As I walked into the building this morning and went to check my mail, she stopped to talk with me.

�Can�t talk. Gotta work, Helga,� wasn�t enough to get rid of her.

I thought she was on her way out, but she rode the elevator up with me, babbling about this-and-that, asking if I had seen Holger lately.

I�m not gonna rat out Holger. Why would I? He could rat me out just as easily too. After all, we use the same Helga-avoiding strategy: She knocks -- We ignore.

The other weekend she thumped on Holger�s door and asked if he wanted to go out. He lied, saying that he had to meet friends at 7:30. She came into his apartment anyway, saying that she would hang out with him until it was time for him to go.

D�oh! Holger forgot to lie and say that he was also busy. (Next time, I don�t think he�ll make the same mistake. Live and learn baby, live and learn!)

So she hangs around, probably eating all of his food and drinking all of his beer, until 7:30 rolls by and Holger knows that he�s screwed. He knows that even if he found something to do with other people, she�s going to invite herself. He also knows that there�s nothing he can do to stop her from following.

He manages to get in touch with some friends and arranges to meet them at such-and-such bar. Helga, of course, follows.

When they arrive, it�s obvious to his friends that Holger isn�t too keen on Helga being there. And since there�s nothing to lose, his friends start messing with the two of them.

How long have you two been dating?

I could imagine the retched look on Holger�s face, followed by dagger-like eyes towards his smartass friends.

Me, on the other hand -- I�ve already learned how to avoid her.

I look all rushed and say, �Sorry Helga. I have to work! Deadlines! Deadlines!� as I close my apartment�s door.

She doesn�t know what sorts of things I write. She doesn�t know that the $100 r�sum�s I�m putting together for others don�t usually have definitive dues dates. She doesn�t know that I haven�t even begun researching for the article I�m writing for the bar magazine because I have to actually attend a Cubs game that is assigned to me. She doesn�t know that bottomquark is an hour per day at the max. All-in-all, I�ve got a pretty sweet deal with this mystical �I�m a writer� thing.

But last night I got quite a scare. It seems that Helga is now plaguing my dreams.

I have these shoddy cotton night pants that I only wear during the summertime that I recently resurrected from the out-of-season clothes box. First off, I just got them out the other day. This means that I haven�t yet had the chance to wear them more than one afternoon�s worth of sitting on my ass. Secondly, these are not pants to be worn around anyone. They�ve got the old-thin thing going on, the elastic is shot, and they�re mostly white. The point being that there are some ChicagoJo undies being seen through them, if you don�t already have an eyeful because they�re just barely hanging on my J-Lo hips.

In this dream I had last night, I have a friend over and I go into the bedroom to put on one of my more appropriate pair of sleepy pants. I hear a commotion in the living room, and I come out to find him pinning her against the wall because she snuck into my apartment, no doubt trying to drink all of my beer.

So it�s not just that she�s coming over uninvited, getting herself into my apartment, and interrupting what could have been a really hot sex dream... But what is she wearing?!

My shoddy cotton night pants, of course!!!

They�re snug around her waist and as high as pedal-pushers on her calves.

And I�m pissed. Nobody wears my shoddy cotton pants except me! And you certainly don�t wear my shoddy cotton pants with your hot pink granny panties showing when I�ve got a friend around.

But before I got to holler at Helga about the common freakin� courtesy one employs when trying not to piss off one�s neighbors, the alarm goes off. �