Las Vegas has a way of turning even the most mundane stories into lore. It’s the kind of town where the line between myth and truth blurs after two martinis—or one magic show. But for my family, folklore wasn’t confined to the Strip’s neon glow. Growing up, surrounded by sequins, spotlights, and all the grit it takes to create the illusion of glamour, I was also steeped in tales shared over Sunday dinners and late-night chats. These stories shaped not just my worldview but my approach to relationships, love, and, let’s be honest, everything in between.
My family’s stories have always been larger than life, much like the city itself. A little glitter, a little smoke, and perhaps an emotional sleight-of-hand. And while everyone loves a good yarn, I’ve found that the lessons buried in these tales are what stick with me the most, especially as I’ve stumbled through life trying to figure out how to connect with other people—romantically and otherwise.
So let me introduce you to the characters who taught me more about dating, trust, and self-discovery than any self-help book or celebrity relationship podcast ever could.
Grandpa Tony: The Gambler’s Creed
My grandfather, Tony, was, for lack of a better term, a professional gambler. The Vegas kind who didn’t mess with slot machines but always had the perfect poker face. To him, love wasn’t a wild, reckless spin of the roulette wheel—it was high-stakes poker. “Kiddo,” he’d say while showing me how to shuffle cards, “you gotta know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em.” Yeah, Kenny Rogers owes Grandpa some royalties.
At first, this sounded like an easy lesson in not sticking around for the wrong guy. But Tony wasn’t just doling out break-up advice; he was talking about trust. He used to point out the players at the table and their “tells”—a tap of the ring, a glance too long at their cards, the way they’d scratch their ear when bluffing. “Watch more than you listen,” he’d say, eyes twinkling like the diamonds on a freshly dealt hand.
The translation? People, like poker, are as much about what they don’t say as what they do. This rings true in dating. It’s the three-dot typing bubble that disappears when you ask a pointed question, the “I’m just not good at texting” excuse when they haven’t called in three days, or the way they talk about their ex like she comes with a villain theme song.
Grandpa Tony’s wisdom wasn’t about being cynical. It was about observing and trusting your gut. And let’s face it—your intuition is rarely wrong. (But if it’s between the ages of 18 and 22, maybe double-check it.)
Aunt Lucinda: “The Costume Designer of the Heart”
No one embodied the classic Vegas mantra “All the world’s a stage” like Aunt Lucinda. As a costume designer for casino performers, she could make anyone look like a star. Shy backup dancers transformed into dazzling headliners. Awkward magicians became suave illusionists. But Lucinda had one rule for the actors she outfitted: “The costume only works if you believe in the character.”
Boy, did that one hit me when I survived my first heartbreak. I was a disaster—think too-short bangs, crying in the frozen pizza aisle, and asking anyone who would listen, “Why didn’t he love me back?” Aunt Lucinda found me in this pitiful state and, in true theatrical fashion, handed me a rhinestone necklace she wasn’t using. “You don’t glue yourself back together for him, honey. You do it for you. Wear the necklace, get the pizza, and act like you’re Beyoncé until you believe it.”
Lucinda’s philosophy has been especially handy in dating. Sometimes, we feel like we have to audition for someone’s love—play up our accomplishments, laugh a little louder, morph into their ideal. But as I’ve learned (usually the hard way), someone worth your time loves the you beneath the costumes, even the days when your “costume” is an old hoodie and leggings that haven’t seen the gym.
She also taught me about the worst kind of theater—the kind where people wear masks. Whether it’s a partner too scared to tell you what they really want or someone stringing you along for fun, those masks come off eventually. And when they do, it’s your cue to exit stage left.
Mom’s Meatball Philosophy: Slow and Steady
Everyone in my family swears my mom’s meatballs are magical. Epic, almost. She doesn’t use a recipe—just a little of this, a pinch of that, and a long, slow simmer. “Good things take time,” she’d tell me, swirling sauce like a culinary oracle.
It wasn’t until I became an adult, enduring whirlwind romances that burned out faster than a cheap sparkler, that I understood what she meant. Dating is kind of like my mom’s meatballs (stay with me here). Rushing through the first few dates, spilling your life story, imagining future kids based solely on how well they parallel park—that’s just dumping raw garlic into a pan and calling it gourmet.
The real magic is in letting things develop naturally. The friendship layer, the moments where you see each other’s quirks, the way someone reacts when their favorite team loses or when your flight gets delayed. It’s the build-up, not the grand gestures, that determine if the relationship will actually feed your soul or leave you hungry.
Thanks to my mom, I’ve become a meatball purist in dating—simmer slowly and steer clear of emotional microwaves.
Uncle Danny: The Circus Bullseye
Uncle Danny, my father’s brother, was a stagehand for one of the city’s old-school circuses. He worked the bullseye wheel—the oversized dartboard where, for reasons I still don’t understand, people would throw knives, hoping not to hit the acrobat spinning in the center.
“Life’s the bullseye,” Danny explained. “People miss. All the time. But they gotta keep throwing.” He never let me forget that one. For Uncle Danny, that meant persistence: love is messy, and people won’t always hit the mark. “Sometimes it won’t work. Sometimes they scratch you by accident. But when it’s right, they’ll aim true.”
Of course, this lesson didn’t exactly resonate when I was sobbing over my first major rejection. “What if it never works out?” I asked, mascara running down my face like I’d just lost my Oscar for Best Breakup Performance.
“Then they weren’t aiming for you,” Danny said simply.
So I started to notice: love that sticks is love that obsesses over hitting your bullseye—the real you. The love that sees you exactly where you are and says, “That’s my target.”
Lessons from the Vegas Family Playbook
Looking back, my family’s stories might be a chaotic mash-up of poker tables, sewing rooms, kitchens, and spinning knife boards, but the lessons they carry are universal:
- Pay attention to actions. Words are easy; consistency is rare.
- Drop your mask and stop auditioning. The right person isn’t casting a role—they’re looking for you.
- Take your time. Slow-cooked love (or meatballs) is always worth it.
- Find someone aiming for you. Not some fantasy version of you.
Las Vegas may be a stage, but real love isn’t about the spectacle. It’s about letting someone backstage, into the moments when the lights are off, the sequins are packed away, and you’re just you.
If Grandpa Tony were still around to shuffle his deck of cards today, he’d probably tell me, “Kiddo, love is about placing your bets wisely.” Thanks to my family’s tales, I’d add this: and making sure you’re all in when you find the right hand.
