July can't get here fast enough.

After a brief panic attack -- during which I swore energetically at Expedia and Orbitz and Travelocity and ForkItOver.net and WalletRape.com because none of them could find me any plane tickets that were cheaper than Holy Sweet Baby Jesus In A Diamond Loincloth, My Semi-Expensive Couch Didn't Even Cost This Much -- I finally bought my plane ticket to Europe. This weekend I'll begin the process of planning all the nitty-gritty details -- where I'm going, when, where I'll need hostels, where I can do a night train trip instead, and where I can find some pretty foreign boys.

Fine, so that last one's not going to happen, but I do find it intriguing that every single guidebook is like, "Bring condoms." It's as if they know. They know. They're like, "Yeah, ooh, we heard about Hunky Cameraman and we know you're all lonely and desperate and shit, so bring latex." What they don't know is that I'm not terribly interested in sampling the wares of the random European men, due in part to substantiated rumors that Roberto Herpeto is a bit of a prick, but also because my 2000 trip to Rome made my across-the-pond sex drive shrivel up and die. In five days I got kissed on the cheek, my breast fondled, my crotch invasively grabbed, and my ear tongued, all by different men on crowded buses. And to pop it all off -- er, oops, "top it all off," the day before I flew home, during a stroll in the park, I saw a guy staring at me while simultaneously masturbating and meowing.

"Heather, you ignorant beerhole," I can hear you judge. "There's nothing more erotic than a filthy, pungent forty-year old rubbing his limp genitals until sparks fly from the friction."

And to that I reply, "You're so right." But for whatever insane, inexplicable reason, those little love violations made it hard for me to associate foreign travel with erotic, exotic adventures with strange men. Maybe I'll run into someone who erases these memories, but for now the plan is that my crotch will stay mine and mine alone.

On July 3, I fly into London on Virgin Atlantic, the airline of crazy tycoon Richard Branson, who also owns a music empire and a line of body products (Virgin Vie), among other things, and whose diverse interests and ceaseless interest in self-promotion lead to one thing and one thing only: Fantastic gift bags in the seat-back pockets. Once I land on July 4 -- Happy Independence Day, America! I'm goin' to France! -- and I'm through customs and I have my bag, I'm going to get drunk on cider and eat some Cheese & Onion crisps, and then board my British Airways flight to Paris. From there, I have fifteen glorious days to zip around the continent on fast trains.

This part of the trip, I haven't planned. The list of cities I've got right now are: Paris, Bruges, Amsterdam, Munich, Berlin, Prague, Budapest, Vienna, Salzberg, Interlockin, and then whatever pit stops I need to make en route to Rome (Milan, probably), where I'll meet up with Amy and we'll hop in our rented Mini and hit Tuscany.

That's actually a lot for 15 days, so I might eliminate some in favor of spending more time in others and not feeling like this is quite such a whirlwind. Also, there will be crippling hangovers to consider -- and the fact that I'm doubtless going to get discovered in Paris. It's the oldest tale: Girl gets dumped, girl runs off to Europe, girl gets discovered by piggish French fashion photographer, girl considers signing modeling contract, girl wears yellow tutu to major party, girl is subject of photographer's leering and clumsy and arrogant pass in spite of her yellow tutu dress, girl runs home to newly smoking best friend and apologizes for being caught up in the modeling gig, girl flies home to Beverly Hills with her roots showing and her virginity intact, girl gets a series of boob jobs over seven years and dyes her hair fourteen different colors, girl opens boutique, girl gets married, girl lives happily ever after.

So, you know, I have to allow for all that to happen. My plans need to be flexible.

Once we hit Tuscany, it's a week of vineyards, small towns, and potential day trips to Florence and Assisi and Venice. After our time at the villa is over, Amy and I are hanging out in Rome for an extra day, and then I'm flying back to London. My father will be there, probably in hiding, having fled Maryland and The House Of The Toilet-Training Three-Year Old And The Screaming Newborn Twins.

My poor father. He's in Maryland right now with my mother, helping out with the kids and getting ready for Alison to eject little Patty and Selma from her expanding belly. I anticipate my father being unable to cope with this for very long. Leah is trying to graduate from diapers, a process that involves a portable toilet being carried from room to room so that when she's ready to expel her daily food intake, they can hurriedly pants her and plop her down on the porta-a-pisser. Key to the scenario, apparently, is the singing of the "Let's Go Pee-Pee In The Potty" song, and let me tell you exactly how much patience my father will have for that: big, fat, roiling nil. Pee-pee songs are not my father's forte, nor are the ritualistic and random middle-of-the-room moonings that come with such jolly scatalogical ditties.

(The man has good sense. Imagine Michael Caine singing, "Put the pee-pee in the potty! We love our potty!" and you will understand how wrong it would be for my father to engage in this activity.)

Ergo, buoyed by (a) the knowledge that I'll meet him there for part of it, and (b) a desire to flee all urine-related lyrics and hysterics, my father will make the annual jaunt to England alone, meaning that I'll get to keep him company in the rented flat, drink what can be quantified as "a shitload" of lager and cider with him, go to the races, and generally act irresponsibly. It'll be a beautiful week. I can't wait.

And then, home. Back to the real world. Back to seeking work. Back to trying to build up the nest egg I'll be cracking to make this trip happen. But it'll be worth it.

If only the workday would come to an end. I've been drinking since 2:30 but the beer has run out, and I just really need to not be on the clock any more. I have better things to do. I have to make plans. I have to buy a backpack. I have to eat Indian food. I have to fantasize about Hot Volvo Guy without stopping to wonder if that really is him in the apartment below us and to the left, and if it is, why does he have that remarkably horrible cat doormat? And why was he wearing those terrible too-tight, too-short, too-altogether-wrong-for-him-to-be-gay pants?

These are the questions I must ponder.

Someone got here by searching for: pictures of flaccid penises Reading: A Walk In The Woods Watching: Nothing. Liar. Yeah, you're right. This weekend it's probably going to be a lot of EastEnders.