In the pre-prom dance, I follow

"I'm going to Starbucks," Posh announces. "Want anything?"

"No."

"Sure?"

The way to mess with Posh's head lately is to not want anything. She is so under the gun -- with prom, with graduation, with life -- that when you don't want anything from her, she gets very suspicious of your intentions. I assure you, my intentions are as suspect as the next guy's. But I try not to press it.

"You sure you don't want anything?" she asks again.

Like many mothers, Posh is a Starbucks aficionado. Her latest fave is a half-Valium, half-vodka mocha frap with a Red Bull boost. After three of four of those, she is good to go.

And that's very fortunate, because tonight is prom, the biggest, longest night of the year. Imagine Christmas, Mardi Gras and a beauty pageant smashed together like a muddy snowball.

Already, my wife and the little girl have yelled at each other once, and that was before they even woke up.

Now, loitering around the kitchen at the ungodly hour of 9 a.m., the little girl is laying out her schedule for the day. She punctuates each event by making a click-cluck sound with her tongue -- like pool balls colliding -- and making the sort of gesture umpires use to signal strike three.

Pre-prom schedule:

10 a.m. Mani-pedi.

11 a.m. Borrow some trippy shoes from a friend, probably Natasha.

Noon. Apologize to Mom for things said in haste.

1 p.m. Find jewelry to go with outfit for the evening.

2 p.m. Put clothes together for post-prom party.

3 p.m. Get hair and makeup done.

4 p.m. Apologize again to mother for being sort of snippy.

6:30 p.m. Be late for pre-prom pictures.

"Oh, and you and Dad have to figure out how to get a car down to Balboa Island," she announces before returning to her bedroom.

"Why Balboa?" I ask Posh.

"That's where the party is."

"But . . . ?"

"Because they want to be down by the beach," Posh explains.

You know what it'll be like dropping a car off in Balboa? First, there is only one parking spot in Balboa, and that is likely already taken. So we'll take a car down there, wait forever at that stoplight on Pacific Coast Highway, then slither our way across the island hoping that the one parking place opens up while we are nearby.

Fortunately, I have nothing to do with my life than cater to the whims of my four children.

Later, the plans change, as prom plans often do -- usually minute to minute.