As I approached the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, my stomach was in knots. I was on my way to meet with my third and newest editor, Stacy Willis, to talk about the upcoming 3-year anniversary of my beloved column, Wink. I had had plenty of thoughts about how I'd like to mark what for me was a huge milestone (let's face it, if we've learned one thing about me over the past three years, it's that I have some serious commitment issues) and had finally made my decision as how to celebrate the occasion.
When I walked in, Stacy was at the counter ordering a slice of lemon pound cake and a cup of joe. I was jealous for a nanosecond because I knew that on her long, thin frame, pound cake wouldn't cause her the least bit of angst, whereas my thighs bulged at just the sight of the damned thing. She spotted me, smiled and asked if I was going to get anything. I shook my head and took a handful of napkins; might need them if I hurled during our meeting.
I followed her to a table outside and jumped right in with what I needed to say before I changed my mind. "This Fourth of July is my birthday," I started.
She smiled sweetly, like one would when addressing someone on the short yellow bus. "No, not my birthday," I corrected, "my column's birthday. Wink turns 3 on the Fourth."
"Oh!" She said enthusiastically, finally understanding why I'd dragged her out of the office to meet. "That's great! Do you have any thoughts on what you'd like to do?"
"Yes," I said. "I want to say goodbye."
There. I'd said what I'm come to say. The words hung in the air between us and I noticed Stacy's facial expression as it changed from happy and thoughtful to what looked more like concerned and confused.
Here I go again, I thought, ending yet another relationship, although, unlike the majority of my past relationships, this one wasn't going to end on a sour note or strip me of my dignity. Not like the time I found some other women's PJ's in my boyfriend Greg's bed along with a tube of raspberry-flavored "Mr. Goodhead" which he swore up and down belonged to me. Or the time my object of desire, Jeff, said his maid had found the panties I'd left behind and handed me a sexy G-string that also didn't belong to me. Oh, and let's not forget how I went on and on for weeks about gorgeous, sexy, stylish Thomas, whom I felt certain was going to be Mr. Right and love me forever. I gushed on and on about how different he was, how sensitive and in touch with his feminine side, right up to the day that his ex-lover called to say how much HE missed him and wanted him back. I guess he just forgot to mention that he was ... gay, a small oversight. And dare I mention the Mystic tan abuser who took me to Mexico for a romantic Christmas getaway only to try to get me to have a freak nasty threesome with a toxic stripper that I so lovingly referred to as "Whorey the Clown"? I've had quite a run with bad man luck. It was starting to seem as though my picker was broken. Was my love life destined to be likened to Restylane injections? Instant gratification, lots of pain and short-term results.
It seems to me that three years is long enough to realize that there may not be a Mr. Perfect. It's time to throw in the towel. How long did I plan on whining about not being able to find a deep thinker who will help with the household duties without being asked, rub my shoulders because he can tell I need it, never forgets to put the toilet seat down and has a decent FICO score? Enough was enough already. Although, truth be told, I had always secretly hoped that my last column would feature me on the cover of the Weekly, my arms around the neck of my true love, sporting a shiny engagement ring, with the headline reading: "Sonja Gets Engaged!" Of course the very word "engaged" has the word "gag" right smack in the middle of it and every time I ever got close, that's exactly what I'd do.
As I sat there, a zillion memories ran through my mind, tugging at my heartstrings. I remembered how excited I was when my first column was published. I'd been in real estate for years and was on complete burnout. After a week in a Life Enhancement Seminar, a gift from my then-boyfriend, Jim, the angry guy who yelled at me all the time, who thought it might help me in gaining some direction in my life, I decided that I did need to make some serious changes. So I gave up my semi-lucrative career as a real-estate agent for all the glamour and excitement of cocktailing. I wanted to sling libations at the pool at the fabulous and sexy Hard Rock Hotel.
Of course, I was 35 and had zero experience, which Brandy, the pool manager was quick to point out when I approached her. She was pleasant as she explained that she was only hiring "girls with experience," emphasis on girls. I knew that meant not an "inexperienced older model with some crazy summer camp fantasy." But I was determined—I just knew that if she sat down with me, I could convince her.
One week later, I was real-estate-career free, angry-Jim-free and sporting a bikini and tennis shoes as I ran my ass off in the hot summer sun, serving cocktails to some of the most beautiful people in the world. Goal One Accomplished.
The only other thing I'd jotted down in the life-enhancement seminar for a career goal was something that seemed ludicrous, even to me. I scribbled almost as an afterthought: Writer. Sure, why not? Was it so ridiculous to think that with my high-school education and lack of formal training that I could write a best seller?
Well, maybe not a best seller, but surely some pretty decent short stories, and with my newfound career choice, I was amidst stories 'o plenty! I started keeping track of my silly thoughts and experiences on cocktail napkins in between customers and at night, I'd write them out. They were rough at first and really lacked any rhyme or reason, and soon I decided that I sucked and really didn't have the talent to be a writer. That is until my son, then only 11 years old, showed me the outline for his first novel. The story was amazing, interesting, funny, sensitive and soulful. I told him that he was an inspiration and that I'd always wanted to be a writer.
"Well why aren't you, then?" he asked.
"Because, I didn't finish college, I'm not that smart or interesting ..." I trailed off, lost in thoughts and wishes.
"Good for you, Mom," he said.
"Good for me?" I asked, surprised at his response.
"Yeah, good for you that unlike the rest of us you don't even have to try to know that you'll fail."
Ouch!
"If you want to impress me, then write something and show it to someone in-the-know. If they tell you that you suck then you'll know; today you're only guessing."
Before I knew what I was doing I called the Las Vegas Weekly and set up an appointment with then-editor Phil Hagen. I half-expected him to laugh in my face, but instead, he asked me to send him some samples of my column idea and then he'd "get back to me."
It took him a couple of weeks, but he did get back to me. He said he wanted to meet with me. I did a triple lindy off of my living-room sofa I was so excited. At our meeting, I was intimidated as hell. I was a hack, a fake, and a complete rookie. I got pits as I sat there, wondering what I'd gotten myself into. Then Phil said, "I think we've got something here ..."
The rest, as they say, is history. On July 4th, 2002, my very first column was published. The cover had a giant hot dog on it with the words, "Bite me" written on it in mustard; Max Jacobson was covering the best wieners in town and I was about to do the same. In the upper right corner it read: "Wink: It's our new column!" I was thrilled! The girls at the pool gave me a huge congratulatory balloon bouquet and Weeklys were passed around for all to read.
I was up and running. In retrospect, it was a silly little fluff piece, but it was fun nonetheless. It wasn't until later that I somehow found my voice. My second editor, Scott Dickensheets, was a no-nonsense guy and he called me on a few mistakes, making me uncomfortable. Without even realizing it, he forced me to dig deeper and be real. Soon, my silly little fluff piece took a more human approach. It wasn't only about being funny and making up anecdotes to get laughs, it was about sharing from the heart every aspect of relationships—the good, the bad and the ugly.
I've been able to share so much of my heart and soul in the pages of the Weekly. It has been an enlightening and powerful journey—I've had my heart broken, I have broken hearts, I've been bitterly disappointed and I've been bitterly disappointing, but through it all, I have never given up hope. My column has been my therapy, my way to get things off of my chest, out of my mind, and I've actually been able to witness my own growth. Suddenly, the idea of giving it up was breaking my heart all over again.
"Are you sure you want to quit, Sonja?" asked Stacy, bringing me back to the present.
"All good things must come to an end," I said. "If the urban legend of a soulmate has yet to materialize for me, chances are he took a left when he could have been right."
"Well, you go through ups and downs, Sonja, but that's what makes your column so good. It's about life and that's what life does. If you're just sick and tired of writing it, then I'll understand your decision, but I hope you'll reconsider—there are a lot of people who love it ..." Before our meeting had ended, Stacy had me convinced that I should keep writing.
After she left me I was floating on air. I was going to keep writing Wink, keep journaling my crazy adventures and hopefully, in the midst of trying to find the perfect relationship, continue to find more of myself. I was ready to, dare I say ... "commit" to continuing with my column.
This called for a celebration: a big, fat slice of lemon pound cake. As I stood in line, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. I turned to face a gorgeous man with deep green eyes; I'm a sucker for deep green eyes. He smiled bashfully and asked, "Sonja, Las Vegas Weekly, right?" I nodded my affirmation, smiling broadly, grateful for the recognition. "Well, how goes the manhunt?" he asked.
"I guess you'll just have to pick up next week's issue of Las Vegas Weekly to find out," I said with a wink.