what happens in vegas

...stays in Vegas. Unless you're the best blogger ever.
I'm taking on that title, which grants you the exclusive right to read all my Sin City adventures live. Almost. I'm heading to Vegas this weekend to see my friends Lily and Morgan get married, and I already can't wait.
It's just past noon Thursday, but I'm already entertaining visions of endless buffets, ruthless gambling and brothels galore. And you'll get to hear all about it. With one minor disclaimer. I have to find some Internet venue that doesn't drain me entirely of my party funds. Wish me luck.
Anyway, I fly out at 6:20 a.m. Friday, assuming any questionable items in my luggage make it past security clearance. Even after a three-hour layover in Denver, I should be in Vegas by 12:30 p.m. Holler.
In spite of my initial anxieties over leaving my foul-mouthed dog home alone, I now firmly believe this will be the vacation of my dreams. I wasn't even legal the last time I went to Vegas, and while six days of nonstop skee ball action was fabulous, I am so ready for the real thing. Bring it.
So think of me as I polish my lovers' dice tonight. Also, check out this week's column, which is all about clarifying your romantic status. The topic was spurred by an office debate over what constitutes "dating." Is it simply going on dates, or does it imply exclusivity?
Either way, I strongly encourage you to mend any blurred understandings prior to Valentine's Day. Sure, in an an ideal world, my concept of The Talk would consist solely of "harder," "faster" and "a little to the left." But sometimes, you need to get serious in order to, well, get serious.
Or, in Vegas lingo, know when to hold 'em and know when to fold 'em.