Another week, another set of dysfunctional Harvardians who need me. I'm really beginning to get into this "Help me, I'm lost!" stuff. Send me more letters; I love 'em! This week, it seems people are beginning to lament about formals, frottage, and fudge. The three "Fs." Hmmmmm.

Dear Norma,

I'm sure you know, Norma, that this Saturday night is the Radcliffe Senior Soiree. My problem is that I don't have a date. But that's not the only problem. I am fully aware of the fact that there are dateless senior men a-plenty, even at this late date. The issue is that I can't distinguish between the unasked and the asked. It's not that I mind the asking, or even the rejection. I just can't spend the dance running into my old askees. I don't want them to gloat when they see my date--whoever he may be--knowing all the while that he is at least my second fiddle. Time is running short, so please tell me soon! Dateless in DeWolfe

Dear Dateless,

By the time you read this, it will at least be Thursday and your time will indeed be slipping away. Like sands through an hourglass, even. To avoid subjecting yourself and your potential date to undue embarrassment of the sort you mentioned, you have two choices at this point. Either find a groovy underclassman who can dance, drink and schmooze like a pro senior, or hire someone out of the "Adult Services" section of the Phoenix (he's paid for this kind of thing). If you go with my first suggestion, ask the cutest junior in your house (good luck!). They're old enough to be cool, but young enough to be modest. If you try the Phoenix, here's a tip: the higher the price, the better the quality. (And if you're REALLY in a pickle, my twin brother Norman is always available...call the Crime and I'll give you the number.)

Dear Norma,

I'm so grossed out! I was on an elevator in William James Hall just before an eleven o'clock class (when it's really crowded), and some guy started rubbing up against me. I didn't know what to do! I got off on a floor lower than I wanted, and just assumed it would never happen again. Two days later it did! Blech! What should I do, Norma?   Feeling a Willy in Wig

Dear Willy,

Make the masher pay! Elbow him in the groin, knock him to ground and cut off his... Uh, I mean, tell him very loudly and explicitly to stop so that everyone on the elevator knows. However, if he really scares you, you might want to tell someone about it and avoid the elevator at that time for a little while. You can call the Harvard Police at 5-1212, Assistant Dean for Co-Education Virginia Mackay-Smith at 6-5989, and Response at 5-9600. Don't let the bastard mash ya, tough guy/gal!

Dear Norma,

I want to surprise my honey with some homemade fudge, but I don't know how to make it!   Lame in Lowell

Dear Lame,

Normally, I'd tell you to make the trek to a bookstore to buy a cookbook, but I'm feeling generous today. Here's my mom's recipe:

Norma's Mom's Fudge

1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter

3 cups sugar

1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder a pinch of salt

3 tablespoons light corn syrup

1 cup condensed milk

1/2 cup water

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Mix. Cook. Taste. Bequeath.