2006-02-27 - 3:26 p.m.

That whole Six Degrees of Separation thing is a dangerous game.

Dangerous to forget, that is.

My addiction to reality television has lead to yet another crush. Now Iíll admit, this crush doesnít have legs.

Wait, I donít mean the boy physically has no legs, he has what I can only assume would be very muscular sexy legs.

I mean to say that the crush will have a pretty short shelf life. Long-term crushes must hold up to pretty strict criteria.

Long-term crushes must have the ability to be seen, or heard, somewhere in a fresh new way. (Remember, weíre talking about crushes on celebrity folks that I do not know here, not the myriad of crushes on people in my life).

This particular crush will probably not be on t.v. anytime soon, he probably wonít have a new album out or anything of that nature in a time frame that would remind me about him now that his reality show has ended.

Long-term crushes must be available, even if not so much sexually compatible with me. I know this makes no sense. I realize it shouldnít matter if heís married because he is only a crush, but it does. Celebrity marriages, by and large, donít count. If Brad marries Angie Iíll still crush them both because A. Who doesnít want to be the meat in that sandwich and B. Thereís no way theyíre gonna last.

New crush boy is married, very happily and not in a celebrity sort of way.

Long-term crushes should have a body of work that I can obsess over. New crush boy has a small body of work from when he was kind of too young for me to consider looking at without registering myself as a sex offender. (Not literally, but he looks VERY young in most of the old stuff).

The point is, this is a short-term fling, if you will. Passionate, but we know it will be over soon. My guess is that by the next new Americaís Next Top Model (Oh Jay how Iíve missed you) or Extreme Makeover Home Edition (Did I mention Iím now in love with Preston too?) Iíll have forgotten all about this new flame.

Except, I wonít be allowed to forget him. It will brought up in the somewhat merciless way my brief enchantment with a certain late night talk show host is brought up.

Because I forgot to play the game.

See, if youíre a net friend you may not know, but when I am crushing, or obsessing or imaginarily flinging with these folks I keep their photos on my dashboard. Tucked away over the tachometer, or perhaps taped to the sun visor are little images that send my mind on fantasies of romance and sensual escapades that serve to make the endless driving my life has become slightly more tolerable. (Shut up, itís cheaper than my cell phone bill).

A rather studly visual of the current plaything graced my dashboard recently when J leaned into my car to retrieve his sonís STUPID ELMO HAT (no hate mail please, I love Elmo, I hate this hat, which gets lost almost daily and is apparently the key to little Dís survival).

J checks to see who the new crush is. He does this any time he has occasion to be near my car. I believe firmly that it serves the dual purpose of feeding the small hope that his photo appears in the space (it does, with some frequency, though I usually remember to take it down before he sees it-his head is fat enough), or so that he can tease me relentlessly about my suspect taste in fantasy-friends.

Usually if Iím going to see him I remember to play the 6 degrees game. If itís someone he knows or is within 3 degrees of knowing, I take the thing down.

J is currently touring with crushboy of the momentís ex-bandmate.

J has had many occasions to meet and spend time with crushboy and now I must deal with the constant bombardment of jokes.

So weíve learned two lessons here.

Always remember to play 6 degrees and reality tv is hazardous to your self respect.


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