But questions of the day weren’t all fun and games. She swears I never responded to the “Favorite Phil Collins song” text, even though I know I replied with “Su-su-suuuuudio-ooohhh-oooooh.” Things were tense between us for awhile as I tried to convince her of my participation. Despite my efforts, she never believed me and we eventually dropped the subject (or got distracted by something else). If I brought up Phil Collins to her now, there’s a good chance she’d remind me of the time I ignored her poll question. I never knew Phil Collins meant so much to her.

I adopted her question of the day antics and started including them in my own e-mails. Sometimes they’d turned into a random thought of the day, or a fact of the day or a quote of the day. Whatever it was, I liked adding another layer to my correspondence, often completely unrelated to the rest of my e-mail.

When I stumbled upon the Dial-A-Stranger podcast last weekend, it brought back memories of Tasha’s question of the day. Listeners can submit a questions and their phone numbers on the website. The podcast then takes those questions and calls the people who volunteered their phone numbers. The co-hosts start out with general chit-chat and natural questions evolve from those answers. Then they get to the question of the day, which is actually just one of many questions, but it’s the only one that’s planned.

Basically it’s consensual eavesdropping and it’s great. Just by prodding and asking follow up questions, the hosts elicit so many more details of a story. One woman was a yoga instructor, but the question led her to talk about when she was a maid for a lawyer. She only worked five hours, five days a week and the house was so clean that all she did was scrub the shower once a week and read all the books in the man’s library.

I’m considering submitting my phone number. Though with my track record of missing calls, I don’t think I’d ever make it on — even if I saved Dial-A-Stranger’s number in my phone. BUT it would make me really happy if a responsible, phone-answering friend handed over their number so I could hear someone familiar one podcast.

Who’s sacrificing themselves for my listening pleasure?

Each grade level had a competition; the winners would read their essays at an all-school assembly. I can’t remember it, but I bet that was one boring assembly, each grade-level winner talking about being nice and following the golden rule and playing fair with your sister and turning in your homework on time and helping your mom set the table.

Who really cares about that?

I didn’t. I just wanted to win. And my plan to achieve this was to write as much as I could (obviously taking the quantity-over-quality approach).

One of my most vivid memories from elementary school is taking my stack of gray paper (you know the kind, with red and blue lines) out into the hallway so I could line my pages in a row. I’d run out of room on my desk, and let’s be honest, was probably being dramatic, so I created a paper trail of my essay that ended with blank sheets in front of me as I laid on my stomach, continuing to write about citizenship. I can’t remember why I was out there alone, if it was regularly scheduled writing time or during recess or after school, but there I was, taking over the second grade hallway with my words. My teacher told me I’d written enough, but I was not content to be done. I would tell her when I was finished, thankyouverymuch.

As much as I loved writing, it physically pained me. I held my pencil tight. Too tight, really. My wrist would ache. Even after getting pencil pillows (what kind of ridiculous name is that? I probably found it “cute” at the time), I always had a bump on my ring finger from the friction. Almost like a callous on your foot, rough from overuse. But on my hand. It disgusted me. My sister made fun of me (then I’d quickly make fun of her for having man hands and the argument was a draw).

It wasn’t until college when handwritten assignments became obsolete that my writing bump deflated and softened. Depending on how I hold my hand, you don’t really notice the bump anymore. As much as I’d rather not have it, I’ve accepted that it will never go away.

But I didn’t realize that other people had writing bumps too until I heard this podcast about fonts and handwriting from To the Best of Our Knowledge. Though it’s amusing that the podcast mentions only people over 40 know what a writing bump is (because handwritten correspondence was plentiful before computers).

Even though I’ve always loved writing, I didn’t realize back then that the physical evidence would forever be on my finger. Part of me wonders how much that second grade citizenship essay contributed to my writer’s bump, and how much the bump contributed to feeling like a writer.

(For those of you who have been holding your breath, I was the second grade winner, which meant I read my essay aloud at the most boring all-school assembly ever.)