Do you dance gracefully?
Last night: C gone to Toastmasters, flush with her 'Competent Communicator' badge (really, these people are worse than the Masons), me not finding the remote ... fucking *anywhere*, then irritated by the tv not having actual physical buttons on it for changing the viewing mode, so no Virtua Fighter then, no Pai Chan and her dancing helicopter kicks for me, and the cats crying at the front door not nearly amusing enough (something wrong with me, lately), and not yet wanting to do the recycling, or to haul garbage bags up the alley, in the rain, and putting off my weekly shave, I found myself sorting through and cleaning up the magnetic, schizophrenic mess of photos and artwork that slides around our refrigerator door. This is something that C would not be caught dead doing; for her, the past is some banana republic they've changed the name of a dozen times, and their money was always bullshit anyway. So it's up to me to pick out the best pictures of the nieces and nephews and children of friends (if they even are still friends, anymore), and rearrange the balance between cute and obligation, and then file away the rest. (To be fair, and somewhat in retaliation for things like this, I don't think I mowed the lawn once this summer ... I wouldn't care if she was growing vampires back there.) The best rediscovered picture was drawn by my niece Stella, probably a year and a half ago. It's a skull-faced girl wearing a red dress. Her dancing legs might be on fire. And above her head is a lonely two-tone rainbow, blue and grey.