So Whitney, your fearless associate editor, and Michael Phelps, America's latest obsession, gathered in the same room last night and nobody died. That, in itself, is a victory. Nobody got engaged either, which is a slight failure, but the entire evening was one of the best nights of my life, so I'm not sad. Well, maybe a little.

To kick off the evening, my plus one and I arrived at Bowlmor Lanes to celebrate the bowling alley's 70th anniversary. Colie, some washed-up former Real World-er, was taking names at the door and herded us upstairs to the fifth floor, where we were handed glasses of champagne and encouraged to eat — and I was in heaven. There was filet mignon, mushroom-stuffed chicken breast, Caesar salad, pasta … and a chocolate fountain. I am, admittedly, a food whore, and this chocolate fountain made my night. I stood in front of it for a good 10 minutes, taking strawberries and dipping and eating them one at a time. The rest of the line had to go around me to get to the dessert tray while my plus one walked across the room because she was embarrassed. I don't blame her.

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