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?

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 ?

On Sunday’s episode of “Chatting with Chase,” I interviewed Todd and Terry, the hilarious guys who have turned a box of romance novels into dating gold on “The Lonesome Losers Show,” which airs Saturday nights on www.readersentertainment.tv. For amusing highlights of the advice they shared, please visit my MySpace blog entry, “Interview with Todd and Terry – The Lonesome Losers” or visit www.BlogTalkRadio.com/chattingwithchase to listen to the interview.

At any rate, some folks were nice enough to send in “worst date” experiences before my show. While some were covered on “Chatting with Chase,” there were some good ones that we did not have time to cover. For example:“… He brought his parents with him. He picked his nose, studied it, then ate it. He had coupons for the meal but still asked for split checks … I told him because of his horrible dating techniques, I am now a lesbian.” ~Sandy

“… Dinner is almost over … he says to me in this very matter-of-fact tone, ‘By the way, did I tell you that I spent two years in prison for almost killing a man?’” ~Vicki

“… guy showed up wearing old ragged jeans and a faded out shirt … He took me through the drive through at Arby’s for dinner … He started driving out of town through the back country … He said he was taking me to see his family’s mountain cabin …” ~Crystal

“A while ago, I joined an online dating service. There was this guy who emailed me … his picture showed a nice-looking, tall guy … [on the date] this overweight, short guy rushes toward me, grabs me by the shoulders, and kisses me on the cheek … He told me he lives with his mother and masturbates while looking at Penthouse, but now, he was masturbating while looking at my online pictures.” ~Patricia

“I was walking along the marina on a first date when the guy went to hold my hand. Me: Aw, your hands are cold. Him: Yeah, I think all my blood just rushed to my penis.” ~Ann

Now, I think that these are pretty bad. Care to share your worst date?

When my publicist, Victor Gulotta, emailed me to say I was going to be a guest on Playboy Radio, my mouth fell open.“Oh my God, I am so not a Bunny!”

He reassured me. Not to worry, I was going to be a Play Date.

“Oh my God. What’s a Play Date? I’m not a Play Date, either!”

He assured me that he and the producer felt I’d be perfect for the show. And even more good news: 2.5 million listeners.

2.5 million listeners?!

Needless to say, for my first ever radio appearance to be with Playboy, in front of millions of listeners, I was both excited and nervous.

But off to Los Angeles I flew.At the radio station, host Tara Mack and show producer, Kevin Dalton, walked me through the details. There would be rhyming games, guessing games and more, all geared to test the ‘dating’ skills of male callers. Callers would provide answers and I would judge the appeal of the answer to a woman, thereby deciding the caller’s fate: Whether he’d remain on the line and/or win prizes or get disconnected, thereby ending the ‘date.’

Five … four … three … two … one … We’re on the air.

The show is fast-paced, with a Beat the Clock kind of feel. Feeling like Speed Racer, I zipped through the answer to Tara’s question on where I got my ideas for my books, unknowingly racing towards Life’s Most Embarrassing Moment #1.

In the midst of a game where callers had to create unique verses to Roses Are Red, Tara turned to me, “Rachelle, do you know a word that rhymes with ‘poet’?”

I smiled, saw the word ‘Moët’ in my mind, and blurted, “Mow it!”

Oh. My. God. I’d just mispronounced a word that – when pronounced correctly – doesn’t even rhyme with ‘poet’ in front of 2.5 million listeners. My panicked brain searched for a way to save face – like, maybe I could suddenly develop a Southern accent and claim my mispronounciation was due to my accent.

Tara, gracious as well as a radio personality extraordinaire, zoomed in with the save, letting me cop the writer’s block excuse.

Onward to Life’s Most Embarrassing Moment #2.

Determined to redeem myself after the ‘Moët’ debacle, I saw my opportunity. A caller had to rhyme with ‘yellow’ but couldn’t.

“I know!” I said, excitedly. “Roses are red, violets are yellow, when I look at you my legs turn to jello.”

If I had been Tara, I would have rolled my eyes by now. Instead, she gave me a prize that made me laugh. “Congratulations, Rachelle. You’ve won a date with yourself.”

Despite these blunders, I did, indeed have fun. I was able to somewhat coherently state my thoughts on the appeal – or lack thereof – of caller’s statements. And on one of the games where I had to make my ‘date’ guess the word I was thinking of without saying it in order to test his listening skills, I took him to the final round. And watching Tara juggle technology, sound effect prompts, signals from the producer, deliver face-saving comments for me, handle callers, and deliver witty comebacks, all the while being polished, unruffled, and entertaining was a sight to see.

So, many thanks to Victor, Tara, April, and Playboy Radio, for the awesome experience. And special thanks to Kevin and Tee, for giving me a crash tour of the Playboy television studio on the day before a holiday weekend.