Give me a few hours to unscatter my brain, iron some clothes and run to Target to buy an alarm clock (I start at 8AM tomorrow!), but the short of it is, the Internet is a marvelous place and because of it, I will not have to resort to selling my body on the streets of Dallas. An idea, which when I suggested might be a viable though desperate option, my sister said,

“No, Heather. Something where you can MAKE money.”

Mmm hmm. Very funny.

I thought it was going to be like all those other times the Dallas weatherfolk forecasted a big, scary snow storm and the pavement never even got wet. They get really hyper about precipitation here. But in the two hours my friend Katy and I sat in the Mexican restaurant, holding a table hostage while we caught up, it actually snowed.  I mean, really snowed. Big, wet soggy flakes that stuck to the ground and the buildings and the cars. From inside the restaurant it looked magical and enchanting, like being inside a snow globe that smelled like corn chips and fajitas. Outside, it was another story.

We made a mad dash to the car (I had only my suit coat), climbed inside and shook the snow from our hair, laughing at how crazy it was. It wasn’t until I’d turned the car on that I realized we were in a bit of a pickle.

“I forgot about that business,” I said to Katy, motioning with my head to the back windshield. It was covered by almost three inches of snow.

“Here, let me go do it,” Katy offered.

The look I gave her should have been enough of a response, but still she persisted.

“You’re in heels!”

“Uh, Katy? You’re pregnant! What kind of person lets a pregnant person scrape her car while she sits inside all warm and cozy? Nuh uh. No way. I don’t need the Karma from that.”

So in my heels, I slid to the back of the car and beat the snow from the windshield with a flimsy, collapsible umbrella I’d bought for too many Euros on the streets in Rome, growing less enchanted with every wet snowflake that landed, whap! against my face. The drive from Katy’s house to my mother’s apartment twenty miles away was even less enchanting. After a few miles crawling down the highway, tapping my breaks on the icy roads, I really started to miss my Mexcian food snow globe.

Remembering the last time I drove in a blinding snow storm, I eased my car behind a semi and followed slowly along in the deep impressions its wide tires left in the slush. Things were slow but steady going until I reached the stop sign a few blocks from my mom’s place.

After waiting for my turn to ease through the four-way stop, I pressed my foot to the accelerator and… nothing. My wheels spun against ice and slush. For a brief second, I thought I was going to be stuck there, listening to the frantic swishing of my windshield wipers forever. Or until I ran out of gas.

“Oh come on!” I yelled, gripping the steering wheel as I watched a line of cars form in my rear-view mirror. “I didn’t make the pregnant lady scrape my car!”

I tried the accelerator again. Tires met asphalt and I crept through the intersection, glad that someone was listening when I cashed in my Karma.

My only regret is that we missed seeing the leprechaun.

Despite having told my mom earlier that I’m not really festival people, on Saturday afternoon, Jen and I wound up at the Irish Festival at Fairpark. Because why not? We like kilts and Guiness and pirates, and we didn’t have any other big plans for the afternoon. And yeah, there were pirates. While we were standing on the sidelines watching Battlefield Band (Jen happened to know the band from her early years cavorting in New York), I turned to Jen and whispered,

“I got you a pirate.”

Jen looked up just in time to see an elaborately costumed swashbuckler saunter by and give us the eye. You know, somehow, it’s not nearly so lecherous being mentally undressed by a guy wearing stockings and breeches. It’s just comical. Not always true of the un-costumed menfolk, though. There’s something about celebrating one’s Irish heritage that brings out the flirt in a man. Jen and I hadn’t even paid our entrance fee before a stranger was taking our picture. And then, the moment we were inside the gates, we got a

“Heeeeey. How’re y’all doin’?”

It was Joey Tribbiani with a drawl. A man in his sixties picked up on Jen by telling her she looked like a girl he went to high school with – “a real looker.”

Between the serving wenches with their shelves of breast, the angst-ridden emo bagpipers and the un-costumed masses, the people watching was exceptional. And if you haven’t before seen a man in a utilikilt and motorcycle boots, it’s time you explored this brave new world of hot. Drooool. Tattoos required.

It’s Star Wars according to a three year old, and I cannot get enough of this little girl. She may have actually replaced “Charlie bit my finger” as my go-to YouTube pick me up.

Apparently, she’s only seen the movie once, and paid much better attention than I ever did.

I’m a hot mess* right now, in case you were wondering.

Rememberhow I spent last weekend with food poisoning? This weekend, I did onebetter and spent the better part of the last three days Lamazebreathing through a kidney stone. Whee! That is, incidentally whyyou’re getting trite and tedious** nuggets about sorority girls and thelike – because tales of internal bleeding rated way, way lower on theperky scale. Even with all the narcotics.

In other news, itturns out that there happens to be something worse than having myinsides jacked up by miniature calcium shrapnel and peeing hourly intocoffee filters. And that is – drum roll – waiting to hear if I’ve(finally) landed a job. I’ve been Lamaze breathing through that, too,since last Wednesday.

Being unemployed has been unbelievablydifficult for me. It’s all I think about. All the time. The nurse isplunging a needle into my ass and I’m thinking, Good lord, I need a jobso I can afford to be sick! Or a boy is kissing me and I’m whollyunable to be distracted from the thought that maybe, just maybe, I’llget a job offer in the morning. It’s a real kick in the pants, I tellya.

Maybe it’s so hard because I’m used to having my shittogether. I mean, I haven’t been unwillingly jobless since I wasfourteen years old. You can do the math, but that’s a real long time! And because despite (or perhaps, because of) having a series ofunremarkable jobs over the years, I’m really, really marketable. Nextto “sweet” or “attractive” that’s probably the grossest adjective I canthink of.  Marketable. But nevertheless, it means I’ve gotskills.  I’m an excellent multi-tasker and a team player and I have anamazing track record over-performing while being underpaid. Whowouldn’t want that?

Okay, and it’s not that nobody wants it; they simply don’t want it right now.I think we can safely blame the economy and the Republicans andprobably the terrorists. But meanwhile, as the powers that be take timeto work out budgets and make decisions, I’m watching my unemploymentbenefits run out and deflecting comments from my mother (if you have amother, and have ever once slipped from your status as childus perfectus, you know what I mean. Of course she’s just kidding, but boy does it raise my hackles).

Also,I’m not sleeping. I’ve basically given up on washing my hair or wearingreal pants, and whether it’s the Vicodin or the stress, I feel likebarfing pretty much all the time. See? Told you I was a hot mess. Thankgoodness Jen is coming from New York on Friday, because by the end of the week, baby’s gonna need a reason to brush her teeth.

* I wanted to say, “hot tranny mess” because it’s really freaking funny, but then I realized I’m probably not Project Runwayedgy enough to pull it off, and it’d be like that time mymother used the phrase “gettin’ jiggy with it,” and everyone just sortasat there feeling awkward. And me, I draw the line on awkward atsharing stories about peeing into coffee filters. Because I havelimits, dammit.

** Seriously, Anonymous, if you’re so upset that the blog has changed in the last… six years,and blah, blah you miss the old, sad, disappointed-with-life me, why isit that keep coming back? Scamper off of to Diaryland. There’s plentyof deeply melodramatic angst to be had there.

Well, at least they smell good, I said, shrugging my shoulders as the umpteenth costumed sorority gal pushed past our table. This last group smelled like vanilla.

The waiter rolled his eyes. Too much of a good thing, he’d said before taking our dessert order. It seemed everyone dining around us had to agree. As the restaurant filled up with SMU coeds in chicken feathers and Indian headdresses, it steadily emptied of its non-pledged patrons – folks who probably hadn’t counted on sharing the family-friendly joint with so much cleavage.

As one young family filed by us, I overheard a man attempt to explain to his daughter who the scantily-clad revelers were.

The little girl stopped and tilted her blond head up, “Daddy?” she asked. “What’s a sorority?”

As the man let out a long, grumbled sigh, our table erupted in laughter. He shook his head and looked at us as though to say, “How do I answer that?”

I grinned back from our booth. “Tell her to ask her mother.”

I choked a bit on my margarita and shook my head. Tale as old as time, I thought as I found myself having the same conversation for the second time in less than a week. Men and women can’t be friends.

As a woman with plenty of guy friends, I repeatedly have to call bullshit on this one. Especially when I’m hearing the yarn from one of those guy friends. So despite the fact that we were chatting over drinks, being friendly, Mike J carried on – quite adamantly – about why he doesn’t have girl friends. You know, friends who are girls. He doesn’t have anything to talk about with most girls, he maintained, and if he did – if he and a girl just happened to get along – well,

“You couldn’t help but ruin it by sleeping with her?”

“Exactly,” he said. “If you’re cool, I’m going to try to take your shirt off. That’s just how it is.”

I rolled my eyes. Obviously, Mike J and I are friends because he has such a lovely way with words. That, and I know how to keep my shirt on.

Embarrassed, I thought somehow I’d managed to have too much to drink. At a wine bar, where the pour is decidedly stingy.  But suddenly I was dizzy, hot and all apologies about being such a lightweight. Who gets wasted on a couple glasses of wine? Back at his apartment, he fetched me a pair of his socks and a glass of water, opened the patio doors to make me more comfortable. He lit some candles, and I… made a mad sprint for the bathroom. Where I spent the next hour projectile vomiting.

Thirteen hours later, a nurse plunged a needle into my ass and finally stopped me begging for death. By then, Jamie and my mother looked a little nauseated by suggestion and my adorable doctor looked disappointed that it wasn’t some exotic stomach virus. Only food poisoning. Only.

I know, didn’t I just get food poisoning? Yes, yes I did. I’m pretty proud that this time, I’ve managed to step it up a notch and spew all over a boy’s bathroom at the end of a perfectly good date. So romantic, right?

I did it, of course, to test his mettle. How’s a girl to know what kind of caliber of man she’s dealing with if she doesn’t get violently ill on him? Well, this one drove me the twenty-some miles home and then had to be pushed out my door, because as sweet as it is for him to want to take care of me, I did not need a fella hanging around to listen to the Symphony of Gag coming from my bathroom. Clearly, this one is not easily daunted. In fact, he was brave enough to suggest dinner tonight – a do-over for Saturday’s misadventures in gastroenteritis.

I’m thinking that maybe I should cook. You know, just to be safe.

I thought, at first, he was just being obtuse when he emailed on Monday, asking about my plans for the week. Uh, Romeo? Thursday is Valentine’s Day. But I said nothing and instead waited for him to step up his game. You know, or not. He called the next night.

“What are your thoughts on Valentine’s Day?”

“Pro,” I said.

“Huh?”

“Pro. You asked me what I think about Valentine’s Day and I’m for it. If you’re asking if I have plans for Valentine’s Day…”

“See, the thing is, I already made plans with friends a long time ago.”

I laughed. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

“I was worried you might be offended or think I wasn’t into you. Which isn’t the case. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

I laughed again. “I remain unoffended.”

Having never spent a Valentine’s Day spoiled by flowers and dinner and candles and such, I was sure I could live through another one without it. Especially after hearing how much he resented his past experiences with the holiday – being pressured into meeting over-the-top expectations.

“Uch. I’d probably hate it, too.”

“You sure you’re not upset or anything?”

“Silly, of course not! Wait, should I be?”

“I… no. It’s just, well, I guess I’ve been dating the wrong girls.”

“Sounds like it.”

I couldn’t think of anything I’d want less than for a man to do something seemingly sweet and romantic for me out of obligation. Gross. I want you to open my door and send me flowers and leave me sappy messages on my voicemail because you want to. Because it makes you happy to think I’m happy and not because you’re afraid I’ll be upset if you don’t. Simple as that.

“So, what about Saturday?”

“Pro,” I said.

“Saturday it is.”

Goldner: So, what are you wearing?  Because I’m wearing Heather Hunter.

Heather: Oh my god, that is AWESOME.

Goldner: Yes, you feel so soft and tender. Also I will eventually get a food stain on you and the dry cleaner won’t be able to get it off of you.

Heather: Uh, yeah. I’m not sure I want to think about what else is going on in that regard…

Reactions to my last post were so polarized and so strong – I thought maybe we should have a little sit down.

For as long I’ve been at this, and as much of me as is out there for digestion, there were a surprising number of people who acted shocked or disappointed that I would treat a serious issue with a light heart. People were taken aback at my insensitivity, said I was heartless and lacked understanding. I can only think that those folks are new to these parts and don’t know me very well. Let’s remedy that, shall we?

Hello, my name is Heather and I say insensitive shit. All the time. Some of you will think it’s funny, some of you will not. That’s a risk I’m perfectly comfortable taking.

For the record, I know cancer. I’ve had pieces of it cut out of dark, hidden-away parts of my body. I’ve had needles plunged into my breasts. Watched a friend fight a graceful fight. In the end, I got off easy, but don’t for a minute think I don’t know the fear of it. Or that I didn’t make sick, twisted jokes about it all along the way.

My new friends, I understand suffering. It is the same brand of of extra-strength suffering as yours? Maybe, maybe not. My father has mental illness that’s stolen away the man I knew and loved. I feel it like a thousand tiny deaths, which despite a thickening skin, never seem to fade in their power to hurt. And you know what? I crack jokes about that, too. Because I have to, in order to survive.

How can you go on every day, if you can’t laugh at the things that scare you?

I can come off hard-edged, I know that. I love sarcasm and I love to tease. I’m hard to get to know and it takes a little while for me to warm up to people. I’m not everyone’s cup of tea, but I’m not heartless. And I like to think that I’m your go-to girl when the bad shit goes down. Well, okay, if you know my friend Jamie, you might go to her first because her TLC will come wrapped in ribbon and filled with M&Ms and cough drops, but there’s not always enough of her to go around. And I care. Deeply. No, I don’t have much reverence left for sickness, hurt or pain. I willlaugh at it and break it down until it is smaller, more surmountable. And if I loveyou, and this is your sickness, hurt or pain, I will take as much of itaway from you as I can. I will make it my own. Jokes, included.

Like I said, I’ve been doing this for a long time, and I’ve gotten fairly used to the Internet Stranger and his/her compulsion to judge quickly and harshly. Hopefully, I’ve given you a little more to go on, and now you know this is me. Next time I say something insensitive, you won’t be so shocked. You’ve been warned.

My name is Heather and I laugh at cancer and crazy people.

Overheard at dinner:

“These brownies are excellent!”

“Yeah…”

“I mean, I’m sorry you might have cancer, but these brownies are really good.”

I laughed so hard, I thought I might pee. Not because cancer is funny, but because I’m just glad there are other people out there who recognize what’s really important in life. Like brownies. Cause the only thing worse than dying from cancer would be dying without having had a really, really good brownie.

Gah!

I know, I know. Where have a I been? A better question, however, would be where have I not been. And the answer would be, “Home.” This last week has been something of a circus (except without clowns; clowns are truly terrifying). The job search has finally been yielding interviews – can you hear the arteries in my head unclogging? – and I’ve been zipping around Greater Dallas in a suit and heels trying to win folks over with my wit, charm and unparalleled multi-tasking skills. It’s exhausting.

And it reminds me a whole lot of dating. The getting dressed up for a stranger, hoping they will like you (and that you will like them, but really, that’s kind of secondary), and the feeling, regardless of your own level of interest, of total agonizing defeat when they don’t jump at the chance to make you theirs. Regardless of your desirability, you should want me. I am fabulous! It’s sick, really. Also, when you haven’t worked in a while, you can’t help but feel just the tiniest bit desperate – certain that if  you don’t get some soon (work, that is), you’re actually going to reclaim your employment virginity. Agonizing.

There’s no way I’d survive half a dozen first dates in one week, but I throw myself out there gladly for the torture of interviewing, because let’s be honest, mama needs some health insurance. And unemployment is speedily running out.

The more I think about it, there seems to be only one glaring way in which interviews differ from first dates: I don’t fix myself a cocktail while I’m getting ready for interviews. Believe me, I’m tempted, but it’s hard enough to land a job in this town without having to explain why you smell faintly of vodka and lime.

With five minutes left before my guests were supposed to arrive, the table was set, the hors d’oeuvres were laid out, and the kitchen was quickly becoming a pizza-making inferno. In seconds, my forehead was dotted with sweat beads and my shirt became glued to my back; I felt as though I was having a premature brush with menopause. Desperate for relief, I grabbed a cold bottle of soda I’d set out on the table, twisted the cap and… it exploded.

All over the table, all over the microfiber chairs and – as I rushed the Dr. Pepper volcano to the sink – all over the kitchen floor. Noooooo! I couldn’t believe my dumb luck. The book club gals – who are notoriously skillful homemakers, capable of putting on elaborate spreads at a moment’s notice – were seconds away from ringing my doorbell. I was already feeling domestically inadequate (you want an elaborate spread at my place and you’d better give me several hours and a personal assistant) without shit exploding.

The situation reached its comical climax when I snatched the mop from the pantry and watched its head fall off in the sink.

I took a deep breath, armed myself with Shout wipes and an armful of paper towels and prayed to any deity within earshot that the night would improve.

And boy, did it. In our book club, while most of us take a good stab at reading the monthly selection, no one makes any attempt to discuss it when we get together. And that’s the way we like it. We eat, gossip, make forecasts about Berkley’s romantic life, and in last night’s case, thumb through sex toy catalogs. Now, I may not know a whole lot about being a graceful hostess, but I do know my way around… personal satisfaction devices. If it’s edible, I’ve probably tasted it. If it’s battery operated, I’ve probably had a sword fight with it in a SoHo boutique. We all have our areas of expertise, and mine is obviously not the kitchen.

And when I say the night got better, I mean it ended with me volunteering to host July’s book club/sex toy party, where the monthly reading assignment will be a Harlequin Romance novel. Does it get much better than that?

Personally, I’m really looking forward to the heaving bosoms.

Yesterday, I stopped by the local convenience store to grab a few things, when I noticed strange things were afoot at… the 7-11.

At the same time a man in an over-sized puffy black coat slipped out of line in front of me and walked toward the door, a female customer went into hysterics at the check-out counter.

“But I just deposited me a damn check! There is too available funds!”

I raised an eyebrow in interest as her voice got louder, and louder until all eyes were on her. The man in the coat slipped out the door as the woman hollered in a stage voice,

“I ain’t got no damn cash!”

Whatever it was, I thought, the fella in the puffy coat just got away with something. But what? Beer? Slim Jims? It’s 7-11, for crying out loud. I simply couldn’t imagine going to such an dramatic effort to get away with a package of Twinkies and some Keystone Lite. But these are tough times; people do what they feel they have to. I shrugged, paid for my items and went out to my car.

They were next to me at the light when I pulled out – the hysterical woman, the man in the big black coat. They honked. I didn’t so much as turn my head. But when I got through the intersection, they were behind me, the black Kia filling up my rear view mirror. My stomach turned to lead.

I’m not prone to paranoia, but I try to be aware of my surroundings and never second-guess my instincts. And right then, my instincts were telling me that something was very, very wrong. I turned onto my street; without signaling, they followed. The next turn into my parking lot, they took, too. I reached for my handbag and realized with a sudden panic, that I had left my phone behind at home, charging on the counter.

All I could do was stay in the car where I was safe. So, instead of slowing near my apartment, I sped through the parking lot. They followed. I’ll spare you the turn-by-turn I gave my brother last night on the phone, but say that ten minutes later, after some seriously reckless driving on Greenville Avenue, I lost them at a red light.

I don’t know what had made me seem a likely target. Dressed in saggy cargo pants I’d painted the apartment in, and a ratty gray sweatshirt from college, I hardly looked like a cash cow. But I drive a new car. And I carry a nice handbag. I suppose it was enough.

When I got home, I got out of my car and ran. Up the stairs, into my apartment, where I locked the doors, and crawled onto the sofa and waited for my heart to stop racing.

My homemaking skills are not what you would call… advanced. My apartment is usually pretty tidy and I always manage to have a spare roll of toilet paper or two and clean, fluffy towels for guests. But beyond that, I’m pretty amateur. The garbage constantly needs to be taken out, and I guarantee you that no one comes into this house saying, “Gee, I love the clever way in which you’ve… managed never to complete that shelving project in the living room.” or “What a charming jumble of crap you’ve accumulated in your kitchen drawers!”

If they did, I just might have to question their sincerity.

The bathroom drawer has, since the day I moved in, been a particularly unattractive area – a true domestic failure. I’m forever yanking at it, hearing the contents inside fighting to keep it closed. And once open, it’s a jumble of make-up and hair do-dads and essential eye goo. Q-tips and Advil and nail clippers. I’d attempted several times to clean it out, but like I said, it’s essential stuff. I need it. Right there where I can get at it after a good, long game of tug-o-war.

Yesterday afternoon, Jamie and I were wandering the housewares section of TJMaxx (c’mon, don’t pretend you don’t love a bargain), and I saw it. A stationery organizer – the answer to all my problems. Well, not all my problems; it didn’t offer me a job or cure my dry winter skin, but it sure saved me from being a bathroom drawer failure. People, I have never been so happy with a nine dollar purchase in all my life (and that’s what I paid for my copy of Dirty Dancing – The Ultimate Edition). I keep sneaking in there to have a peek at my new bundle of joy. I even took a picture, I was so proud.

I like to think that in some small way, the success in my bathroom drawer makes up for the giant cardboard box that’s sitting on my patio collecting rainwater and leaves – the one that’s been there since the day I moved in. Like I said, I’m an amateur.

This might sound a little silly, but I was pretty upset when Princess Diana died.

My fascination with the People’s Princess started when I was just a little kid, already obsessed with frilly dresses and all things fanciful. Her televised wedding was the ultimate viewing pleasure – the Super Bowl for my entire youth. I worshiped her to the extent that every single one of my Barbie dolls was named Diana – even if the scenario called for playing with multiple dolls. Diana, Diana, Diana. All hell broke loose in the house of dreams the day my sister tried to borrow the name for her own doll (but then again, all hell broke loose any time my sister did anything to copy me, so perhaps that is not the best example).

It was a fascination I didn’t grow out of. TV specials, books, magazine articles – if it was about Princess Di, I had to get my hands on it. I cheered her on as she ditched weasily Charles and began showing up in public with handsome strangers looking like a total knockout. If I didn’t feel like it would be disrespectful, I might mention how knuckle-bitingly attractive her sons turned out. She was beautiful and flawed and big-hearted. And then she was dead.

And I had contributed to her death. Honestly, when you get down to it, it’s pretty simple. If it didn’t pay to document her every little move – even and especially the most private ones – there wouldn’t have been that nasty crash in the tunnel. There wouldn’t have been photographers climbing on the car wreckage taking pictures while she was dying in the back seat. How absolutely gruesome.

These days, I have a pretty firm policy about such things. I don’t watch tabloid entertainment shows or buy magazines that use paparazzi photographs. Same goes for websites; I don’t click on links to stories that obviously invade the private lives of public figures. It isn’t always easy. I mean, do you know how much I love Go Fug Yourself? So much. Love, love, love the red carpet rundowns (public appearance = fair game) so admittedly, I spend some time in the gray area, on a site that has its fair share of paparazzi images. Hey, I’m human and I like pretty dresses.

But when it comes to Britney Spears, I am unbending. Because that shit is pure schadenfreude. And it’s every where. I was pretty disturbed when CNN had a Britney story in their “Latest News” links, as though her most recent mishap were legitimate news. Really, CNN? REALLY? The girl’s obituary is already written (not all that uncommon, from what I understand), and I don’t think the media is going to be satisfied until they’re running it as their top story. And personally, I don’t want any part in that.

When I sat down in her chair on Friday, my hairdresser brought up Britney. “Have you heard the latest?”

“No,” I said. “And I don’t wanna. It makes me sad.”

So, instead we talked about her wedding. Which, let’s be frank, I was much more interested in anyway, if only for the fancy dress factor.

Last weekend, my friend Jamie (who happens to be a Sunday school teacher) hosted a slumber party for some of the little girls at her church. I got invited, too.

I could hear the little imps before Jamie had even opened her front door. Inside, I found four miniature sleeping bags, in varying shades of pinks and purples, lined up, facing the TV, and four little girls in pj’s dancing and singing to Hairspray. The living room was a sippy cup obstacle course.

I had showed up just in time to make sugar cookies.

While I was helping her press Barbie pink sprinkles into a bit of dough vaguely resembling the shape of a duck, Keira, a three-year-old with a pint-sized Dorothy Hamill, smiled at me.

“You’re a mom.”

“Nope, ” I said. “I’m not a mom.”

“Yeah, you are.”

Like, duhhh. If she could have rolled her eyes, she would have, but I expect it will be a few years before she picks up that fine skill.

“Okay,” I said, conceding. “I’m a mom.”

She grinned and with the back side of her hand, pushed her hair off her face, leaving a trail of flour and candy sparkles.

“I want to give you a kiss!”

She could have said, “I want to give you a cup full of nuclear waste!” or “a pencil in the eye!” and I would have been just as delighted. Concede your point, get a kiss. I kept the sticky, rainbow sprinkled smooch as a trophy. And I realized, that she was right; on some level, I must be a mom. Because I just let myself get railroaded by a three-year-old.

But man, If I got a kiss every time I conceded an argument, I’d probably be way less stubborn about it.

I just spent the last fifteen minutes drawing graffiti into my fogged-up patio doors.

I eat popsicles in bed – year round – and leave the sticks on the nightstand. I have an emotional attachment to my tweezers. I love cinnamon toast more than is reasonable. I talk too much, iron my sheets, and speak Spanish to my cat. I take beginning Italian classes on Sundays with my mother. We might be too smart for that class.

I sleep a lot when I’m stressed. I stay home Tuesday nights so I can watch The Real Housewives of Orange County. I have two drawers full of underwear. I like love to floss.

I have a counter full of perfume; I wear the same one every single day. On Christmas, I stopped short of accidentally referring to my stepBob as “dad.” I distrust women who know too much about sports or carry Louis Vuitton. That shit is too expensive to be that ugly.

I have really nice hands, good cheekbones and bad posture. I am a terrible liar. I had a fling with a college student while I was in Italy. We set of the alarm at Yves St. Laurent in Florence. I hate whistling more than any other sound on the planet. I love to tease.

Your turn.

On Friday morning I woke up feeling better. I’m sure part of it had something do with admitting how I felt, typing it, putting it out there. My high school English teacher loved the word, catharsis. I do, too.

Now, I still get struck with twinges of sadness, but I’m definitely not wallowing in it anymore. I know this is not how everyone operates, but me, I need to wallow. I have learned to just be sad until I am done being sad, because fighting it, or even hiding it, can lead to some very dark times.

I cannot tell you how much I appreciate the kind, healing words you’ve left here. I appreciate them, but to tell you the truth, I am not at all surprised by them. Because I know that there are good, caring people out there – people who experience life in the same kaleidescope of emotions, who love and hurt and trust and mourn as I do. It’s why I continue to blog; I love sharing what makes us human. What I am surprised at are the number of responses from people who are uncomfortable with it. People who needed a time line in order to understand or accept how I felt. People who thought my best friend should have shaken me and told me to “get the hell over it.” People who, with their speculations and cynicism tried very hard to make a good man into a cad, and my prior happiness into a farce.

To the first group of people, let me say this: I guess I never thought it should matter if I knew him six days, six weeks, or six years. I was sad; there doesn’t have to be a reason or a number to justify that. I never meant to confuse anyone, but if it wasn’t clear, you should know I don’t write about the current romantic climate of my life to protect my own interests. Omission saves a new relationship from too much scrutiny, spares the man himself from being too aware of my own tendency to over-think, and it protects me from over-exposing a sometimes too-tender heart.

To the second group, I will say that you have made me feel even more grateful for the friends I have. The non-judging, supportive, wonderful people who choose to share their time with me. The ones who don’t always understand what I feel, but whose first thoughts are of comforting – not shaking me.

Three years ago, I was embroiled in a horribly dysfunctional relationship with a person whose behavior could, at best, be described as amoral, and at worst, just a hair shy of deliberately cruel. And because at the time, I was too busy hating myself for not having enough of a backbone, I didn’t deal with things. Not really. One day, almost two years later, I woke up and realized I was mad. Really, bone-deep angry. And it was like poison. In the time that it took me to understand and process that nasty toxic hate (and it was months), not a single one of my friends uttered anything even remotely so calloused as, “get the hell over it.” I am thankful every single day that they chose me, as I chose them.

And to the third group I say, shame on you. If I have to question his motives, then I am forced to question everything I came to know about him, everything that in my gut felt good and right and true – including and especially my own value. Is it so hard to believe that someone wonderful would think I’m wonderful, too? No. It damn well should not be. He is an honorable man who treated me better and more gently than any before him and you cannot make that into something ugly.

To the rest of you, thank you. For your stories, acceptance and encouragement. I wish I could hand out gold stars.

I imagine that even though it’s truly not my intention, some readers will be offended by this. Some will fume and swear never to read this blog ever again, and vow never to comment. Well, let’s address that right now: we both know you won’t be able to stop yourself. Let’s not kid a kidder. Besides, if I wanted to offend, I’d do it blatantly, by making fun or your wee hands.

I’d peeled my eyes away from the Pats game just long enough to watch him spit a big, fat, gooey wad onto the floor of the sports bar.

“Did he really just do that? Do people do that?”

Colleen nodded. We stared. The Spitter – a wee man with an oversized personality – went on to display so many varieties of bad behavior (the spitting was really only the beginning), that we wondered if we should have been paying for the show. He eventually noticed us watching, misinterpreted our awe for admiration, and made his way over. And lucky me, I was sitting on the end. An easy target.

When offering me a high-five failed (the Patriots had just scored), he tried rubbing up against me. We wanted nothing to do with him, but that only seemed to fuel his fire. He kept squaring off his shoulders, doing some strange nature channel dance. Finally, Jamie decided to let him in on the error of his ways.

“We’re just a bit… disconcerted with all the spitting. On the floor.”

He denied. We pointed to the gross evidence.

“I was starting to feel sorry for you,” I said. “For being raised without a mother.”

He looked dejected (the expression on his face had Colleen and me in giggles for several minutes) and went away. But then he was back, another beer in hand, ready to try again. More spitting. More rubbing up against me. He was cocky to an extreme I hadn’t experienced in a long, long time.

“Please go away,” I said, finally. I didn’t want to be rude, but there were lines being crossed, and my patience was being tried.

“Why are you so serious?”

“Why are you so gross? GO. AWAY.”

He did. And then he came back. Again with the rubbing and the high-fives.

Now, I have a pretty good idea of what it must be like to be a short man in a society that treasures its tall-dark-and-handsomes. As a fat bottomed gal living in an ultra low-rise jean world, I get it, believe me I do. But that doesn’t mean you will see me behaving badly in public because I resent the genetic curse of being pear shaped. I throw my tantrums in private. Mostly in dressing rooms. And if I can mind my manners… well, I think it’s a shame to allow a really well-developed Napoleonic complex to go unrewarded.

“Wow,” I said, admiringly, as he offered another high five. “You have really little hands!”

We didn’t see him again for the rest of the night.

On Tuesday, I showered. I blow-dried my hair, put on clothes not made of fabric intended for yoga or sleeping, stepped into responsible looking heels, and went to a job interview. And I was not ready.

On Tuesday, I was still having a hard time with basic life functions, like say, eating. I showed up to that interview having ingested nothing but dark chocolate M&Ms and Diet Pepsi for two full days. Jittery and constantly on the verge of tears. I was still crying when I fell asleep and crying when I woke up, and crying at many inconvenient intervals between. Like at intersections if the light took too long to change, while pumping gas at the Shell station, or in line at the bank. In New York, no one would have noticed. Here, they ask if I’m okay. “Allergies,” I say. Because everyone here has allergies.

Waking up is the biggest kick in the pants. I know I should be getting over this, but you know, I really, really liked having my first thought in the morning be of something nice – of someone nice. The someone who made himself a keeper the night he drove 30 miles to bring me flowers and kiss me good night. What man drives 30 miles for one kiss? Now I wake up, eyes sore, mourning possibility, feeling like a horrible mistake has been made. Missing him.

On Tuesday, I patted my eyes with goo from my make-up bag that promised to soothe and diminish puffiness, then spackled them with concealer, and prepared myself to be fabulous. But I wasn’t fabulous. I was barely passable. And I didn’t get the job. It wasn’t the job I wanted, but all the same, when I got the thanks-but-no-thanks email this evening, I sank just a little bit lower into the couch and wondered how long a person can feel absolutely miserable before shit really starts to fall apart.

It’s Thursday and I haven’t showered. I cried when I woke up, I’ll probably cry when I go to sleep, and I cried while I was waiting to have my oil changed at the dealership this morning. I have, however managed three square non-chocolate meals. I think that’s a start.

Okay, I hear ya. When this happened to Monica on Friends, everything turned out a-okay, because she got Chandler! And twins!

Am I really the only one who saw it as a sick, sick joke that Monica had to give up MAGNUM PI and that her consolation prize was a big, obnoxious doofus with zero relationship savvy? And that then, to top it all off, wasn’t even able to have her own children and was forced to adopt the spawn of some lead paint eatin’ HALF WIT they met on the Internet?

Really? I’m the only one who doesn’t find that at all comforting? Huh.

If life imitates art (or sitcoms), then um, one-two-three not it.

It was like going to a party all dressed up, looking like a million bucks and knowing it. Standing in the center of the room, head thrown back, laughing, all lit up from the inside. Charming, witty and wonderful. That’s how he made me feel all the time. Like I was this sparkly, amazing gift that the Publisher’s Clearing House Prize Patrol left on his doorstep and he just couldn’t believe his luck.

And I was happy. I was relaxed and one hundred percent myself all the time. And not just accepted, but adored for it. I didn’t care about the age difference, because it didn’t seem to matter. Except in the singular instance when it did.

“I’m afraid that after I say this, I’m never going to see you again.”

I knew what he was going to say. It had been hanging in the air between us for a while, but I hadn’t been any more anxious to hear it than he was to say it. I wanted to be a mother one day. He’s already had his shot at parenting and didn’t want to do it again. He was crazy about me, but afraid I’d be missing out on the chance to have what I really deserved.

When I woke up this morning and rolled over in bed, it took a minute for the conversation to push its way into my head. I hid in bed for a long while, feeling sick and conflicted. I got up, paced the hallway. Then sank to my knees on the carpet and cried.

I surprised myself by being so upset. So mad at the universe for being unfair, for forcing me into deciding between certain happiness now, and a fuzzy hope for it sometime down the road. And sad.

Because I was happy, and now I’m not.

I’m a little hard pressed for something to write about, seeing as I didn’t leave my apartment for six solid days. In fact, between the bed and the couch, I didn’t leave my butt for six solid days. For a while there, it looked like the respiratory infection was actually going to win. And then, by extension, I was going to win the long-standing contest I’ve had with Jen to see which one of us could die from consumption first, and thereby be crowned Most Dramatic Ever. Deaths involving fainting couches and/or wandering the moors receive extra fanfare.

But obviously, I am not dead. And today, I am going out.

I’m going to go for a walk. A nice long one to stretch my atrophied leg muscles. Then maybe I’ll go to a bookstore. Because book club is on Saturday and I haven’t even started. Then, I might just pay a certain someone a house call and do some kissin’. And when I get back, I expect, I’ll have a little something to write about.