childhood.

People who walk into my kitchen sometimes get confused and think I have a child.

I'm an insatiable refrigerator-art connoisseur. Anything of interest gets pinned up there, with magnets or, once I've run out of those, Scotch tape, taking its place in the prestigious art gallery of Stuff I Like to Look At When I'm Making Toast.

Currently holding pride of place are two mixed-medium pieces, combining crayon with colored pencil, depicting the following:

1. A group of Chinese giant salamanders, rendered in fetching purple, wearing party hats, sharing space with a collective of bees, also hat-bearing, entitled "Happy Birthday Emmy,"

2. The adorably tragic face of a pug, entitled "Pug."

These artworks were gifted to me by my friend Fern, who is nine. I am consistently astounded that a nine-year-old, who's got important stuff to do, including but not limited to Minecraft modding and inventing a dragon language, takes time out of her busy schedule to create original works for little old me.

When people draw attention to them, I assert their origin with the sort of submissive dignity that I feel is situationally appropriate, but the joke's on them if they think that attitude extends any deeper than theatricality. Secretly, I value these drawings more than I value my laptop, my TV, my $200 20-eye Doc Martens that I've had since I was gender-queer, and any of my jewelry except, coincidentally, the necklace Fern made for me in craft class, which has bee beads and a speech-bubble pendant that says "OMG."

Getting caught up in adulthood is all too easy. It is important to have friends who bring one back down to earth, and encourage one to notice bees, party hats, Chinese giant salamanders, the captivating colorburst of crayon and colored pencil made one.