That Joe Nichols song about Tequila...

Chester is often considered the baby in the social groups in which he runs. He is the youngest person (and the only guy) in his upper division French literature class (be ye jealous!). His face has more fuzz than a Flavorcrest and his cheeks have so little gristle that some meanies have taken to calling him Princess Peach. Chester takes this all in stride, knowing that when his friend's skin looks like like partially masticated teriyaki jerky and they lose control over basic motor functions, Chester will have Nivea skin and be able to choose when and where he...eh...functions.
[Switching to past tense for narrative reasons]

It was Erin's 21st birthday. She was stoked to be a legal drinking-permissible adult and wanted to go test the limits of her new freedom. The baby Chester was chosen to be the designated driver. Actually, Erin and Chester were going together and exclusively to a drinking establishment. No one else would be accompanying them. It was to be a date. A date where Erin would drink and Chester would watch, while holding the keys and wondering just how tipsy Erin would get.

To clarify, Erin was really pretty. She was attractive in that pleasing and graceful way that only certain girls can manage. She was also normally very responsible and not the sort of person who orders two piña coladas (one for each hand). Chester really liked her; that was one of the reasons he agreed to go in the first place. Chester was also really curious about what might happen after Erin consumed a few adult beverages. He felt like a scientist: he'd formulated a hypothesis (things would get more fun) and was ready to put it to the test.

The server arrived and heard Erin's first drink order: a fruity margarita that was sure to make the hairy, manly man in me scream. It was not the kind of drink guys ordered and Chester didn't understand its allure, but Erin ordered it with the sort of prepared confidence that suggested she had premeditated her drink order. I made a mental note to consider my own first drink order for my 21st birthday.

The drink arrived and I noted immediately that it was quite large. The margarita container (for it can hardly be called a cup) looked like it held several gulps full of sugary adult beverage, almost enough that I would have to take a breath if I wanted to "throw it back" like a shot. I quickly realized that this was one drink that was not meant to be "thrown back."

To complete a mental picture of this situation, it's important to know that there isn't much to Erin. Some people are built like freight trains and can take a lot of alcohol before showing signs of excess. Others are built like a Schwinn bicycle: A little wind is all it takes to knock them over. Erin is closer toward the Schwinn. And she wasn't ready for the immense size of this liquid assault.

It was just like that Joe Nichols song about tequila: Erin drank a few sips, excused herself to the restroom and came back without her scarf. It was a nice scarf too: turquoise with blue polka dots. Then she started playing with her earing and it fell off in her adult beverage. Chester thought that it was kinda awkward to sit around while she fished around for it, first with her fork, knife and spoon and finally, as a last resort, with her fingers. He wanted to help, but it didn't seem appropriate. It was her drink; she should do the fishing.

Chester figured this was a normal part of consuming alcohol and wasn't concerned until Erin returned from the restroom for a second time. She had her scarf again, but her socks and belt were missing. Something was very strange about that restroom!

Chester drove Erin home at a slow pace. She asked to drive, but he turned her down. She asked to stop by BevMo's to purchase a quick drink, but he kept driving. She asked to stop at In N' Out for a cheeseburger - despite the fact that she had just eaten a birthday dinner and complimentary cake. Chester assented to this request because Animal Style fries sounded really tasty.

And that was the date. Chester returned Erin to her place and drove away. Very confused. He gave the evening a B minus, because Erin had told him she really liked him just before going into the house. That was really nice of her!

Incidentally, Chester's twenty-first birthday is seven short months away. He is willing to entertain suggestions as to what his first drink should be. Leave your advice in the comment section...

hi

A couple of days ago, FCN received the following email which is reprinted below without any change to spelling or grammar:

Subject: hi

It is too difficult to say about myself in a few words!!! I am very cheerful girl, I am an optimist. I think that I am pretty. My friends say I am a good girl :):):) Also I would like to say that I am very serious and I don t like when people play games with the feelings of other people! I have a couple of best friends and I am here to find my special one. Sometimes people come into your life and you know right away that they were meant to be there...to serve some sort of purpose, teach you a lesson or help figure out who you are or who you want to become. You never know who these people may be...The successes and downfalls that you experience can create who you are, and the bad experiences can be learned. To meet friends is good but I have friends. Now I need my soulmate in my life. Unfortunately I couldn t find him in my city but the world is very very big!!! I can t stop hoping to find a good sincere and honest man! I woman and I am lacking the right man in my life, someone to hold on, someone to lean on, someone who could be there for me all the time, Someone to share fun with, bad times and good times, trial times, Celebration times, rainy and sunny times of life. I need an honest , trust worthy . I would like to meet a nice guy 30-45 years old, open-minded, kind and willing to have serious relationship. I want to note that he must have serious intentions and not only swap messages. Of course, he also would like to meet in person. Well, any other questions we can discuss on the phone or by mail, my adress ksendansen@gmail.com ! With the best
regards, Kseniya

My answer:

Re: hi

Oh, Kseniya! Where to begin? Let's start with that name. Is it pronounced "Sen-eeya" with a silent "K" or are there actually two hard consonant sounds right after one another at the start of your first name? That must be a great-aunt to spell out for people. If your name is Seneeya, let me be the umpteenth to say "what a pretty name" with a somewhat confused blank look on my face. How ethnic.

I googled your name just to check out your story, and found the following picture of Kseniya Zamyslova. If this is indeed you, I will renounce the rest of this post. If it isn't, and I have a sneaking suspicion that you and Zamyslova share nothing more than a first name, you deserve every word that follows.

Thank goodness that you did find a way to use "few words." To think what your pitch would have been like had you been verbose. I get all Dr. Wright just thinking about it.

Your comment that "you think you are pretty" would be much more encouraging if it didn't follow a declaration that "I am an optimist." You may be optimistically pretty (heck, Janet Reno is optimistically pretty) but realistically, shall we say, unwholesome.

My friends say I am a good boy :):):).

I didn't just drop into your life. I am not in your life. You are in my inbox. You are clogging up bandwidth on my computer. You are distracting me from writing FCN posts and eating, my two productive pastimes.

Please, if you are really interested in my attention, call my mother and tell her we're an item or issue a death threat. Either way I will fear for my life and be forced to address your demands.

Sincerely,
C*** ******

In retrospect, I might have written something about my not being in the 30-45 age range or the probability of finding an honest man through random web searches, but I need to save some ammunition for the next girl.

If any of you, the faithful FCN few, are interested in sending Kseniya a message and getting onto the warmer side of her good graces, be our guest. Her email is ksendansen - at - gmail - dot - com or, for all you web 'bots surfing the internet looking for random emails to spam, ksendansen@gmail.com. Maybe Kseniya can find a soul mate in a really intelligent computer or an equally intelligent FCN reader.

Best of luck!

Alone on Valentine's Day

It's the 14th of February and all across the land,
Little boys and girls take each other's hand.
It's a happy sight, all sweet and pink,
But someone isn't happy, I think.

He's tried his hardest to get a girl,
But when he gets close, most just hurl.
He doesn't smell or look that bad,
He's just too desperate, which is sad.

Amid all the laughter hugs and kisses,
Stands one guy alone, no one misses.
His heart is full of love to share,
If only a girl would dare.

On Valentine's Day when all are happy,
He writes poems, and they get sappy.
His rhymes are weak, his verse uncreative,
It could even be packaged as a sedative.

Love and warmth he does not inspire
But his writing does make others tire
So I'll tell you the story of how I got this way
Alone, miserable and sad on Valentine's Day

It's an open secret that I have been as indefatigable in my search for female attention as a dog and peanut butter. In turn, females have been just as adamant about denying it. Whether it's been Luce or Carrie or, well, all the others, I've had about as much luck as Dennis Kucinich in politics (speaking of which, remind me to pass on the latest about Carrie: never talk politics on a third date). I'm batting like Jason Giambi after knocking off the steroids.

A friend kindly took me aside on Valentine's Day morning and advised that the holiday has diddly squat to do with establishing a relationship and is actually intended as a time to strengthen relationships and renew passions with existing girlfriends. V day is about servicing, that's why guys go out of their way to buy all the goofy chocolate, mawkish cards and childish teddy bears. In Aretha Franklin's terms, girls are "zoomin'" guys on Valentine's Day.

Oops, did my cynicism seep out? Maybe that's why I couldn't get a date yesterday...

The morning wasn't that bad. Most students don't take their beaus to class (unless, of course, it's "take your beau to class day") and I'd almost forgotten about the Holiday when Melanie leaned over and stuck a pink heart on my to-go coffee cup. She giggled when she did so and I think, deep down in her diabolical Melanie mind, she was daring me to forget about my horrid love life. The heart starred at me for the duration of the class. I wanted terribly to rip it off and chuck the cup, remaining liquid and all, but was mesmerized by the anatomically inaccurate shape.

Work at General Mills was even better. None of my coworkers wanted to chat about relationships and the conveyor belt seemed to move more slowly. Maybe Valentine's Day wasn't so bad afterall.

Little did I know how much Saint Valentine had lured me into a false sense of emotional security.

Plans had been laid well in advance for me to get together with my hetero lifemate and watch an action flick, which I figured would be largely unattended. I've known my lifemate since before I met my father and I'd seen my mother's face and we get along really well, apparently, but he still doesn't count as female company.

Walking into the theater reminded me of a scene from Confessions of a Dangerous Mind. If you haven't seen the movie, Chuck Barris walks into the cinema feeling down on his relationship luck. As he sits down, the camera pans away to reveal everyone around him kissing. It's kinda disgusting and, if you're there without a date, it's depressing.

The movie was a gore-fest and the romance wasn't even romantic. Despite these impediments, the couple to my right couldn't get through any of the fight scenes without fooling around and a couple below me started snogging every time the screen went blank. After the film, duos held hands, giggled and skipped away, oblivious to the impact they were having on my psychie. Deflated and wishing the movie had been better, I walked alone to my car (the hetero lifemate drove separately) and meandered home.

On the way back to my house, even the streets were deserted, a reminder of the emptiness of my heart. One car did follow me for a few miles, but it was a police cruiser and I was too worried about making an infraction to enjoy the company.

Maybe I should have purchased a box of chocolates or a bouquet of long stems. Perhaps a little more effort would have had me asphyxiating in the dark corner of the theater with a beautiful girl by my side. Maybe I totally blew Valentine's Day.

Or maybe I didn't. My selfish perspective on the Holiday is as wrong as it is depressing, I just can't help myself. I feel I'm entitled to the attention of others and I have repackaged V day for that very purpose.

But something about that kind of approach never jived with a male college student, ticking away the final months of his derelict teenage years. So, I wrote a poem.

Part the Seventh: She has 'Crush' on you

It was like connecting positive and negative energy, but Luce and I were finally able to reconnect and set up a reconciliatory date. She had scheduling conflicts for most of my available times (school, a babysitting commitment and a best friend's birthday party were all pesky obstacles) so I ended up taking a couple hours off work so we could meet for a leisurely lunch and then walk around a local park.

If you're new to this tragic but all too real tale of failed attempts at love, you can check out the sordid and choppy history of Luce and my relationship here. Or, if you're the kind of person who flips to the back of the book to read the annotated version, it suffices to say that Luce and I have never clicked. I've either been too late, too dumb, too condemning or too verbose. Luce, on the other hand, has been everything; she's a charming date and beautiful companion. I've been borderline comatose.

Before heading out for date number four (or three, depending on whether your definition of a date includes an actual meeting), I sat down with a number of guy friends to put together a strategy. In retrospect, I probably should have had a girl on the consulting team, but I preferred the brand of advice my male friends provided.

Before asking for their input, I laid out my situation clearly, saying that my sensitive ego would not take another throw-it-down rejection. I needed to go into this meeting with a crash the board's mentality and approach Luce with a full court press. I wasn't going to be on the sidelines anymore.

OK, enough with the basketball idioms. Maybe I should add a girl to my team of advisers...

The guys and I reviewed my past experience and weighed reader comments for input. We were pretty sure that Luce's sister was in the military, which ruled out jdb and Adrialien's theory of a familial stand-in (the Luce of Part the Sixth had hair that was beyond regulation length). We also rejected matchmaker's input because it involved going to see a chick flick. In the end we settled on a variant of Frederic's idea and decided to strap on some metaphorical peacock feathers.

Throughout the date, I would be a bold, courageous beast in human form. By the end of our conversation, Luce would know every exploit, achievement and success I had ever caused or been a part of. I would pin her ears back with wordy tales of mighty victories, some embellished for grandeur and all told with wide eyes and guttural voice. I would spare no exaggeration and pull no punches. I would be Leonidas against the Persians, Achilles against the Trojans and William Wallace against the English. By the time I got through detailing my credentials of valor, Luce's crush would be that much more resolved and her affection secured.

"Spartans? Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!"

The end of our meeting involved some manly shouting, chest thumping and an arm wrestling match and one of my friends twisted his ankle while demonstrating a Bruce Lee wall-chop, but I was in the right frame of mind for a date as I hopped into my car and drove to the sandwich shop were Luce and I were meeting.

Luce was there when I arrived and, after we exchanged brief pleasantries, she felt a need to explain and justify her previous outburst. I put her at ease with the following reply:

"You know, Luce, a weaker man might have taken offense at your comments. A wuss or the guys who trim their eyebrows might have a hard time coping with such a letdown. I'll bet you Ewan McGregor would still be reeling. But not me. I once faced a whole room full of angry, condemning women. They were mad and I still don't know what I did. To this day, it doesn't bother me a bit. Not a bit. Your words were a drop in bucket compared to the kind of estrogen-filled hate I've been on the business end of. A drop in the bucket."

I think it worked, because she grinned while I was talking and shook her head slightly during the more fantastic portions. She even laughed when I mentioned Ewan McGregor and I made a mental note to thank Reginald for the line.

I didn't get a chance to be macho again until Luce had almost finished her sandwich. She looked down at her plate and said something about how "Mr. Pickles," makes large portions. Deep down inside, I think she was fishing for a compliment about her figure, but for me it was an opportunity to brag:

"Hah! This is nothing. How many calories do you think this sandwich has? 1,200? 1,500?"

"I have no idea."

"Well, I once ate almost 3,000 calories in ten minutes. I wasn't even hungry. I was like Takeru Kobayashi at the Thanksgiving table. Just boom; down the hatch. It was all gone before you could say "anorexia." They called me the Alimentary Vacuum and I considered a few sponsorship offers before staying an amateur. In fact, I'm going to have another sandwich. You want one?"

I don't think Luce knew who Takeru Kobayashi was and she looked more disgusted than anything at my comments.

Despite the fact that I was stuffed to the esophagus with a Mr. Pickles sandwich that was, admittedly, quite large, I walked over to the counter and ordered another. Food was never so painful.

Our walk in the park started off very well. It was a beautiful day and we made small talk for the first few minutes of our promenade. Then Luce brought up Reginald.

Luce wanted to make sure I didn't feel competition from my no-good house mate. She felt the time they were spending together might be perceived as more than friendship and she assured me the only reason she went out with him was because she felt sorry for his plight. I wanted to ask what Reginald's plight was, but my desire to appear strong lead me to feign confidence:

"You know, a lesser man might be concerned, but seriously, I've got this situation covered. Did I ever tell you the story about the guy at the place who tried to steal the girl from me? No? Well, he, you know, ended up...looking...less manly after I, uh, you know, finished with him. The girl's serving some time for an unrelated incident right now so you don't have to worry about her, you know, interfering with us. In fact, you could go out with the guy if you felt sorry for him and I wouldn't take that as a slight. I might even beat him up again although his reconstructive surgeon might not appreciate that..."

The more I spoke, the more ridiculous it sounded and I knew my face reflected my personal feelings of incredulity, so eventually I just shut up. My voice trailed off some and that's when I heard Luce's response.

"Why can't you just be the same person all the time?" She asked with a very feminine fire in here eyes. "One date you're Mr. Nice Guy and now you're trying on Macho Man...just give me the straight story. Don't be an arrogant tool. Be yourself. You don't have to try to impress me. You impress me; when you try you just look impotent and weak. And Ewan McGregor? That sounds like something from Reginald's playbook. Look, I know you're trying, but this isn't working. Call me when you are ready to be yourself."

With that, Luce marched to her car and, after a couple tries at the starter, chug-chugged her Bronco out of the parking lot.

I walked over to the playground set and began banging my head against a protruding monkey bar. How could I have been so idiotic? What could have been a great afternoon was ruined by my own meddling. What was that she'd called me? An arrogant tool? Ouch. I could count on one hand the number of times I'd been called that. And my stomach hurt like something fierce. Why did I have to eat that second sandwich? Why had I taken time off work for this torture?

Maybe Luce was right. Maybe I should try a date without any particular "strategy" and just wing it. I could try being spontaneously attractive. Or, maybe I could try coloring my hair or growing a mustache or something subtle but radical and very "me," whatever that is. How do you try to be yourself, when you've been working so hard to be something else?

I don't know. I definitely want to think about it before I call her again.

Part One: 'Never Let An Opportunity Pass You By'

There is a girl I like at school. Not “like” like or anything terribly mushy, but I really enjoy talking with her and she is amazingly pretty. She’s inhale sharply and clear your calendar kind of pretty. She is “how in the world did God make something this pretty” kind of pretty. She is ... okay, she's a terribly mushy sort of pretty. That didn't sound right, so I'll abandon the visual descriptions and move on.

We’ll call her Carrie, since that’s a close approximation of the name she gave me when we met a week ago in line to take collegiate placement tests. She speaks Spanish and was bemoaning the inconvenience of sitting through a language exam when she already knew her skill level. My agreement started a conversation which covered everything from heritage to plans for school (she’s half Italian and is majoring in International Studies). We didn’t get a chance to exchange contact information, but she assured me that we would “probably run into one another in class.”

Carrie was right. Not a week after our first meeting, I found myself on the other side of a small classroom from her, listening to a lecture on Plato’s critique of democracy. I’ve read the Republic and consider myself a regular advocate of the philosopher king concept, so the lecture had little new to offer. I spent most of the hour, conjuring up various ways to look at Carrie. I caught her eye once and drew out a gorgeous smile of recognition. I considered that delightful grin just reward for the effort I'd exerted.

During a break, I maneuvered across the room and said hi. Carrie told me she’d passed her exams easily and we shared a laugh over the easy language questions which helped to “place” us. Then – foolish, foolish me – I asked about her class schedule. Nobody wants to talk about how they have mister or misses so-and-so for Econ and the tall guy without any fingers for political science. I tried to cover my mistake by asking questions about her teachers, but she remembered hardly any of them and I could tell she was growing bored of the conversation. I concluded it and went back to my seat, mentally kicking myself because I hadn’t asked her out.

Class ended after one of the longest forty-five minutes I had ever experienced; how many times did we have to hear a definition of “philosophy?” But the excruciation finally ground to a halt and I headed for the front of class to sign up for an assignment. I figured I would see Carrie at the front, ask if she had an opening for lunch sometime and exchange contact information. But reality hardly mirrored my plans.

Carrie had already signed up for the assignment and was out the door before I could write "Nigeria," which is, by the way, what I wrote. I charged after her, but when I got to the door, I saw something that was as deflating as it was familiar: Carrie was walking along with another guy. And, to make matters worse, her escort was the class nerd, a low expression introvert with a sandpaper voice. I’d never caught his name, but he had apparently caught Carrie’s.

For a split second, I thought about running after the pair and inviting Carrie out anyway, but that would have been a blatant violation of the masculine code of conduct. Instead I just stood dejected as they marched into the warm early afternoon.

As I watched, I noticed something about Carrie. She looked genuinely happy. She was making emphatic gestures and laughed a couple of times at something the nerd said. She seemed to be enjoying herself with this guy. Maybe, I thought, it was meant to be; maybe I was trying to butt into a situation that demanded my respect and distance.

But then again, my interest wasn’t necessarily romantic. I just wanted to get to know her. She could continue whatever relationship she was developing with the nerd while doing a lunch with me.

I continued thinking about the situation while chewing on some unkosher sweet and sour pork at my favorite Chinese eatery. My thoughts were jumbled and disorganized until I opened my fortune cookie at the end of the meal. There, in bold red lettering, was the answer I was looking for:

NEVER LET AN OPPORTUNITY PASS YOU BY

I folded the message carefully and slipped it into my duct tape wallet. These were words to live by; uninspired but still profound.

Carrie and I have a whole semester of class together and our majors are similar, so we may be interacting as students for a couple of years. But Mid-Term 1 is just around the corner, and I think I know who I will be inviting to my study group.

Smile, You're On Google Earth!

The other night a couple of friends and I dragged our sleeping bags outside and, roughly a hundred feet from our comfortable beds, lay down on some uneven cement to watch the stars and sleep in the great outdoors. The material we laid our heads on was designed more for aesthetics than comfort, but our goal in spending an entire night outdoors was so pure and altruistic that we scoffed at all insinuation that a little hard ground could deter us.

When we first started making plans for this outdoor night adventure, I had expected the party to include Reginald, who often tags along in unpleasant activities if his friends are doing them. In fact, Reginald was all ready to go, extra stuffed sleeping bag and all, until we told him there would be no tent overhead. He insisted, for several argumentative quarter hours, that a tent is an absolute must for any outdoor adventure and that he wouldn't go along without it. We intoned that a tent defeated the purpose of star-gazing and invited him to stay inside while we roughed the outdoors.

Only after we implied that we would be going outdoors no matter what did Reginald get a wide-eyed look in his earnest commie eyes and beg us not to go out alone.

"It's Google; they'll see you." Reginald whispered the words as if Google had a sound detection device in the room with us. Then he ran into the room he appropriated some years ago, shut the door and, as is his custom, pulled the comforter over his head.

Are you reading this, Luce? He pulled the comforter over his head, like a small child; like a scared papoose in need of his Sacajawea. Reginald's afraid of Google! A search engine with fewer employees than that little town in Iowa that John Edwards was campaigning in yesterday, and he runs for his blankie! Poor Reggie!

Ok, back to the story.

Only slightly discombobulated by Reginald's behavior, my friends and I made our way outside and lay down on the hard cement. Small pieces of gravel had accumulated between the decorative cracks in the deck and I had to wiggle for several minutes before finding a place to rest that didn't stab me like Brutus. Then, if I could ignore the jostling of my friends, I gazed at the wonder of the star-scape in tranquility until an appendage started to fall asleep.

The first part of the night followed a seemingly endless cycle of adjust, pain and readjust, until I discovered I could live with something poking into my back or no feeling in the left part of my body. The affliction was severe, but I could cope.

At about 2:37 AM - for reasons that will soon become apparent, I checked my watch to memorialize the moment - a series of bright flashes filled the sky. I saw the first of what looked like small sulfur-fueled explosions come up from the western horizon and then ease gently overhead, creating a colorful line in the sky. One by one the tiny flash bulbs entered my vision and then slowly eased away.

"Hey, did you see that?" I shook my friends to see if they had noticed the spectacle. Their murmured replies expressed disgruntlement at the rude awakening and the fact that they had missed the lights in the western sky.

Maybe, I thought, the explosions were the result of an overactive imagination fueled to eccentric ramblings by the hard surface upon which I was laying. But I've never had these kinds of dreams before, even in past rough excursions. Maybe it was some terrible accident like a plane crash or space satellite failure. Or perhaps I had witnessed something I shouldn't have seen, like a missile test, alien invasion or the posthumous rise of Anna Nicole Smith. In fact I couldn't think of any good reasons why the explosions weren't all of those - maybe even at the same time.

Later that morning, after a pained levitation exercise and a shuffle into our house that was more fitting for Bill Walton, I sat down in front of Steve to resolve a hunch. Something Reginald had said made me wonder if those late night flashes were generated by the worlds' most fantastic search engine.

I ordered my computer browser to Google Earth and entered my address. Then I zoomed in as far as the pixels would allow and strained with bloodshot eyes to make out the image. There, clearly impregnated into my computer screen, was the image of three teenagers lounging outside a large house, at least the house looked pretty large zoomed all the way in.

I couldn't believe it! I had made the Google pictorial! Reginald was right! How in the world Reginald was able to figure out that Google was taking pictures that night is a query too distressing to even contemplate. But he had, and they did.

I wanted to scold Reginald for not telling me more sincerely, so I could have made some signs beforehand or had a Google photo party, but instead of going to see him, I printed the image and showed it to my friends, both of whom had an attack of the privacies and became hysterical.

My new picture makes me very proud. I sincerely wish I could show them to you without completely violating my personal privacy. Regardless, the pic shows that Google and I have a connection; we picked the same night to do our thing. And the photo really isn't that bad, either. If you squint just right, the pixels align to almost make it look like I'm smiling. Almost.

You did what?

As most of you are probably unaware, I recently procured gainful employment. In an effort to reform my derelict self and prove to the world that I can actually perform meaningful and productive labor tasks at the directive of an employer, I joined the ranks of the California work force. A couple weeks ago, I began my position as Assistant Cereal Technician for General Mills (Or is it Assistant to the Cereal Technician? I get the two confused).

I still live with my parents, sleep in my clothes, take extended shaving, shower and general cleanliness vacations, skip class, make crank calls and generally behave like a poorly adjusted derelict, but now I have a job.

My job requires me to stare at hundreds of thousands of bite sized chunks of Wheaties cereal and watch for any irregularities like rampant mold and fungi, discolored clumps, soggy morsels or, and this is particularly disturbing, pieces of uncooked human and animal flesh. If I see anything, I write it down and make a report of my findings in the evening. If the problem is especially egregious, I have a button that sends my boss a signal asking him to come down and scoop the offending material off the conveyor belt. Most of the time, though, he just lets things go by.

My boss is a stickler about alerting the media and he does all the talking when the health inspectors arrive, which has been only once so far, but that visit was precipitated by more job training than I had had to that date. My technical job description reads "batter mixer," but really I'm the last barrier between you and the Wheaties microbes.

Breakfast of champions, my pinkie finger. Don't think about that too hard.

While this new job cuts a terrible blow to my idle time, it has some distinct advantages. First, I get free cereal. I can take home for myself anything I flag as below General Mills' impossibly ignoble quality standards. Second, the pay is really good for a job that has me doing little more than sleeping in front of a conveyor belt.

The strangest thing about working all day is coming home to discover all the things that are different about your life. It's one thing to be away at school during the winter and spring months, but family life can change radically in the weeks before school begins.

The other evening I came home after a slow day at work, pulled my wallet and keys out of my pockets and plopped down at the dinner table to wolf down a few bites of suspicious cereal. Reginald, a family friend who uses our house as shelter from the elements, wondered into the room and made an announcement:

"I spent over fifty bucks today on clothes."

"Goodness, Reginald!" I sputtered from behind a moldy chunk. "That's more money for clothes than I will probably spend the rest of my life, unless of course these jeans tear. What on earth were you getting?"

"A red scarf." My curious look prodded him to continue and he added: "For the YCL meeting on Friday."

"YCL?"

"Young Communists League." I stopped chewing, allowing an unidentified food-like object to slip through my slack jaw and into my bowl with a plop. A communist, in my own house? Was being a communist the in thing these days or was Reginald being an outlier?

"Yeah. Anyway, I'll need your car again tonight."

"Again?" I didn't recall giving permission for the first time.

"Oh, you hadn't heard? I took Luce out the other day. You know Luce, right?" Click, bang. In my mind, Reginald was pasted against the wall with a .45 slug between his eyes. Luce wouldn't go out with me but she would be seen in public with this good for nothing Commie? I would definitely be calling Luce about this. But wait, she'd prohibited that. I was stuck. Reginald and Luce would get married and have a dozen little commies. They would take over the earth and establish a new world order. I would be their Godfather and have to reign in my emotions every time I saw the two of them together.

No longer hungry, I pushed my food aside and answered, "yes, I know Luce."

Reginald forged ahead. "Sorry about your pants."

"What?"

"The grass stains should come off with the application of a little force and detergent, but those grease stains are there to last."

I looked down at my pants and noticed for the first time that my best pair of jeans had been ruined. I hadn't noticed the problem when I put the pair on in the morning but now I could clearly see streaks of green and black laced across them. I'd been at work all day and nobody had said anything.

"Reginald?" I leaped forward to seize the derelict in front of me who had abused my absence to toy with my life. He dodged deftly and ran for the door, swiping my keys with him. A few moments later, I heard the soft roar of my car and the crash of our neighbor's trash can as he sped away, probably to join Luce at the young communists meeting.

Part the Sixth: She has a 'Crush' on you

A continuation of previous Crush episodes...

Luce and I met in front of the theater and I almost didn't recognize her. Her hair, normally a golden blonde, had been dyed bright red, like Maureen O'Hara only longer. At first I thought she was wearing a wig, but on closer inspection I saw that her hair had indeed been dyed all the way to the roots.

"You dyed your hair." I probably should have thought first and come up with a better introductory remark, but I was in a blurt mood.

"Oh, hey! Yes, do you like it?" Luce had a smile that was both pleading and brilliant. I didn't want to disappoint her and deny her earnest complexion the complement she sought, but I also wanted to be honest.

It looked ugly. The hair, that is. Her smile and complexion were awesome, but the texture of her locks was inconsistent with the dye and it came together to form a muddy consistency. From close up, you could see blonde strays that hadn't taken the color correctly. Finally, the color was wrong. It didn't fit with the light smattering of freckles on her cheeks or the hue of her lips. The whole picture was, as we guys sometimes intone, good from far but far from good.

I must have taken too long to answer because Luce's face soured and she sighed in disgust.

"Oh, whatever. Let's get our tickets."

I tried to smile and followed her to the box office.

As we entered the theater and sat down to await the previews, I tried to break the silence with conversation.

"Well, that was a pretty bad first date we had, wasn't it?" I honestly can't recall the thought process that lead me to that question.

"Uh-huh..." Dang; Luce thought I was going somewhere with this.

"Um...Well, why would a girl like you go out with a guy like me?" I asked, inadvertently deploying a line from Eric Church's Guys Like Me. I had a feeling the answer had nothing to do with "drinking too many beers on Friday after work," but I asked anyway.

"I have a crush on you, remember?" Luce had a smile on her face that invited me to laugh. I obliged, then turned away to return to my thoughtful musing; her answer was, as always, completely unsatisfying.

Just because you have a crush on someone doesn't mean you go out with them after a disastrous first date, or does it?

I thought a change in subject might be in order.

"Why did you dye your hair orange?"

"You don't like it, do you?" More earnest nonverbal pleading.

"Well..." Luce was obviously insecure about her hair. And why wouldn't she be? She had replaced her gorgeous blonde locks for a garage sink special that reeked of ammonia. My guy friends had advised me to be complementary in any comment I made about Luce's looks, so I made an attempt:

"It's not antipathetic or entirely odious. In fact it has an aura of originality that's almost congenial. Um...It's not posh, but it isn't schlocky either." I smiled while wincing. Maybe I'd thought too much about my answer. There were a lot of SAT words in my response and I did not want to splice their meaning for Luce.

I don't think Luce understood what any the adjectives meant because she had a pleased look on her face when she sat back and said "ok." I exhaled deeply with relief.

Just then the previews started, and we began almost two hours of uninterrupted screen watching. I never had to say anything to Luce; she never had to conversate with me. We sat within inches of each other, faced straight ahead and just looked. It was glorious.

Several times, after Jason Bourne made a heart stopping leap or performed another noteworthy stunt, I leaned toward Luce to whisper a comment I thought humorous, but then chickened out before I was close enough to speak. We were so tranquil, watching the movie without intervention, I didn't want to mess all that up by saying something.

Neither Luce nor I said anything for the entire movie. I don't even recall us laughing at the funny parts, although I laughed in my head.

As we were walking toward the exit, I made another attempt at conversation.

"Great movie, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess. Listen..." Luce paused as if struggling to phrase her next sentence. "I don't want to hurt your feelings or anything, but I think you are really boring. You haven't said more than fifty words all evening. When I saw you interact with people at school, you were animated and, well, interesting. Here, tonight, and the other night, you were completely deadpan. Are you high or something?"

"Well, no, not intentionally, um, well, not that I know of, I, well, I...Luce..." I was trying to be eloquent.

"No." Luce paused and looked as if she might cry. "Let's just let this die, ok? You aren't the same person as the one I have a crush on. You're boring. You used the word "schlocky;" I hate that word; what kind of guys says "schlocky?" The movie was terrible. I hated this evening. Don't even...Don't call me, ok?"

With that, my date left the theater in her Bronco, leaving me to rationalize the situation by tearing Luce down. The Bronco was probably her dad's. She probably never worked an honest day in her life and planned to go on milking unsuspecting males the rest of her days. Such a Daddy's Little Princess; everything must be just so. Dependant and completely selfish; a spoiled brat. Her home life was probably a total wreck and she was taking her disgruntlement out on me. I was the real victim here.

Then again, I thought, maybe I was uninteresting. It was true that I hadn't said much, but Luce didn't leave a lot of room to talk. I'd tried hard, but come up short.

But Luce hadn't liked the movie. Could we be compatible as mates if she rejected my man crush out of hand? Wasn't a relationship with me somewhat like a relationship with Damon? Does that concept make me more attractive?

I drove home that night with a heavy heart. More than once I had to fight back tears as my car stereo played the latest hit love songs. Why couldn't I be like the guys on the radio or TV? Why was I so inadequate in the female department? Why did Luce hate me so much? Why in the world did she decide to dye her hair that ridiculous orange?

I called a meeting of the guys this morning and their take was bleak. They think my chances with Luce are blown, but I'm not so sure. I've got a couple new ideas that, though disapproved by my advisors, may get me back in the game.

Part the Fifth: She has a 'crush' on you

A continuation of previous 'crush' episodes...

I accumulated the nerve. It took a long time, some serious counseling with my male friends and a little Red Bull, but I picked up my shellular phone and pressed the appropriate speed dial button to call Luce. I'd only called her a couple of times - certainly not often enough to deserve one of my nine prized speed dial buttons - but with some people you want the facility of dialing to be so pronounced that you haven't a chance to think twice.

As the phone rang, I began to think that maybe I should have thought better. I thought twice about thinking twice. My mind raced with questions as difficult to answer as they were relevant. What should I say? Why was I calling? Why should Luce care? What if she told me to go moon myself? What does it mean to moon oneself? Is that even appropriate?

I wished for a piece of paper just so I could scribble or make a snazzy notation or do something intelligent. Absent a writing utensil, my hands were left to tremble, exposed. Like an Alfred Hitchcock movie. My throat felt dry and clearing it made an unmanly gulping sound. I made a mental note not do do that while talking with Luce.

I heard a clicking sound, like someone picking up the line and then, with a background of several voices forming a cacophony like that of a party or other large gathering, I heard Luce's voice.

"Hello?" Boy, it was good to hear her voice again.

"Hey, Luce, it's me. You know, the guy, well, the guy you have a crush on." I scrunched my face in frustration. That was lame! Maybe I should start writing for the next Lindsay Lohan movie. My dialogue skills had to improve if I wanted to get anywhere. The guys around me shook their heads. Move on! "Anyway, I --"

"Wait, I can't hear you, let me move away..." Luce interrupted me, and I heard the voices in the background fade away. "You were saying?"

Grateful for the chance at redemption and eager to show Luce that I could conversate without making myself into a total beast of burden, I began again.

"Hey Luce, it's me, the guy from school. We went out and it didn't go so well, remember?" More scrunching. More shaking. Why did I have to bring that up?

"My reception here is awful. I've got, like, no bars. Say again?"

Sigh of grateful providence! Another chance.

"Luce? Luce?" I waited for an answer. After a fair pause I thought maybe the call had been dropped. Only a trace remnant of background voices kept me from hanging up and redialing. Then I heard Luce's voice again.

"You've just been punked. Leave a message at the tone."

The beep of her voicemail was like a buzzer on a bad game show. What did it mean to be punked? Was it an overt reference to "punk" rock or "punk" fashion or maybe something Ashton Kutcher would think up? I may not have known what a "punked" was, but I knew it hurt to be punked.

My fumblings continued despite the fact that the voicemail was now recording. For all of you who have never witnessed me thinking - which is probably all of the faithful few, especially those of you who know me best - when I am pensing through difficult questions, I tend to make unpremediated mumbling sounds, like a culinary connaisseur at a buffet line.

I stopped the involuntary thinking noises and left a message:

"Hey Luce, it's me, the guy you have a crush on. Well, used to have a crush on before you blew your top in the restaurant. But we're cool, right? Well maybe? Like Brad and Jen? Anyway, I'm calling to see if you want to go out again, with me. I mean, you probably want to go out again - I didn't scare you that badly, did I? - but would you deign to go with me? I promise not to lecture you or look dumb, although it will be hard, because looking dumb is what I do best: I get paid to do it at work and it's state of nature at school. Um. [EXTENDED PAUSE] Anyway, I thought we could go to the movies, just you and me. It would be a date. Not a friend date, but a romantic one. Like, a guy and a girl going to the movies together so they can sit next to each other for two and a half hours but never have to make conversation. Does that sound terribly incongruous or do you think you could swing it? You have my number, please call me."

My male advisors who were listening in as I left the message, making emphatic hand gestures I'm sure they thought were helpful, rushed to give me feedback the moment I hung up.

"OK, solid, a little sappy, but solid."

"Dude, what were you thinking with the 'Um...' routine? There's no way she'll get that!"

"Really nerdy."

"Ouch."

"Next time, just leave your number."

Luce called back a few minutes later and said she loved the message. I stuck my tongue out at the guys and figured they were just jealous because none of them have been on a date since Chuck Heston became president of the NRA.

We're on. Our date will be at the theater next week. We are catching the Bourne Ultimatum premier, and I am more than a little nervous. I'm nervous about Luce, too.

Part the Fourth: She has a 'crush' on you

This post is way, way overdue. I don't know why I delayed so long in writing it; maybe some youthful pride was welling in my bosom and I thought I could assuage it by putting off the inevitable. The faithful FCN few had to know sometime; I couldn't keep my secret forever. The moment would come, my embarrassment would be known by all and the lack of sympathy would be palpable. As part owner of this blog, I know how it works and I know I deprived you all by not being forthright about it in the first place, but, heck, better late then never, right?

My love life is your love life and, like most communal things, it is pitiful. As always, any tips or advice are appreciated. Condemning and criticizing words will be read, but are not appreciated. Please comment accordingly.

A month ago, I was “dumped” by a young woman who once told her friends she had a crush on me. Now I am trying to get her back... but I am getting way, way ahead of myself.

Luce and I met at a small place by the movie theater during finals week and I my vocal analysis was right on: Blonde through and through. Energetic is probably the best word to describe her and she was very outgoing. She had my picture on her phone and had set it as her wallpaper. She looked athletic and she told me she played tennis for our school. Luce told me she grew up in the Bay Area but went to college in the valley to get away from the city. Our conversation was comfortable and I enjoyed letting her do the talking.

Her favorite color is magenta which is a perversion of purple. She is claustrophobic and can't stand dogs. Her brother is in med school and she has a sister in the military. She misses both terribly. She has had too many sports injuries to count and likes to dye her hair different colors so she wasn't always blonde. She hates using the computer and loves the outdoors.

That's when it hit me like a frog's tongue on a fly: Was this the same “shy” girl who wouldn't approach me in person and sent her friends as emissaries instead? I must have stiffened physically because Luce stopped midway through a sentence on the merits of charging the net to ask what the matter was. I pursed my lips, glanced suspiciously from left to right, depressed my eyebrow and leaned forward. I took a deep breath and looked her in the eye for a second.

“Nothing...You were saying?”

Our conversation continued after a moments hesitation and I used the guise of interest to develop my theory. This couldn't possibly be the “real” Luce. The real Luce was quiet, sat in the back of the cafeteria and had Hispanic friends who used their mother's cell phones. The girl in front of me was a bubbly blonde who probably went to parties just to energize them. The girl in front of me was the star of the tennis team, not the outcast.

“So, what's your real name?” I bluntly changed the subject, deciding to use surprise to my advantage.

Luce smiled, obviously a lot more used to social dweebs than she let on. “Lucy, but my friends call me Luce. Why?”

Why indeed. My suspicion was beginning to look vaguely ridiculous and my hold on conversational authority was leaving me like so many lemmings. In retrospect, my curiosity was poorly conceived. Why...did I always have to make a fool of myself in two-way social interactions? Why...was I the one who got left holding the cheese? Why...was Luce looking at me like that?

Oh yes, her question. I answered with a joke that seemed to recover most of the ground my gaff had lost, but the rest of our interaction was without the comfort we shared early in the date.

Maybe that's because I spent less time listening and more time thinking about this whole sordid episode. Luce, tennis, the cafeteria, the cell phone picture, me. It didn't fit. Something was wrong. What kind of girl approaches a guy with expressions of affection before establishing any sort of relationship?

I decided the best course of action was the blunt one, so I continued bludgeoning our conversation around by asking the above to Luce.

“What kind of girl approaches a guy with expressions of affection before establishing any sort of relationship? I mean...what kind of girl...” I let my thoughts trail off like the curator in Night At The Museum and used descriptive hand motions to convey my confusion.

“You weren't going to ask, so I did.” Luce seemed so calm. How did she know I wasn't going to ask? Maybe I was thinking about it and just biding my time. And what did it matter anyhow? So this was an epistemological question, not one of romance and passion? I was a bet, a wager she placed with her friends? What about the proper role of...?

My thoughts were interrupted by Luce who stood up quickly. “You know what? You're just a pretty face. I try to get to know you and you just sit there dumbly and then try to lecture me on...” I think she “humphed” there, but the crack of her palm against my cheek made the memory fuzzy.

When I cleared my vision and mustered the courage to peek up from beneath my arms, I saw her Tundra zip out of the parking lot and onto the main road.

I got a few stares as I paid the bill and exited myself. But nobody saw as I sobbed softly in the front seat of my car. How could I have messed that up? Things were going so well! We were clicking!

That's what I get for focusing on the method, not the content. And she ordered the second most expensive item on the menu!

Maybe she was playing hard to get, as if it wasn't hard enough to get her for the first date. Or maybe I'm just an empty visage with nothing to offer the fairer gender.

I think you're supposed to call your date back the next day and follow up, say it was a great evening and lie about what an awesome time you had. Well, it's been a month and I haven't called her back. I have her number and sometimes I look at it like the man in the “maybe” lottery add.

You know what? I think I'll give her a call and see how she's doing. Maybe she has an opening this week and we can catch a tennis game or something. Now if only I can find my cell phone.

Part the Third: She has a ‘crush’ on you

We set up a date at a medium speed food establishment across the street from school. It wasn’t anything high brow, just a short meal over which we could introduce ourselves and get all the relationship pleasantries resolved. No drama, no flowers, no European greetings.

When I chatted with Luce on the phone, I heard a fairly nondescript all-American voice. She laughed a lot, but that might be more nerves than personality. Her accent was Southern Californian; more cultured than Tahoe but less snotty than San Francisco. Her “Ss” were solid, but not lisped or whistled. She didn’t have a drawl and her verbal pauses were more “like” and “you know” than “um” and “uh.” I had her pegged for blond, like Lindsay who took my picture, but wasn’t completely confident in my assessment.

As I sat parked outside the bistro (if “bistro” is a suitable name for a “sit down, but hurry up” eatery), the last few lines of Hannah Montana’s If We Were a Movie echoing in my head, I wondered once again if this might be a trap. I looked around at the restaurant’s entrances, but didn’t notice anything suspicious. I glanced in my rear view mirrors the way the Government Agents do in the movies, but was disappointed to find that no MAC-10 carrying villain was drawing a bead on me.

Sorry, this is beginning to sound more like Desperate Student than the “crush” series. But you get my point; I was still suffering from a deep seated suspicion that some of my guy friends, maybe some of the guys from the track team, were playing a mean trick on me.

Before the questions could become too nagging, I left the comfort of my car behind and went to meat Luce.

The cool restaurant air was a welcome break to the early spring warmth and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust after the brightness outside. A few seconds after becoming acclimated to my surroundings, I found the store's only solo female customer and she had her back turned. Her hair was blond, as I had deduced from the auditory analysis and she seemed to be waiting for someone.

That's when it hit me like a two by four at a construction site: How should I go about introducing myself? Saying "hi" on a phone is a radically different undertaking than meeting someone for the first time in person. The tête à tête is so much more personal than speedial and it was the one part of our date that I hadn't prepared through and devoted significant mental energy to analyzing. Maybe this whole thing was beyond me; the pervasive feeling that I was out of my league was coming unmuzzled.

Before my thoughts could become paralyzing, I tapped the solo customer on her shoulder and introduced myself.

She turned around and smiled. Her eyes were bright and young and her teeth had the Colgate glint.

"Yes?" She looked expectant.

No immediate recognition? No "it's so good to finally meet you?" No "have a seat?" Just a simple "yes?" I was more than a little flummoxed.

That's when it hit me. Maybe she was trying to play hard to get. Maybe she felt her seeking me out had given her a vulnerable position in our relationship and wanted to remedy that by making me uncomfortable on our first date.

You see folks? I was foolish to think that I understood women.

"Do you mind if I join you?" I kept my face confident and did not let my features betray my earlier deliberations.

"Actually I am waiting for someone..." Her voice trailed off as she shrugged toward the door.

After a couple more awkward exchanges I found out her name was Ashley and she wasn't waiting for me. Actually her boyfriend would be getting off work any minute now and she "kinda wanted to be seated alone" when he entered the restaurant. I walked away from the table and returned to my car flushed with embarrassment.

Did Luce and I mix up the restaurants or lose track of times?

I opened my cellular and dialed Luce's number. I got her voicemail and left a message explaining what I could of the mix up, although I left out the part about Ashley having young eyes. By the time I hung up, a seeping suspicion had tickled its way up my spine and I once again wondered whether Luce was real or an invention fabricated by my male friends to have some chuckles. The fact that she didn't show up was certainly evidence for that argument.

My head was tied up in a pretzel and thinking about Luce was becoming painful. I looked at the clock radio and noticed I had a few minutes to get back to class. I sped across the intersection and pushed Luce out of my mind long enough to focus on a Soil Science lecture.

Part the Second: She has a ‘crush’ on you

If you haven’t read FCN’s account of the traumatizing experience I had with a young woman at the campus canteen a couple quarters of a moon ago, please take the time to read it because it is an important backdrop for today’s post.

No, I am serious about this. You can always push your browser’s back button or, if you are using Opera, Mozilla Firefox or Internet Explorer 7, create a new tab and view the page concurrently with this one. Simply push your mouse’s middle button or click normally while holding the ctrl button (Option on a Mac). Or you can right click the above link and press “Open in New Window.” Whatever your style is, get it done now because I won’t keep typing until you are caught up on my love life.

OK. Now that you are up to speed, I can tell you what happened yesterday morning. I had just finished a heady discussion of the properties of water in my science class (why do these things always follow science?) and was enjoying the light breeze in my face as I walked across the street to do a little lunch hour purchasing (note the difference between shopping and purchasing).

As I walked, minding my innocence, on a concrete sidewalk, I passed a couple of Hispanic girls, who looked completely self absorbed. As is my custom when I pass anyone, but especially young women, I smiled and nodded my head.

Instead of walking on, engrossed in their Ipod or cellular phone conversation, as most people do, these young women stopped. One of the girls, who I later found out was named Samantha, asked “you’re the guy who had his picture taken on the cell phone, right?”

So now the whole world knew about Lindsey’s pink mobile? Maybe the FCN readership is bigger than I imagined.

Did this mean my photo was circulating around? Was it the desktop image of every perverted female in town? Did the picture turn out ok? Did the crumbs on my teeth show through?

“Yes, a young woman took my picture a week or so ago. I believe her name was Lindsey,” I smiled, but couldn’t hold the curiosity out of my features.

The girls giggled and looked at one another with an expression I will never understand. “Well, our friend wants your phone number.”

Here we go again. First my picture, then my number. Those are both online, you know. Why doesn't this girl come out of the woodwork and meet me personally? Does the girl really exist or is this a vast conspiracy perpetuated by the campus females to trip me up?

Why would a collection of girls exert any effort to trip me up?

Alas, beauty is stronger then the intellect and I succumbed, entering my digits into Samantha’s mobile for, I was told, later transmission to the mystery crush.

In order to unravel as much of the mystery as possible, I decided to keep asking questions. “So,” I asked, “what’s the name of this girl, the one who has the crush on me?” Tact was never my strong point.

“Luce,” came the answer. At least I think it’s spelled that way. It could have been “Loose.”

“Okay,” I continued my inquiry, “where do you guys hang out? Maybe I could swing a visit and say hi sometime.” Maybe.

“Oh, Luce doesn’t go to school here anymore. She’s working…” Samantha’s voice trailed off, leaving an awkward silence.

To this point, I’d forgotten to stop smiling and my face was beginning to feel tight; I relaxed my features.

And so the conversation with Samantha and her unnamed friend concluded. We exchanged inconsequential pleasantries and parted ways leaving me with only a little more data about the girl with the mystery crush. I’d given out my phone number – a bargaining chip, my brother had informed me, in the relationship scene – and was still perplexed about the entire situation.

Questions, old and new, plagued the rest of my purchase-driven excursion. Was this some kind of conspiracy to get Luce and me to go out? Did Luce really exist or is there a band of young women desperate for my attention? How could a girl who doesn’t go to school know me well enough to establish a crush? Why was the text on Samantha’s cellular set to Spanish? And, perhaps most haunting, when will the crazy collegiate women attack me again?

“She has a ‘crush’ on you”

I am still shaking. Inside, my guts are trying desperately to find their proper position and realign themselves to the appropriate pipes. The class I am supposed to be attentive to is nothing but a blur and the teacher’s gesticulations are foreign to my traumatized psyche.

I think this is my philosophy class, but I might not be in the right room because my normal teacher is a bearded male. The professor in front of me now is an obese female. I think nothing of the error.

Ten minutes ago, I was calmly eating my paper sack lunch in the campus Canteen. Each bite of the savory turkey sandwich was slowly erasing the memories of a difficult science lab and my hunger was being pushed away by the spicy mustard sauce my mother prepared for me before I left.

My slice of heaven was interrupted by an attractive blonde girl’s approaching my empty table. I had my mouth full.

“Do you mind if I take your picture,” she asked with a smile.

“My pficture?” I was confused and the whole grain between my front teeth and lips didn’t help my diction. I was flattered nonetheless.

Taking my response as a “yes,” the newly arrived female pulled a pink razor cellular phone from her purse and pointed the camera lens in my direction. I tried to smile without revealing my crumb covered teeth.

The young woman turned around and would have walked away, had I not forced the remainder of my mouthful down the gullet (incidentally causing a painful dough lump) and asked politely why the picture was needed, besides, of course, the obvious advantage of having a super handsome guy as your desktop pic.

“Oh, my friend has a crush on you and she wants your picture.”

The dough lump got bigger. I tried to swallow but my mouth was so dry that my effort only made a gulping sound and probably caused me to look like a fish out of water. I felt a bead of sweat welling on my forehead, just below my hairline and willed myself keep looking worthy of a crush.

Crush. I’d heard the word before, thrown around, joked about and even used by friends. But what exactly did it mean? In agriculture, crush season is when all the wine grapes are harvested, but my intuition told me her comment had nothing to do with that. In society, crush means a juvenile infatuation with a member of the opposite gender that could, if both parties were more mature, lead to a short marriage. Maybe her friend was digging for a short marriage.

But why come over to my table? Was she suffering from a sever case of post Valentine’s Day depression and trying to assuage her feelings of abandonment with male companionship? Was she hungry for some chocolate and think I was hiding some leftover kisses in my pants pockets?

Ah, the questions that haunt the mind of the modern college student!

Coming from a family of guys, some of whom imagine themselves pretty hot stuff, I’d heard quite a bit of advice on how to handle female advances. I knew how to handle this one.

Stepping out of my chair, I extended my hand and introduced myself.

“I’m Lindsey.” She smiled as a response and looked expectant.

“So is your friend here? I’d love to meet her.” Note the adjective use. He-he!

“No, she’s not here today; she just wanted your picture.” With that last comment, Lindsay turned and walked back to her table.

That’s when I started shaking. In the course of a minute, as much time than it takes a collegiate sprinter to run 400 meters, I’d been informed of a girl’s interest (a boon to my now vibrant male ego) and been told that she just wanted my picture (can you hear the air coming out?).

If she simply desired my mug, she could have just visited any of the tens of singles sites I frequent. My picture (and several descriptive paragraphs) are pasted all over the web. I even have a profile on E-Harmony, where Lindsey’s friend and I could find compatibility on all twenty-nine levels.

No longer hungry, I packed up the remainder of my sandwich and walked to my class (or Miss Calorie's Calculus class as the case turned out).

Can there be any more nerve wracking realization than to be told that a girl has a crush on you? I don’t even know who this person is. She could be Katie Holmes in all her scientological glory or even the teacher with the cocaine wrinkles currently lecturing a sleepy audience in a monotone. She could even be the lovely Lindsey who came by to take the photo, but is playing a juvenile trick to obtain a pixilated representation of the man with whose image she has fallen in love.

Or the holder of the crush could be Anna Nicole Smith. Now there’s a scary thought.

That’s what makes this situation so redoubtable. Somewhere out there, in a world of 3 billion girls, there is one eligible candidate who actually likes me. The thought is so overwhelming, so groundbreaking, that it’s got part of me frightened. I don’t want to meet this mystery girl anymore. I want to go on imagining her as a Nancy Pelosi clone and never have to worry about living up to the image she’s made in her mind.

But then again, part of me is curious. Really curious, actually. Kinda tense, a little nervous and full of anticipation.

She has 'Crush' on you Archive

“She has a ‘crush’ on you”
Part the Second: She has a ‘crush’ on you
Part the Third: She has a ‘crush’ on you
Part the Fourth: She has a 'crush' on you
Part the Fifth: She has a 'crush' on you
Part the Sixth: She has a 'Crush' on you
Part the Seventh: She has 'Crush' on you