I have an imaginary daughter. She’s about 13 years old (give or take a few months), has thought about modeling, loves Pottery Barn bedroom furnishings, and is just about ready to start those SAT prep courses.

Brianna Joanna is the daughter that the direct marketing industry created. About once a month, for the last few years, I’ve been getting mail addressed to “Brianna Joanna.” Apparently, Joanna is her last name (I always knew she was a rebel. What’s wrong with the name Ross?”) The mail used to be the kind that would appeal to a small girl (e.g., dance studios.) But within the last year, the marketing lists have pegged Brianna Joanna as a full-fledged teen. We even got six month’s worth of a teen girl magazine whose name escapes me. Imagine the reaction, in a house full of males, ages 10, 12, and 40 something. It was as if someone had asked to paint the exterior of the house pink.

I haven’t quite figured out how to get Brianna Joanna off these lists. Secretly, it’s fun to pretend that I have a daughter. And I’m eagerly waiting for the day when she leaves home and I can go back to being the queen of the house.