Editor’s note: The following is a continuing journal of a fictional college student. It is intended to be a humorous and enjoyable feature about an average Joe. It runs weekly, on Fridays. Though written by Iowa State’s own Scott Jacobson, a Daily staff writer, people, places and events detailed below are not analogous to a real student.

---

November 11, 1996

So there I was, sittin’ on my couch watching Eddie play Nintendo when the unthinkable happened.

No, I’m not talking about Eddie saving the princess and winning the game. That happened last week and boy did we party our butts off that night.

So there I am just sitting and the phone rings and of course Eddie picks it up (it’s either for him or it’s a wrong number) and he answers it with his usual greeting…

“Ed’s Roadside Cafe, you kill ’em, we grill ’em. This is Ed.”

Then a funny “Whatchoo talkin’ about Willis” look appears on his face and he hands the cordless to me.

And it’s her.

Not the girl from the tailgate whose chip dip I sat in. Not the one from the hockey game that I spilled my beer on.

Not the one who sits next to me in art history and wakes me up when the quiz is ready to start. Not even the black kitty cat from Halloween night whose name I still don’t know.

But her.

I didn’t know that this girl even knew how to dial a phone. Much less with my number. To be honest, I thought I would go the liquor store and see Non-Alcoholic Guinness Light before I heard from her again.

But, the impossible had come true. She had called me and the first thing she says is …

“Hey, this is Chelli, and I just called to apologize for the other night.”

And the first thought to pop in my head is …

Damn skippy! Don’t you think it’s about time?

But the first words to come out of my mouth were …

“Apologize?? For what?”

Then she actually broke down and gave me an admission of guilt. With a plea of insobriety, that is.

“Well, I’m really sorry about the beer thing. I was drunk. I hope you didn’t take it the wrong way.”

How many ways can someone interpret 16 ounces of diluted barley and hops being dumped on their melon?

Who knows? Maybe she was just tired of that glass and knew that I enjoyed drinking through osmosis and my forehead was thirsty and ready to absorb some booze.

Or there’s a remote chance that she felt that it was some type of campustown-tribal mating ritual where she douses me with alcohol and I drag her home by her hair and then we rub two sparklers together and make fire, fire, fire.

Nope, I don’t think I took it the wrong way, but I had to be somewhat tactful about the whole thing. So I told her I barely noticed except that my face was a bit sticky for the rest of the night.

So she tells me that she wants to make it up to me by taking me out this weekend. Whatever I want to do. Wherever I want to go. That’s the plan.

Fortunately, I had nothing planned for this weekend. Or next weekend. Or the weekend after that. So she lucked out.

We talked on the phone for about another 10 minutes and then she told me just to give her a call on Saturday and we’d figure things out for the weekend.

So I said ba-bye in my sweetest 900 phone sex voice and hung up slowly wondering what the hell had just happened.

Then Eddie asked, “What the hell just happened?”

So I recap the conversation and tell him of my plans for the weekend and he decides to give me his analysis.

“So the girl that just threw beer on you last week after avoiding you for a month and a half and giving you ‘the nod’ after enjoying just one night of good conversation at the beginning of the semester that may or may not have ended in a sense of optimism wants you to go out with her at her expense this weekend?”

“Yep.”

“OK, makes sense to me.”

Just like that, he was off pause and back to Super Mario.

Since then, I’ve been trying to figure out what we could do that would be fun on Saturday night.

There’s always the tailgate before the hockey game, but that’s not exactly romantic. I mean, Kevin Costner wouldn’t take a lady to the ice arena parking lot to drink from a keg before making asses of themselves in front of the general public. But it’s a thought.

There just isn’t much to do around here other than the typical act-like-I-can-afford-this dinner followed by a tear-jerking, female-bonding, pretend-I’m-an-emotional-type-of-guy movie.

Oh well. I’ll think of something before I call.

As long as I don’t get that damn answering machine.