Claudia – Part II

The last couple weeks, members of the faithful FCN few have been clamoring to hear the epilogue to my brief encounter. If my reference to classic British film was too tangential, let me briefly recap what happened on my first few Ashley Madison-esque dates with Claudia:

I got her number and asked her out. That part was epic. Then I found out she's married. That revelation took the shine off the “epic” and made it more “weird, scary and unfortunate,” at least that's how Bill described it. Bill, my workout buddy, was instrumental in my securing a first date with Claudia, so I'm blaming the debacle on him, at least until he is spotting me at the bench press and is responsible for the well-being of my trachea. Then I might cut him some slack.

While the comments on the Claudia post had given me wide latitude in my options, their general theme advised moving on. But I didn't want to rush into terminating things. I had to know if she was telling the whole truth about Marco. How separated were Claudia and Marco? Was he a dangerous person – a man prone to fits of violent passion against perceived competitors for his wife's affection -- or a calm, affectionate soul? I'd never met Marco and therefore couldn't be sure he even existed. Was he a myth invented by Claudia to test my interest? To test my integrity? His name – the first part of a common kid's pool game – was suspicious enough. Who names their children Marco? Mongolians? Kublai Khan's descendants?

We met for lunch at a mid-sized restaurant near downtown. I knew the owners and liked the food. If things hit the fan with Claudia, at least I would be left eating in a good establishment. As the mid-week traffic filled the restaurant to about half capacity, we took out seats. We didn't say a word to each other until the waiter, a man who's thin frame could hold precious little muscle even if it wanted to, left with our drink orders.

Claudia: So?
C: So...the French dip here is fantastic.
Claudia: Haha. [Nervous pause]. I dropped a bomb on our last date. You were weird afterward – understandably weird. What are you going to do?

The words of such distinguished commenters as DTH Rocket, Jonathan and Anonymous (1) echoed in my head. DTH's reference about the necessity of a certificate of divorce was especially puissant. I decided to explore it a little.

C: Look, you're married to the guy. Marriage is a sacred institution. It's a commitment of monogamy, fidelity and trust. A dissolved marriage is sad – a tragedy really.
Claudia: C--
C: Let me finish.

I didn't know what to say next, so I paused. An interminably earnest expression covered Claudia's attractive features. Cute lips that were so often smiling were now pursed in an expression of concern. I charged on.

C: I don't care about your past. People change; our stories change. There is nothing you could have revealed on our first date that would have kept me from asking you out again. Part of that is due the fact that you're super hot and that I have terrible luck in the dating world, but another part is that you are a really interesting person and we have chemistry. I can't ignore our chemistry.
Claudia: Aw, you're sweet. But you're right, C, don't ignore our chemistry.

I'd thrown my bone to Anonymous (2) and (3). Now it was time to say something determinative.

C: I think we need to put those feelings aside. Let's put ourselves in Marco's shoes for a minute. He's out there somewhere – probably at the batting cages, gun range or lifting weights – thinking about the ten he let get away and how he can reconcile after his mistake. The fact that there's no progress on your divorce after a year tells me something. Claudia, there's a man there who messed up royally but still loves you and wants you back. I will not be the fool that stands between a man and his beautiful wife.
Claudia: But Marco cheated...
C: I know, Claudia. And that sucks. You have to make a decision whether you are going to reconcile with Marco or divorce him. But until that decision is made, we can't date. And you shouldn't date.

It had to be said. Claudia was hurt, but I think she got it. It felt good to speak my mind.

Claudia: I'm sorry you feel that way, but I understand.
C: Hey, for what it's worth, if I were married to a woman and she were out gallivanting with a guy as hot as me, I would be upset.

I had done my job. I had cut things off in the most respectable and decent way possible. The ball was in her court.

My self-satisfied reverie was interrupted by a commotion near the door. The thin-framed waiter was trying to hold back a large muscle-bound man in his early twenties. Trying and failing. I'm not sure how tall the intruder was, but I estimate over 6'4”. He barged past the server and stormed toward where Claudia and I were seated.

“Marco,” Claudia whispered.

Remembering Papa G's advice, I sprung into action. I hopped up out of my seat, flipping it over into the aisle to block Marco's path, and fled. I knew there was a service entrance behind the kitchen, so I booked toward the restrooms and through a swinging door labeled “Associates Only.” Marco never saw where I went. I was safe.

I spotted the owner sitting at a desk doing paperwork. I paid him for our meal plus a generous tip, hoping it make amends for the commotion Marco had caused. When I explained the situation, he smiled a broad, comforting grin.

“Did you learn anything?”

I chuckled and smiled. I haven't heard from Claudia since that afternoon and it's just as well. I wish her and her man the best.

Claudia?

Sometimes life isn't spicy enough. The regular ebb and flow of daily interaction proves alternatively interesting and difficult, but it occasionally needs a small dose of excitement added in to make it truly provocative. I had one such dose a few weeks ago when I visited my local bank to make a routine deposit. The teller who handled my business was, you guessed it, an attractive brunette with a captivating smile. She moved swiftly between orders before calling "next," signaling my turn. Hers was a gentle grace that would be more at home in a museum of art than a pecuniary cesspool like my local bank.

I wonder how many other bloggers have had occasion to use the phrase "community pecuniary cesspool” today. I feel special.

Her nametag read "Claudia." I said hello. I don't remember what sort of small talk we engaged in, but I do recall that it was simultaneously provocative and inconsequential. In other words, it was spicy. Ours was the verbal repartee appropriate of two singles in a big world of hormones. She flipped her hair and I smiled too big. I imagine the behavioral psychologist observing the whole episode through the bank security system was on cloud nine.

I did not ask her number or give any indication of interest besides my subtle flirting. My attitude was, in the immortal paraphrased words of the late great Charles Dickens, “really cool.” Claudia felt, I'm sure, that my departure from her service window marked the end of the story.

At this point, it is appropriate to borrow a trick from the great novelists of yesteryear by jumping to a seemingly unrelated topic only to reveal its tangential connection in a paragraph or so.

Meet William, or Bill as he likes to be called. Bill is a venerable septuagenarian who works out at my gym. We became fast friends a year or so ago when he offered to spot me and I discovered his freakishly muscled build. His is the physique that amazes and frightens. He has the build of a much younger man. If I didn't know better, I would guess Bill supplemented his rigorous diet with MLB level animal steriods. But I do know better. Bill's physically dominant form is due only to his diligence in the weight room and a God-given predisposition for massive muscle.

As it so happens, Bill was behind me in line at the pecuniary cesspool (2!). He was the next customer to talk to Claudia. And, he told me later, the conversation went something like this:

Bill: So, Claudia, do you have weekend plans with your boyfriend? [This may seem like a weird question coming from a super buff 74 year old, but trust me, it's not.]
Claudia: I don't have a boyfriend. I'm just chilling with friends.
Bill: No kidding. Have you met Cody? ["Haaave you met Ted?"] He's the most responsible derelict I know. And he's single (between us, his relationships always seem to suffer from early exit syndrome). Have you thought about going out with him?
Claudia: Well, I think he's cute.

She thought I was cute! Can you believe that? No girl has ever told me that before (or yet, because Claudia only told Bill who parroted it back to me). Cute. As Bill recounted these words over the bicep press, I knew it sealed the deal. I was going to ask Claudia out on a date. The only question was how to make the request epic and legendary.

My chance came one short week later. I walked into the bank and saw Claudia on break. She waived waved to me. I waived waved back. As I took care of my banking business, Claudia sat down by the exit to fiddle with her iPhone. I had to think quickly. I signed my name on the withdrawal slip and collected my receipt. Finished. I marched toward the exit and Claudia where we had the following exchange:

Me: Hey! Claudia, right?
Claudia: Yeah? [Smiling -- what a smile!]
Me: Did you take my deposit last week?
Claudia: Yeah...
Me: I think you missed something...you didn't give me your number.

I had pulled a pen out of my pocket and extended my receipt toward her with a smile. She was surprised, but jotted down her digits. I took the paper, said I would call and walked out to my car. Epic and legendary.

The next day I set up the first date. That date turned into a second and the second a third. Things were going well. Claudia and I had chemistry and she seemed to enjoy my company almost as much as I enjoyed hers. But dark foreboding clouds loomed. Utopia is unsustainable.

After a movie on our third date, Claudia and I went for a walk in a local park. The conversation was light and she seemed cheerful, although a little apprehensive. I wondered at the cause of her reservation. Eventually she asked if we could sit down. Feeling the significance of her impending revelation, I acquiesced.

Claudia: C, I need to tell you something.
Me: Mmmhmm, what's that?
Claudia: I'm married.

Thunder and lightening! Fire and brimstone! Christopher Columbus! For the love of Brad and Angelina! She was married!? Married, as in a ring, a husband and a shockingly easy to void state license?

Me: I'm sorry. Come again?
Claudia: I'm married. When I was a teenager I married this guy. My family didn't approve. It was a mistake. He cheated on me. We are separated now.
Me: But you're still married to him.

Claudia spilled all the salacious details which, for the sake of brevity and innocence, I will mask here. It suffices to say that relations between Claudia and Marco were at an all time low. Only the delusional would predict an optimistic outcome.

It's hard to convey the gravity of that situation on a humor blog without portraying the picture with undue flippancy. I like and felt for Claudia. By her account, she'd done nothing wrong. Circumstances had victimized her terribly.

Claudia obviously wanted a disposition from me. She wanted to know if her marriage sounded the death knell for our budding relationship. I thought about giving her an answer, but knew that doing so would cheat the faithful FCN few out of a valuable opportunity to weigh in on my personal life.

So I put the question to you in all its glamor. Should I date a married woman? Is there a clear moral compass on this issue or is it an ethical vague area open to exploitation on emotional and or subjective whims? What would you do in my shoes? Let me know in the comment section and I'll make a decision based on your input.

Baby Showers: The Bane of Single Women

If you are reading this and you're a man, be grateful, because that means you will never have to go to a baby shower! I think to most men, baby showers are mysterious events and they secretly wish they could someday attend one. But showers are really quite simple and not that much fun.

The concept is similar to that of a birthday party - bring a present and eat food. But the atmosphere is much different. For the young, unmarried lady, baby showers can often be torturous.

For the first half-hour or so while the guests arrive, everyone will sit around and just chat, subtly - and sometimes not-so-subtly - inquiring into the romantic lives of the unmarrieds. Regardless of whether or not the young lady's state of singleness is by choice or necessity, she will be the object of pity and advice will come flowing in so that she, too, can one day be in the same happy, 8-months-pregnant condition of the guest of honor.

After the greetings are dispensed with, food eaten, and more advice given, it is finally time to open the presents. At last, the single young lady thinks, I will be left in peace.

But she finds no relief during this activity, either. As the expectant mother unwraps gift after gift, the other mothers in the group will ooh and aah, exclaiming over the usefulness of each gift.

"Boppys are the greatest! You can use them to prop up the baby while nursing or while sitting on the floor and a bunch of other stuff!"

"I love my Diaper Genie! My nursery used to reek from all the dirty diapers, but the Genie totally hides the smells!"

"A Hooter Hider! That thing is awesome! I wish it had been around for my first 3 kids, but for the last one it was great. I could totally nurse anywhere in public and no one could complain."

"Diapers...yeah, you'll be using a lot of them!"

"Awww, what a cute onesie! You'll definitely need a lot of those! Between spit-up and the rest, they get dirty all the time!"

"A baby booger sucker! You're going to want one of those with you all the time. It works great on adults, too!"

By this time the young ladies in the group will have a look of horror on their faces. TMI, people, TMI! The variety of presents and accompanying comments is enough to make anyone uninitiated in the ways of motherhood lose her breakfast.

Typically, present opening will be followed by a mediocre chocolate-with-raspberry-filling cake. The kind hostess will serve each of the single ladies a particularly small piece. After all, they're not eating for two and must maintain their figure if they're ever to get married!

My Pumps

What I gonna get to match these pumps?

These cute little classy high heel pumps ?

I'ma gonna get get get these shoes,

Get these shoes I love so much.

My pumps, my pumps, my pumps, my pumps, my pumps,

My pumps, my pumps, my pumps, my lovely high heel pumps.

You may call me lazy,

Stillettos drive me crazy,

I just can't dig those flip flops,

Designer's such a rip off,

Mizrahi and J Lo,

Gucci, Ferragamo,

Coach, Dolce, Sarto,

they cost way too much dough.

Sister, I ain't fakin',

my bank account is breakin'

Open toe, closed toe

I try to stop but I can't help it

So I keep on spendin'

An' this is the beginning

I feel like I'm winnin'

Payless BOGO now I'm grinnin'.

My pumps (pumps), my pumps, my pumps, my pumps (pumps)

I love my high heel pumps (pumps)

My pumps, my pumps, my pumps (pumps),

My pumps they got me

Lookin' for clearance,

(Oh) lookin' through those outlet shops, and hitting auctions online

Lookin' for clearance,

(Oh) lookin' through those outlet shops, and findin', those savings

What I gonna do with all those pumps?

All those pumps I bought last week?

It would make make make you freak

To see the pumps I bought last week

My closet ain't near big enough

To hold all of my shoes and stuff

It would make make make you jump

To see my pile of high heel pumps

My pumps, my pumps, my pumps, my pumps, my pumps, (what!)

My pumps, my pumps, my pumps, my lovely high heel pumps.

Overheard in a Public Restroom #1

Girl 1: It will be so exciting when you get married; you can call me everyday to talk about wedding plans!

Girl 2: I'm planning to wear Mom's wedding dress, but cut off the sleeves.

Girl 1: Oooh, will it even fit you?

Girl 2: I don't know, but Mom thinks it will.

Girl 1: Really? But she was so tiny when she got married.

Girl 2: Yeah, it's weird. She gains 1 size for when she got married every time I get 5 years older...Remember when we were little and she always told us she was a size 6 when she got married?

Girl 1: Yeah...

Girl 2: Well, now she says she was a size 10. But I don't think her dress will fit me...I don't even fit into her petticoat!

It's All About The Benjamins, Baby

Dear mom,

Since writing is my thing, I've concocted a get rich scheme that will either take off and bring in the dough or crash and send me into bankruptcy. I'll write a romance novel about two teenagers.

The protagonist will be a teen girl. That's a character most people can relate to, right? Besides, since the book is a romance, I need to reach my female readers. The guy in the book is virtually indestructible, so maybe some guys will want to read it as well.

Our heroine is also an incurable liar. Typical love stories portray characters as perfect. I want my characters to be almost repulsively flawed—it will make my readers feel better about themselves. I have to please the reader.

The girl has an unnatural fascination with death. I'm trying to reach emo readers here. She begs her boyfriend to kill her, but he always refuses. She jumps off cliffs, rides motorcycles, and spends an inordinate amount of time around monsters.

In the second book, my hero will leave for a while without a trace. This is another attempt to hook some more emo readers. The girl will wander aimlessly and spends her days being depressed and finding ways to die. She finds him and they get in huge trouble with the mafia.

My hero is drop-dead gorgeous. Model gorgeous. That's what every girl wants, right? Someone very handsome to sweep her off her feet. I don't want to give my readers unrealistic expectations of men, but seriously, I need to be able to sell this baby, so I'm willing to do whatever it takes.

In fact, his only flaw is that he is a dangerous guy who wants to kill her. Even after they're married he has to suppress his violent desires. Sure, this may be over the top, but if I'm going to make a name for myself, I need to be outrageously original. He's 80 years older than her. He sneaks into her room at night like a stalker, just to watch her sleep. Creepy, but I think my readers will understand what I'm trying to do. Every girl wants a guy who can't stand to be away from her, right?

But why think small? I've already planned my sequels! In the last book, my hero and the heroine finally get hitched. By delaying this momentous turn in the plot until the last book, I can milk out a few more bucks from my fans.

After the wedding, the story doesn't end. My heroine gets pregnant and dies shortly after giving birth to a beautiful baby monster. And they live happily ever after.

I'll give the books hippie-sounding names for added appeal... names like "Moonbeam" or "Starshine". Hopefully the books will sell well enough to require sequels, and if I'm lucky, maybe even a movie deal. I'll be set for life.

Your loving daughter,
Stephenie Meyer

Deceit

John would like to get Mary better. They are taking a class together right now, and John thinks he would like to hang out with Mary another time. Unfortunately, John is male and Mary is female, which presents a language barrier. He has tried finding her on Facebook, but alas, she doesn't have an account. What he would like is her phone number, so they can keep in touch after the semester is over. The problem is that if he asks the simple question, "Can I have your phone number," Mary will probably interpret it as "I think you are attractive—would you like to go on a date sometime?" That is not what John wants to ask. (Actually it is, but he's afraid to ask it.)

So John resorts to subterfuge. He asks for everyone to exchange phone numbers in his study group, just in case he's late and he needs to call someone. Not that he's going to be late. He just wants to be safe. Then, he thinks of an excuse to call her. An hour before class, he finds that he doesn't know what the homework assignment is. So he shoots a text over to Mary: "did you catch what the homework assignment was for today?" She texts back: "Yeah, but it's kind of long." So he calls, chats for a minute, gets the assignment, and voila! The two have exchanged phone numbers.

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...

FCN BC08 - Ana: Music Explains It All

Several years ago, I was completely lost when it came to understanding the opposite sex. If I mind my own business, I thought, guys won't bother me and I'll be able to finish school without distractions. But I was wrong.

The first time I was ever "hit on," it was by a young man who, let's just say, is a few fries short of a happy meal. Looking back, I should have answered differently when the first question he asked was "do you have a boyfriend?" but I was so caught off guard that I straightforwardly answered "no." After enduring 10 minutes of being asked out in a variety of ways via questions about my religion ("no, I'm not Baptist...Actually, no, our beliefs are not similar"), schedule ("I already have a group of people I hang out with on Wednesdays....and every other night of the week" - I figured my family of 8 counted as a group of people), school, and work ("I'm very busy, I don't really have time for anything else"), etc., I realized hints were not going to work.

Desperate, I told him he'd have to talk to my dad if he wanted to go out with me. When he replied that he knew my dad, that my dad likes him, and that he thought my dad would be fine with it, I was very blunt. "Actually, I don't think my dad would approve." After the young man had the gall to contradict me, I realized it was a hopeless case and gave up, praying that my brothers, for whom I was waiting, would hurry up and finish their job. Thankfully, they came to the car soon afterward and I left with hardly a goodbye.

On the way home, I was lamenting to my brothers that the first time I was ever hit on, it was by a young man "not firing on all cylinders," if you catch my drift. Ever eager to give comfort, my youngest brother said from the backseat, "Well, he must have been desperate." Men are such good sympathizers. Not.

Anyways, to return to the purpose of this post, I no longer have a problem understanding guys. Thanks to the music I listen to on the radio, which I discovered a few years ago, men are now an open book to me. Using popular songs for inspiration, I have created "Ana's Lyrical Guide to the Opposite Sex," which I present below for your edification.

1. Relationships
"The way you walk, the way you move...girl, there ain't nothing about you, that don't do something to me."
Translation: Men notice the physical. It doesn't matter if you're the sweetest girl in the world, if you don't have the looks, the guys aren't going to like you.

"He is sensible and so incredible...I couldn't ask for anything better...but I miss screaming and fighting and...you're so in love that you act insane."
Translation: Women may say they want a perfect gentleman, but they really don't. In fact, they don't even know what they want, but they rarely want what they have, even if they know it's "incredible."

2. Breakups
"What hurts the most was being so close and having so much to say and watching you walk away."
Translation 1: Just because a man doesn't say he loves you doesn't mean he doesn't love you; you just need to not sit so close to him so he's not distracted and can say what's in his heart.
Translation 2: Men don't like to talk, but their biggest regret after a break-up is that they didn't talk more.

"I'm still living with your goodbye, and you're just going on with your life. How could you just walk on by without one tear in your eye?"
Translation: It takes a woman a long time to get over a breakup, and if you get over it before she does, she'll resent you to the day she dies.

3. Cheating
"I didn't want to know the truth, I'd rather go on lovin' blind, girl, than go on lovin' without you; I wish I didn't know now what I didn't know then."
Translation: What a man doesn't know, won't hurt him. He'd rather not know that you cheated on him than break up with you.

"I dug my keys into the side of his pretty little souped-up four wheel drive, carved my name into his leather seats."
Translation: Shakespeare said it centuries ago: "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned."

Well, there you have it. I hope this clears things up for you as you head into 2009 and the uncharted territory that is every relationship.

FCN BC08 - Chip: An Action Movie Flop

Have you ever noticed that life is sort of like an action movie? Reach back into your memory and see what you can pull out. Chances are, you don't remember what you had for dinner two days ago, how you spent those fifteen straight hours on the web, or exactly when your supersize case of Red Bull reached the last can, necessitating the fight you are (i.e. I am) currently waging over who gets to drink it. No, you don't remember those things, but you do remember other things very vividly. You remember when you jumped into the swimming pool and hit your chin on the side, crimsoning the water with your manly blood. You remember—this in slow motion—when you ran a red light at 120 mph and glimpsed a camera on the traffic light as you passed. You remember what a moron you felt like when you had to plead guilty to that in court.

Anyway, my point is that memory has the boring parts edited out, which of course means that memory is a decidedly masculine skill. If I lived the life of my female counterparts, would I remember anything, or would all my life be left on the cutting floor? Just a thought.

One moment that was never, and will never be left on the cutting floor is the moment that a woman drove up to my house in desperate need of help. A damsel in distress, if you will.

I still remember the fateful day. It was a warm August afternoon, and the birds were singing, harbingers to the approaching events. I learned later that they were just being sarcastic, but at the time I actually thought they were happy. I was lounging on the porch, reading poetry.

Suddenly, the hideous grinding sound of steel on asphalt interrupted the birds, who rolled their eyes and flapped away. I almost did the same, until I noticed that the hideous noise had stopped in front of my lawn and that a driver of the fair sex was opening her door with the evident intention of approaching me. I hid my poetry under the porch and waited expectantly, trying to look buff and confident and knowledgeable but woefully aware of my helpless situation.

I said earlier that life is like an action movie. I should add a caveat. In an action movie, the damsel in distress always finds a hero who can solve all her problems. In real life, she has to be content with whatever the fates give her. Gentle (i.e. female) readers, you know this.

I stood up and shook hands with the Damsel, whom I shall henceforward call D. She said she was having trouble with her car. I told her I was glad, because it sounded like a hurricane and hurricanes are hard to fix. But cars are easy, I said. So easy that anyone could do it. She smiled at me, admiringly. I smiled back, nervously.

"So, um, do you need some tools or anything?" I asked. "What seems to be the problem?"

The girl just smiled again. I think she had taken some sarcasm lessons from the birds; I could see it in her eyes. But she was very sweet and polite. "I don't know. I was hoping you could tell me."

"Of course I can," I replied, and sauntered towards the car. (I am not good at sauntering in general, but this was one occasion that called for it.) "From the sound of it, D, I think you've got some structural problems. Probably more than mechanical but less than aesthetic. Or vice versa."

I walked around the car to open the hood and then thought better of it. Sometimes, to open a hood, you need to lift a little latch in the front of the car and it is hard to find. So instead, I threw myself down on the pavement and crawled underneath the vehicle. She couldn't see what I was doing down there. I peered around at all the black metal stuff, and reached my hands up into some of it so they would look greasy. Then I rolled up my sleeves. When I had been there long enough to arouse curiosity, I rolled out with a grimace.

"So, do you know what it is?"

I licked my lips and wiped my arm across my forehead, smearing the grease and the perspiration together quite picturesquely. "Just about. One more minute and I'll have it. You see, this part is... but no need to go into details." I dove under again.

This time I hit my head on a big slab of sharp metal. Disappointingly, it didn't draw blood. But in a strange turn of fortune, an idea entered my brain. That metal was part of the rear bumper, which had partially fallen off. There was no way to really fix it without a welding set or a screwdriver or some such drastic measure, but I knew the next best thing, and headed for the garage. D followed me with a quizzical look. I didn't know what to say, so I grunted and it seemed to work just as well. In the garage was a roll of duct tape, which I applied to the bumper-metal-piece-thingy until it was high enough above the pavement that the hurricane noises were avoided.

I then invited D inside for a drink, but she politely declined. Apparently, she didn't like Red Bull. Or maybe she just didn't want to share the last one with me. It doesn't really matter anyway. All I know is that as I rolled down my sleeves and watched the silent car speeding away, the birds started singing again. And this time, I knew what they meant.

FCN BC08 - N: "i like you"

I received a text message from an anonymous sender. It made it's point simply:

"i like you"

An acute sense of joy swept through my gizzard. Yes sir, somewhere out there in the big, cellular world, someone, who hopefully was a girl, liked me.

So I quickly replied with an equally short message:

"thanks who is this"

I figure I'll do the whole "I-am-too-cool-to-care-what-anyone-thinks-so-will-just-nod-in-your-general-direction-to-let-you-know-I-have-noticed-you" thing. That's what tough guys do, isn't it? You care by not caring. Yeah.

After a few minutes I received a reply:

"haha this is michelle jk itz a jok"

Oh.

But at least Michelle cared enough to play a prank on me. She must like me a tiny bit. Maybe a tad? Who is Michelle? And what's with the z anyway?

And frankly, I can't afford to let something like this bother me. It takes a lot to get girls to like you. Yes sir, good ol' fashioned work. True, I don't get why she thinks tricking me is funny. Maybe if I pretend like I don't care, she will like me more. So I'll do the whole "I-am-too-jock-to-care-what-anyone-thinks-so-will-just-nod-in-your-general-direction-to-let-you-know-I-have-noticed-you" thing. I can be a good sport. Literally.

"lol np"

Sent. So I sit and wait. I'm not sure what I hope she will say. But maybe it will make me feel better. Besides, if she actually replies, that means she actually cares enough to send me three messages out of her 850 texts a day. Not including replies.

So eventually my phone buzzes.

"ya my friendz took my phn"

My phone buzzes again. Apparently it's the second half of the message.

"they sent you that msg srry ttyl"

It's bad to find out a love text is actually a joke on you. It's even worse to realize the wasted minute count paid by yours truly is a prank on someone else. Yes sir, life is tough.

Seriously, I should feel sorry for myself. Besides, doing the whole "I-am-too-emo-to-care-what-anyone-thinks-so-will-just-nod-in-your-general-direction-to-let-you-know-I-have-noticed-you" thing is amazingly self-gratifying. Self-pity is all the rage. And everyone knows chicks dig emo guys.

FCN BC08 - F: Gender as Described by Animals, a Photo Essay

Animals make great illustrations. That's why there are so many illustrations of them.

Today, we examine a dozen illustrations of animals which illustrate illustrative differences between human males and females. The gender of the animals, is, of course, unimportant. They're just for illustrational purposes. Illustrationals of humans, which are of course different from animals. Some animals don't even have genders. I know, right? Seriously.

Let's begin.

Baboon opens his mouth really wide for all the world to see.
Male.

Chimpanzees groom each other for hours on end.
Female.


Squirrel casts his body into the unknown with no regard to personal safety.
Male.

Red Panda is really cute but doesn't know it.
Female.


Beaver builds something big using mostly teeth.
Male.

Cat takes interest in someone who just doesn't want to be friends.
Female.

Dog throws dignity to the wind in hopes of getting what the woman is teasing him with.
Male.

Peacock attracts opposite gender by showing engaging personality.
Female.

Birds hang upside down for reasons not even they can verbalize.
Male.

Wolves move in packs with extremely complex social structures.
Female.

Wolves assert dominance by crushing the competition.
Male.

Hippo tolerates slightly annoying but small and cute birds on back.
Female.

When Censorship is the Best Option

Dear Mom and Dad,

School is really hard this year. My teachers hate me. I have a 300 page book to read by tomorrow, and my 30 page research paper is due on Tuesday. I’d really like to work on them, but my roommate is asking me to watch Ironman again, so I just think the homework will have to wait. I failed my Chem test on Monday, and I skipped class on Thursday to avoid my Humanities exam. I feel like I'm learning a lot, so grades don't really matter, right?

My roommate never bathes. It’s like a third world country in here. But with a lot more clothes and food. In fact, the piles of food and clothing are everywhere. I don’t think my roommate knows where the laundry room is. I’ve started to find flies congregating around the dirty heaps of fabric. If this doesn’t stop soon, I don’t know if I can take it much longer. I think I'll dump a whole bottle of Tide on him tonight in his sleep... maybe he'll get my point. If he doesn't, I'm moving out.

I'm engaged! I don’t think I could have found a nicer person. Her personality is her strongest asset. We’re going out for fast food and a movie tomorrow after her anger management class. I didn't think she'd agree to be my girlfriend after I dumped lasagna in her lap on the first date. I didn't know anyone could yell that loud. I plan on bringing her home for Christmas with me. I thought about surprising you, but...

I wanted to get my nose pierced, but I’ve been having these strange dreams about being stalked by an evil giant magnet, so I don’t think that’s such a great idea.

I'm doing great. I need money. I’ll be home for Christmas.

Love,
Me

Miss-Communication

A long-running joke among men is that it is impossible to understand women. And they are correct. There are times women don’t even understand themselves. Girls over-analyze everything. And I do mean everything. What you think is a friendly wave or smile at one of your girl buddies could easily propel them into a daydream filled with you and your future children. Allow me to demonstrate how females easily misconstrue the intentions of the well-meaning gentlemen in their circle of friends. What a guy says is often not what a girl hears. Females will often read whatever meaning they want into a guy’s innocently simple phrases and gestures.

Guy says: Hey, is this seat taken?
Girl hears: You are so beautiful and mysterious. I want to keep myself in close proximity to you so I can learn more about your inner soul.

Guy says: It’s nice to meet you.
Girl hears: Where have you been all my life?

Guy says: You look nice today.
Girl hears: Hey good lookin… what’s cookin? You’d be a shoo-in for America’s Next Top Model.

Guy says: Do you want to hang out with me and my friends later?
Girl hears: I’m really attracted to you, I’d like you to meet my friends so they can give me a thumbs-up on my taste in girls. Once that’s done with, we can visit my parents next weekend and go ring shopping.

Guy says: It’s good to see you.
Girl hears: You are my heartbeat, I can’t live without you. I wither away to nothingness when we’re apart.

As if that’s not confusing enough, what girls say is often not what they truly mean.

Girl says: Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.
Girl means: I’m falling apart. Come on, you bimbo, ask me to tell the truth.

Girl says: Isn’t that such a cute baby?
Girl means: See what a wonderful mother I’d be? I already have our children named, I hope you like what I’ve picked out.

So, if a guy wants to avoid these common pitfalls, what are his options?
1. Be Spock.
2. Get a lobotomy.
3. Avoid all members of the fairer sex.

Whatever you do, don’t underestimate the female mind. It may be difficult to understand, but it is still quite dangerous. If you don’t believe me, ask someone who would know. Like your dad.

The sweating of a groom

A good friend of mine just got married. When I received an invitation to the wedding a month or so before the "big day," I looked at the elaborately laced note and charming photograph of the couple a few seconds before discarding the invite. I don't recall the exact nature of my thoughts on the issue, but they were pleasant and I know I wished the two lovers amazing success. I didn't give the issue another think until my mother asked about it at dinner.

"Do you know where your wedding invitation is?" Apparently my mother had misplaced hers and wanted to see mine to check the "registry," whatever that is. She didn't mention the names of the participants or even reference the date of the get together (I always thought "get together" would be a better name for a start of marriage celebration. "I was the best man in his get together" or "The bride's family paid a lot of money for the get together dress but the groom really shelled out for that get together ring."). She just knew that I would know who she was talking about.

"Bill and Patty's wedding?" I asked facetiously, making up two names.

"No, silly, the other one. Bill and Patty are getting married?" My mother was disappointed I'd tossed the invite. I learned that those are things you keep, stow in a box with souvenirs and trinkets, lose in a big cross-state move and cry about. So I dug through the garbage and removed the offending invitation.

No sooner had I removed the document from it's semi-retirement in the trashbin when my phone buzzed. It was the groom. He wanted groomsmen. He wanted me, a designation I later learned was a high honor. I asked him if I would have to wear a tuxedo. He said I would. I hesitated. He told me he was desperate. I understood and agreed.

After I hung up, I consulted a dictionary to find out what in David Stern's name I'd just committed to:

Groomsman: n. A male the approximate age of the groom who stands beside the groom and best man while the groom is performing the wedding vows. The male should do as little as possible to distract from the ceremony, but should look clean, well pressed and generally square. Fidgeting and snide comments should be kept to a minimum. Infractions in this area are punished by the bride and her entourage.

I'd been duped. Now my attendance was mandatory. I thought I'd be able to get away with an FB wall message or maybe an e-card. But to go to the actual event? To watch two people embraced in amorous affection in a scene that would surely remind me of my own love life's failures? To get dressed in something other than jeans and a hoodie? Ugh! Why do friends have to get married?

The rehearsal dinner was an exercise in patience. One time through the vows was not enough! No, we had to march back and forth, reenacting the get together. When I tried to walk more quickly to get the affair completed in a more "efficient" manner, I invariably received a stern look from a clipboard-toting authority figure with fashionably short hair and harsh eye liner. Groomsmen, she argued, are to act like gentlemen. I had a different interpretation, but kept it to myself.

I like my tuxedo shirts untucked. That's the way I wear all of my shirts and I don't see why tuxedos should be any different. When they're tucked in, my tops make me look too much like what I am: a poorly adjusted, out of shape nincompoop. The soft folds of my underbelly, invisible beneath the loose cloth of an untucked shirt, are painfully obvious above a constricting belt. Clipboard had a solution. She handed me a black shield which I placed over the junction of my shirt and pants which effectively blocked the view of my gut. I still don't know what the thing is called, but I owe it my dignity.

The attitude of the groom changed as the get together approached. During the rehearsal, his whole attention was occupied by his bride-to-be. He looked at her, talked with her, held her and generally spent every moment trying to be closer to her. When she left, he acted like a little baby who just lost his comfort blanket. Although he didn't throw a tantrum or react in an unseemly manner, he obviously felt her absence.

On the afternoon of the get together, the bride was kept out of the groom's site which really got to the groom. To the male contingent of the wedding party, congregated as we were in some kind of green room, the joyous occasion we were about to take part in demanded a light mood and spirits were high. The groom did not share our delectation. As the minutes wore on, beads of sweat, some tainted red, formed on his brow and began sliding down his cheeks, like tears from the wrong duct. His breathing was ragged and his hands unstable. He asked for a glass of water and ate something. And then he brushed his teeth for the umpteenth time to be "ready for the kiss."

As if to show off the groom's nerves to the world, Clipboard had him confiscated and placed in the front of the attending masses next to a too-calm pastor. Then we repeated the rehearsal, except this time it was the real thing.

When the bride appeared, all of us groomsmen, the best man and the groom let out a sort of involuntary gasp. You know the sound a carload of people make when they round a vista and see the Grand Canyon for the first time or catch their first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean? It was something like that. She was stunningly beautiful. As she walked toward the arbor, I wondered at the groom's amazing good fortune. He'd graduated from dereliction several years ago, but still had a very masculine streak in him. Sure he was more clean cut and generally better mannered, but at heart he was the sort of wild heathen who was more dedicated to fun than relationships. And he was a college student, which pretty much repels all the decent members of the opposite gender. How had he managed to get her to consent to marriage?

I wondered, as she took slow steps with her father over freshly dropped flower petals, if I might be so lucky. I looked over at the groom and noticed that his shaking had ceased. His nerves were calmed by her presence and, if I didn't know better, I might have guessed him a dead ringer for a handsome guy. I think he was relieved she didn't bolt, a possibility the other groomsmen and I had placed wagers on (I didn't lose too much money). There ceremony was as short as it was permanent and the happy couple marched down the aisle as husband and wife for the first time.

What am I forgetting? Ah, yes, the kiss. Clipboard gave us groomsmen a terrible angle on the get together smooch. All we saw was the groom's back as he leaned in. I felt as if I were sitting behind the fat guy at a baseball game. "Hey, man, I'm trying to see!" The audience appreciated act because it broke out into an applause that, while only latently enthusiastic, was not altogether limp. And then the happy couple marched down the aisle as husband and wife for the first time.

There were other things too. They pushed food into each other's mouths, walked around in a square to music while everyone watched and demanded they kiss, and threw articles of clothing toward single guests. It was all very romantic. If there is enough interest, I might dig through my memory and post some of the more scandalous anecdotes. Otherwise, that's the sweating of a groom.

Estrogen Assault

Meet Chester. Chester is a college student who uses his title as a way to get instant credibility. He works less than most people his age, but it's okay because someday he will have a degree. And he will make more money than the people who are working hard now. Chester is proud of how he thought this all through and looks forward to a time when he can rest on his laurels and live the high life. Because Chester isn't living the high life right now. Not at all. Chester needs to go to class periodically and some of his professors actually require him to do the readings. Life isn't hard for Chester, but it isn't as easy he'd like it, either.

It was nine o'clock at night and Chester was lounging in his room. His room was, at that moment, in the happy place between several month-long stretches of absolute disorganization. Chester could see his floor. It's always special when Chester can see the floor of his room. Chester had homework to do, but didn't want to do it and was creating all sorts of odd emergencies that needed resolving in order to avoid the ominous book lying prostrate on my desk in a manner that can only be described as unattractive. Chester had to eat something, Chester had to drink, Chester had to do some push-ups. Chester was almost ready to start preparing to get in the mindset to warm up to think up another excuse to avoid studying when his phone buzzed.

It was Bertha, an intelligent 20-something Chester knew from high school. He'd always liked Bertha, but never quite worked up the nerve to tell her or even act on his feelings. Bertha was home for the summer and wanted to hang out. Did Chester want to come over for a movie night?

Did Chester want to come over? Does Batman fly? Do basketballs bounce? Do Rice Crispies make weird popping noises after you pour the milk? Of course Chester wanted to come over. When could Chester come over? Were there any other excuses Chester could use to visit?

Chester did not think about what he was agreeing to. He did not ask what movie would be showing or who else would be present for the "movie night." His mind was completely occupied with thoughts of Bertha. An evening with her would be pleasant no matter what. Chester convinced himself of this.

Chester arrived at Bertha's house in his typical fashion: a few minutes late, out of breath and slightly disheveled. His afternoon had been stolen by YouTube and he only regained control of his body in time to sniff check his shirt and speed to his friend's house.

When Chester pulled up, he saw Bertha's father sitting placidly in the front yard with a .306 rifle. Chester knew he was Bertha's father because of his Dad T-Shirt. Chester stopped his car, but left his engine running. With the air from his car's central system cooling the sweat drops that formed on his brow, Chester debated the merits of continuing. He had a fast car; he could zip out of the driveway and be on the interstate before Bertha's Daddy could draw a bead. Chester wanted to see Bertha, but Chester did not want to be shot.

As if to make up Chester's mind for him, Bertha's Daddy motioned for Chester to get out of the car. Chester gulped, twisted the key out of the ignition and slid the door open. After brief introductions ("You must be Chester"), Bertha's Daddy pulled the rifle to his shoulder and squeezed off a quick shot toward the a fence outlining the perimeter of the property. When Chester extricated himself from the fetal position and the blood returned to his head, he saw a collection of tin cans on the fence. Bertha's Daddy was taking target practice.

"Missed," Bertha's Daddy muttered. "You'd best get inside and get cleaned up; looks like you might have done something involuntary." Chester hadn't, but he appreciated the other man's concern and walked briskly toward the house. Once inside, he had another shock.

If the outdoors were teaming with testosterone, the inside was paved with estrogen, hard compacted and then decorated with more estrogen. Bertha had invited a bunch of female friends for the occasion and the house was a roar of giggling, cooking and dress making. Yes, dress making. Even Bertha's brother, an overweight n'er do well with whom Chester had a lot in common, had flown the coup for the evening. Chester did not know what to do. He wanted to be very small, to be an ant on the ground that everyone ignores. Some of the girls tried to talk to him, but Chester didn't know what to say or how to answer. The conversation continued without him and he felt utterly lost, surrounded by a bunch of beautiful, giggling people who he would never understand. Chester almost felt that facing the .306 would be more pleasant than the estrogen assault. Almost.

Dinner was worse. Chester spoke English, not estrogen and he had a hard time keeping up with the pigeon dialect of his host and the other guests. At least Daddy Bertha was there. Chester now found him comforting as the bastion of masculinity in a sea of girls. He was the buoy Chester used to navigate his conversational ship and, although Daddy Bertha brought his .306 to the table with him, Chester started to like the man.

Chester had forgotten all about the movie that formed the pretense for his visit when Bertha asked if everyone was ready. Chester had never been asked whether he was "ready" for a movie before. He thought that was funny, but didn't laugh because his throat was too constricted.

To this moment, Chester cannot remember what movie he saw. It might have been the utterly pointless Beaches, the overrated Sleepless in Seattle or the tragic failure Steel Magnolias, which was, by the way, saved from utter destitution only by the stunning Dolly Parton. Chester does recall that Daddy Bertha did not watch the movie and that everyone in the room but him was bawling like a hungry two-year old somewhere near the end. Chester didn't see what was so sad, but he had a hard time staying awake, too. And at the only remotely interesting part of the film, the others told him to look away. Crazy.

When the credits rolled, Chester found an excuse to leave, got into his car and drove a mile or so, his mind blank. Then he got out and rolled in some dirt. He didn't know why, but it made him feel better - more like a man. He also stopped by GNC and purchased some supplements that would be illegal in the NCAA. Chester knew he wasn't Dara Torres; he could take these drugs.

The next day, when Bertha asked if Chester wanted to join her next weekend for a shopping trip, Chester did not hesitate before giving a negative response. He had been cured; at least for a little while...

Waiting on the women

We were getting ready for a long hiking trip, the kind of excursion that makes heels blister and ages knees rapidly. The "we" in that sentence refers to an amalgamation of friends who held roughly the same age but occupied positions all across the gender spectrum. I was one of the guys in the group. The planned hike was sixteen and a half miles through some of the most gorgeous terrain in California - which is saying something - to the top of a national icon and back again. Only a handful of us were cognizant of the strenuous nature of the expedition, but even the ignorant like me knew the most important task to tackle before starting out: visit the trail head's head.

We approached the semi-sanitary lavatories with all gaiety. Afterall, we hadn't hiked but a click and our spirits ran high from the calorie loading of the day before. At least, my spirits ran high. Some of the members of our group felt mischievous. But I'm getting ahead.

Our tempers were dampened only a little by the long line that formed in front of the cement water closets. The queue was reminiscent of the formation by the men's room during the seventh inning stretch; a dead caterpillar that had no thoughts of revival.

I don't think any of us guys even noticed the line (although I did see an attractive brunette who smiled at me and said something very nice that I didn't understand in a foreign language when I asked the time) as we marched to the male lavatory and did our business. We expected the girls to do likewise in the facility marked for their own use.

When I emerged from the trail head's head, relieved and ready to start hiking, I discovered the girls had a completely different strategy in mind. Rather than wait out the lady line, they asked us to post a guard and shut down the men's room for them. Being impatient as well as gullible, we obliged.

Although I'll deny it vehemently if you ever bring this up at a party, I am a total klutz socially. Those of you who know me are entirely too aware of this fact, but it needs to be raised again for reference sake. I have the social skilz of a demented three year old, as evidence by the fact that I just used the word "skilz." But I am comfortable in my uniquely awkward persona and total inability to charm. I am satisfied with my delinquent personality and sub-par conversation abilities. I'm okay with being pushed around by those who are more assertive and better able to get their way than me. I am fine with being the door mat for all my friends. Really, I am.

For the record, I didn't write the paragraph above. I think it was Chip, our latest contributor, but if you have better information, please let me know.

For whatever unimaginable reason, I was chosen to guard the door. As soon as I assumed the bouncer position, a heavy-set male with a ruddy complexion and an Owen Wilson nose approached the door. Something about him told me he had to use the bathroom.

"Can I help you?" I learned the line from the service industry.

"Uh, yeah, is this the men's room?" Ruddy Nose looked tired; he wasn't in the mood to add another crook to his schnoz. I wasn't in the mood to give him one. For the moment we were amicable. But I had to answer this question.

"Some young ladies needed to use the restroom and didn't want to wait through the line which you can see to your left is longer than a Desperate Student post. If you'll just wait patiently--" My sentence was interrupted by a peal of laughter from the estrogen-swamped men's room. I grimaced and Ruddy Nose gave me an amused look.

But it got worse. I cleared my throat, adjusted my collar and spread my legs out to improve circulation. I felt a bead of sweat start to form at my hairline and reached to wipe it away without thinking much about it. Ruddy Nose noticed and evidenced his perception with a tight grin. He really had to go.

Another girl from our group arrived late and looked around for her friends. It didn't take her long to do the math and run into the men's room to join the others. I tried to stop her, to explain that there was now a guy in line who had a long established right to first restroom entrance and that there was another facility where she had the right of way. She would have none of it; her friends had invaded the testosterone sanctuary and she wanted to be in on the fun too.

I looked at Ruddy Nose, intending to shrug sheepishly, but noticed that a couple more guys had lined up behind the first male arrival. Each looking very ready for the trail head's head. Very ready. My shrug turned into a stare that extended straight forward above a gulping swallow. Now was not a time for making light of the situation; no joke would alleviate the tension.

If only the girls felt that way. Another peal of laughter accompanied a louder remark: "You are doing your makeup?" Whoa. I inhaled deeply, ignoring the pine scented air and tried not to think about the travesty I was dragging the other male hikers through. Or rather what the primping girls were dragging them through.

More laughter and jokes followed from the young ladies as the minutes ticked by. Three, four, five minutes passed as more men joined the parade in front of the blocked door like an extended tiger's tail. The line had grown to a couple dozen people by the time the girls emerged, looking nice, but too happy.

None of the guys said anything or even made eye contact with the exiting females. They were zebras leaving the giraffe's cage. The girls tried to claim that their shenanigans were planned and that they intended to put upon us. They said that and other things designed to assuage the tension and drain the embarrassed red from my cheeks. I didn't know whether or not to believe them. I still don't. Regardless, it'll be a while before I close down another men's restroom.

Backpack Infidelity

It was the kind of experience that would compel Tom Cruise to issue a litany of religiously significant acronyms or force Keira Knightley to start eating. It was a dark occasion, but in an un-Oscar worthy way. A weaker soul might have left the room sobbing or, worse, tried to pull the old accessory switcheroo (think Quick Change magic, not Winona Ryder in a department store).

No, it wasn’t a tête-à-tête with Hillary Clinton, although that would have been frightful. Rather, I witnessed a homeless man carrying a backpack that was the same model, color and texture as my own. Of course, I knew the backpack wasn’t mine – my own sack was in a safe place – but the fact that they looked so similar had me instantly incensed.

Had my connection with the homeless man occurred over any other accessory, I might have let it pass. But not a backpack. Backpacks are as personal as the people they ride on. Like the tiny papooses of California’s first inhabitants, they accompany their guardians unhaltingly, sometimes swinging gently at the side. On other, more turbulent occasions, they lay double strapped and tightened in for extra security. The backpack is an intimate accessory, because it gets to put its straps where most other people can only dream of putting their hands.

Seeing your backpack ride on someone else's back is like discovering your Rolex is fake, except worse, because even a fake Rolex can be faithful.

But what to do? The backpack Bill of Rights, a sacred document among those who believe themselves more than just an empty sac and who want to peregrinate with pride, explicitly prohibits harming other backpacks, even those that are riding with another. So I gave the homeless man a quarter and had a DTR with my backpack where I explained everything I’d seen.

My backpack and I have been together since high school and our relationship has already survived a couple years of college. It’s been tough, but we’ve stuck side-by-side through it all. I raised the possibility that maybe we weren’t giving each other enough space and that each should allow the other more room.

And what do you know? It turned out to be an innocent misunderstanding. I was reading way too much into a guiltless situation. Now I feel a lot better knowing that someone has my back.

An hour in the weight room

Eight hours at General Mills is longer than twelve hours in most other places. The time drags worse than a Spike Lee movie and when the shift ends, I need to find relief. Yesterday afternoon, I sought that relief in the weight room at my local gym.

Weight rooms, in case you've never been properly introduced, are large, spacious areas with resistance-creating exercise equipment littering a padded floor. Cables and simple machines join free weights in giving wannabes and muscled posers a chance to "pump some iron." I trotted into the room with a pretty clear idea of how I was going to work out: I would watch someone else and do what they did at a lighter weight.

I found an octogenarian who looked familiar with the weight room ways and mores and followed his lead through a lengthy, if simple, routine. But the real show was watching everyone else labor through their workouts.

A male who couldn't have been older than my father's car, but looked about as heavy as said vehicle waddled into the room with determination. Everyone already working out paused to watch him make his way toward the lat machine (a rig that works your "wings"). The big guy set it at the highest level of resistance and then shifted his weight back and forth to bring down the bar. He broke a sweat doing this. Then he picked up his car keys and left.

A middle aged gentlemen entered the room wearing a long sleeved jacket and the short black shorts you'd see on a track coach from the 1980s. He was muscled, but not trim. This fact didn't keep him from removing the jacket and flexing for the multitude of mirrors that formed the room's only decoration. His display of fibrous firepower was impressive, but not captivating. Everyone soon returned to their workouts.

A middle-aged woman entered the weight room. Nobody looked up but everyone started a set. Even Bobby, a body builder with a Mr. Universe physique, who always takes two minutes between sets went back to his flies (a free weight exercise that works the pectoral muscles), started a set even though he had only completed his last one a half minute earlier. When I'd completed my set, I looked at the newcomer. She wasn't that attractive - in fact she was altogether comely homely - but she was the first woman in the weight room in some time and she was invading a man's domain.

A young woman entered the room. She was really attractive and wore the kind of workout gear that let everyone know. If the first gal created a stir, she caused a firestorm. The guys had no idea what to do with themselves. Most of us wanted to go over and say "hi," maybe try and get a date, but none of us had the nerve. Plus such forwardness would break one of the unwritten rules of the weight room: Only ask a girl out after she's turned down Bobby. Perhaps sensing our discomfort, she didn't stay long.

A young man who looked to be my age walked in. He was shorter than me and exceptionally thin. I figured I would be able to out-lift him and was anxious to see by how much. After meandering a bit, he grabbed the chin up bar and pumped out twenty legal chin ups (from full arm extension to chin over the bar). I was dumbfounded. The octogenarian tapped me on the arm: "don't encourage him, lad." Apparently, I wasn't the only one put out of sorts by his physical prowess.

A boy who couldn't be much older than the insurance-mandated age cutoff for the weight room entered and claimed a bench by throwing his towel down. He retrieved a bar from a rack in the back of the room and put a couple of weights on each end. A couple of the veterans joined me in watching. I think they knew what was going to happen next. The boy began to lift, but had forgotten to attach the moorings to secure the weight in place. One side of the bar went up faster than the other and the weights went clattering to the ground. I caught a smile from the man in the coach's shorts.

A small family (husband, wife and son) entered the room, although the mother was wearing baggy clothing and a bandanna that allowed her to enter as a man might. The father quietly gave directions to his son on how to lift using a cable pull. Then he performed a few reps while his son looked on. When Junior tried his hand at the exercise, it was apparent that the resistance was set too high. He hawed and heaved, losing all form and rendering the effect of the set negligible. If anything he risked injury. Dad looked on approvingly, but the family didn't stay longer than the time it took to complete that one set. I knew Junior would feel it in the morning.

Yes sir; another hour in the weight room...

Dating Disaster

"Everyone has these days." That's what I told myself during a sixteen hour period when everything went wrong before even considering going right. You know what I'm talking about: Nothing works out as it should. Regularly taken gambles and risks are rewarded with the sort of destitution normally reserved for the risk addicted, things that should go up go down and vice versa, polite comments are interpreted as premeditated insults and even friends begin to question your sanity.

You've probably had these kinds of days - you may have even had a day as bad as mine - but it is unlikely that you shared that experience with a beautiful woman.

We'll call her "Alexis" because I don't want to spend a great deal of time agonizing over a name for a woman who probably detests me and wouldn't read my writing for all the orange juice in Florida. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I met Alexis at a nondescript social function through school, the kind of affair that the politically and socially savvy frequent and that neck ties enjoy because they provide a vacation from their wrinkled and lonely closet existence. One look at Alexis revealed she was out of my league. Blond and attractive, she had radiant features and a captivating smile that every guy in the room noticed.

When I first saw her, I was mid sentence with a group of jocks talking about n'importe quoi. I stopped and my jaw must have gone slack since the whole group turned to follow my gaze. As one they answered my unstated question: "She's out of your league, man."

With my friends' statement as encouragement, I grabbed a couple of the cheesy fondue pieces that passed as "refreshments" at the shing-ding and moseyed in her general direction. When we met I was pleasantly surprised that she was able to overlook my many social faux pas and general lack of grace. We had a conversation (she was more than just a pretty face) and, by the end of the evening, a scheduled date. Take that, jealous jocks.

To get to the distant amusement park for which I'd bummed tickets in time to enjoy an entire day of nauseating fun, Alexis and I had to leave at an ungodly early hour. For a derelict like me, any hour before noon is early, but when the alarm rings much before twelve it's easy to ignore the noise as irritation and sleep on. That's exactly what I did. When I rolled out of bed, groggy eyed and rested, I glanced at my clock radio with the curious expression of a six year-old. The green numbers were not what I expected to see when I'd prepared myself for an early departure the night before. Nor, for that matter, did they represent a time at all close to the rendez-vous time Alexis and I had set for our trip.

It's always a tad embarrassing to stand a girl up. There was that time my senior year in High School when I accidentally scheduled two dates at once and took the "where are you?" call from one girl while dining with another. My "thanks for the call, mom" hang up line managed to further infuriate the girl I'd stood up and was unconvincing to the young woman I was with. If you're reading this, Liz, I'm sorry. And you deserve better, too, Becky. Then there was the time I decided to stop for pizza on the way to pick up my date for a dinner and dance. She smelled the pepperoni on my breath when I got to her house thirty minutes late and my flat tire excuse deflated quickly. There was also the time I plumb forgot about a lunch obligation and was halfway through my break and on the other side of town when the young woman called with a reminder.

These "Great Moments in Stand Up History" pale in comparison to my half-dressed, 45 minute late arrival. As soon as I remembered my date, I determined I didn't have time to shower, shave or shine, the three Ss of my morning routine. So I grabbed Lysol from under the bathroom sink and gave my entire body a quick application. The smell was overpowering, so I dug around for the Febreze and gave the strategic locations a few squirts. Still dissatisfied, I turned a bottle of aftershave upside down over my head and toweled my hair dry. In retrospect, a little cologne might have added some musk to my potpourri of scents, but I didn't think to reach for my room mate's bottle of Stetson.

I actually entered my car wearing only underwear but managed to dress while averaging over ninety miles per hour on the freeway. Did I mention I was driving a manual transmission? Or that my super efficient economy car is on the opposite end of the spacious spectrum from Loretta Lynn's Lincoln. I pulled into the parking lot where we were to meet, having been awake only 45 minutes, but smelling, I'm sure, like I'd just gotten out of the soap factory. When Alexis sat down in the passenger seat, she wrinkled her nose and stifled a sneeze. I pointed to my car's frame, which was home to more dirt than the underside of a horse's hoof, and said I'd just had it waxed. Alexis' nonpulsed answer revealed my lie's ineffectiveness and I noticed her glancing furtively at my hair which I admit had a sort of Vegas air.

At that moment, sitting next to a young woman who really did justice to the term "beautiful" in her chic green jacket and white blouse, my day was not going badly. In fact, had it ended right then with some kind of meteoric disaster, I'd have few regrets.

But it didn't end there. Alexis has the political views of a slightly demented Maoist minion and, after a few minutes of listening to her compare Dennis Kucinich to Mike Gravel, two men who have the combined political clout of my deceased dog, I told her as much. Some people watch Crossfire for entertainment, but few want to experience that level of argumentative intensity on a first date. I was no exception. It took the restraint of a Gregorian Monk to keep from pulling to the side of the interstate and leaving her to walk back to her communal abode.

I was just starting to warm up to Alexis when we stopped for breakfast. For some reason Alexis wanted to take a walk, so we hoofed around for twenty minutes before selecting an eatery. With the words of Avril Lavigne ringing in my ears ("I have to pull my money out and that looks bad"), I insisted on paying for the meal. Only the restaurant didn't take credit. And I didn't have any cash on me. I turned glumly to my date. "Alexis?" Like me, Alexis was a plastic aficionado who had about as much of the green stuff as the hairy guy with the shopping cart on Fourth and Vine. In fact, the richest entity between us was my car, which likes to keep some money in the ashtray.

From car to eatery and back was a little over three miles, but I ran it in less than twenty minutes, a pretty good time for an out of shape derelict. I also ran it in jeans and shirt, both of which lost their soapy smell by the end of the ordeal. Alexis enjoyed her meal while my body recovered from the run.

After rinsing out my shirt (Alexis' idea), we got back in the car and continued toward our destination. That's when the unthinkable happened.

I was on a sparsely trafficked freeway, going at about the speed of the other cars, maybe a little faster. I'd stopped sweating and Alexis wasn't talking politics. Things were looking up. Then, in one moment, my biggest claim to driving fame evaporated and, with it, I lost my tax rebate. That's right, I got ticketed. I did everything right. I told the officer I was late for work at In N' Out burger (an establishment that gives uniformed police officers a discount), that my new shoes had a bigger sole than I was used to and that my friend was in labor and that I was driving her to the hospital. When I mentioned my date, the officer took a closer look. His reaction was as unpredictable as it was crushing.

"Alexis?"

"Dad?"

That's right, I got pulled over by my date's cop dad. He wrote me up for the maximum and confiscated his daughter, telling her that she shouldn't be "keeping the company of such..." while gesturing toward me to emphasize his unfinished sentence. He also told me Alexis was out of my league. I drove home alone and went to bed as quickly as possible. I wanted that date to be over.

The next day, I called Alexis twice and left imploring messages. I emailed her, too. A few days later I blocked my number and called, but she hung up as soon as I identified myself. Her meaning could not have been more clear: another dating disaster.