Pop quiz: How do you know if you're a good candidate for trivia night?

A) It's for a good cause and you're a sucker for good causes; B) you've got a great new dip recipe you're just dying to try out on fellow players; C) you found an extra fifteen bucks lying around in the furniture, car and hubby's pants pockets on laundry day, so you're not sweating the participation fee; or D) you can't remember your phone number or your mother-in-law's birthdate, but by golly you know the name of every American vice president whose name begins with a "B."

If you answered "all of the above," in 60 seconds or less, you probably are a trivia night junkie, or at least have experienced the roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd. No, wait — that's a night of theater, not trivia, but the smell of the crowd might be equivalent.

I bring all this up because unlike probably 95 percent of the St. Charles County populace, I have never been to a trivia night. I have filled up a plastic "pie" or two in the board game Trivial Pursuit, and I've been known to shout out answers at Alex Trebek when "Jeopardy" is on the tube, but that's about it as far as hard-core pursuit of trivia goes. Unless you count Hubby and me bickering over trifles like which way the toilet paper roll should be hung.

It's not for lack of invitations. When it comes to fundraising, I am a fundraiser's best friend. I am good for a freezer full of Girl Scout cookies every year (I think there's a special patch in my honor that some of the girls at our church have earned thanks to my checkbook). I'm a sap for anything with sad pictures of pitiful pooches or big-eyed kids, and organizations that send me cute address labels (unless my name's spelled wrong).

Even I have my limits, though. Those charity organizations that send me envelopes with a dime or nickel peeking through the plastic window only earn my disdain. If they have that much loose change they can send to millions of Americans, they don't need my charitable contributions.

When trivia night events started popping up years ago, I got invitations from friends who thought it would be fun to put together a group. Sometimes they'd cajole me with promises of free booze; other times they'd try to flatter me into participating.

"You'd be so good at it!" they'd say. "You watch a lot of television and I'm sure you remember all those OLD shows from the '50s, you know, cause you're not exactly a spring chicken!"

I didn't say my friends were very good at flattery.

Somehow or other I never made it to one of the trivia nights, usually because of a schedule conflict, but more often because the idea of sitting in a hot crowded room racking my brain for the answer to some arcane question about Pliny the Elder's offspring didn't exactly smite me with enthusiasm. Especially when "Dancing with the Stars" was on.

Obviously, I am in the minority in this. Google "trivia contests in St. Charles Missouri" and there's a plethora of websites featuring trivia night schedules, descriptions of the events and which ones feature raffles and mysterious things known as "mulligans."

I always thought a mulligan was a stew, but apparently it's a legitimate form of cheating. Mulligans are answers you can buy at trivia events, which, while good for fundraising, aren't necessarily good examples for our children. But as a lot of the trivia nights are advertised as "adults only," I guess that's a moot point.

Every year I get my member's information on the St. Charles County Historical Society trivia night. Each year I dutifully post the flyer on our church bulletin board, then have a spirited debate with myself as to whether I should go.

I say, "Self, it would be with very convivial people, but on the other hand, how embarrassing would it be in front of my fellow history buffs if I choked on the question, 'Who was Abe Lincoln's barber?'"

Usually I convince myself I have something else to do and just send in a check to support it.

I may not make a habit of attending trivia nights, but I do shamelessly plug them for a good cause. This year's will be on March 31 at St. Peter Catholic Church on First Capitol Drive in St. Charles. Doors will open at 6:30 p.m., and the questions will start flying at 7. The flyer advertises free soda and beer, and there are attendance prizes, a 50/50 drawing, a silent auction and yes, mulligans for purchase. Cost is $120 per table of eight or $15 per person.

My spirited debate with myself has begun. Perhaps if I can coerce Hubby into going with me by telling him it's all geography questions (the only subject he's more excited about than the weather), I'll finally bite the bullet and go.

I'd better start saving up for those mulligans.

Karen Diekamp Hitchcock of St. Charles is a medical secretary who writes a semimonthly column for the Journal. She can be reached at kdhitch1@hotmail.com