Before I moved to Boston five years ago, I lived in a glorified studio in Alexandria, Virginia. While I’d love to wax nostalgic about the modest, cave-like hovel that I called home for three years and confess that, in hindsight, I really loved it, I can’t. The truth is, I hated that apartment.

Part of my hate had to do with the apartment itself (in particular its low ceilings, ratty carpeting, and the fact that you had to walk through the bedroom closet to get to the bathroom); part of it had to do with the management company that owned it (run by a boozy alcoholic and staffed by a mean, burnt-out security guard and three people who collectively spoke three words of English); and part of it had to do with where I was in my life at the time (working a job that bored me and dating a boy who lived very far away, one who later dumped me on my ass and sent me spiraling into a depressed, comatose oblivion). Regardless of the reasons, I hated my home and, by extension, hated my life.

Two months before my move, when I came to Boston for a three-day apartment search, I knew one thing and one thing only: I wanted to love my apartment. I wanted rooms! I wanted hardwood floors! I wanted to be able to invite people over without feeling shame and embarrassment! I arrived in town, rented a car, and, using an actual printed atlas, drove around the unknown city, meeting realtors and viewing apartments.

Some were okay. Some were complete and total dumps. But when I got to my apartment, I just knew. I knew in the way that women in romantic comedies “just know” that they’ve met “the one.” Sunlight poured over the hardwood floors, casting a faint glow over everything in the apartment: high ceilings, an eat-in kitchen, three closets, and a hallway—hallway!—connecting the living room, kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. While other prospective renters milled about the place, inspecting moldings and speaking to one another in low tones, I grabbed the current renter, shoved my checkbook in his face, and told him I’d take it.

I’ve spent the last five years in that impulse-buy. Like any long-term relationship, we’ve had our ups and downs. There were the mice incidents of ’05, ’06, and ’07, and the subsequent terror-induced out-of-body experiences. Parking is more or less an impossibility, and on many late-night occasions, I’ve fought the urge to drive my car into a brick wall. The dumpster out back attracts a certain kind of animal that scares me more than serial killers. My cupboards sag, my counters are covered in contact paper to conceal the nastiness underneath, the sound my toilet makes upon flushing could wake the dead, and my shower is, well, unique.

But, much like my affection for this ridiculous Bay State city, my love for my apartment has never wavered. It has been my home, my first true home since leaving the original one, with the mom and the dad and the brother, thirteen years ago.

This weekend, I’m moving. Into a bigger place in a better location with my best friends. I’m excited about this, excited to be moving forward with my life, excited to be living once again with people I consider to be my family. Just as my previous moves—from St. Louis to Pittsburgh, Pittsburgh to DC, and DC to Boston—set my life in motion, pushing me closer and closer to where I’m meant to be, this move has prompted a similar feeling: of possibility, potential, something good on the horizon. It is the right thing for me to be doing at this moment in time, and I know that with the certainty of a hundred romantic comedy morons.

Yet this week, as I’ve packed up my books and dishes and clothing, stripping my apartment of everything that made it a home, everything that made it mine, I haven’t been able to shake my blues.

When I graduated from college, my mom gave me a small decorative pillow that reads, “Home is where you make it.” Cheesy and cliché, yes. But the sentiment was exactly what I needed as I loaded my Subaru and left my hometown, and immediate family, for good.

The older I get, the truer that phrase becomes. Though place is important, it’s really the people in your life, the relationships that you have and the strength and power of those connections, that make a home.

As I say goodbye to the place that witnessed such pivotal years of my life—the years in which I became a writer and began what I’m sure will be a lifelong battle with the demons that hold me back—I am comforted by the fact that I will take my home with me, that my home will forever be where my family is, whether they’re across town or in the bedroom down the hall. My friends are my home, and though moving on and moving forward is, for me, always bittersweet, I honestly can’t wait to see where the next five years will take us.

Since starting my new job in February, I’ve spent a lot of time in the car. A lot.

I don’t really like all the driving and sitting, especially after taking public transportation for three years, but my brother has made my commute more bearable by giving me a cord to connect my iPod to my radio. (I know this is not a new thing to most people, but it has revolutionized my life.)

Every morning and every evening, 45 minutes there and one hour back, I shuffle. I have almost 2,000 songs on my iPod, and I cruise through all of them, bypassing the ones I don’t really like or don’t feel in the mood for. Sometimes I’m tired and I want something peppy, something to sing along to. Other times I’m contemplative and need some middle-ground music: not peppy, but not slow, either. Sometimes I’m feeling gushy and happy about life and want love songs. Other times I want to hang myself in my closet and need an appropriate suicide-inducing soundtrack. Crying, singing, zoning out—the music I choose to listen to in my car is dependent upon my mood on that given day in that given moment.

There are, however, a few exceptions. A few songs on my iPod that make the cut, no matter what I’m feeling. Happy, sad, I never skip them, and I never tire of them.

“Missing You” – John Waite
I actually have two versions of this song—the original, and one that he sings with Alison Krauss. (Both are excellent.) What I like about this song is that it can fit a variety of moods. It covers the full range of post-break-up emotions: denial, anger, heartache, acceptance, peace. No matter what stage of a break-up you’re in, this song has got you covered. At the same time, if you’re not sad or heartbroken, the beauty of “Missing You” is that it won’t bring you down. The tune is just upbeat enough that you can still sing along, all the while thinking, Man, I’m glad I’m not that guy.

“Sway” – Bic Runga
This song makes me feel all misty inside. That doesn’t really make sense, but it’s the best way I can describe it. I heard this song for the first time while watching American Pie back in college; it’s played at the end, when the boys are finally doing the deed with their respective women. The second time I heard it was in the room of a friend whom I later fell semi-in-love with. Despite the fact that he didn’t reciprocate my feelings, I’ve always loved this song. For me it’s all about longing and not being able to convey everything you’re feeling about someone. And I suppose I’m always feeling that longing, for something or someone. My head is battling with my heart / My logic’s all been torn apart / I say it’s all because of you.

“After All” – Cher and Peter Cetera
Yes, this is the cheesiest song on this list (though, c’mon, it’s me. They’re all cheesy). When we were kids, my brother Peter and I would find a movie we liked and watch it over and over and over and over again until the tape wore out—our obsessive natures revealing themselves. One of these movies was the 1989 classic, Chances Are, starring Robert Downey Jr. and Cybil Shepherd. And the theme song for the movie was, you guessed it, “After All.” (The song won an Oscar. Go figure.) Even though it’s not the most appropriate song to share with one’s brother, to this day I still consider it our song (just substitute “kiss” with “punch to the head”). My brother is, after all (ha), the one man who has always been and will always be there for me. Now that was cheesy.

“Bleed to Love Her” – Fleetwood Mac
This song just fucking rocks. And I’m not saying that because I have the hots for Lindsey Buckingham (which I do). I loved this song the first time I heard it, but it was actually my best friend Lizzi who sealed the deal for me. Not only did she adopt the song and play it on repeat while at the office and in our apartment, but she also once said to me, “This song always makes me think of you, because it describes how I want the man you end up with to feel about you.” Sniff.

“In Your Eyes” – Peter Gabriel
This is hands down my favorite song of all time. (Though Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” is a close second.) Aside from the John Cusack/Lloyd Dobler-ness of it all (“I gave her my heart, and she gave me a pen”), this song expresses how I feel about love. What love is and what it means to me. Without a noise / Without my pride / I reach out from the inside.

How about you? Which songs do you never tire of? Which songs fit all of your moods?

At work the other day, my boss’s iPod shuffled and landed on one of my favorite songs: Joni Mitchell’s “Case of You.”

I heard this song for the first time as a kid, in my dad’s car. He often played Joni Mitchell albums, but this was the first time I sat up and took notice.

As a child whose strong emotions and outbursts weren’t something her parents or friends at the time understood or approved of, I found a lot of comfort in song lyrics. Musicians, much like writers, were people who not only felt what I felt, but also felt it so strongly that they sang about it. I may have been a freak in my own life, but in the world of music (and books), I was, like, kind of normal. (Yet another reason why I became a writer.)

Just before our love got lost you said
I am as constant as a northern star
And I said, constant in the darkness
Where’s that at?
If you want me I’ll be in the bar

Sure, to some, “Case of You” may be just another song about just another dysfunctional relationship. But to me it wasn’t. Listening to it for that first time, I heard a woman whose love for someone is so great that she’s willing and able to stick it out through all the bad. Whatever he’s going to dish out, she’s going to take, and keep standing, there, for him. Because that’s what you do for someone you love.

Oh, you are in my blood like holy wine
You taste so bitter and so sweet
Oh, I could drink a case of you, darling
And I would still be on my feet
Oh, I would still be on my feet

While this song more or less describes how I care for the people in my life—friends, family members, past boyfriends—it also conveys what I desperately want from those people. To stay with me, despite all the emotion and need, all the “freakish” sensitivities and writer-like qualities.

Really, though, I think this is what everyone wants. Some people are just brave enough to sing about it.

Like it or not, the new year has begun. And, according to my witty brother, “2009 is going to be divine.”

I hope he’s right and am choosing (trying) to remain optimistic. Alas, thus far, ‘09 doesn’t feel a whole lot different than ‘08. As evidenced by my trip to the gym today, people are still declaring health and fitness as their new year’s resolution. I had forgotten how much I hate January at the gym, when my usual parking spot and elliptical machine are stolen by the delusional idiots who can’t follow through on a promise to themselves and only exercise for one month out of the year.

Attempt at optimism #1: In February the gym will be mine again.

Other unfortunate ‘08/’09 similarities: Unemployment, financial woes, the degrading self-loathing that comes with having to borrow money from your parents at the age of almost-30. After looking at some photos, I realized that I even wore the same sweater on New Year’s Eve ‘08 as I did on New Year’s Eve ‘09, the lack of extra funds with which to buy myself new clothing in 2008 being the obvious explanation.

Attempt at optimism #2: When I get a job, I’ll buy myself a new sweater. After I pay off my credit card.

For those of us trapped in the land of Why The Fuck Am I Still Single When I’ve Got So Much Going For Me (ha), the start of a new year can also bring with it dating resolutions—this year, I’m putting up an online profile! I’m going to get laid if it kills me!—and misguided, child-like hope—this year, I’m finally going to meet someone!

Attempt at optimism #3: It won’t be long now before I meet the lucky guy I’m going to share my life with.

In all seriousness, though they may be subtle, the last year has witnessed some marked changes in my life. I’ve found joy and, dare I say it, contentedness in some unanticipated places. I survived my Saturn return; got published; created a Web site; got a job; lost a job; returned to Match.com and dating; welcomed my best friends to Boston; found my family (again) in my friends; and recognized with more certainty what I’m meant to spend my life doing.

Attempt at optimism #4: It may not rhyme, but 2009 could very well kick some ass.

I, for one, am looking forward to finding out what another year may bring.