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.

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.

On Sunday afternoon, while Scott and I were painting his bathroom, I got a little woozy from the ammonia in the primer and had to sit down outside the door. I'd finished all the borders -- the cutting in, as we professional housepainters say -- and Scott was doing the ladder work. Who needs 14 foot ceilings in a bathroom? Mr. Fancy Pants, that's who.

"Dude, I don't think that's a very good idea," I said, watching Scott lean the ladder, precariously, against the far wall, only two of its four feet on the ground.

"Eh, it's fine," he said, climbing up to the second rung. "When I was a kid, I was always doing something stupid, and I'm fine."

Not half a minute later, I watched in horror as the ladder plummeted twelve feet to the floor, and Scott along with it. Before I could move, he pushed himself off the splintered wooden ladder and staggered toward me, a hand pressed to his chest. He was gasping for breath.

"No! No," I said, jumping to my feet. "Lay down! Don't move."

He ignored me and walked into the hallway, where he finally sat down and let me have a look. His legs were bleeding, shins torn up by the splintered ladder. His head, dotted with paint where it had made a path down the freshly painted wall. It was his chest that tookthe brunt of the fall, hitting the commode on the way down.

"Do we need to go to the hospital?" I could feel my head swimming - from the fumes and the shock.

"No, just let me catch my breath."

A few minutes later, when it was clear that Scott was not mortally wounded, I sat down next to him and started laughing. Like a crazy woman. I couldn't help myself. Not that I found the situation at all funny. In fact, my hands were still shaking and my chest hurt from the tension. Maybe it was relief? Maybe it wasthe only way my bizarre little psyche knew how to deal with it was to laugh. And then to force Neosporin and gauze bandages on Scott. And then drag him to my apartment for ice packs, where I could watch him for symptoms of more serious damage. And make him brownies.

Even a crazy woman knows that brownies fix just about anything.

Scott, Ikea, Home Depot and I spent this three-day weekend gaying up my apartment. I mean designing my apartment. My place in New York was on the shoebox side of cozy and so I decorated it in a lot of mellow tones, so as not to make my visitors feel like they were in the middle of some sort of claustrophobic acid trip. Sage, burgundy, taupe. Cool, calm, peaceful.

"I call it blah," Scott said. The man pulls no punches.

So, in an effort to expand my horizons, I let Scott lead the decorating charge. Which turned out to involve a lot of paint. In colors that normally belong on jewelry store boxes and fat kindergarten crayons. Grass green. Tuscan yellow. Tiffany blue. It also involved a lot of me pacing in and out of the room as the paint dried asking, "Are you sure that it's not... too much?"

"Go bold. Trust your gay! I won't steer you wrong."

Today I tried to get some shots that show just how right he steered me, but the very reason we spent a three-day weekend inside my house playing Trading Spaces was that the weather has been just plain gross. Rain. Clouds. More rain. But since I know the Interweb is very forgiving and has a keen imagination, I'll show you what I got, bad lighting and all.

Here's a little (poorly shot) before & after of my office area:

My now super duper kick-ass dining room, and the holy-shit-this-is-bright bedroom:

Oh, and I also finally threw some shit up on the walls.

I decided that I wasn't going to decorate my apartment with art made my strangers. Instead, I chose to put up photos of the people I love, and the photos we take. My friends, their babies, the weird and wonderful things we see on vacation together. Oh yeah, and my cat. But that's to be expected.

Not even Scott the design diva and his magical colorfan are a match for a cat lady in training.

I'm sitting on the stone steps that lead up to my new apartment right now, catching sun and waiting for a furniture delivery. A new couch. Not to replace the one that is (hopefully) speedily on its way here from New York, but to fill in the empty space I like to call the den/office/this-is-where-I-pretend-to-work space. It's crimson colored and perfectly squishy and the best part is, it pulls out to a bed. Seriously, people, the Aerobed is a nice idea, but

Oh holy cow. I must interrupt myself to tell you that some dude just came into view (not three yards away), and as he hasn't noticed me, has begun pacing, smoking a cigarette and... adjusting himself. With, shall we say, real spirit and conviction. Amusing.

Anyway, I am growing less and less fond of the Aerobed. So in the Great Spending Binge of 2007, I bought the red couch of dreams. When I find the cords that go with all my computer attachments (iPod, camera), I'll show you just how dreamy. Such redness! Such squishiness!

Speaking of dreamy! Yesterday, I bought a car. My first, very own, mine-all-mine car. I absolutely love it. I haven't had a car at my disposal for... well, over five years. And never, ever have I had one that was mine. Mine to futz with (hello, sunroof) and wash and drive fast and sing out loud in. I couldn't be happier! Again, when I make the Big Cord Discovery of 2007, I'll show you just how dreamy that is, too.

Oh, and Sir Hal traveled fairly well; thanks to everyone for the helpful first time kitty flier suggestions. The poor beast clung to the bottom of his Sherpa bag for dear life, but there were no major incidents. Unless you count the bloody tracks he left on my shoulder at security. We've both since recovered from the trauma.

I'm gonna go hunt for those cords again. So much dreaminess to share.

UPDATE: New apartment slideshow!