Earlybird Special, Here I Come!
It was easily 15 years ago, and I was watching Blossom. (Hold your laughter please.) Blossom broke curfew and her dad grounded her. My immediate reaction was, Good, your dad was worried sick about you!
Last week I caught a 9 year old boy in an Eminem shirt as he chowed down on a slice of pepperoni with his parents. Now I like Eminem. I appreciate the irony, this character he's created, the wit and rhythm of his rhyming schemes. But he does sing lyrics like I'll slit your motherfuckin throat worse than Ron Goldman.
Yesterday I saw a girl, about fifteen, checking out of my hotel with her parents. (Ah yes, I'm traveling again. But I figure I'm well over my quota of boohoohoo I'm traveling and miss the baby posts for the year, so I'm skipping right over that part.) She was adorable, clean-cut with pink capris grazing her narrow calves and her long straight hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was holding her dad's hand, but you could sense just a hint of that brazen teenage rebellion brewing up in her.
And then I noticed the tattoo around her ankle. A chain of green-black stars with the clean lines of new needlework. My first thought was: How old is that girl?
My second thought was: What the hell is that father thinking?
My third thought was: Oh my God. I'm going to start collecting Hummels and saying "cockadoodie" any moment now, aren't I.