Five years ago, I was rushing out the door at my dad’s house when he stopped me.

“Rachelle, there’s something I need to tell you. Do you have a minute?” His somber look and serious tone sent my heart racing – and my mind scrambling to identify the latest family crisis.

“Sure,” I said with a tremor in my voice.

He shook his head sadly. “It’s a shame the way you look when you leave the house.”

I struggled to wipe the images of cancer-ridden loved-ones from my mind. “Huh?”

“You’re an attractive woman. You should be a clothes-horse, but instead…”

As he went on, I looked down at myself, as if for the first time. Some sort of wrinkled pea green waterproof hiking pants, covered with pockets and zippers, hung from my hips like jeans worn by boys and rappers. The resemblance was unintentional, as they were men’s pants – about three sizes too big. Equally big and shapeless, was a long-sleeve, royal blue t-shirt that reached my thighs.

I put a hand to my head, readjusting the black Nike baseball cap that I’d removed from my dad’s Goodwill stack. Excluding my bangs, it completely covered my hair. Throw in the three year old glasses, the total lack of make-up, and …

He was right. I looked awful. My parents had taught my siblings and me to always leave the house looking our best, but I’d been the only one to consistently fail this lesson.

“Here, Rachelle.”

His voice, now laden with sympathy, jerked my attention to him – and the money in his outstretched hand. Heat burned my face. Humiliation flickered through my body.

Though I didn’t accept my dad’s gift, I did follow his advice. I consulted an image consultant, who showed me the basics of make-up, the colors that looked good on me, and the clothing cuts appropriate for my body. While I’d never been a fashion disaster (when I made the effort to look good, that is), I was delighted with the improvement in my appearance.

Until yesterday.

As I stood in the center of Chronicle Books, flipping through Brenda Kinsel’s Fashion Makeover: 30 Days to Diva Style!, my attention once again turned to what I was wearing: Sketchers tennis shoes; big-legged black “dressy” sweat pants; tan zippered sweater from four seasons ago; a man’s XL charcoal jacket (a castoff of my bother’s); two year old glasses…

I picked up Ms. Kinsel’s book and rushed to the register. This time, I’m going to address the problem before my dad notices my relapse. And who knows? I might just share my results with you, too.

One of my dating-related New Year’s Resolutions is to work on being more “approachable” to men. Like, smiling at a guy I’m attracted to. Or initiating polite conversation with a man I think is hot.

I’m a whiz at doing these things if I’m not attracted to a guy.

Well, today, I resolved to change that.

The sun was shining. People filled the sidewalks. Conversation and laughter wafted through the air. Spring had sprung and I was feeling happy and confident, bordering on cocky. Until I saw H.I.M, standing outside one of my favorite coffee shops.

His dark brown hair, a tad too long, was combed back from his face. A neat mustache and goatee, sprinkled with a strand or two of gray, framed his sexy lips. The tip of a triangular tattoo traveled up his neck, ending near his jaw. His tall, toned body, encased in drab brown, transformed his Muni bus driver uniform into designer clothing.

He looked like no San Francisco transportation worker I’d ever seen. His bad boy image was totally at odds with his profession. And, for the first time I can remember, I experienced that “raw energy” emanating from a man that I thought only existed between the pages of the books I write.

Feeling shell shocked, I totally forgot to invoke I Am Approachable Rule #1: Smile.

As his friend held the door open for me, I thanked him, and went inside. I dropped my backpack at an available table and then joined them in line. All the while, my heart raced and my mind scrambled to come up with a witty I Am Approachable line.

Mr. Sexy ordered his coffee drink, his deep voice sending heat to my stomach.

I remained silent, dumbstruck.

When the owner handed him a paper cup overflowing with foam, he politely asked her to scoop it all off. “I’ll get it in my moustache,” he added.

My tongue became unstuck. Remembering I Am Approachable Rule #2: Say Something, I said with a chuckle, “Then you can do one of those milk commercials.” (Okay, so it was a weak opening line. But you gotta give me points for hormonal distress!)

He returned my chuckle without turning around, giving me a side glimpse of dazzling white teeth.

And then he was gone.

The conversation behind the counter invaded my hormone-induced coma.

“I would do anything to be on his bus,” said one.

“He can take me anywhere,” said another.

Feigning nonchalance, I asked, “Do you know him?”

“He’s filming Mission Street Rhapsody nearby. That’s Benjamin Bratt.”

I frowned. “Who’s Benjamin Bratt?”

At their incredulous looks, I took my latte and slunk to my table. Booting up my laptop, I Googled ‘Benjamin Bratt’ and then clicked on the link: http://www.askmen.com/men/apr00/20_benjamin_bratt.html.

My mouth dropped open.

That was Benjamin Bratt? Sandra Bullock’s love interest in Miss Congeniality? Julia Roberts (ex?)boyfriend? But, most importantly, he was the guy I had lusted after in Love in the Time of Cholera last November?

A sense of pride buzzed through me. Okay, so maybe he hadn’t noticed me. And I probably wouldn’t have said a thing, had I known who he was. But I’d inadvertently practiced my New Year’s Resolution on the Benjamin Bratt.

Confidence and cockiness returned to my chest. Mr. Bratt today. Who would be tomorrow?

I felt very Sex-And-the-City like on Christmas afternoon, as I sat sipping and laughing and eating with fellow girlfriends Mine (pronounced Mee-nay) and Saeeda (who you may remember from my Derek video escapades). Over the last few months, we’ve become like The Three Musketeers, racking up hilarious adventures in San Francisco – some of which will be revealed in 2008, and many of which, won’t.

But, that’s another story.

So back to this story.

After stuffing ourselves on Mine’s delicious lamb medallions, rice, and potato-eggplant medley, followed by applesauce spice cupcakes topped with a cream cheese frosting, we joined the entire population of San Francisco at the movie theatre. Saeeda opted for a bit of thought-provoking enlightenment and joined another friend for the opening of The Great Debaters while Mine and I chose pure escapism.

So, off we waddled to see I Am Legend.

And there, I got a huge surprise.

No, not because I rode the wave of road-rage feelings with other movie goers, shushing and cursing (though I did not curse) the rude, rowdy teenagers giggling with their ringing cell phones.

Instead, I was surprised to discover I loved this movie. Because it was scary.

And, by scary, I don’t mean that disturbing, slash-and-dismember-with-as-much-blood-as-possible gore that Hollywood likes to pass off as scary. Instead, it was that sitting-on-the-edge-of-your-seat scary feeling that I got as a kid when I saw Psycho – and, for you young ‘uns out there, I’m talking about the 1960s version, not the one from 1998.

The fact that the dark dwellers came out at night – which means the hero, Robert Neville, played by Will Smith, and his faithful dog had to be barricaded inside by then – was a perfect opportunity for the movie to devolve into the 1990s remake of Night of the Living Dead - the movie I walked out of - with scene after scene of zombie-like creatures chasing him.

But, it didn’t.

In addition to its scariness, I loved the way the movie caught Neville’s…aloneness. In fact, a large portion of the film captures this. While Neville’s alone, there are humorous moments, touching moments, and nightmarish moments. Though there were predictable moments in the second half of the film, I was willing to overlook them due to Will Smith’s acting and the fact that I was already hooked.

So, if you want to be scared, I heartily recommend this movie.

Did anyone else see this movie? Am I alone - or is there anyone else out here that liked it?

Until yesterday, I thought I knew what men like to see on a woman: Pretty much anything that makes us miserable. Like a wedgie-inducing thong. Or a micro-miniskirt that reveals an ass cheek with each micro-step, despite repeated attempts to pull it down. Or 3-inch stilettos with neck-breaking potential.

True, these accessories are sexy to men. But want to know what the #1 accessory is?

A book.

Yeah, I hear your skepticism. And, until yesterday, I would have been skeptical, too.

But, in yet another procrastination maneuver designed to avoid writing, I decided I needed to take a l-o-n-g walk. In the rain. So, bundled up in a shapeless sweater my grandmother probably wouldn’t wear and a scarf looped around my neck so many times that I could barely turn my head, I grabbed my eye glasses, a book, and my umbrella.

And off I went, umbrella up, FOREVER ODD in my hands, reading as I walked the streets of San Francisco.

“That must be a good book,” came a deep voice in front of me.

I looked up into the smiling face of a man walking his Pomeranian or some such faux dog. I smiled. “Yes, Dean Koontz is always a good read.”

He smiled, we made arcane small talk, and I went back to reading as I entered the crosswalk.

“Hi,” came another male voice.

I looked up. “Hi,” I said to the good-looking Latino man in front of me.

He smiled. I smiled. And, after spotting the wedding ring on his left hand, I went back to reading and walking.

“Hey,” said another guy.

I looked up and my heart did that stutter thing that I write about in books as I looked at the bad boy with the dazzling smile, wearing the hard hat. Dammnnn.

“Hi. Looks good,” I said motioning to the wall he was building, proud of the confidence in my voice, as if I knew a good wall from a bad wall.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. And you look good, too.” I said, smiling.

Surprise flitted across his face and his smile widened.

Surprise flitted through my body – I was surprised because I can rarely flirt without the help of a Long Island Ice Tea. Or two. Sometimes, it takes three.

Despite the lack of a wedding ring on his finger and the tingly thing his smile was doing to my insides, I walked away. Twenty-three years old was too young, even in this Decade of the Cougar.

But, this time, as I walked along, that tingly feeling was preventing total concentration on Koontz’s tale of a man who saw the dead.

“Wow. How do you do that?”

I looked up at the guy leaning against a wall, taking a cigarette break. “Do what?” Lust after twenty-something year olds?

He motioned to the book. “Walk and read. Don’t you stumble?”

Oh. That. “Well, occasionally I stumble. Once I walked into a street sign.”

I described the lump on my head from the metal pole, then the conversation went deep, as my stumbling became metaphoric for stumbles in life.

I won’t bore you with the remaining encounters. The point to all this is: When I’ve walked the streets in this same attire, book-less, rarely has anyone said a word to me or spared me much of a second glance. But, book in hand, suddenly half the guys I pass want to chat.

So. I’m convinced that men find books on a woman sexy. And I’m convinced that books are the new guy magnet. Imagine the possibilities of combining a book with that little black dress I wrote about months ago. Mind boggling, isn’t it?

Anyone want to borrow FOREVER ODD ?

Imagine that Antonio Banderas asked to be your friend. Wouldn’t your heart skip a beat? Wouldn’t your breath catch in your throat? Wouldn’t you become the living embodiment of every cliché ever written in a bad romance novel?Well, that’s what I became this morning when I got the news. Oh. My. God. The Antonio Banderas wants to be my friend!

And then, reality swirled through my body.

I frowned.

What were the odds of the Antonio Banderas being logged onto MySpace, checking out my profile, and inviting me to be his friend? Even I, not always the quickest one to jump to obvious conclusions, knew the answer to this one:

Slim. Incredibly, impossibly, slim.So …while it’s not quite the same, I am honored that an Antonio Banderas fan wants to be my friend. Hey, six degrees of separation and all that. It’s only a matter of time before Antonio, himself — right after Oprah — comes knocking.

After that bit of good news, I left the house and my neighbor stopped me, handing me a box. Once again, that heart-skipping-a-beat-breath-catching-thing happened.

Only, this time, it was real.

For as I ripped open the box, copies of my very own book, with my very own name on it stared back at me. I was looking at real, live editor copies of my book, SEX LOUNGE, which won’t be out until May 2007!

Which means, it’s real. Now that I feel it in my hot little hands, I really do have a book coming out. Woo-hoo!

And the good news just keeps coming. I got my first published Sex Lounge review from Joyfully Reviewed:

“The sexual tension in Sex Lounge was enough to make me sweat. More than once my heart rate sped up in time with Nichole’s as Derek’s sensual and sinful seduction began. I enjoyed watching these two characters fall for each other.

Sex Lounge was truly a delight to read. I became as obsessed with reading Sex Lounge as Nichole was obsessed with Derek. Unable to put the book down, I read it completely and totally in one sitting. One long, steamy sitting. Rachelle Chase has my attention with this release and I would love reading more from her.” ~Talia, Joyfully Reviewed

So was your day as good as mine? Did Antonio Banderas invite you to be his friend?