Important inquiry, to which I request response.

I once got into a conversation with a friend about musicals. A particular conversation, I should say, as musicals tend to come up more often than one might expect — it’s the interest in music and theater, I must assume. This friend (doesn’t matter who it is, as that’s not the point to this) said the reason he doesn’t like musicals is that they attempt to convey as realistic the notion that people randomly burst into song in order to prove their points.

“Who does that?” he said as we took a stroll one afternoon. “I don’t carry on a conversation and suddenly burst into song.”  At which point, of course, he did. “I’m HAVING such a WONDERFUL DAAAAAAAY!”

Is it just my close friends and I, then? Because not only did a conversation between B and I turn to song…but I may have just twirled, sung and, um, pulled out a ballet move from that Ballet For Dummies Fulfilling a Liberal Arts Credit class I took freshman year of college.

Just sayin’.

(And proving my point, thus winning said debate…Besides, B just pointed out that it totally happened on Scrubs.)

I returned to an empty house this afternoon and set to shoveling the inches of snow that fell to the ground during my absence. What began as a quick turn of the shovel ended about an hour and a half later as I realized that I’d gotten more than my fair workout for the day. Oh, Vermont and your quirky weather ways. All I can really do is laugh about it now and hope for a back free of pain tomorrow…

With this unexpected solitude, I decided to pamper myself for the first time in awhile. An indulgence afternoon, complete with an extra-long shower/haircare session, an at-home facial, even a French manicure from the kit I’d bought on a whim. By the time my roommates returned to welcome me home after a weekend away, I was about as close to Starlet Status as I tend to get — with the high spirits to match.

I should really get to work on writing that novel so I can sell it, sell out, enjoy the royalties from film adaptation and afford a weekly massage. I think I’m missing out on something awfully nice.

Anyway. Weekend. Once I got over Mother Nature’s decision to play the part of a heinous bitch, I made the most of the winter wonderland by staying inside a variety of locations. Good call on my part — and awfully convenient, considering that I was able to celebrate the birth of Dear Friend Nicole on the day of St. Patrick. Having donned my green, I took in birthday revelry, good food, baseball, basketball AND hockey (making this one of the best times of year) and then made my way into Boston for Celebration, Round Two.

To embrace the spirit of The Chaci, what I learned Saturday night is: that I want to write the aforementioned novel in the Omni Parker House, Intermission Tavern’s homemade chips really are as delicious as people say they are, that I’d forgotten how well Buffalo wings go with alcohol and that Grateful Deads were not a figment of my college imagination.

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