I’m smack in the middle of my thirties and about to get married. For some childless women my age, this is tick-tick-tick time. However, while other women may be intimately in touch with their ovulation cycles, I’m in no hurry to have kids now, if ever. My old man and I have talked about it, but we’re both horrified by how much our lives would have to change—not to mention how big a pain in the ass kids are for, oh, say, 18 years.

I’m not proud to admit I’ve already clocked more hours on my wedding-gown search than I did choosing a college.

From afar, it seemed like a fun task to find a gorgeous vintage dress to get married in. On the other hand, it only has to be the most knock-’em-dead dress of a lifetime, to be photographed more than any other outfit I will ever wear.

The upside of going vintage is that nearly every gown is one of a kind. This is also the downside. When you find a real beaut, there’s always at least one thing wrong: color, condition, price, it’s already sold (second most common problem), or the most common and aggravating issue of all, size.

Dudes in bands: They’re creative, laid back, they’re hot, they have great music collections, they’re sensitive, and very often, they’re funny without being as damaged as comedians. What’s not to like? Let’s discuss.

There was the Luke Skywalker look-alike who drummed for so many bands I couldn’t keep track of them all. (Although, as a drummer, does he really count as a musician? Wocka wocka!) Practices and shows took priority over time with me, so I was competing with an unknown amount of other rock dudes probably numbering somewhere in the dozens, and decidedly losing that competition. The drummer boy flaked out on me. He reappeared to apologize profusely for his disappearing act, we had a great discussion over dinner about us, and how we were going to start over and do it right this time because both of us really understood where the other one was at. Then he promptly flaked again. He’s now married to another musician who, it turns out, has also flaked on me.

This summer, I met up with my fiance in Europe for a well-deserved vacation. He had been studying there for a month before I arrived, and sometimes, when a man and a woman love each other very much in a short period of time, soon after comes a very special gift from God, known as a yeast infection.

Awesome. Exactly what you want to have on a vacation, while walking around all day, right? I knew I had to face the problem head on, even though we were in Italy and I don’t speak-a Italiana. But I also saw this as a cultural investigation: Knowing there are all sorts of alternative and natural methods for combating such unspeakable problems, I was curious to see if any different treatments were on the market in Europe. 

Recently a rather naive friend was telling me about the new girl he was dating. They’d been out a few times, but he hadn’t heard from her since the last date, when he went over to her place and then had to lie down because he felt sick.

Now, wait just a minute. What? No, no, no! I took him to task. I won’t agree to the oft-voiced claim that women flat-out don’t want nice guys. But I will admit to drunkenly advising this friend that he has to be a little bit more like an #&@$% if he doesn’t want to come across as a pansy.