STRANGER THAN FICTION: PSYCHIC'S WORDS RING TRUE...KIND OF

Dec. 18 is my 25th birthday, and the Roommate who has sworn to take me to the Olive Garden in celebration certainly won't forget it.

That's Dec. 18. Exactly one week before Christmas Day.

Now that we've got that straight, let's talk about psychics.

In my nearly 25 years on this planet, not once have I paid money to have my palm, tea leaves or cards read. I've checked my horoscope twice and eaten maybe 10 fortune cookies. One fortune actually came true: It was the one that said, "You will find love in September."

Found it in September, lost it in October. Such is the fickle finger of fate.

But last week when I was visiting a couple of my truly liberal friends -- not just the kind who say they are but really aren't -- there she was. The psychic named Anne.

Anne took to me immediately, showing me a couple of computer-generated star charts she made for my friends. She held my hand and studied the lines on my palm, explaining their significance rapidly.

I have to admit, it was pretty fun and relaxing until she got to one particular line.

"You have a writer's fork here, but it's very light," Anne said. "You should use your thumbnail to make it deeper so you can get better ideas."

Okay. I'm pretty thick skinned, but it was tough to accept that my writer's fork was barely visible. Despite my efforts to resist, I can't help occasionally shoving my thumbnail into my palm.

Anne's love for her work became more apparent when I ran into her again the next day, and she had prepared a "love spell" for me. It looked like potpourri with a few tiny metal hearts, stars and lips thrown in, and it smelled heavenly.

She told me to rub my fingers through it on the way to any event where I might meet single men, then write down what I'm looking for in a man and pick a few of the metal hearts out of the mix. At the event, I was to sprinkle the hearts on the floor.

The spell made it as far as my glove compartment.

But that very night, a friend from work invited me to a local adult beverage establishment. When I walked in he was sitting at a table full of good-looking, single men.

I made a mental note to thank Anne for her spell, which was strong enough to work even from the glove compartment of my car.

I was seated next to a guy I'll call "Steve," as opposed to "Jerk" or maybe "Two-Bit Player Who Shouldn't Be Allowed To Live."

Steve and I hit it off, sipping adult beverages responsibly and talking about our respective jobs, hobbies and lives in general. He seemed like a great guy, boyishly handsome with a good sense of humor. He asked for my numbers, both home and work.

"I'll call you," he said.

Yeah, right.

Guys, why, oh why, do you ask for our numbers when you have no intention whatsoever of picking up the phone and dialing them?

Maybe you think it is the polite thing to do. It isn't, guys. Whereas you will walk away from the experience with a number to add to your stash, we will walk away wondering if we had any unsightly blemishes showing during our visit.

Even if we didn't fall madly in love with you, if we gave you a number that WASN'T the local pizza delivery line, we wanted you to call. Maybe it was just so we could have someone male to chat with, but we wanted you to call.

If any male, or even female, out there has some idea why men ask for phone numbers and don't call, please write me in care of the Southeast Missourian.

Or just call.

~Heidi Nieland is a member of the Southeast Missourian news staff.