Someone out there understands me. Someone who makes purses. With fur mustache appliqué. I'm pretty much beside myself.  I imagine this is akin to what it would feel like were I to find out there's a support group for people with unreasonable attachments to Q-tips. I am not alone.

And I need this.



What could be more calming, in times of stress, than stroking Magnum's mustache which happens to be handily attached to your purse? Nothing, that's what.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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."

Heather: disturbed by Kiafest
Brother Jason: shopping Kiafest
Mom: what's Kiafest?

Jason: Poor mom, doesn't watch TV.

Heather: Those commercials where the salesman is flashdancing? Kill me. And not in the good way.

Jason: Yeah, they bugged the hell out of me last year.

Heather: I worry that mom is not aware enough of her surroundings. Kiafest could be going on and she would have no idea.

Jason: We may need to think about a live-in current events nurse.

Heather: Yeah, maybe you're right. I just don' t have the kind of time it takes to care for her multi-media needs. Can we afford in-home care? I think it's time to call a family meeting.

Jason: I mean, does she even know about the Dodge Sales Event, or Toytoathon? Maybe she could move in with me and Jamie. The rest of the family would have to pitch in for care costs, but it might just have to happen.

Heather: The cable bill, we could split that.

Jason: We'd have to upgrade to HD - that might be a hefty cable bill.

Heather: She's our MOM. We can't not. I mean, what if she gets WORSE?

Jason: But they didn't even have HD when she was a kid. How can that be considered a necessity for her? No, you're right... we have to.

When he climbed in bed next to me, I thought, no big deal. The five of us had come back to Venice hostel that night in various stages of drunk, and it was cold in the attic dorm room. Really cold. Obviously he just wanted someone to sleep next to. I mean, I was ten years older than the kid, so there was no way he wanted...

That's when he started rubbing my arm. And kissing my ear.

"I think you need to go to your bed," I said, ripping the yellow spongy earplugs out of my ears and inching away. It was a twin bed; there wasn't really anywhere to go.

"Do you really want me to?

"Yes! Yes, I really want you to!"

I was not about to turn Mrs. Robinson in a room full of sleeping strangers. He was out of his gourd!

And what he said next will go down as the biggest pillow-talk backfire in the history of... well, ever. The best worst line. Sliding his hand down my arm, he lowered his voice and said,

"Come on, Heather. You can be twenty again."

"Out!"

I can be twenty again? Flattering! And, uh, no thank you. I wouldn't be twenty again for a lifetime of spa pedicures and a day pass to Detective Elliot Stabler's wardrobe trailer. That is how much I do not want to be twenty again. I love my not-twenty crows feet and the age-acquired good sense to not hook up with a college kid while his friend is sleeping five feet away. Twenty again! Gah!

Besides, at twenty, I was Mormon and extremely uptight. And I'm betting he didn't climb into bed with me so we could pray together.

"No such luck."

I smiled down at the scruffy-faced guy in 38H. On my way down the aisle, I'd watched him eying the window seat with high hopes. A whole row to himself for the ten-hour flight from Rome to JFK. Like I said, no such luck. He helped me heft my bag into the overhead bin and the small talk began.

He was Brad. I was Heather. He was really handsome. And I was... well, I'd been living out of a backpack for way too many weeks, and looking rough. I was not in a position to flirt, or be flirted with, so we stuck to the basics.

"Is New York your last stop?" he asked after I'd settled in.

"No, I live in Dallas," I said.

"Me, too. Where in Dallas?"

"North Dallas," I said.

"Me, too! Where?"

"The Village..."

"Me, too!"

In the end, we figured out that Handsome Brad lives across the street from me. What a coincidence! And what relief! Because now all I have to do is prance up and down the street, three or four times a day, in my favorite ass-tastic jeans, until I run into Brad. You know, to prove that I do wash my hair and own clean clothes.

And then it's gonna be game on.

I was driving home the other night, and couldn't help but grin like a fool at all the Christmas lights my little community has set ablaze. Trees with their trunks wrapped with white bulbs, fake candles glowing electric orange in apartment windows. And that's when I smacked my hand on the steering wheel and said, "Oh, man! I have to tell the Internet about the Baby Jesus-es!"

I bring you good tidings of great joy, Internet. There is a street in Napoli, the entire length of which is dedicated to the Nativity.

The irony is that it's packed with people, most of whom are trying to lift your wallet, but I digress. It's a whole street filled with shops dedicated to providing the good people of Napoli with their manger scene needs! It was glorious! If it was the kind of street where it was safe to whip out your camera, I'd have pictures to show you - pictures of a store that sold nothing but the Baby Jesus.

Bins, baskets, heaps, walls covered in the Baby Jesus. It was Italy, so we didn't see too much variety as far as skin color, but ignoring that, there was every kind of Baby Jesus you can imagine. Skinny, plump, clothed, nekkid, curly haired, bald. I love that no one can agree on what his Almightyness looked like, and it doesn't seem to matter. You know, so long as you don't go making him black, or *gasp* appropriately Middle Eastern.

I'm feeling a bit mentally messy today - half of my brain is busy with planning my trip home tomorrow (I know! It seems impossible that this is almost over) and the other half is occupied cataloging my experiences in Napoli.

Starting out, I was wary about going. I'd been warned by travelers and Italians alike that Napoli was one scary, godforsaken place. Pickpockets! Thieves! Miscellaneous danger! But then, I'd also heard that Napoli invented pizza. Invented. Pizza. Frankly, I think that can erase a whole lot of wrongs. Besides which, I happen to be the kind of girl who can really get into godforsaken. So I made up my mind to love Napoli - pickpockets, pizzamakers and all.

And I did. For the parts of it I was awake, anyway.

The rain followed me from Rome to Napoli and so did the cold that I picked up in Lucca. So after exploring Napoli for an afternoon, I trudged back to the hostel, and crawled into bed. With my laptop and a pizza. So far, the Napoli-haters were seeming like a bunch of chumps. What could possibly be better than a whole pizza for under 3 Euros? Nothing. Unless it's eating it in your pajamas after spending a few nerdy hours at the archaeological museum pouring over Pompeii artifacts. Turns out, I'm kind of a sucker for mosaics.

The next day I headed out to Pompeii - I'll probably end up writing about it more on the other blog, as it was one of those educational, touristy experiences that fits better there than here, but the moment I get back to the states, I'm renting every single documentary on that place I can find. It was fascinating. And cold. Really freaking cold. Lest I had any notions that Southern Italy might be a warmish sort of place, I was speedily corrected by the snow on Vesuvius and the wind in Pompeii. By 4:00 I was back in the hostel for pizza and another nap.

I'd booked a car tour tofhe Amalfi Coast before I arrived, thinking it'd be the best way to take in a lot of territory in a little time. In the end, it was a fantastic idea, because yesterday was the worst of them all - heavy rain and steadily dropping temperatures my capilene long-johns couldn't keep up with. I think my guide was surprised (and totally relieved - she said her hair thanked me) when I suggested we didn't actually have to get out of the car to see things - that if she just pointed, I'd be more than satisfied. By Sorrento, the rain had turned to sleet, and I was nodding off to the rhythm of windshield wipers. I'm sure you can guess how the afternoon wrapped up. With a nap and.. not pizza! I had a big bowl of Gnocci that an Australian hostel-mate had picked up in the market, with prawns, tomatoes, basil and buffalo mozzarella. Drool.

In the end, the only thing dangerous about Napoli, was the quantity of food I consumed there. If I don't fit in my airplane seat tomorrow, I'm going to be really irritated with myself.

I hadn't been in Rome more than a couple hours when he stepped out next to me on the sidewalk - from the doorway of a bank. He was dressed impeccably in a dark gray suit with all the trimmings - right down to the shiny cuff links. As he moved onto the sidewalk we made eye contact, and as I began to pass him, he commented (in English) on the beauty that was my hair.

I smiled politely. I do have a nice head of hair.

And, as I got a few steps away, the well dressed bank man amended his compliment with a politely-worded question.

"Would you like to f--k?"

Oh, Rome. You know just what to say to a girl.

Stuck in Waterloo Station with an hour to kill, I ducked into a bookstore to find something to pass the time. My eyes, and then my hands, fell on a copy of Skinny Bitch, some sort of diet book in which the authors are rude to you, and then magically, all the tenets of weight loss will suddenly be easier to stick to. Um, okay.

They may be bitches, but they are skinny bitches. And you'll be one too-after you get with the program and start eating right.

My first thought was, that if anything excuses being a bitch, skinny is not it. Funny, yes. But not skinny. Skinny just gives you the right to turn heads and wear the clothes the rest of us only dream of wearing. But bitchiness requires talent, not a low calorie intake.

Anyway, flipping through the book, I learned that to be skinny and (healthy, natch), you must abstain from sugar, meat and dairy products. Abstain from dairy products? Pfft! You're not skinny bitches, you're crazy bitches! I tossed the book back onto the shelf, like it was on fire.

"Uch."

"Zat bad?"

A French woman, most probably in her 40's, was standing behind me. She was, incidentally, skinny, and dressed head to toe in rich creams and taupes. She looked like a magazine cover.

"Yes," I said. "It's just... if cheese is wrong, I don't want to be right."

She laughed, and made a flicking gesture, as if mentally sweeping those skinny bitches right out of existence.

"Zey don't tell you how boring it is being skeeny."

I laughed, wondering if she knew from experience just how boring it is being skinny. We made a bit of small talk, then the woman checked her watch, and said she had to be off. But not before stopping by the checkout counter... to buy a chocolate bar.

Apparently, not.

I've just been madamed for the tenth time in as many minutes, and I must have frowned involuntarily, because the attendant stopped in the aisle and leaned over me.

"Something is wrong, madame?"

"No, no. Everything is perfect."

The rhubarb raspberry cream tart was perfect. As were the marinated mushrooms and caramelized onion quiche. Ridiculously so, for train food. It's all this madame business. It makes me feel old! The last time I was on the Eurostar, I was traveling with my mother. She was madame and I was mademoiselle and that was great. It made me feel very young and cute.

I'm still young and cute, dammit! At heart, at least. I mean, I obviously look every second of my (almost) 30 years. But still.

I'd suggest we just dispense with the formality altogether, but they're all very polite here in first class, it might cause some sort of train malfunction. Did you catch that? First Class. Because I am a classy gal. Actually, when I was given a Eurostar voucher to get me from Point A (London) to Point B (Paris, to catch a night train to Barcelona), it was for a round trip ticket. And when Nigel, the friendly Eurostar agent, learned that I wouldn't be returning to London, he sent me an email,

"Since you won't be returning, we would be happy to offer you a one-way ticket in first class."

And I'd be happy to accept!

Unless, of course, they don't bother with this madame crap in standard class. And if that's the case, I'm picking up my rhubarb raspberry tart and going to sit with the commoners. Where I will be blaming Nigel for making me suddenly feel very much my age.

Madame, my ass.

This afternoon, I sat next to Aaron Eckhart in a cafe on Piccadilly. The last time I saw him, I ran ran face first into his chest on a temporary construction sidewalk in New York. He had strangely orange hair at the time, but that didn't matter -- I loved him just the same. Today, his hair was normal colored, but he was busy reading a script and drinking coffee and it just didn't seem appropriate to interrupt and inform him we were meant to be.

I think I'll wait for him to figure it out.

"Ooh! I know! I have a protein bar!"

"Yeah, and I have a big old bag of Shut Up," Angie said under her breath.

I snorted at Angie. The two rows of women behind us had ceased talking hours before and had taken up squawking. That's really the only word for it. It was infuriating. Our plane had been diverted to JFK because of something to do with a computer glitch and a fuel gauge or somesuch - the crew had been sent to their seats mid-dinner service. And now, four hours later, we sat there on the tarmac trying to sleep off our frustration and hunger. And the crows behind us would not shut up.

"I eat a power bar every day!"

"Don't they like, make you fat?"

The crow directly behind me was now standing up, yanking at the back of my chair as she went on and on about protein and calories. As my head bobbed from its pillow, I declared I'd had enough. The entire plane was full of exhausted passengers, plunging ear plugs deeper, trying desperately to sleep. And these four were making it impossible.

"Ready?" I asked Angie.

"Mmm hmm."

I pushed the button on my armrest and leaned back with as much force as my 5AM body could muster, sending the Protein Crow tumbling to her seat.

"Well that was rude!"

I swallowed a laugh. Angie bit her lip.

"She did it on purpose," Friend of Crow cawed. "I saw her look back."

I rolled my eyes into the back of my head. I was disappointed she'd only seen me look back once. I mean, I'd been sending withering glances for a solid hour.

They were pissed. But a mighty miracle had been wrought. The crows, who'd been shushed by everyone row 30 and back for the better part of... I don't know, eternity had finally shut up. They spent the rest of the flight talking in low(ish) tones about what a raging bitch the girl in 37J was.

A raging, immensely satisfied bitch.

I started a post about the varied and interesting characters I see on the Katy Trail in the mornings - the Giantess, the heavy-set man who sweats Rorschach tests into his gray t-shirt, and the Adonis of the Katy Trail (or Donny, as we've come to call him), but then I got distracted. Lost my train of thought completely. And just like that, the title of this post went from "Trail Mix" to "Boob Jog."

This has to be what men feel like - having their senses take leave over a pair of boobs.

And today? My boobs look amazing. Simply amazing. I admired the ladies in the mirror this morning before I left to run errands. Hello, darlings. And then, as I was walking into CVS just now, I caught my reflection in the automatic doors.

"Holy shit!"

I said this out loud, not caring in the slightest if anyone within earshot took offense to my language or my unabashed vanity. After all, there they were, sitting atop my rib cage, peeking over the top of my tank looking perky and, with each step, bouncing just so. A sight to behold. Even the pharmacy patrons had to be enjoying the view. I mean, they're like Halle Berry boobs. Only, pre-pregnancy and with not-quite-as-ravishing skin. But you get the idea.

Jamie and I have been diligently (and daily) working our way up and down The Katy (I'm prepping myself for Cinque Terre) and after all this work (seven miles! every day!) I'd expected to see a little change in my thighs. And maybe my butt. You know, the parts that the slimming of makes you dig into your bottom drawer for those jeans you can only hope to wear after a good bout of food poisoning. But I completely forgot about the effects those long miles could have on the rest of my 2,000 parts. Like, my waist. And my ta-tas.

Phenomenal I tell you. If only I had somewhere to show these off.