And surprise, surprise...

I will not be moving to a remote oil and gas town in northwestern New Mexico.

This is not, as some surmised, because I couldn't get a good bagel on Sunday.

Rather, it was because I wouldn't have been Ms. Navajo—a dream of mine since, well, about three weeks ago.

I could have covered the reservation every now and then, but for the most part I would have been a city and county government reporter. Nothing wrong with that; it just wasn’t enough to lure me there.

I hit it off with an attractive, mountain man photographer, but he didn't quite tip the balance. Everyone else on the staff was either in a serious relationship or married.

And there were other troubling signs: restaurant choices were Mexican, Mexican or Mexican, and the nearest department store was three hours away. I was told housing could be hard to find, but there was a never a shortage of trailers. And one editor, with whom I would have been working closely, mentioned she once joined a polygamous cult.

Oh, and when I visited, an editor sent me 45 minutes away to do an article on Durango, Colorado’s annual Wedding Expo. Every time I approached a vendor for an interview, they’d say, “Congrats! When’s the date?”

If there is a God, he gave me a little wink.