TO EVERYTHING, THERE IS A SEASON
SEATTLE, Washington "ID!" the bouncer's voice gunshots. Fair enough, the neighborhood's been suffering a crackdown.
I rummage, because, really, what 32-year-old woman keeps her driver's license handy? Yet lately I've been carded about 80% of the time: paranoia becomes Ballard. No matter how much I point to silver strands and sexy crow's feet, I'm forced to dredge out the paperwork.
The hired muscle at Hattie's Hat nods, then shifts his attention. "ID!"
"Excuse me, that's my mother."
"Look, you just carded me. I'm 32. She's my little mamma." I hug her with one arm for emphasis, but also to demonstrate that she only reaches armpit level, which has amused me intensely for the last two decades*.
She produces some, laughing, proud. Rightly so. She's gorgeous and youthful, without even treading into other superlatives (powerful, brilliant, fun and funny etc.).
Still I can't help sniping, "guess you don't see a lot of mothers and daughters in here."
"Only professionals," he shoots back.
Out of bounds!
And right there, I realize I've outgrown Hattie's, home of encrusted 50s-kitsch and too much indie attitude.
When a 12-year-old bouncer backchats about yo mamma, it's time to patronize another dive bar.
*On a good morning, I'm 5'8", while Ellen is 5' and change. She insists she's grown an inch in the last few years, but, um, I'm not ready to go on the record confirming figures just yet...