Throughout my childhood, my grandmother and I had a storybook romance. I got birthday cards with checks inside, she got pictures of me, and occasionally we'd engage in short, awkward phone conversations--not dissimilar to the workings of a kiddie-porn ring. But the checks-and-pictures ritual lost its utility ever since I got a paid job and am no longer cute when I sit on the toilet naked, at least in the opinion of most people who look through my wallet photos. Our relationship has become more forced and awkward, as if she's suddenly clued into the fact that I am here to...
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