sticking out of his red-eared slider shell, webby feet working the water. If it's early, there are little fish swimming around with him. If it's late, he's fat and sunning himself on a hot rock.

Apparently some time ago, someone in passing expressed concern over the bright green tinge of Lil' Fella's tank water. In response, a plaque was posted beside his abode. It said, "HI! MY NAME IS LIL' FELLA! I'm a red-eared slider turtle!" It went on to explain what algae was and why his water was green, and that his home at the Realtors was a fruitful one, that he was happy. Almost to prove their point, our friendly neighborhood turtle, now a good six inches in length, moved into a Barbie Dreamhouse-sized 55 gallon tank with a little shelf and everything.

One day I wrote "HI LIL' FELLA!" on a post-it note and stuck it to the window, facing him.

Except this morning, after three years in that window, he was gone. Plaque, tank, algae, turtle and everything. And mysteriously, there was a potted plant in his place.

With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I dragged myself into the Someday. Talk about where everybody knows your name. While the Thai place surprised me with its intimate knowledge of my choice of cuisine, the Someday could write a book on my culinary habits.

For damn near five years, I have gone to the Someday Cafﾈ for one hour every morning to write before work. From 7:30 to 8:30 I sit. Often writing, sometimes thinking about it. When I was working on National Novel Writing Month, I was there earlier and for longer periods of time. I also ingested significantly elevated levels of caffeine and paced the floor a great deal more. On Fridays I always treat myself to a soy Mocha. They're like $12.

I love the Someday deeply and possessively. One of the chairs by the window had my ass print on it and I was justifiably pissed when they rearranged the furniture. I wanted that seat gilded with my own damn plaque on it.

So I get a special smile from the counter guy every morning as he gives me my free coffee.

For quite some time I had a raging crush on an unlikely boy who worked mornings there. Come to think of it, that actually may have fueled my dedicated attendance at my notebook. Every morning I would grab flowers from someone's yard on my walk to the cafﾈ and put them in the tip jar. He played good music. He was always playing Pinback, Death Cab or Pedro the Lion. I wrote him into a few of my stories. Of course, after a year and a half, I still had only spoken about five words to him. Large. For Here. Thank you. Suddenly he was gone. But I saw him at Charlie's karaoke night and told him I missed him and that the coffee just didn't taste the same. He blushed and stammered and I haven't seen him since.

But there's a new girl working there who is uberkoot and looks like Christina Ricci and wears good little izod shirts with alligators on them. She's no Jordan, but she makes me smile.

So I guess the free coffee and the "Here's my girl!" and the red carpet reception I got last week after having been away for over a month was to be expected at the Someday. But the thing at Au Bon Pain this morning that led me to sit down and write about all this was out of left field.

First off, the Au Bon Pain in Harvard Sq. serves between 5 and 7 people per minute. I'm not exaggerating, either. There are six cashiers and the line often snakes halfway across the coffee shop. But every morning, after finishing my brew at the Someday, I have to refill at ABP. I drink way too much freakin coffee.

I always get in the same line and I always get the same cashier. She is sweet and shy and I'm probably the only person all morning that smiles at her or makes eye contact. I get the large French roast. The stupid covers for the cups there have that annoying peel-back lid that spills and drips and never tears quite evenly. In general, it pisses me off. So I always ask for a dome lid, which they normally only put on their espressos. This morning she went in the back to get me a dome lid without asking. She handed me the coffee and I couldn't help but laugh.

Is this a good thing or a bad thing? I mean, I enjoy having a space that feels like I belong here. But I don't know if routine interferes with adventure or something. It's not like I don't try new things. I love new things. But I also love going into the Thai place and having my iced tea waiting for me before I've ordered it.

I'm gonna miss this place.

It felt like breaking up for no good reason. "Listen, honey -- I need to go sow some wild oats, okay?" I've never been one for long-distance relationships. I mean, what's the point? Even if I wanted to try and make things work, I'd find it pretty hard to be handling proposals, writing letters and FedExing from my apartment on the West coast. So for now it's Just Friends.

People at work say, you're young -- live it up. Do it while you can. This is the best time of your life. Which in some ways is true. I've heard it said that high school is the best time of your life. If that had turned out to be true, I'd have the revolver handy. And then others are of the opinion that college is the best years of your life. To tell you the truth, this year's been pretty damn good. For all I've been through, and let me tell you there's been a LOT, I feel like things keep getting better. So far it's the best time of my life. But I have the feeling I'm not the kind of person who's going to turn 35 and look back and think my life has gone down the toilet just because I'm 10 years older.

Eventually you are claimed by kids, mortgages, careers… but all I'm responsible for right now is a bunny, a 1995 Altima, and my uncertain future in journalism.

It's beautiful out today. I'm sitting in the open-garage door of Diesel Cafﾈ in Davis Sq., Somerville. I got no place to be. It's spring. Cat Power is playing in my head right now.

YOU. ARE. FREE.

I've made three trips to Good Will (actually, one trip to Salvation Army, which Mon Frere berated me for since they support anti-gay activities) which included nine trash bags each of clothing, books and random dead bodies unearthed from the depths of my closet.

I lied about the old box being under my bed. I don't actually have an "under my bed" since I keep my box spring flush with the floor. But under the bed is one of those places people identify with -- a dark and sometimes scary place. You know what I mean.

No matter how much I get rid of, there's more and more. In my kitchen, up to my waist in Tupperware, I'm trying to sort out the good, the bad and the ugly. My parents have left me with enough place settings to host Tuft's graduation ceremony next weekend. And they lied to me about the silverware.

Mon Frere spent a great deal of time on Saturday debunking truths I had held self-evident for years, including the preciousness of the heirloom flatware in my family's possession. I became their sole benefactor when my parents moved to a little condo very far away, and as I was packing, I mentioned that although I didn't have room for 18 sets of dinner and salad forks, soup, tea, parfait, grapefruit and serving spoons, regular and steak knives, I need to carry on the Donovan Family History and preserve the integrity of the priceless silverware collection.

Mon Frere flipped over a spoon and held it to the light.

"Stainless steel. Made in Korea."

I was lied to.

I whittled the collection down to eight settings and angrily put the rest in a box for my yard sale. Eight is enough, right? I only know six people in my new town. If I invited all of them plus a homeless person over for dinner, I'd be putting my priceless China (ceramic, made in) to good use.

"Kristin. They'd have to be dwarves. Or you'd have to eat out on the sidewalk."

Three hundred square feet of studio apartment, eight place settings. So my collection of six friends and two dwarves will be eating grapefruit on the sidewalk. Maybe I'll just buy a package of paper plates.

Aside from my parents bequeathing unto me more kitchenware than any single female in her mid-twenties could ever entertain using, where did the rest of this Stuff come from? It doesn't even have a category. And it all smells the same.