Vogue

The other night at dinner, Jason remembered something he had been meaning to ask.

“Dad, Mom says we should tell you to ‘strike a pose.’ What does that mean?”

I dropped my fork and jumped from my chair. My back arched, my feet fell into place and my arms snaked around my head. My neck went back. My hands framed my face. I stood absolutely still.

Collie giggled. “Uh, Dad?”

I twisted, turned to another side and again framed my face.

“What are you doing?” Lillie asked. She put her hands to her own face.

“Yes, child. Vogue.” I turned again, crouching, framing. “Give good face.”

Jason winced. “Okay . . . ,” he began.

I dropped the pose and sat. I picked up my fork. “Long story. I used to do volunteer work with GLBT youth.”

“BLT . . ?” Collie asked.

I stabbed a broccoli. “GLBT. Gaylesbianbisexualtransgendered. Anyway, the kids taught me that dance.” I bit into a broccoli stem. “And then it was famous and everyone knew it. I tried teaching your mom, but children, your mama can’t dance.”

“Thank God,” Jason laughed.

“It’s gay?” Collie asked.

“It’s awesome,” I answered. “Eat your broccoli.”

I suppose voguing is permanently programmed into my repertoire. Which can be fine for family entertainment, but may be a little distracting under other circumstances . . . as Jocasta discovered as we put on a live sex show.

You’re a superstar, Jo. Yes, that’s what you are. You know it.