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understand exactly what I was going through, even if she was a fictional character on television. Despite having seen The Holiday several times, I watched it with new eyes. The eyes of the jilted bride.
    A few minutes into the film, Kate Winslet was on her way to a luxury house in Los Angeles and Cameron Diaz was on her way to a snug little cottage in England, both on their way to heal in a new environment.
    My doorbell rang. I wrapped myself in the afghan and opened the door. Bob, Guido’s delivery boy, was there with my latest order.
    “Bob, have you ever done a home exchange?” I asked him. Bob was an acne-prone teenager with a scooter. He probably wasn’t in the home exchange demographic, but you never know, and I was excited to be thinking about a way to alleviate some of my misery.
    “What’s a home exchange?”
    “It’s where two people exchange their houses for a vacation,” I explained. “So you don’t have to pay for a hotel or anything.”
    “I went to Disney World with my family once. We stayed at the Ramada.”
    I nodded. “I see. I see. How much is it this time, Bob?”
    “Fourteen bucks even.”
    I handed him a twenty and told him to keep the change. I was feeling generous in my burst of optimism. Maybe there was a light at the end of the tunnel.
    I grabbed the groceries and closed the door. I dug my laptop out of my briefcase and opened it on my coffee table, next to a half-eaten brownie and the remains of a lasagna. I ignored the hundreds of unread emails from people telling me how sorry they were that I was jilted and went straight to Google, where I looked up home exchanges. I found a website quickly.
    It was an easy process. I just had to pay a nominal fee and post a description of the condo along with photos. Then I had my choice of a whole world full of beautiful homes. For a month I could escape, live in another home far away, walk in the shoes of someone fabulous, someone whose heart wasn’t broken, whose life wasn’t a crumbled mass of destruction.
    I have to admit I first looked for home exchanges in Bora Bora. It may have been an unhealthy fantasy, but I couldn’t help but imagine myself stumbling on Jackson at his honeymoon-for-one on the beach while I wore my white bikini and convincing him to change his mind, to love me forever, and marry me right then and there during the sunset.
    But there was no home exchange available in Bora Bora.
    Undeterred, I was still convinced that if a home exchange was good enough for Kate Winslet, it was good enough for me. I sent messages to home owners in Los Angeles, Hawaii, Paris, and Monte Carlo. Then I sat back and ate a couple of Pop-Tarts while I finished watching The Holiday and waited for a reply to my offer. While the characters in the movie rebuilt their lives and found love and happiness, I got my replies.
    Six rejections hit my inbox one after the other. I gasped. Even home exchangers didn’t want me. I took a bite of the hoagie and curled back into the fetal position on the couch.
    My tears started flowing again, until I was hiccuping through sobs. I couldn’t believe I still had tears left after crying for four straight days. It was like I had superhuman tear ducts. I was the Wonder Woman of crying. All I needed was spandex and a cape to seal my superhero status.
    Who was I kidding? If I kept eating, I couldn’t go near spandex.
    I had to get a plan B and quick. Maybe I needed to join a cult or become a drug addict. I pulled the afghan over my head. I didn’t want to join a cult or become a drug addict. I didn’t even drink, and I wasn’t what you’d call a spiritual person. The Hare Krishnas probably didn’t want me, either.
    Just as I was ready to order something else from Guido’s, my email chirped, notifying me of an incoming message.
    Dear Chicago Luxury Condo,
    We are in love with your home, and we would be thrilled to exchange our villa in Mallorca for the next four weeks. Our home is completely renovated in a beautiful