Sunday, September 22, 2013

Binge Sinning in Vegas

Vaping in Vegas, Getting My Sin On

(Note from Vita: Listen to Katy Perry: "Waking Up in Vegas" when you read this blog.)

In Vegas, sinning is what it’s all about: it’s why people come here; it’s the very purpose of this city.

Whether your preferred sin is gambling, drinking, sex – or all of the above – there’s no place like Vegas to stoop to new levels of debauchery.

Las Vegas - the city that never sleeps, because people are too busy "binge sinning."
People flock here from all over the world to “sin” in Vegas, because what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

In the city that never sleeps, people get their sin on until the wee hours of the morning, most of them pulling on their favorite one-arm bandit, hoping to hit the jackpot that will assuage their guilt and give them a great story to bring to their friends back home who weren’t lucky enough to join them. Of course, gambling stories are just another version of fishing stories. You only hear about the "big" one.

"Luck” has another whole meaning for men who may not get lucky often enough back home, and Vegas is full of Girls! Girls! Girls! who can be easily had for about the price of a steak dinner and bottle of wine at one of Vegas’ many lavish restaurants.

I love cocktails that come super-sized!
And the ubiquitous, free-flowing cocktails – which you can carry around with you up and down Las Vegas Blvd. in huge, brightly colored plastic flutes, help to lubricate and fuel the lust for more, More, MORE!  

All of this sinning strikes me as “binge sinning” – a sinning rampage that’s confined to the Sin City.

Perhaps the good people who come to Vegas are over-compensating for their lives back home, where they're good, solid, responsible citizens, dutifully paying their mortgages, flossing their teeth and driving their kids to daycare. 

As a vamp, I don’t believe in “binge sinning.”

I mean, why confine your sinning to a vacation or long weekend when you have to cram it all into a short period of time?

I believe in spreading my sins out: sinning on a regular basis. That way, I’m less likely to “binge sin,” when I sin so much, the night becomes a total blur, and I risk getting hitched to some good-looking dude in nice duds who bought me cocktails and helped me tear up the town.

And when I spread my sins out, I can find time in between to pay penance and atone for my dissolute digressions. (I was raised Catholic. Can you tell?)

I just work sinning into my weekly routine: Work Mon. through Wed., sin on Wed. night, work on Thurs. and Fri., sin on Fri. night, volunteer on Sat., sin again on Sat. night and atone for my sins on Sun. ("...That saved a wretch like me...").

Smoking is for tramps.
Vaping is for vamps!
It’s a perfectly balanced sinning schedule that works for this Vaping Vamp.

Of course, one sin that I've vowed NEVER to repeat is smoking. Smoking's a sin that's no longer in vogue, because it's dirty and trashy. Vaping is not only healthier -- it's sexier! And vampier!

So you want to hear what happened to me this time in Vegas? I must admit: I did get a little extra sinning in.

But you’ll have to wait until next week. I’m getting up the courage to confess all. . .

Sunday, September 8, 2013

Plan B. Every Vamp Should Have One.

I Believe Every Vaping Vamp Should Have a Plan B. And Then Some.

(Note from Vita: Listen to "Plan B - She Said" by Ill Manors when you read this blog.)

As a Vaping Vamp, I’m all for Plan B.

I’m also all for Plans C, D, E – all the way up to Z. Because Plan A usually doesn’t work out.

I have a worse case than the seven year itch. My itches last closer to three and a half. Weeks, that is. They last three and a half weeks.

So I can potentially go through half the alphabet in less than a year.

As a Vaping Vamp, I'm all for Plan B. I'm also in favor of Plans C, D and E. 
Here’s what usually happens: I meet a guy. He puts his best foot forward: holding doors open for me. Sending me love-texts several times a day. Buying me little “just because” gifts.

But it doesn’t take long for him to become “real.” He forgets to spellcheck his e-mails. He forgets to pick up my favorite frosted cardamom cookies at the local co-op. He shows up 20 minutes late.

Note to all men: you should NEVER make a vamp wait.

Pretty soon, he’s tripping over his two “best” feet. And then both he and I realize he just won’t measure up.

Now lest you think I am a vicious vamp, I let him down gently. I accept his apology. I never hold a grudge. I smile pleasantly and enjoy the rest of our date, knowing it'll be our last.

Meanwhile, Plan B is starting to look better and better. We're texting each other, and I’m leading Plan B to think that he could potentially move into Plan A position.

Of course, I’m doing the same thing with Plans C through Z. It’s a carefully calculated juggling game that requires the skills only a vamp has. Skills of flirtation and finesse. Tact and diplomacy.

The true test of how well I’ve handled all of my “plans” is the fact that with rare exceptions, I’ve been able to be friends with all of them.

I’ve been quoted saying, “I give all of my rejected lovers a second chance. I see how well they perform doing yard work.”

Well, you should see how many men are working in my yard these days!

Sunday, September 1, 2013

Guess Who Caught the Wedding Bouquet?

Dear Zuri,

Perrin and I enjoyed the rest of our late summer cruise up the St. Lawrence River and around the northwest most part of Canada, stopping at Quebec City, Prince Edward Island (PEI), Nova Scotia and Bar Harbor, Maine.

True to my vampy nature, I bid “au revoir” to Perrin in Boston, kissed him on both cheeks and a delicious kiss on the lips that will have to be my last for a little while (with him, that is), and then hopped on a plane to NYC, where I met Viktor’s plane from Minneapolis.

A few weeks ago, Viktor nursed me back to health after contracting the worst case of strep throat I can remember. So I thought he deserved a special treat, and decided that he would be the one I would invite to be my escort at Allie’s wedding.

My hair at Allie's wedding
Plus, he has been so patient with my world travels and my vampy nature, which he knows he will never change. 

I’ve made no bones about the fact that I have no desire to be molded to anything other than a slightly more perfect vamp, someone along the lines of a Hedy (Lamarr), a Greta (Garbo) or a Bette (Davis).

That reminds me of a highlight of the Friday rehearsal dinner festivities. I had sent Allie Vampsticks (e-cigarettes with no nicotine) for all of her bridesmaids, and she put them into the cutest gift baskets, along with little bottles of lavender Hypnotiq vodka and other goodies.

Zuri, you would’ve fit right in as all of us sat together, all decked out in our vampiest eveningwear, vaping our sleek black cigarettes (with no nicotine) that night after dinner. 

Too bad all the guys who wanted to smoke old-school cigs missed out, because they had to go outside where it was chilly and rainy. 

Allie's hair looked absolutely gorgeous
Allie’s man was a BIT (boyfriend in training) for several years before they decided to get married and now that he’s her husband, I’m optimistic their marriage will last. 

Of course, you just never know. Life is always full of surprises – some good, some bad and some that just leave you reeling, because you never would have predicted them in a million years.

Well, here’s one surprise that I never would have predicted: guess who caught Allie’s wedding bouquet?

Of course, as Allie’s vampy maid of honor, I was forced to get in the group of single young women who stood excitedly and expectantly while Allie threw her wedding bouquet behind her. Naturally, I stood as far back as possible while Viktor looked on bemusedly, no doubt cueing in to what was going on in my vampish mind.  

Guess who caught Allie's wedding bouquet?
No one was more surprised than I was, her vampy maid of honor!
No one was more surprised than I was when she gave that bouquet a huge heave-ho, and it landed right in my arms!

I never heard Viktor create such a ruckus. He was absolutely doubled over, he was laughing so loud. Allie came over with a look of shock on her face and apologized to me and her bridesmaids. But I mean, what did she have to apologize for? I should be the one who apologizes for being such a wedding vamp!

Well, I will just have to prove that one wedding prediction absolutely wrong. In fact, I will make it my mission to simply step up the level of vampiness!

Monday, August 26, 2013

Quebec City: Je Me Souviens!

Dear Allie,

I’ll be arriving in NYC on Fri, afternoon in time for your rehearsal dinner. Meanwhile, I am enjoying a little cruise up the St. Lawrence River from Montreal and around Nova Scotia.

I just couldn’t help myself… Perrin just made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Of course, he has no idea I’ll be saying adieu to him in Boston and by that afternoon, I’ll be greeting Viktor at LaGuardia Airport for your weekend wedding festivities.

What a man doesn’t ask, a vamp doesn’t tell. After all, a vamp knows how to juggle these delicate creatures called men.

I did tell you why I finally decided to ask Viktor to be my guest at your wedding, didn’t I? Last week, I came down with the worst case of strep throat I’ve ever had. Rough and ready Viktor nursed me back to health, feeding me homemade warm borscht and tiny sips of Russian vodka.

As the warm brew slid down my sore throat, I decided that the man who comforts a vamp should be the man who holds her hand and wipes her tears during her best friend’s wedding.

Meanwhile, Perrin is pure pleasure to be with during these late summer days floating up the river toward the northwest coast of Canada. Since he’s fluent in French, he has ingratiated us to the predominantly French-speaking people, and he’s even saved us a few Loonies (the Canadian one dollar coin) in the process.

What do Celine Dion, Goldie Hawn and the Queen of England all have in common?
They all stayed at Quebec City's famous Chateau Frontenac. 
Meanwhile, back to the cruise: while I loved Montreal, my favorite city so far has been Quebec City. Founded in 1608, this city of only 500,000 boasts charming cobblestone streets, delightful shops and engaging French people. I’m certainly glad to be here in the summer, because the winter temps are incredibly cold, sometimes as cold as 30 to 40 below zero. Minneapolis is cold enough for me!

Perrin promises me that next time we come here, we’ll stay in the famous Chateau Frontenac, which offers panoramic views of the Old City and the St. Lawrence River.

Shopping along the charming Rue du Petit Champlain
But this trip was magical enough. First, he took me shopping along the charming Rue du Petit Champlain, where he picked out a luscious silk scarf hand-painted in my favorite colors of violet and raspberry at Huo Quebec.

Oh, and good thing we didn’t have to buy cigarettes here – they’re over $10 a pack. Of course, I’m the picture of elegance with my sleek black e-cigarette!

Then, he treated me to lunch at Le Clocher Penche Bistrot where we gorged ourselves on Monsignor Papabile (portobello stuffed meat), Egg Eucharist (pastry sheet covered frittata) and Body of Christ (bagel with eggs and mackerel). After lunch, he totally surprised me with a beautiful, tear-shaped ammolite necklace that glows with bright blues, greens and violets.

I learned that ammolite is even rarer than tanzanite, and that top-grade ammolite such as this could well be exhausted within the next 15 to 20 years. The gift came with a gift card that read, “Mon Amour, You are the rarest one of all.”

Now I knew I was the vampiest one of all, but it is certainly flattering to be considered the rarest one of all! Now I’m wondering that other than being truly vampy, what else makes me rare...

Flattery will get this man everywhere… well, at least to the next port of call on Prince Edward Island!

Sunday, August 18, 2013

Blurred Lines and the Dance Between Men and Women

Note from Vita: Listen to “Blurred Lines” by Robin Thicke when reading this blog.

Yesterday morning, I was in a Zumba class, dancing my butt off to Robin Thicke’s hot new hit, "Blurred Lines."

The way you grab me
Must wanna get nasty
I know you want it
But you’re a good girl...

I realized that in a world where very little is black and white, right or wrong, there are lots of blurred lines.

Especially in the dance between men and women.

"You're far from plastic. Talk about getting blasted.
I hate those blurred lines."
For women, there are blurred lines when it comes to deciding when to first sleep with a man. After three dates? One month? Three months? Not until he proposes? After we’re married?

Of course, the man wants sleep with you right away, on the first date. He knows you want to get nasty, too. But society and the pressure to be a “good girl” has taught us not to give it up on the first date.

It’s our one negotiating chip, our ace in the hole. We can wield our power with men, because they are simple dogs in the hunt, while we are the wily foxes. (Remember: we can't be a wily fox if we're smoking and drinking too much, because we risk losing control.) 

For many women, there’s another blurred line: trying to choose between good guys who want to domesticate them, and bad boys who will “smack your ass and pull your hair.” 

"But you're an animal. It's in your nature."
A good guy may be simple, square and boring while a bad boy is exciting, mysterious, intoxicating. But he’s dangerous. Very dangerous.

Then there’s the kind you really have to watch out for: the wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

They’re the ones who talk the good guy talk (“Oh, honey, let me plant your flowerbeds”); meanwhile, they’re planting flowers in other women’s gardens.

The blurred lines are there for men, too. 

Men realize that women will hold out for the “BBD” (bigger, better deal), and so they put their best foot forward, hoping you’ll do what rhymes with hug me as soon as possible.

If you can wait at least a month, his true colors will show through soon enough. Only the most devious of men, those who are pathological cheats and liars, can keep up the ruse for a month.

The cracks will show through soon enough: he has to work late. Again. He doesn’t call you back. You find out he really IS living in his sister’s basement. He shows up in his “real” car, an old beater van, because he had to return his friend’s Porsche.

The beauty of being a vamp is that there are a few less blurred lines.

"You don't need no papers. That man is not your maker."
It’s true, I’m an animal; it’s in my very nature. Don’t try to domesticate me.

I set my rules and I stick to them. I maintain the upper hand at all times.

I don’t play games.

I simply get whomever I want, whenever I want it.

There. The line has been drawn.

I dare you to cross it.

Sunday, August 11, 2013

How to Spot a Fake... or That's Not Love

(Note from Vita: Listen to “That's Not Love” by Keb Mo: when you read this blog.)

Several years ago, I was taken in by a tall, handsome young man, a “BMC” (big man on campus), a charming, freshman Lothario.

Already, at the tender age of 19, he had his romantic routine down.

He started by playing me his favorite love songs by the Beatles: “Love Me Do,” “I’m Happy Just to Dance with You,” “If I Fell In Love with You.”

Then, late one night, he lured me into one of the softly lit parlors in the old brick 19th century building where we were housed. He lit a couple of candles and gave me a private Tarot card reading.

Hidden in the deck but easily accessible with a sleight of hand, he pulled out the Knight of Cups card. Magically, the knight in shining armor card appeared in my reading.

Surely, this was a prophesy of what was to come! Here, in the flesh, was my knight in shining armor!

Certainly, he was the one who was destined to sweep me off my feet to a life filled with magical and wondrous surprises at every turn!

Well, there were surprises at every turn, but they weren’t wondrous.

I learned he had pulled this exact same routine on my college roommate just weeks earlier. Of course, having a healthy ego, I thought that I was different. I was prettier, I was smarter. She was just a practice round. I was the real thing.

Weeks later, he was doing a late-night Tarot card reading with another dewy-eyed, unsuspecting undergrad.

It was then that the vamp in me was born. Never again, I promised myself. Never again.

When my friend Julia told me she had met “Mr. Wonderful,” I was happy for her – but a little suspicious. How long have you known him? I asked. Have you met his friends, his family, seen where he lives, verified he has a job? Does he have a criminal record? You know – the sort of basic questions a friend would ask before giving her the thumbs up.

No, she answered, but he’s met many of my friends! And he’s so talented, plays guitar, is articulate and sensitive and he’s already invited me a concert in September! This must be love!

Slow down, I said. Tell me more. And then I get the full story. The one that reminds me of my Tarot card reading long ago.

He lures her in singing and playing guitar – a wonderful rendition of Jackson Browne’s “My Stunning Mystery Companion.”

He writes her texts only days after meeting her, calling her “sweetheart,” “darling” and “mi amor.” “I can only think of you, hearing your sweet voice and envisioning your beautiful smile! I know it’s real! XOXOXO,” he texted.

But after she was taken in, the surprises begin. First there was the night they had planned to get together, but oh, he had to work late. My poor extroverted friend who lives for going out is left in the lurch, sitting. Waiting. No calls, no texts, no “mi amor.”

The following night – a repeat scenario! And then, the following week – after promising her that last week was highly unusual, there she is again, sitting. Waiting. He finally shows up – at 11:45 p.m. I can think of no other name for that except booty call.

But the next night – Friday night! Tonight will be different! She’s all excited, gets all dolled up and is anticipating a fun evening out. At the 9th hour, she gets another text. He has to work late. Again. The following day, she tries to call him. No answer. No call back. No "darling" or "sweetheart."

That night, she went to the concert they had bought tickets for alone.

Stood up. Times five. She finally got the message. And it didn’t have “XOXOXO” at the end of it.

He’s now playing “My Stunning Mystery Companion” to another woman. I can hear it now, off in the distance.

And my college Lothario is probably doing a Tarot card reading for another woman somewhere.

So how do you spot a fake?

By the fact that he has a romantic routine. And he's got it down pat.

Monday, August 5, 2013

Breaking Up is Hard to Do... But It's Easier When You’re a Vamp

(Note from Vita: Listen to Paul Simon, "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover" when reading this blog.)

Paul Simon underestimated the number of ways to leave your lover. I can think of lots more than 50 ways to get yourself free.

Of course, I’m a vamp, and leaving your lovers behind begging for more is one thing I do extremely well.

Breaking up is hard to do. Even a vamp has feelings. I feel sorry for my jilted lovers. 
Like Paul suggests, I’ve slipped out the back, made a new plan, hopped on the bus, and dropped off the keys -- all without discussing much. And being coy definitely isn't my style.

I’ve also changed locks, phone numbers, hair color and even cars to avoid being stalked by my jilted lovers.

I love donating to Goodwill. My ex-lovers' shirts, that is.
I’ve sent all manner of stuff back to the fresh ex, from sunglasses to shirts to bedroom slippers – that is, when he was still in my good graces.

When he’s not, anything he was sophomoric enough to leave behind I'll just sell at my favorite consignment shop or drop off at the local Goodwill.

Just last week, I made a pretty penny from a Hugo Boss suit that an ill-fated lover left behind. I went out and bought a pair of vampy purple shoes and treated myself to a nice juicy steak at Morton's.

The problem isn’t figuring out how to leave your lover, but when to do the dirty deed.

I’ve heard of the seven-year itch, but I’ve split that in half to 3 1/2. Weeks, that is. My lovers tend to last around 3 1/2 weeks.

That’s at the point when I get bored and they start to get clingy.

Men who are clingy are like those frogs with suction cup toes. I hate the sound it makes when you un-suction their fingers from you.

A man who’s pompous and all style but no substance doesn’t stand a chance with me. I need a man with some serious substance. I can teach him style.

A man with a gifted tongue has a better chance of sticking around a little longer. And I don’t mean a man who’s a big talker, if you get my drift.

Of course, I give all of my rejected lovers a second chance.

I see how well they perform doing yard work!