best book ever?

Just a day after plugging my most recent column about the role that rumors and reputations play in relationships, I received a MySpace message informing me I'm now an entry on The Ex Book.
I'd never heard of the site before, but after a quick point and click, I learned it's one of the "reputation managers" I addressed in my column. Essentially, the site lets you "research your current and past relationships" and "tell the world about your ex." But here's the extra hook -- it's also a matchmaking/networking site, so exes can connect and find blissful love. Read: ensuring the creation of even more messed up relationships.
Of course, you can do it all for a nominal membership fee of 99 cents a month for a year, or $3.95 for one month.
Initially, the membership fee alone made me ditch the site, even though I was curious about what an ex could have written about me. Then, I noticed the MySpace message gave me a free trial subscription code to get into the site, but I had to fill out a detailed form with personal information like my home address.
Sure, I suppose I could have just lied, but the extensive info request alone was enough to make me hit the "close" button on the Internet window.
So I guess I'll never know what an ex may or may not have written about me. And I think I'm OK with that. Honestly, the Ex Book bothers me. It goes a step beyond the average "reputation management" site and actually urges its visitors to research their CURRENT relationships.
Or...call me crazy...you can actually TALK to your significant other.
And, if by some chance there is some chance an ex stalking the cyber world with tales of my lack of sexual prowess, I apologize. We probably should have made out digitally.
Have a great weekend, everyone. Tell me all about your shenanigans.

don't date him?

Rewind to fourth grade. We had just rearranged our desks, and I thought I scored a killer position between (1) my then-best friend, and (2) my then-biggest crush ever, Patrick O'Sullivan. That was, however, only until 10 minutes into our new seating arrangement, when my friend decided to tell Patrick I had a crush on him.
So awkward. And we had to sit like that for an entire trimester.
It's funny that when you're young, most of your friends want nothing more than to find you a boyfriend, even if it means embarrassing you during a science lesson or forging your signature on a passed note.
But, as you get older, it seems like your friends are often the first ones to caution you against potential heartbreak. Sometimes justifiably. This week's column is about the role that rumors play in our romantic relationships, especially with the influx of "reputation management" Web sites like Don't Date Him Girl.
There, you can get actual testimonials from ex-girlfriends of fully identified lying, cheating losers.
I can't think of one example in which my friends weren't justified in advising me not to date a questionable guy. That doesn't mean I followed their advice, though. Do I regret it? I don't know. I'm still a firm believer that a big part of life is making mistakes, developing your own instincts and not always banking on someone to confirm you're on the right track.
When, if ever, is it OK to take a friend's relationship advice? And when should you give advice of your own?
Thanks for reading. Happy Thursday.

moderately overweight tuesday

So there I was, admiring myself in Oxygen's bathroom mirror, when I heard some serious social commentary about Fergie. "Glamorous" was playing in the background, and as Fergie spelled out the song's title for about the fortieth time, a party goer looked up from washing her hands and offered a succinct, "OK, Fergie...you're literate. Big deal."
The comment, if you ask me, is only partially true. Let's just refer to the spelling of "tasty" in "Fergalicious." Enough said.
Anyway, that scenario comes straight from my Fat Tuesday adventures in downtown Columbus. After a brief siesta, I hit downtown just after midnight, and was greeted by a large, but not overly impressive, crowd. Each open venue had its own group of partiers, but no bar was flooded anywhere near capacity.
A few impressions of the night:

Cheers to The Vault for bringing in Pistoltown, an especially rockin' three-man band from Nashville. These guys brought people to their feet for a pretty long set, and their take on "I Will Survive" was enough to get me in the door.
Jeers to the bearded hippie who tried to dance with me during Pistoltown's performance of "Mustang Sally." The era of free love is over. Deal with it.
Cheers to Big City Club for once again attracting a solid crowd of partiers. This downtown dance club has consistently impressed me in recent weeks. I'd call it utopia if we could just get rid of the guys who monopolize the center of the dance floor during virtually every Ciara song. What IS that?!?
Jeers to the lack of Fat Tuesday dancing at Oxygen. That, of course, may have something to do with the fact that "Ants Marching" was playing as I walked in the door.
Cheers to the guy who gave me a stellar set of Mardi Gras beads and had me surrender only my business card in return. And by "business," I mean the job I have with the Ledger. Really.
Jeers to the rain, a force that some bar owners said made this Fat Tuesday less popular than those of years past. Yet I also heard crowds were sparse before the rain even started, so I have my doubts.

All in all, the night was fun, but I wish the crowds would have been a bit stronger. Yes, I realize it was a weekday, and Tuesday is far from the new Friday, but you still had good reason to come out. I went the entire night without a single drink, and still had a blast.
I'm the last one to advocate all-hours partying with work demands looming the next morning, but there's no harm in perusing the social scene for an hour or two. Don't complain about your vacant datebook if you're not going to take a risk and put yourself on a social limb.
Happy hump day. Behave appropriately.

pardi gras

Let's just say four years at an all-girls Catholic high school didn't do much to prepare me for the ins and outs of Mardi Gras. I remember nervously approaching upperclassmen before my first college Mardi Gras party, asking oodles and oodles of questions about various protocols related to flashing.
Do you wear a bra? How long is too long? Can they take pictures?
Don't get me wrong...that year, as well as the three years that followed, sent me home with plenty of beads. Sure, they cost all of approximately 50 cents each...a sum that hardly outweighs the subsequent weeks of lingering fear over a hidden Webcam. We'll leave it at that.
Fortunately, adult life makes such qualms less likely. That's why I hardly encourage any Columbus-area residents with an appetite for partying to head downtown tonight. In addition to a much-anticipated Fat Tuesday Bar Crawl, there will be an alleged no-cover party at Oxygen, and who knows what else could happen.
I'm going to try to stop by later tonight, post-"American Idol" blogging, but my partying time might be limited. As usual, I'll be on Kissin' 99.3 bright and early -- 7:10 a.m. -- Wednesday morning to give you the run-down on all the "Idol" hits and misses.
One final note...does anyone other than my recent anonymous poster think this blog's background is too bright? Be honest. I can take it. Gently.
If I get a strong enough consensus, I'll do a color upgrade. Because, of course, that's how I roll.

song teasing

Make no mistake. I know that Journey...or Foreigner...or Air Supply is far from the realm of mainstream. Maybe even far from the realm of old-school. That's why, when I devote a hard-earned dollar to flooding a jukebox's airwaves with "Any Way You Want It," I always put out. Meaning, of course, that I give my audience a unique three-minute sensory experience.
Unfortunately, that's not the case for everyone. Enter the song tease, a party goer who keeps his or her passion for a moderately obscure song in the closet.
Song teases are notorious for asking a band to play a selection of waning popularity -- say, Cameo's "Word Up" -- and then joining the rest of the audience in a collective reaction of "what?!?" once the song begins. They'll put an equally questionable song on a jukebox and then hide as the majority of the crowd muses, "Who put THIS song on?!?"
To song teases worldwide...please reform your ways. If you're going to subject us all to your eclectic music tastes, you better bring it. Take it from the girl who just this morning listened to Genesis' "Invisible Touch" on repeat...there's no harm in basking in the obscure.
There is, however, something wrong with being too shy to admit it.
Have a great Monday. Anyone wanna do the Macarena later tonight?

any way u want it

When my college roommate Benita first flooded our dorm room with the musical symphony that is "Don't Stop Believing," I never imagined that years later I'd be panting with pride during a Journey dance-off at a local bar.
Such was the case Thursday night, when I showcased my take on the rock band's "Any Way You Want It." We didn't declare an official winner, but let's just say I was asked minutes later to dance on the bar to "Pour Some Sugar on Me." Score.
And thank you, God, for not letting me fall in my four-inch heels.
Dancing is one of my favorite activities in the entire world. Probably because I think I'm really good at it. In college, I even choreographed my own dance to Shakira's "Obsession," and performed it at most of our sorority formals.
In spite of all its allure, dancing at the same time has caused a serious rift in many of my romantic relationships. In high school, I dated a guy who bought me dinner, boasted a pretty pimp job in the fast food industry and repeatedly validated my belief in being the coolest person in the entire world...but he didn't dance.
It was awful. We'd go to proms and he'd literally just move his head back and forth. And not even in tune with the rhythm. Worst. Dancer. Ever.
But he wasn't alone. Even during college's sorority formals, the dance floor would 90 percent of the time be crowded entirely by women. Guys usually made a cameo during the remaining 10 percent of the time -- slow dances -- but only in hopes of copping a feel. At least in my case.
So here's the question: Does any guy actually like to dance? Or, is it just one of the many ritualistic sacrifices en route to getting action?
Send me your thoughts and have a fabulous weekend.

are you wearing space pants?

Because your booty is out of this world.
OK, OK...insert groan here. My mention of pickup lines in an earlier post today got me thinking of the many bad conversation starters I've heard since moving here. I knew Columbus would be a town of good lines when, after I hadn't even been here a full week, some guy approached me at SoHo and said, "What separates me from other guys is the fact that I'll wait THREE HOURS before trying to sleep with you."
Not to mention the guy who told me he'd have me speaking Arabic in bed.
Do these lines ever WORK?!? A few other verses that stick out in my mind from my history of dating:

*Baby, I'm no Fred Flintstone, but I can make your bed rock.
*You must be from Pearl Harbor, cause baby, you're the bomb.
*If you were words on a page, you'd be what they call fine print.
*Do you work for UPS? I swear I saw you checking out my package.
*Your name must be Mickey, cause baby, you're so fine.

Call a therapist now if any of these lines are part of your "how we met" story. And in the meantime, send me an account of the worst pickup attempt you've experienced.
Have a great Thursday!