Hello Frances

I just spent 30 minutes on the phone with Frances. Who is Frances, you ask? I have no frackin' idea.

The phone rang, and I answered it, expecting it to be Josh. Instead, it was some guy asking to talk to [insert very jumbled-sounding name here]. "I think you have the wrong number," I said. He would have none of it, and asked for [indecipherable name]. "That person doesn't live here," I said. This guy proceeded to ask me how long I'd lived in my apartment, and if I knew whether [jumbled name] lived there before me. I said I didn't know.

I could tell that he wasn't American, but then he asked me if I was from Ghana! ?? I said no! Why? Because he thought I talked like a Ghanian. No one has ever told me that before. This guy was originally from Kenya. I said I was from Canada, but that's a long ways from Ghana. "Oh, that's what it is!" he said. "But you sound so Ghanian. You're soooo nice; you're not like Americans at all."

By this time he told me his name was Frances. He asked me where I live. I started getting edgy, reluctant to give out my location. For some reason, I just assumed he lived in Vermillion, which meant he could easily track me down. I said I lived on the west side of town. He sounded confused. He said, "Do we live close by? I live down the street from the Yankee Stadium..." Like an idiot I said, "Oh, you mean the Dakota Dome?" Dumbass....

So Frances is from New York. He started asking a lot of personal questions, like if I was married or not. And he thought I was "sooo nice" and "sooo friendly." I started wondering if he was trying to hit on me over the phone. Then I wondered if he was going to ask for my number.

Until I thought, Wait a minute--he already knows my number.... It was a strange 30 minutes. And now I have a place to stay in New York, the next time I'm there. At least, that's what he said. Open invitation.