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.

"I will have you know that if you change your relationship status on Facebook before telling ME, I will kill your cat."

"Gruesome! And, don't worry, I'm not changing my status."

"I'm not saying you have to call me or anything. But the time stamp on the email had better be a solid minute before you post it on Facebook..."

"You'd really kill my cat?

"Well, I'd have to come to Dallas to do it, so it'd be a win for you that way."

"You're sick. And I love it."

"It'll be like Wedding Crashers... only, you know, with Christmas parties."

Jamie laughed, but I meant business. See, I believe it's one of the world's great injustices that a girl with a closet full of little black dresses - a girl who loves nothing more than to get gussied up and spun around on a dance floor - doesn't have a fancy holiday party to go to. Think Tiny Tim without his Christmas goose.

Totally tragic.

Friday night, Laura, Jamie and I sat around a table at the Tipp, discussing how we were going to right this colossal wrong. I was willing to do what it took. If crashing wasn't going to work, well, I was this close to hiring myself out as an escort for the season. And that's when the Universe intervened.

They'd been watching us from across the bar, and had even performed not-so-sly flybys of our table on the way to the men's room. But when the two older guys finally came to talk to us, it wasn't to deliver some cheesy, overused line. It was to deliver invitations. To a black tie charity event.

"We have to go!"

Laura couldn't be persuaded, but after a little coaxing Jamie got on board. And Saturday night, after a little schedule shifting and a quick wardrobe change, Jamie and I were on our way to White Rock Lake, primped, preened and... a little nervous.

"This is only mildly crazy, right?"

"No," Jamie said. "It's totally crazy. But that's what I love about it."

At worst, we figured, the party would blow. We'd go in, make a charitable donation, take advantage of the open bar, get bored and go home early. And at best? Well, two hours later, when I found myself on my fifth glass of holiday punch and on round II of The Plastic Surgery Game (fifty cents for spotting an obvious boob job; a buck for a face lift) with a dozen or so men in tuxedos, I decided the evening had more than qualified for an at best rating. The rest of the night is just a little fuzzy, but it involves champagne and dancing and breakfast at 3AM in Cafe Brazil with Jim the Insurance Guy and his sidekick, Trey the iPhone Man.

My feet are blistered, my head is thumping, and lethal amounts of Pad Thai were required to soak up the mess of holiday punch that was still sloshing around in my stomach when I crawled out of bed this afternoon. But isn't that the way all good holiday stories end? Well, that and a good goosing.

God bless us, every one.

Ari: Does the Internet know about your first time? Because I'm realizing I do not.

Heather: Yeah, I think they do.

Ari: No, no. We don't!

Heather: Oh, come on. It's very uninteresting and anticlimactic... but I'll tell the story, just for you.

Ari: Oooh, yay!

As firsts go, I'm not kidding when I say mine was uninteresting and anticlimactic. It was, because I planned it to be that way. The story goes a little something like this:

I'd just gotten out of a several month long, high drama relationship with an older man. He was 11 years my senior and a highly experienced control freak. He didn't want to do the actual deed if I wasn't on birth control. I had grown a little tired of his charmless ultimatums and Guinness fueled temper, so I said no and settled for everything but. By the time I got out of that mess, I'd come to the conclusion (which, I suspect, will be unpopular with this crowd) that I wanted to do it and I wanted to have no lingering emotional attachment to the experience. I'd had emotional and wasn't cut out for it. One night, my roommate and I were at a party. I'd had a few to drink, and from the cab made a drunk dial to a friend. "Hey, I'm drunk. Wanna make out?" I knew what his answer would be, and I knew how the evening would unravel. His reputation as a ladies' man, and the fact that we'd found ourselves tipsy and making out on street corners on several occasions, made it a sure thing.

And that was that.

I walked home the next morning, laughing. It's a memory I hold with absolutely no regret. And regret, I know. I regret the night that J carried me up my front steps, not because I was drunk, but because I was crying too hard to walk. When nine months into us, he said he was so sorry, but he couldn't love me. He couldn't stand the thought of being without me, but he couldn't love me. That, I'd rather not have experienced. Or the time, when after a night of wildish sexcapades, the man I'd been involved with for over a year made fun of something I'd done in bed. In front of his friends. He mocked my voice, my facial expressions, and I stood there betrayed and humiliated. I'd love to make that one go away. It affected me so profoundly - broke my trust mechanism, perhaps beyond complete repair. Every once in a while, I think about retaliating -- exposing him as the Oedipal mess that he is and revealing to the world his confessions about mother-lust. But then I think, that would be mean. And exceptionally satisfying.

At any rate, I understand that there's great value in the sex/love connection. But I also know the value of sex without love. Or hate. Or embarrassment. Or envy. Or guilt. Sex without anything but warm, naked flesh and twisted sheets. I know it's not something to build a lifetime of love on, but for me, it can be a lot more palatable than mornings spent sobbing in the shower over lopsided love affairs and good things gone bad.

The three of us had just come from Girl's Night dinner in the Bishop Arts District and were holding court at an out-of-the-way table at the Old Monk. It was one of those nights where everything we said seemed brilliantly funny and became an inside joke that we were determined to run into the ground.

Did you know that the phrase "right up my alley" was dirty? It is. On par with, "that's what she said" and so much funnier.

Anyway, sometime around midnight, a couple of guys asked to join us. Sure, absolutely, why not. So Keith and The Guy Who Hates Sarcasm sat down. Obviously, they came over because of the stunning display of cleavage at the table - we'd all gotten dressed up for dinner in our end-of-summer finery - but ended up leaving with a heaping serving of smart ass.

Conversation was quick, witty and funny and the guys were holding their own (though, someone did leave that table with the unfortunate nickname Goulash). When it was nearing closing time, Keith slid a pen and an upturned receipt across the table and asked for a phone number. Whose, he didn't seem to care. Just a phone number. A flicker of Oh-no-he-didn't passed between us girls. A few awkward jokes were made and Keith took his receipt back just as empty as he'd offered it.

"Well, he was sure casting a wide net, wasn't he?" Jamie said, the moment we hit the sidewalk.

"Right? He really knows how to make a girl feel special," I said, shaking my head.

"Even if he'd said, 'Hey, you girls are a lot of fun. Can I get your numbers so we can all hang out again?' that would have been fine," Laura said.

"At least then he could be non-discerning where we can't see. That Anyone? Anyone? routine was just sad."

We agreed that what Keith clearly didn't realize was any one of us girls, had he asked us directly, would have gladly give him a phone number. Because until that point, he'd been charming enough. But then... well, I've never seen anyone crash and burn so thoroughly (excepting, you know, Britney last night).

Choosing sucks. I get that. What if the girl you prefer doesn't prefer to give you her number, what have you got then? Well, no digits, for sure. But you've got three girls who think you have the appropriate number of testicles, as well as pretty decent assurance that they won't spend the whole ride home discussing your bad, bad move.

Spicy crab crusted sea bass.

If nothing else good happens to me ever over the whole rest of my life, it's gonna be okay. Because I had the crab crusted sea bass. Seriously, I still have a bit of a food hangover from the experience.

The girls and I went to Hibiscus for dinner last night to drink hibiscus martinis with orchids floating in them, and then dialed it way down to meet the fellas across the street for pints of cider and sarcasm. It was perfect. And now that I'm 29, and there seems to be no way to stall this turning thirty business, I've started to make a list of things to accomplish before then. You know, before I'm a really real grown up.

1. Learn to make a really kick ass martini. I don't even own a shaker, so I've got a ways to go.
2. Learn to say "No." and stick to it. I'm not a pushover, but I don't always... not get pushed over. Keen difference, you see.
3. Adios the credit card debt. So, you know, in the between time, gifts of cash will not be turned away.
4. Eat more crab crusted sea bass.

Whew. Goal-making really wear me out. Being an almost grown up is tough. Thanks for all the birthday wishes - it really was a lovely day.

Dallas Meet-up
Somewhere in those 200 comments below, it was suggested that we have a Dallas meet & greet. I'm very down with that. How's next Wednesday? Great, it's settled then.

Wednesday, July 25
8:30 PM
Ginger Man (back patio)
2718 Boll St
Dallas, TX

Going away parties are an exquisite kind of torture. The exquisite part : (almost) everyone you love is in the same place for a few glorious hours. The torture part: they're there because soon you won't be.

Saturday night, I put aside my stress, put on my red goin' out shoes (the only non-schlubby footwear that hadn't been packed away or shipped express to my mother) and met my friends at a Union Square bar for a last hurrah. Aside from the fact that I nearly broke down in blubbery tears at least a dozen times, the party was a complete success. Actually, I don't think it could have been such a success without all the near-tears.

It was my first night off of narcotics (who never wants to see Vicodin ever again?), and in order not to deprive my system of potentially toxic substances, I got pretty tipsy in short order. What I'm saying is, some of the night is pretty hazy. Just the way I like it.

A few things I do remember:

My drunk and gallant Biscuit disco-spinning me
Sarah's mixed CDs (they're legendarily awesome, people)
Goldner's belly. We saw a lot of it.
So. Many. Hugs.
The post-party drunk texting. I take it back, Stan. You're not extra Degrassi for going home to make out with your pillow.
Evil plotting with Ari and Laura. It's what we do best.
Justine's boob
That there was NO ONE to make out with. Probably better that way.

I woke up Sunday morning hung over and ready to reclaim my stress. And really freaking sad. The leaving, it is hard - lump in the throat hard.

Remember that song you learned in Brownies? Okay, remember that song I learned in Brownies? The one about new friends being silver and the old ones gold? I think, in my case, diamond-encrusted platinum might be a little closer to describing the people I've come to love over the last few years. Even my imaginary friends were never this loyal or imperfectly perfect. I get this heavy feeling in the center of my chest when I think about leaving them. But things change. They just do. And as one friend said, we'll keep in touch over this here typey thing; it'll be like I never left.

Because right now, it's all about kidding myself.