[Note: Do you have a funny, crazy, dating or breakup story? Post it here or send it to breakupbabe@msn.com ASAP 'cause there's this TV producer from a big-time TV show looking to put together a show about "funny dating stories." Yes, I know, dating is not really funny. It is tragic and pathetic, which is why I had to make all my stories up and put 'em in a novel, but hey - we can dig up some funny dating stories for the sake of being on TV right? Send me your good ones and I will forward on to Mr. Producer Man.]

Now for your regularly scheduled self-centeredtainment...

I have always possessed a talent for having daydreamy fun and not getting much of anything practical done.

As a child, when I was supposed to be loading the dishwasher, I took all-too-frequent breaks to pirouette around the living room as a pretend ballerina. Or I would engage in a spoken-word melodrama, with all parts played by me, talking out loud in a variety of accents as I shoved dishes into the wrong parts of the dishwasher.

To this day, I am a miserable failure at loading the dishwasher, probably because I am too busy thinking about boys, or what my next novel is going to be about (boys, probably). Ask anyone who has ever been a guest at my house and pulled a piece of "clean" tableware out of the cabinet, only to find it crusted with food relics or smeared with an unidentifiable substance. (Blame it on boys!)

My impractical and fun-loving nature is perhaps the reason I have not “settled down.” Why would I when there are so many cute boys out there to be had, so many dramas yet to be played out? Why, I wake up every morning and still wonder, “What exciting thing might happen to me today?” Oh, one day I’ll be so old and decrepit that no drama will befall me anymore and then I’ll rue the day that I never settled down and had resentful children to care for me. But that day is not coming for at least three years.

My impractical and fun-loving nature is also the reason I was able to produce a novel while working full-time. Believe me, a lot of chores were left undone during the writing of that novel. Groceries were not bought; bathrooms were not cleaned; new sheets were not purchased; husbands were not found.

I am in love with possibility and always have been, so much more than with mundane reality. I’ve managed to find a job and become a homeowner but I’ll be damned if I could tell you – two years post-purchase – what my interest rate is or how much I’ve paid off or even what the life of my loan is. (Five years? Seven years? Certainly not 30, I know that much.) I can tell you that I have one square of bright, Candyland blue painted on my bedroom wall. It has been there for a month, waiting for me to sample other colors. To make a decision and settle down with something just a little more practical.

But of course I haven’t had time to make my decision. I’ve been far too busy chasing boys, writing my next book, running around outdoors where my unpainted walls can't close me in, and loading the dishwasher very, very poorly.