Sorry for the unexpected Vegas silence, but my trip took a surprising turn midway through my 6:20 a.m. flight out from Atlanta. This sounds crazy, but I knew within minutes that I was sitting directly beside my life soulmate. His name is Pasquale Dubois and he's a columnist for a small indie magazine about --here's the shocker -- local nightlife. I don't know how to explain it, but the connection just seemed like it was meant to be. The inclination first came when he dubbed his trip to Vegas as "the best vacation ever," and then pulled nine congealed Krystals out of his backpack.
Needless to say, conversation came easily, and shortly after he said his rendition of "Don't Stop Believing" once won a fraternity karaoke contest, I knew I had found The One. Sure, it sounds rash and unfounded, but the feeling was mutual. As we walked toward the Vegas airport's baggage claim, he proposed over a carmel macchiato from Starbucks. I said yes.
Then we hit a local pawn shop, bought the most gaudy rings we could find, and decided to seal the deal right away...allowing us to devote the rest of the trip to our honeymoon. Of course I was nervous, but I never underestimate the importance of following your first instinct in matters of the heart.
So we headed over to Hooters Casino (the first chapel we could find on such short notice), said our vows and 10 minutes later were sharing a yard-long margarita in a spa suite.
I'm sure this must be an incredible shock to most of you, especially considering my relatively sparse dating history, but please take comfort in the fact that I really do feel truly happy. We're back in Columbus now, and plan to visit both my family in California and his family in Rhode Island within the next three months.
In the meantime, stop being so gullible. I'm not really married.
The real reason I didn't blog from Vegas? I was too busy having the most amazing vacation of my entire life. The trip was a blast, and I have lots of good stories for you guys. Be patient, though. I'll blog as I have time.
Under the same byline as usual, by the way.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Thursday, February 8, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
wanna wake up with me?
Then, Columbus-area residents, listen to Kissin 99.3 bright and early at 7:10 a.m. Wednesday morning. Yes, I know there isn't much incentive to be up at that hour, but it might be your only chance to wake up to my melodic musings. I won't even fault you for listening to me in your underwear.
I'll be talking about "American Idol," but expect anything and everything to be grounds for conversation. I can only dream of recreating my college days of hosting "The BS Show" with my good friend and roommate Benita. We prided ourselves on a weekly "wisdom corner" and kept track of campus shenanigans against a musical backdrop of Phil Collins.
Sure, I can't promise any easy lovin', but my old-school radio wisdom will be fully intact tomorrow morning.
I can already feel it coming in the air. Tonight.
I'll be talking about "American Idol," but expect anything and everything to be grounds for conversation. I can only dream of recreating my college days of hosting "The BS Show" with my good friend and roommate Benita. We prided ourselves on a weekly "wisdom corner" and kept track of campus shenanigans against a musical backdrop of Phil Collins.
Sure, I can't promise any easy lovin', but my old-school radio wisdom will be fully intact tomorrow morning.
I can already feel it coming in the air. Tonight.
Monday, February 5, 2007
can't touch this?
There I was, ridding my body of back knots while my fellow guests rooted for teams whose names I still hadn't fully memorized.
One of the best parts of the Super Bowl party I attended? A masseuse, who treaded my back's delicate territory for 10 pleasure-filled minutes. It was my first massage not governed by ulterior motives and I loved every minute of it. Sure, I didn't go home with an eligible young bachelor, but I still like to say I scored. Big time.
But my stint in the massage seat got me thinking about touch. When you're lucky, it's an endearing sign of affection, a prelude to a relationship's short- or long-term ecstasy. Everyone has at least one fling whose touch they remember vividly, sometimes even to the extent of trying to recreate it with future love interests.
However, when you're unlucky, touch can signal repulsion. And not just in terms of uninvited touch. Sometimes, a strong emotional connection is paired with a physical connection that's hardly as intense.
Nothing beats connecting with a guy...and then realizing he has invisible machetes on his fingertips. What's worse? He thinks he's an Italian masseuse in disguise.
When this happens...among men OR women...what's the right thing to do? Approach the subject gently, or let it go for the sake of pride? And when, if ever, does bad touch make you out of touch with a relationship's value?
Happy Monday. Keep in touch. Carefully.
One of the best parts of the Super Bowl party I attended? A masseuse, who treaded my back's delicate territory for 10 pleasure-filled minutes. It was my first massage not governed by ulterior motives and I loved every minute of it. Sure, I didn't go home with an eligible young bachelor, but I still like to say I scored. Big time.
But my stint in the massage seat got me thinking about touch. When you're lucky, it's an endearing sign of affection, a prelude to a relationship's short- or long-term ecstasy. Everyone has at least one fling whose touch they remember vividly, sometimes even to the extent of trying to recreate it with future love interests.
However, when you're unlucky, touch can signal repulsion. And not just in terms of uninvited touch. Sometimes, a strong emotional connection is paired with a physical connection that's hardly as intense.
Nothing beats connecting with a guy...and then realizing he has invisible machetes on his fingertips. What's worse? He thinks he's an Italian masseuse in disguise.
When this happens...among men OR women...what's the right thing to do? Approach the subject gently, or let it go for the sake of pride? And when, if ever, does bad touch make you out of touch with a relationship's value?
Happy Monday. Keep in touch. Carefully.
Sunday, February 4, 2007
penetrating the end zone
The Super Bowl is just hours away, and I'm glad my co-worker Brad took some time out of his busy schedule to teach me football's basics last week. None of which I remember, by the way. But that's hardly Brad's fault. Let's just say I'll forever be reluctant to embrace a game in which "positions" can't be researched in monthly editions of Cosmo. Sorry, football fans...I'm sticking to the Aqua Sutra.
I'm still partying this evening, only not at the Picasso Pizza shindig I initially fantasized about attending. Which brings me to my weekend picks. Color me failed. I'm all of one for three. A horrible showing, and one that I'll attribute to my desperate need to conserve finances in view of next weekend's Vegas vacation.
You know what the worst part is? The only pick I achieved was going to Wal-Mart, which was in summary the most horrible experience of my entire life. I spent 30 minutes perusing the crowded aisles, interrupted of course by the inevitable white-trash family reunions.
Then, when I finally approached the cashier, I tried to pay with a Visa gift card, which the credit card machine wouldn't accept. Boo. Just as the cashier was about to call backup, I surrendered, left my bagged items in the cart and offered a curt "I'll just come back later."
In hindsight, I probably overreacted. But I was mad...and it wasn't the right time of the month to mess with a girl who just needed to buy some damn Hefty garbage bags. So to assistant manager Gerald, and all the other already underpaid Wal-Mart workers who had to deal with my wrath, I'm sorry.
But I probably still won't come back later.
I'm still partying this evening, only not at the Picasso Pizza shindig I initially fantasized about attending. Which brings me to my weekend picks. Color me failed. I'm all of one for three. A horrible showing, and one that I'll attribute to my desperate need to conserve finances in view of next weekend's Vegas vacation.
You know what the worst part is? The only pick I achieved was going to Wal-Mart, which was in summary the most horrible experience of my entire life. I spent 30 minutes perusing the crowded aisles, interrupted of course by the inevitable white-trash family reunions.
Then, when I finally approached the cashier, I tried to pay with a Visa gift card, which the credit card machine wouldn't accept. Boo. Just as the cashier was about to call backup, I surrendered, left my bagged items in the cart and offered a curt "I'll just come back later."
In hindsight, I probably overreacted. But I was mad...and it wasn't the right time of the month to mess with a girl who just needed to buy some damn Hefty garbage bags. So to assistant manager Gerald, and all the other already underpaid Wal-Mart workers who had to deal with my wrath, I'm sorry.
But I probably still won't come back later.
Friday, February 2, 2007
digits of desperation
I rolled home around 2 a.m. on a recent Saturday morning and knew that, after downing an obligatory 12 Krystals, I'd be going to sleep. Without interruptions.
For the first time in months, there was absolutely no one with reason to drunk dial me. I'd severed ties with my long-term DD standby, and I realized with disbelief that none of my cross-country crushes had feelings strong enough to interrupt a mid-party keg stand. Or hookup.
Exchanging digits brings to mind the anxiety and promise that accompany entry into a new romantic relationship. But phone calls can also signal the dark desperation that so many of us seek to avoid.
At least every cell phone contact list holds one number begging to be deleted. It's the former fling who broke up with you on Instant Messenger, or the ex who forgot your birthday and never thought twice before accepting your offer to pay for dinner.
You keep their numbers intact because they call under the guise of friendship. Or, maybe they don't even call. Maybe you just want to be ready if they do.
When we talked about this dark side of digits today, my friend Nicole recommended identifying such contacts on your phone as "Do Not Answer," or any other more appropriate cuss word.
I agree wholehartedly. Phone calls make us feel needed, especially when they come in the wee hours of the morning. But keeping a contact simply as a "hold-out" when "what if?" feelings aren't reciprocated is bound to carry as much comfort as a flat dial tone.
You wouldn't dial a wrong number twice, right?
Have a good weekend and don't let loneliness get your number. You -- and your phone -- deserve better.
For the first time in months, there was absolutely no one with reason to drunk dial me. I'd severed ties with my long-term DD standby, and I realized with disbelief that none of my cross-country crushes had feelings strong enough to interrupt a mid-party keg stand. Or hookup.
Exchanging digits brings to mind the anxiety and promise that accompany entry into a new romantic relationship. But phone calls can also signal the dark desperation that so many of us seek to avoid.
At least every cell phone contact list holds one number begging to be deleted. It's the former fling who broke up with you on Instant Messenger, or the ex who forgot your birthday and never thought twice before accepting your offer to pay for dinner.
You keep their numbers intact because they call under the guise of friendship. Or, maybe they don't even call. Maybe you just want to be ready if they do.
When we talked about this dark side of digits today, my friend Nicole recommended identifying such contacts on your phone as "Do Not Answer," or any other more appropriate cuss word.
I agree wholehartedly. Phone calls make us feel needed, especially when they come in the wee hours of the morning. But keeping a contact simply as a "hold-out" when "what if?" feelings aren't reciprocated is bound to carry as much comfort as a flat dial tone.
You wouldn't dial a wrong number twice, right?
Have a good weekend and don't let loneliness get your number. You -- and your phone -- deserve better.
Thursday, February 1, 2007
call me?
Throughout high school, I was plagued by an inexplicable fear of all things related to dial tones. Before asking a guy to our homecoming dances, for which dates were mandatory, I'd break into a cold sweat and be forced to listen to the obligatory "get your head in the game" lecture from my parents.
I initially chalked it up to the inevitable angst that accompanies four years at an all-girls high school, but my phone paranoia continued through college. I used Instant Messenger to secure a date for a sorority formal during my junior year, and I didn't even have the balls to type the IM myself. I'm still surprised my date, Guy McHendry, actually showed up.
Senior year, when I vowed to actually call a date in person, I panicked at the last minute, only to be locked in a dorm room by my sorority sisters, who forced me to do the deed. Dialing, that is.
This week's column is about the etiquette for requesting a crush's phone number, dilemmas I run into virtually every weekend. But as difficult as it is to decline a digit request, perhaps the real challenge lies in what takes place after numbers are exchanged.
In relationships, even blooming ones, when does contact become burdensome rather than blissful? And how do you when you've had too much?
E-mail me your thoughts, text me your insights, but please, don't call.
I initially chalked it up to the inevitable angst that accompanies four years at an all-girls high school, but my phone paranoia continued through college. I used Instant Messenger to secure a date for a sorority formal during my junior year, and I didn't even have the balls to type the IM myself. I'm still surprised my date, Guy McHendry, actually showed up.
Senior year, when I vowed to actually call a date in person, I panicked at the last minute, only to be locked in a dorm room by my sorority sisters, who forced me to do the deed. Dialing, that is.
This week's column is about the etiquette for requesting a crush's phone number, dilemmas I run into virtually every weekend. But as difficult as it is to decline a digit request, perhaps the real challenge lies in what takes place after numbers are exchanged.
In relationships, even blooming ones, when does contact become burdensome rather than blissful? And how do you when you've had too much?
E-mail me your thoughts, text me your insights, but please, don't call.
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