another (mostly true) story of Newt's utter ineptitude:

It's a well known fact that I get distracted by redheads. They are, to put it simply, my kryptonite, and when a nerdy little red-headed girl walks by, especially one wearing glasses and a geeky threadless t-shirt, I am powerless to resist.

This is definitely a character flaw of mine, because really, it shouldn't matter what someone looks like on the outside, right? It's all about what's on the inside, and while I mostly believe this to be true, I can't help the fact that I go nuts over those with a touch of ginge in the minge.

But this is a character flaw I'm going to take to my grave - as long as I'm single and "on the prowl" as it were, geeky red-headed girls are going to drive me absolutely crazy, and you know what? I'm okay with that.

Last night was kind of silly, though.

I was in a grocery store, waiting for Happy Apple to get off work so we could watch the Sharks game (by the way, can I just say? WOOT). I was browsing through the aisles, killing time, when along walks a fairly pretty blonde. One eyebrow raises. And then walks by my kryptonite, and my other eyebrow raises.

She had red hair. Hipster Glasses. A Big Bang Theory "Bazinga!" t-shirt. I'm pretty sure she also had arms, legs, boobs, and possibly even hands, but all that stuff sort of faded away, because I was floating in nerdy newt paradise. We would have beautiful ginger children and we would spend our days hiding in long shadows avoiding the sun and happily debating exactly when the Rolling Stones sold out.

I instantly tried to make myself look impressive. Males of other species puff out their chests to attract the ladies, or sing crazy songs, or beat up all the other males around them in a display of dominance. But then, males of other species are stupid, which is why my species eats those species.

Naturally, my mating display was a bit more advanced, and developed.

Nope, instead of any of that usual mating dance crap, I did what comes naturally to me. I grabbed a wedge of cheese and tried to look impressive as I read the label, as if to say "look at me, I'm important because I'm interested in imported wensleydale". I adopted my best pseudo hipster pose, and hoped for the best.

She actually came up next to me, gave me a friendly smile, grabbed another block of cheese (Lancashire, for those at home keeping score), and started reading the label. I was stunned - was my infamous "cheese gambit" actually going to pay off? Would this be the first chapter when I told our children how I had met their mother? I felt like a dog who had spent so long chasing ducks that, when he finally caught one, had no idea what the hell to do with it. I started wracking my mind for something clever and witty to say.

You'd think this would be easy. I write a blog that is, occasionally, "sort of" funny. So really, why shouldn't I be at least "kind of" funny on demand? But, nope. I just stood there, my cheese in my hand (not a euphemism!), wondering what the hell to do.

"Hey, look, we both like firm cheeses from England! By the way, do you wanna bang?"

"I think women who are tolerant of lactose are super sexy."

"Bazinga?"

But I said none of those things, which is probably for the better. Instead, I looked over at her, and she turned to look at me. For a moment, we had eye contact, and my heart jumped up into my throat. Gorgeous green eyes behind thick-rimmed hipster glasses. Oh, the plaid collection this woman no doubt had at home, sitting next to her signed copies of albums by Broken Social Scene! Bestill my beating heart!

I smiled, and said, rather awkwardly, "Hey." The last time my voice cracked like that, I was thirteen.

She smiled back, just as awkwardly, and looked at her cheese. I got ready to press in for the finishing move. I think I was getting ready to go all out and try my "imported english cheeses" line.

Before I could say anything, though, her friend came by. The blonde grabbed my future red-headed wife by the arm, and said "there's no way you're buying more cheese, you'll stink up the place. Come on, let's go!"

My redheaded wife-to-be shrugged, put the cheese down, and left, blushing a deep crimson.

And before I could say anything more, my redhead walked out of the store. I wanted to follow, shouting shakespearean sonnets after her. But I didn't.

Because I couldn't think of anything that rhymed with Wensleydale.