Conversations with another 6yo Piano Student

Student: "Liz, you look like a pre-school teacher."

Me, unsure how to take this: "Wow, that's convenient because I am a pre-school teacher." (Is it the teacher clothes...you know, baggy cotton and linen and earth shoes? Is it my kid-smile? Is it the ever-present pony-tail with two or three pencils tucked inside? The mug of tea I lug around? What does a pre-school teacher look like?)

Student: "Yep. I knew it, you look just like a pre-school teacher."



This student must have been curious about my life outside of piano lessons, because after she told me I looked like a pre-school teacher, she had this question for me:

Student: "Liz, do you have any kids?"

Me: "No, I don't."

Student: "Why not?"

Me, considering my response carefully: "I just don't. Some people do have kids, and some people don't."

Student, visibly considering this in her little kindergarten brain: "Is it because God didn't give you any kids?"

Oh, boy.

Kindergarten Clean Police

One of the things that Stacia and I have traditionally irritated each other about is housecleaning. I'd say that neither one of us is an immaculately clean sort of person, but also that neither one of us is a complete slob.

That said, one of us likes things to stay relatively neat and one of us doesn't mind a little clutter.

So the story goes: the tidy one puts things in piles or tucks them away in order to keep the table top clear, and then the less tidy one sees the recently cleared space and uses it for her other loose items. And the process repeats, endlessly, until both of us are dizzy with the spin of items piling up and being swept away, piling up, and disappearing.

"Where did my Item X go?" the less tidy one will ask.

"I put it in the pile of Loose Items for you to put away," the less cluttered one will respond.

"But where is that pile?" the less tidy one will say, becoming irritated with the fact that she can't find the important thing she just put on the dining room table, last week, because her neat freak girlfriend keeps moving her shit.

The longer we live together, the more we each bend a little to the other. The tidy one keeps her space clear but shrugs off the piles that aren't an immediate health hazard. The cluttered one notices when she spills cranberry juice on the counter tops and takes the time to wipe it up.

So, all in all, is our house tidy? No, definitely not. But is it terribly messy? No, not usually. It is probably a pretty average-looking place--could use more frequent vacuuming, dusting, and window-washing, but the dog toys stay in their box unless Luna is playing with them, the newspaper gets recycled or composted after we finish reading it, and the kitchen is usually (most of the time) clean.

I have backed off a lot on arguing about the state of the house. Am I the tidy one or the cluttered one? Does it matter? In fact, I think we each wear both titles, depending on our moods and how busy we are. I certainly can think of times when I have been the one to cover the table with loose sheet music, old mail, a broken metronome, and snacks from the car. And I can think of the times when I have grumbled over that same table being covered with Stacia's drill set, scuba clothing, and loose receipts.

The point is that neither one of us is perfect at keeping her share of the house clean, and the longer I live in a community of three people and three animals, the more I can relax about the pile of dusty, defunct speakers that sits in the corner of the dining room, because how important is it that they move? What sort of personal satisfaction will I get from having that corner clear? Sometimes I think I take physical clutter a little too seriously--that if the table is strewn with crap, I feel like it's personal. Like my head is strewn with spiderwebs and I can't find a coherent thought through all the chaos. (Now you know who the nagging, tidy one is.)

In any case, this is a process and I am making small strides toward being okay with the state of the house at any given moment.

But yesterday, when a six-year-old piano student pointed out that our house is not very clean, I felt personally affronted. What! How dare she?! No, our house may not be spotless, but we try very hard to keep it liveable. "Liz, I do have a question, but it doesn't have to do with piano," the piano student said, as we finished up her lesson and she climbed down from the bench that is too tall for anyone under 4 feet.

"Sure," I said (these are usually my favorite kinds of questions), "What is it?"

She wrinkled her nose and gestured to the living room. "Do you ever clean your house?"

Ugh--that kid knew how to push my buttons! Feeling quite offended, I said, "Um, yes, we do clean the house, of course." I felt like I was stammering--trying to prove something to this Kindergarten Clean Police. What I wanted to do was retaliate. I wanted to assign her ten pages of theory homework or extra practicing. But instead, I just stood there, sheepishly looking around and noticing things like those dusty speakers, Luna's bones, and the mountain of shoes that had been silently growing near the front door.

At that moment, her mother arrived to take her home. As they walked out the door, I overheard the kid say, "Mom, they really need to clean their house."

To which the mom responded, "Well, honey. Some people just don't have time to keep their houses clean."

Swiss Cheese

This morning, I offered to drive Stacia to work. Sleepily, I grabbed my (half-caff) coffee in one hand and the dog in the other, and followed Stacia out the door onto the porch.

Where we stopped dead in our tracks.

There was a red banner carefully strung to our front stoop. From the back, we couldn't see what it was. I hopped around to the front and saw this doctored Swiss flag:




You can see that there is some beautiful artwork. There is a very lovely cow lactating into a bucket, a Swiss watch above her head, a chocolate bar drawn on the left, a very accurate depiction of the Swiss Alps and a mountain climber on the right with the words, "We kick your ass by doing NOTHING." And words along the bottom part of the white cross that say, "So how's that continental drift? India is raming (misspelled) into Asia! So fuck off."

And, in the center, in bold letters, "NEUTRAL AS SHIT"

Completely confused, Stacia and I looked at each other. "What the hell?" she asked.

"I don't know," I said. "We're not even Swiss."

We took down the flag, put it in the porch, and got in the car to drive to Stacia's work. The whole way there, we contemplated what this symbol of Switzerland on our front stoop could possibly mean.

"Are we neutral about something?" Stacia asked.

"I don't know," I said.

"It looks like someone who is pretty clue-y about world politics wrote this," she said. "But what the hell? Why was it on our doorstep?"

"It looks like something someone might have made for a protest," I said. "Like something about political neutrality. So...what the fuck? Why us?"

You have to understand--we are new in the neighborhood. We live on Aurora Avenue, which isn't unsafe but is a street on which, since I have moved here six months ago, there have been a few par-for-the-course drug busts, squatters, homicide, arson, etc. Not unlike any other street in urban St. Paul, but still. I have had a few weird interactions with neighbors who creep me out. One time some guy followed me in a car for a whole block, just to tell me that I better pick up any shit my dog leaves behind. I once watched two women attack each other by physically knocking each other down and throwing punches at each other in front of our house. And once, while sitting on the couch watching a made-for-TV movie starring Marlee Matlin, I heard about seven gunshots fired nearby. We found out in the newspaper the next day that someone had been shot and killed on our block.

No, I don't feel unsafe here. I may not go for walks at night by myself--but I wouldn't do that in Merriam Park, either. All of the stuff that has happened has been spread out over many months, and we know our neighbors and like the location. We have never had any indication that anyone had anything against us.

Until, ironically, the Swiss flag appeared on our front stoop.

As we neared Stacia's work, we decided that we ought to call the police. "I'm not worried about it," Stacia said, "But I think we should file a report, just to have it on record that this weird thing happened."

"Okay," I said, in agreement.

"And ask them about a No Tresspassing sign," she said. "Ask I can put one up or if I have to get clearance from the Police Department."

"Okay," I said. She was right--it was creepy to think of someone opening the gate and sneaking onto our front stoop to oh-so-carefully tie a flag to the rails. Why our house? Why not the neighbor's house?

So when I got home after dropping Stacia off, I called the cops. They sent an officer immediately. He reeked of cologne and a macho sense of duty. "Do any of your neighbors have anything against you?" he asked.

"No," I said. "I don't think it's a big deal, we just wanted to file a report."

"Ma'am," he said, "In this neighborhood, we can't take this sort of thing lightly. I'm going to take this banner as evidence and submit it to our Special Investigations Unit."

"Uh, okay," I said.

So he took the Swiss flag, with an air of great gravity and stinky cologne, and returned to his Po-Po-Mobile.

I continued with my day, working on some scheduling for the summer, and then got ready to go to the Children's Center to teach music. On the drive to the pre-school I called my friend Caity to tell her the crazy story.

Teasingly, I left her this voice mail message: "You didn't happen to tie a Swiss flag to our front stoop last night, did you? Because if you did, you'll have to get it back from the cops. And if you didn't, call me because I have a great story."

A few minutes later, I got this text from her:

Dude, you called the cops!

To which I responded, stunned:

It was YOU?

And she said:

Of course it was me and megan. That's what we like to call a love crime.

I couldn't believe it. I should have known! She had recently told me about another prank she had pulled on a marquee sign, where she had rearranged the letters to spell something inappropriate. But I never imagined that she would have put a fricking Swiss flag in front of our house. What does that even mean? I was simultaneously shocked, flattered, and relieved.

I called Stacia to tell her, and she busted out laughing. "That's gonna be hard to top," she said.

So then I had to call the police, apologetically, with the news that the whole thing had been a prank. That was one of the more awkward phone calls I've had to make. I never have liked dealing with the cops. Especially since being arrested. But this was....one of the more not-so-fun phone calls I had to make. The cop I talked to sounded really irritated and told me there was nothing he could do anyway, since they had already filed a report and that an investigator would call me soon.

So now Caity and Megan's beautiful artwork is in the hands of the Western Precinct Special Investigations Unit. Congratulations, ladies, you have done well!

And, now...to think of an adequate prank in return....any suggestions?

Compost Urgency

Sometimes I think I am dating a teenager. Don't get me wrong--I love Stacia, and she is an amazing, wonderful, beautiful, intelligent, funny, generous, loving woman. I am lucky to have her. She can still make my heart twitter, when I see her walking toward me on the University of Minnesota campus, underneath the lilacs in full bloom, a big smile on her face, wearing her plaid button-up and recently-hemmed khaki pants that she thinks are too short, her dimple appearing just for me. Or when she comes home and greets the dog, joy gleaming from both of them as they see each other for the first time in eight hours (oh, soooo long!), and I can't help but feel all warm and gooey when I see her so happy.

I know that I love her, and that means I take her at her worst as well as her best.

The thing is, her worst isn't all that bad. In fact, if I am in the right mood, I can find it to be incredibly adorable.

Take last night, for example.

We have been working really hard on our back yard. We had planned to borrow a tiller from a friend this week, to till up the raised garden bed, where we will plant...herbs? Vegetables? I don't even know exactly what we are planning to put there, but last night it became an urgent task to get the tiller and fifteen large bags of compost.

I had gone to a meeting that lasted one hour (8:00-9:00). At 9:02 p.m., Stacia called, sounding anxious. "I just picked up the tiller from Juju," she said, "And now we need compost. Can you get it tomorrow?"

This threw me off guard, because I didn't realize that she had already picked up the tiller and was planning to do this project tomorrow, which is now today, a day which is filled to the brim for me (I am procrastinating by even writing this account). I mumbled something about it being a busy day but that I would try.

Angrily, she said, "Ugh, forget it. I'll do it myself," and hung up without saying goodbye.

Lucky for me, I had just gone to a 12-step meeting. Now, I am not a huge fan of 12-step meetings. I think they are mostly dogma-filled, heterocentric, punitive programs that work well for white men with big egos. But some meetings step away from this model and take a gentler, more empowering approach. The meeting I had gone to left me feeling strong and empowered. I knew that there was nothing I could do to make Stacia calm down, nor did I need to. I was Codependent No More. (A friend once told me this joke: What's the most common STD among lesbians? --Codependency.)

So after she hung up on me, I took a deep breath, shook my head, and went about my evening. I filled up the car with gas ($40.10 for 10 1/2 gallons), and drove home. I received another phone call from Stacia, who was livid. "They are all out of compost here," she said, referring to the Menards on University and Prior. "I have to drive to West St. Paul and I have to get there before 10:00."

"Honey," I said, trying to be a voice of reason. "It's late, come home. Do we really need compost to start this project? Can't we mix it in the topsoil later?"

She was furious. She informed me that I had no idea what I was talking about, and how did I think she planned to accomplish this project without compost? She was clearly irritated that she had to drive to West St. Paul, but she had to call me just to tell me anyway.

What my reasoning voice did not tell her was that there are plenty of garden centers in regular old St. Paul that are not Menards. She could have picked up compost at a location much closer, and perhaps even cheaper. In fact, the city of St. Paul runs a free compost site, where residents can take as much compost as they'd like, when it's available. But I didn't think it would be helpful, since my previous attempt at reasoning was so frankly shot down.

And so I waited for her to come home. She did, around 10:00 pm, with a truckload of bagged compost. (600 pounds in all, she told me today--I don't know if she was exaggerating, but it was a lot, lot, lot of compost.) I thought, I hope she had someone help her load all of this. (She said, today, of course I didn't have anyone help me. And I think, there is something really endearing about her intransigence, but she is going to hurt her stubborn self one of these days.) I helped her unload the never-ending mass of heavy, mineral-rich black dirt, as we silently piled the bags in the yard and covered them with a tarp.

We exchanged a few terse words, and then I excused myself and went upstairs to read.

I wondered if she would come upstairs and give me a big hug and tell me she was sorry. I wondered if I should go downstairs and tell her I love her. Maybe I should apologize for not helping more. Maybe I should have offered to drive to West St. Paul instead of her. Maybe I should have gone with her.

But then I thought of the anxious, angry energy she had, the urgency she instated which I didn't think was completely necessary, and I decided to just give her some space tonight. Or maybe to give both of us some space. I settled in to read, and the cats joined me, purring loudly to let me know they wanted to sit in their particular places--one on my right side, nestled in between my arm and my body, the other one on the pillow to my left, kneading relentlessly and never really finding that comfortable place.

Just as I started to relax, my phone buzzed, telling me I had a text message.

This is all it said:

can i eat some of this food

(Meaning: Can I eat this ginger/tamari kale and potatoes that you made tonight?)

I responded:

of course

And then I thought, how funny and kind of adorable that she came home in such a pout and still asked me if she could eat the food I made. How....sweet and angsty and wonderful. She still loves me, I know it.

And, if this is her worst, if stubbornness and an urgency to till the garden is the most difficult piece of her in relationship, I'll take it, hands down. And I'll even take it lovingly, because you can't believe how cute she is when she pouts. That dimple that appears when she smiles? It appears when she frowns, too, only much more expressively. And those eyes that shine clear blue when she greets Luna at the door? They can turn stormy, the color of the ocean, unpredictable and deep gray/green when she is upset.

Even at her most recalcitrant, furious moment, she can be the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

Busy Lizzy

This weekend has been deemed "garden weekend" by my roommates and me. We spent the entire day yesterday doing yardwork and gardening, and I can't think of a better way to have spent a sunny, spring afternoon.

I wish we had taken before and after pictures. You would never recognize the backyard, after our 12 hour day.

We started with clearing the crap from between the trees in on the southeast side of the yard. Stacia bought the house last year, and this is our first summer living here, so we had a lot of just basic picking up to do. It would appear that the people who lived here before buried their trash in the soil. Here are some of the things we found, while digging into the ground:

a few broken beer bottles
plastic to-go containers
food wrappers
large wire pieces
glass, glass, glass
broken clay pots
an old-school plastic change-holder

Here are a few of the things we found just outside our yard, in alley:

a needle (not the kind you thread for sewing)
more broken beer bottles
and, most strangely, a bag of fish


Suffice to say, everyone wore gloves and a crinkled nose for that first few hours of clean-up.

After we had cleaned up the rubbish, we started loading grass clippings, brush, and leaves to bring to the compost.

Holly and I planted four rose bushes and a few snapdragons next to the bed of lilies. We also did some weeding around the southwest fence, where the tulips are in full bloom, and where I had recently planted red dayliles, purple aster, and columbine.

We started clearing the raised garden bed, which we are going to turn into an herb garden, but I had a hard time shoveling with the flat shovel that Stacia raved about for its ease. This ensued an "intellectual disagreement" (Stacia says I can't use the word "fight" in reference to the garden bed debacle) over which shovel was easier to use. (We never agreed--I still think the flat shovel is impossible to break ground with and Stacia intellectually disagrees that the flat head is the best way to clear out the grass without tearing up too much dirt.)

The only other contentious moment between Stacia and I happened when I volunteered to make a run to Menards to pick up a few things for us. After I had loaded up my little Ford Focus with six bags of mulch, four bags of compost, and a 10x10in tamper and started driving home, Stacia called and said, "I need more cement for the laundry pole--can you go back and pick some up?"

Because it was sunny, because I was elated to be helping, I said, "Sure," and turned the Focus around and went back to Menards.

Just as I had turned the car around on busy University Avenue, my phone rang again. It was Holly. "Stacia says sorry for the panic, but she doesn't need another bag after all."

So the Focus switched directions and pointed away from Menards on Prior and University, heading East toward Frogtown.

And then my phone rang again. This time it was Stacia. "Sorry," she said, "I do need that bag."

My jovial mood had dipped--I was tired of making illegal U-turns and burning unnecessary fuel as I whipped my car around and around with a million extra pounds of heavy yard stuff in my hatchback. And I said, angrily, "You are f***ing kidding me!"

Stacia, knowing it was best not to push the conversation, just politely thanked me and mumbled something about seeing me soon.

I found the bag of concrete in the very back of the store. I indignantly attempted to lift it. Yikes--it was 60 pounds. I told myself that I could lift kids almost that size, so I could do this. And here's the thing, they put it on the bottom shelf, so you have to use your knees and lower back to lift it up. Ever since my big hike in New Zealand, I have had some funkiness going on in my left knee, but this was important. I squatted, in an attempt to ease the workload on my lower back, and heaved up the more-than-half my body weight bag of concrete mix.

And I sprang back and smacked my head on the upper shelf.

More embarrassed than hurt, I quickly looked around to make sure no one was watching. I didn't see anyone and quickly transported the bag of concrete to my shopping cart. I checked out, doled out the $3.50 or whatever it cost, and hastily wheeled the cart to my already busting at the seams Ford Focus. At which point I realized the bag I had picked had a hole. I looked back and saw the trail of concrete mix the had followed me across the parking lot. I then realized that I had somehow been covered in cement mix, from head to toe.

Frustrated with how difficult this one stupid task had become, tears started welling up in my eyes. How hard did this have to be?! I took a deep breath, found someone who could help me, and asked a stringy teenager who looked eager to help if he wouldn't mind getting me a replacement bag and loading it into my car. Meanwhile, I called Stacia, feeling kind of needy and sensitive, and told her about busting the bag of concrete. "Should I be worried at all about having cement mix all over my skin?" I asked her.

"Nah," she said, laughing about my adventure (and probably in relief that I wasn't mad anymore). "But," she added playfully, "just don't get caught in the rain. You might be stiffen up a bit."

I exhaustedly delivered the heavy bag to Stacia and claimed first dibs on the bathtub.

And so, this morning, bathed, and well-slept, I stepped outside onto the south-facing deck. I saw my freshly-planted pots of petunias and pansies, purple, orange, and yellow tulips, the four rose bushes, bright, fragrant lilacs from the huge lilac tree that separates our yard from the trash-ridden alley, a cleaned-up eastern fence, complete with wood chips and native wildflowers planted along the edge, and heaps of space to plant the other perennials we will be receiving this week.

We are going to have a fantastic garden--I can't wait for more to bloom!

And now, I am going to go plant the flat-full of impatiens I bought from the Calliope plant sale yesterday. I will be busy, as there are about 45 plants to put in.

How apt, then, that I will be planting impatiens, also known as "busy lizzies."

Yay, Vegetables

I love e-mail.

And it can be such a pain in the ass.

You know that moment, where you quickly reply to an email that your girlfriend sent to you and a few other people regarding the upcoming garden day, and you accidentally hit "reply all?" But you don't know it until the confirmation pops up and tells you that you have sent something like this to Stacia, Barb, Meg, Nedra, Mary, and Cheri: "Honey, I love you and can't wait to see you at garden day in your new sexy black tank top."

And then, instantly, your inbox begins filling with e-mails from your friends who had been included in your private message. "Liz, I never knew you felt that way about me!" or "Liz, if you want to publicly demonstrate your love for your partner, go hetero and get a wedding." or, addressed to Stacia, "Stacia, can't wait to see your sexy shirt. Why don't you wear it to dinner so we can all see it first," or, "Stacia, will you wear your sexy socks along with your sexy tank?"

They are relentless. One honest mistake can breed a multiplying, teasing chain of cyber banter.

But that is a good outcome from making (what seems to be for me) a common error. I can think of three other times when I have accidentally sent an email to the wrong recipient and was devastated.

The first time, I was a first-year in college. I still had my high school boyfriend, and things were rocky in that relationship. He was a sophomore and had been mentioning this other girl, Veronica, a little too often. Besides that, I was crushing out on my student accompanist, a tall, blonde, intense woman with fat dreadies and a gutteral laugh. I was, at that time, very confused about these crushes on women and denied them by drowning them in alcohol, food, or weed. So, needless to say, this relationship with my high school boyfriend was doomed. Neither one of us was really interested in the other one, but neither one of us was the type to break up with someone. We shared a quiet reservedness, a great patience, and an unwavering aversion to causing someone else pain, regardless of how unrealistic the situation was.

So, when I accidentally sent an email to him that was actually supposed to have his name in the subject line, I expedited the process of break-up and ultimately did us both a favor.

But, in that moment, as I sat in the computer lab in a St. Kate's residence hall and saw the email confirmation tell me I had sent the message about how terrible my relationship with Brandon was to Brandon, my stomach dropped to the floor.

What an awful way to tell someone the truth.

I cried for days, not so much because I was mourning the relationship, but because I selfishly thought he would hate me forever. Because I felt a horrible guilt. Because I knew that I should have been straightforward with him from the beginning.

Now I can laugh about it. But then. Ohhhhh, then it was awful.

The second time this sort of thing happened--well, I can't really talk about it. It was an email that was intercepted and the mistaken recipient never received the incriminating email. And that person is someone who may or may not read this blog. May or may not be my parents. May or may not have had something to do with being wasted and confiding in my little sister, who still lived at home and was able to delete the email that I had accidentally sent to my parents before Mom and Dad ever read it.

And, surely, they will read about it now because they are my biggest fans and read all my blogs. (Hi, Mom!)

I honestly don't remember what was in the email, but I remember a big urgency to have my sister delete it. Maybe it had something to do with the crush on the pianist. Who knows.

And the third time happened yesterday. It wasn't quite as embarrassing as the email I sent to my high school boyfriend, but it was a little embarrassing.

Stacia and I are members of Foxtail Organics, a CSA that will begin delivering organic vegetables in June. I received the confirmation email yesterday from the farmers. It was a mass email, sent to all of this year's clients. I was very excited to receive the email and intended to forward the message to Stacia, with this personal addendum:

"Heck yes! I am soooo excited! I can't flipping wait for our veggies!!! Yayyyyy!!!!!!"

So. Clearly, you can see that I was very excited. And my enthusiasm, when expressed in a private email to my girlfriend, is completely legitimate.

Now consider that same message, accidentally sent back to Foxtail Organics and the 25 clients on the email list.

Now I seem like neurotic, hyper-fantastic happy girl.

When I saw that email confirmation, I felt a little unnerved, but I didn't cry for days like I did when I sent the terminal e-mail to Brandon, nor did I frantically attempt to contact my sleeping sister to intercept a coming-out message. Instead, I shrugged and thought, "Well, hey. At least they know I am excited about the upcoming summer produce season."

And it's true. Maybe it was an over-the-top response, but I can't deny that I enthusiastically love being part of a CSA.

Yay!!!! Vegetables!!!!!

Prom

Dear Josh,
Thank you for inviting me to the upcoming spring formal. I was absolutely flattered to receive your invitation. A woman hits a certain age where invitations from younger men are not only flattering but ego-boosting. So thank you for making me feel young and pretty and attractive.

There are a few reasons that I had to say no. First of all, I graduated from High School in 1999. I have experienced the High School Prom more times than I care to admit. Some might say I even lived every girl's dream regarding the Prom. In my own day, in my precious youth, in a past century, I held the coveted title of Prom Queen. It's true that the teachers picked the nominees at my rural, bucolic school, so it wasn't a true vote of popularity. It is more likely to say that I was crowned the Prom's Most Popular Teacher's Pet. I was smart and anorexic--I mean, who doesn't like the quiet girl who can fit inside her locker? In any case, my point is that I have already lived the ultimate experience in terms of High School Prom, and I have no desire to return to those days, not even for a young man like yourself.

Secondly, I am probably busy that night. You didn't get a chance to tell me when it was, but I'm assuming it's in May, and believe it or not buddy, it's May already. You have to ask a girl waaaaaayyyyy sooner than that. I mean, there are hair appointments to schedule, a dress to buy, and massive shaving to be done. I am booked through July, so even if you had told me when the Prom was taking place, and even if there were no other factors surrounding my decision to say no, I would be highly skeptical of my availability.

Another significant factor affecting my decision to turn you down is the fact that I am in a committed relationship. With a woman. Who is probably twenty years older than you. Not only would she be confused if I had chosen to accompany you to your Prom, but she may have beat up your Mom.

Subsequently, I also had to say no because you are a complete stranger. I don't know your last name, how cool you look in Wheelies (or whatever the kids are wearing these days), or what kind of car you have. These are all important factors in choosing a prom date. For that matter, you know nothing about me. What if you are looking for a girl who self-tans for the prom? That's not me. I don't even paint my fingernails. I don't even wear anti-perspirant. You would have been disappointed. I'm really doing you a favor.

And lastly, the form your solicitation took was a bit amiss. Maybe I'm too old to understand the appeal of a text message invitation to the prom, but I suspect that any girl would prefer an old-fashioned, face to face invitation. Are you scared of me? And why the all lower-case, no punctuation, fragmented sentences? Is it a literary representation of your vulnerability in such a situation? I know it's scary to ask a girl to the Prom. But, buddy, come on. Don't do it over text message.

Josh, I bet you're a great kid. I hope you do find a last minute date to the Prom. I hope she is everything you hoped for. But here is my last tidbit of advice. Please take this seriously, it will enhance your chances of getting a date a hundred fold. The next time you text message a girl to ask her if she'll be your date to the prom, please, please, Joshua, please:

Make sure you have the right phone number.

Sincerely,

651-xxx-xxxx