How impossibly dark it gets here in the afternoons sometimes. I lay in the bath with the pork roast brining and thought about the father-daughter Valentine’s dance at the community center, the one coming up that Charlotte seems so excited about, how I wanted this one to be the best one ever but how hard a time I’d had with the ones in the past with Lily and the music way, WAY too loud, the intense awkwardness of middle-aged men and their daughters (and worse, the dads and daughters who didn’t look awkward, who looked perfectly normal cutting up the rug like that, their love like a halo and how much I hated them for it, how much I wanted to play just one song, like Dead Souls [how it would probably work but only when the song picks up, and there’d be complaints]), how much I felt like I needed a drink, like I really needed one to settle down, the scratchy wool around my neck, how ashamed I felt feeling that way and the crude ploys I tried promising anything I could to convince Lily we should leave early (like rent movies, get ice cream, whatever)—and then regretting it and wanting a redo someday, with Charlotte.
The cat got sick on the new leather sofa and kicked back like a canon might, like giving birth, but in a different direction: and I aimed the dog there hoping she’d take care of it but then felt ashamed and had to put the cat out in the rain and when I let her back in, how she nestled on my stomach and how lowly it made me feel with her there just blinking like a Buddha, sleeping by us but only when the thermostat is low and never out of love but only to harvest our heat, the way cats do.
And the rain fell in the calm manner of TV static-snow with invisible frogs outside croaking for more—the dryer spun, the dog settled, I debated a beer or a bath and decided on both, set the alarm on the pork and went upstairs, my reflection in the faucet flattened out and clouded, my skin baby-pink.
Bill Pearse 
I just wrote a long comment but lost it. And it offered so little of import that I can’t bring myself to rewrite it, except to say you’re a madman.
More posts about buildings and food.
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Cool. Madman, yes. Nuff said, lost it.
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That’s funny, I just had my first father-daughter dance a few days ago. I was dreading it because I don’t dance, and I don’t like to be watched, much less watched while dancing, or to socialize, for that matter. But the girls were stoked for it, and I wanted it be good for them. They ended up more interested in playing tag with their friends and doing cartwheels. We went to the photo booth, ate cookies, and there was one point where we danced, then we had to go home because the thing didn’t start till seven and that’s when they go to bed, and the rain falls in the calm manner of tv static.
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Awesome through and through. Posted that tonight hoping you’d be up listening to old Soundgarden. Night night.
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No Soundgarden, but thank you for distracting me from refreshing my browser to see what headline had posted since I last refreshed. I really should be making sleep sleeps now.
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Do.
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those scenes usually all play themselves out and the girls don’t think about it as much as the dads do. it’s an awkward event and i say just go with it, don’t even try to make it balance, accept it for what it is.
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Totally, can’t wait…and I mean that, now that I’m seeing more the opportunities come and go, are fleeting.
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This post made me laugh, Bill. The father-daughter dance sounds as awkward as a middle school dance. I imagine my daughter, who refuses to be led, and my husband, who eschews all things dancing, would be filling their pockets from the snack table and sneaking out early.
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Good, I am going for laughs wherever possible. Gosh, that middle school dance discomfort is palpable. I picked my daughter and her friend up at one recently and it was just…stiff with anxiety…and there were young, armed cops there letting people come and go (which I appreciated). But weird.
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My husband is headed to one of those very dances tonight with our youngest. We talked over some anxieties and his main one is he’ll feel old compared to the other dads. He’s already been through these things with our oldest and now has to do them all over again alongside what he imagines will be bright eyed young dads. I don’t think that will be the case but glad it’s not me, if only because I hate to dance. The premise of this type of dance seems awkward and mildly painful and may have been created by a punishing mom, but it’s sweet. The girls seem to treasure the experience. Great title, btw.
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The age thing, what to wear, all that…funny…I hope Joe and your daughter had fun. I’m looking forward to ours, realizing I should have enjoyed mine more with Lily, when she was into it. Glad you liked the title too!
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Funny, we have those same frogs in a seasonal pond just below our house, and I always wonder how many frogs does it take to make that kind of racket? Actually it’s kind of good for the tinnitus, as you’ve probably noticed.
Looking forward to the follow-up post to see how the dance went!
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That’s nice of you Kevin, thanks…I love those frogs man. If I could bottle that sound (but then it wouldn’t be so special, right?). My mom actually had a CD once of tree frogs but it was kind of unlistenable.
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Being born and raised in the south (Texas), these father/daughter dances are both inevitable and unavoidable. Like you, Bill, I’m made uncomfortable by those daddy/daughter duos who seem comfortable with the situation — as though Daddy is frequently that close and intimate with his very-under-age flesh-and-blood. (Ugh! Gives me the shivers.)
Now, regarding baths, or rather, bathtubs: Why are they all too small for all of you to be submerged? Why must my knees always be left high and dry? Can’t somebody make a tub that allows the entire whole body to soak? And if so, why can’t _those_ tubs be the commonplace ones, instead of those troublesome ones?
Boobs and knees, both wet, at the same time! Aren’t we entitled to at least that much?
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There are tubs that deep, though rare. Best with cloven feet, hard enough to crack the skull right open. Sounds contrived maybe, but I knew a tub like that outside the town of Bath, in England, and I kind of connected with it. Boobs, knees, everything.
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