Dear Mr. Timberlake:

I would like to refute, right from the start, that I am a ‘butt-in-ski’.  First of all, that isn’t really a word, and not many of us are so Shakespearian that we can just invent jargon and hope it sticks for hundreds of years.  The real questions are, what really separates “being intense” from just being focused?  What is the criteria that separates obsessive from merely being goal oriented?  Who determines if one is maniacal or maternal?

In the past, Mr. Timberlake, I have been miscast in some of the former title contenders and I would like for you to remember the importance of the perception of the latter labels as you consider the suggestion I put before you.

At this time, you appear to be single.  And although noted that some of your former love interests were poor choices, your disillusionment and judgment were salvaged by the prose you penned for each, “Cry Me A River” for Britney’s betrayal, and “What Goes Around…Comes Around” for the fickle Ms. Diaz.   You rose from the ashes of their callousness like a Phoenix in an in sync sky.

Which brings me to my point.

I have a daughter.

I know you have heard this from many moms through the years, as they cut your hair, cashed your checks, and handed you car keys.   But, this I promise you, God really did spend a little more time on her.

She doesn’t know that I am writing this, of course.  And between us, when you call her, you probably should come up with a good story that doesn’t include my name.  She is an ice dancer so maybe you can just say you saw her a few years ago and were impressed by her artistry and expression to the music and how her image has haunted you for years—and then this weekend, when Charlie White and Meryl Davis were on the front page of the Sports section of the New York Times, for winning the first Gold Medal ever for the United States for ice dancing, you felt it was an omen and that you should call her—or something like that.  I don’t want to tell you what to do.

And to be clear, my daughter doesn’t think she needs any help in the  “finding a guy” department”.  She isn’t one of Cinderella’s stepsisters, with moles and grotesque feet that won’t fit in designer footwear.  Okay, well, she is an ice dancer so she does have those little bumps and odd protrusions that wearing skates for six or seven hours a day tend to leave on the toes and heels, but most people have had the kind of upbringing that stop them from making comments and yelling out.

My daughter is, in fact, a beautiful young woman.  And the ‘buts’, if there are any, are really positives.  Truly.

She doesn’t suffer fools.  At twenty-two, this eliminates most of the male population from her age group down.

A second issue is that my daughter is an athlete.  She trains hard. She has a gun show for arms and she can do one-arm push-ups.  Most males, however, make the mistake of belittling figure skating as not a “real sport” and regale her with quips from “Blades of Glory”, which tends to make her want to put a blade in the one part of their anatomy where it would easily fit.

In the past, I have suggested that she expand her social network and go out into the unknown area of exploration—like on line dating.  She negated that idea and offered me the moniker of ‘butt-in-ski”, as in, “stop being”.

I proffered that she go out with a few of the young men that her friends have advised might be “okay” and she declared she was not dating guys who have been classified like yogurt in the refrigerator a week after the sell date.  Oh, and she suggested I was getting obsessive about her dating life.

I then came up with a really great concept.  I bought 10 pair of Phillies tickets and was crafting the “Date My Daughter” billboard for I-95 when she saw the layout.  It was pretty witty.  Guys would have to send me their CVs and qualifications on why they should be selected to go to a game with my daughter and then select one creative method of conveying that message.  I would select 10 finalists.  They would get a ticket and arrive at the ballpark to meet my daughter, and at the end of the night she could either give them a baseball hat, or her phone number.

This landed me the title of maniacal.  No billboard.  No creative convincing.  But she kept the tickets and took her friends.

So here we are, Justin, (I think at this point, I can call you Justin, don’t you?)  You are more or less between ladies yourself, and no offense, you seem to need a little help yourself in finding a keeper.  At 30, I think you are past the fascination with urinal games and being a former boy band member, I think you possess civility in understanding how harshly others label and cast bias without ever considering individual merits.

My daughter’s phone number is on the attached dossier.   Thanks for coming up with this grand idea.

Maternally yours,

Mombo