Single Chick Goes to Vegas . . .

and it was NOT a success. I lost about a grand . . . I think (I really should keep better track of my limited finances). And I lost my husband.

Husband? Yes, probably my only shot at ever getting married, and I blew it by virtue of being me. I am my own worst cock-block . . . or vagina-block as the case may be.

(Granted, I was planning on getting the marriage annulled due to excessive pre-ceremony alcohol consumption, but that is really neither here nor there.)

On Friday night, while squandering mass amounts of money at the blackjack table, my friend H and I met a few dudes in Vegas for a bachelor party. (How cliche!) Anyhoo, one of the gentlemen (we'll call him Captain Drunkerstein because he was bright red and not in a sun-burnt way) and I hit it off . . . he said I was "hot" and, basically, that pretty much guarantees you a spot on my short list.

Somewhere between the hours of 2 am and 10 am, after the vodka sodas morphed into screwdrivers (because the oj makes them breakfast cocktails), Captain Drunkerstein and I had decided to wed in our hotel's classy and romantic wedding chapel. Captain Drunkerstein was cute, fun, employed and my age . . . thusly, making him a better catch than about 95% of the men I've dated in the past. Who was I to say "no" to him?

I had the perfect outfit for the sacred ceremony: a pink t-shirt emblazoned with a machine-gun wielding cupid and the phrase "Love Hurts." As I presented my ensemble to H, I collapsed onto the floor in a fit of alcohol and absurdity induced
hysterics. If nothing else, I'd be left with one hell of a wedding album (and possibly an STD).

The only snafu in our otherwise flawless nuptial plans would be my innate inability to communicate effectively with good-looking members of the opposite sex (which would explain the ungainly appearance of the majority of my exes). H called up to Captain Drunkerstein's room for me (see previous sentence) and chatted flirtatiously and effortlessly before handing the phone over to me . . . at which point the conversation took a sharp 180 and roared quickly into awkward-town. I abruptly ended the painful exchange and, alas, never saw the Captain again.

H, incredulous at my utter ineptitude, asked how the conversation could have gone so wrong in such a short amount of time. I, on the other hand, couldn't believe H had bothered to put me on the phone. Need I remind her of the time we were playing blackjack at Mohegan Sun and she told me to look to my right at an extreme hottie hovering the table? As soon as I saw him, I burst out laughing, literally in his face. I have no game . . . none whatsoever . . . never have, never will. And that, my friend, is why I am not, and never will be, married.

Ergo, my Vegas vacation was kind of a bust. But at least I didn't become a prostitute - shipped directly to your door via the skank-wagon.