Oh My God, She's Twelve Years Old!

Tonight was the big night. Mads, my Norwegian companion, was going on his big date. I was skeptical, seeing how he met the woman on MySpace. They shared an interest in ornithology, and the girl asked if he'd like to go out sometime. I helped him pick out an outfit, suggested a restaurant, and of course he could take it from there. No one pairs wine and foods better than Mads.

I walked him down to his cab, went back up stairs, uncorked a Russian River pinot noir, cut up some goat's milk gouda, and fired up my Criterion Collection version of Ingmar Bergman's Scenes From a Marriage. About twenty minutes in, Mads stormed through the door.

"Home already? What happened? Hideous?"

"She's 12..."

"Twelve what?"

"Years old."

Poor Mads. The girl had used her older step-sister's picture, and her profile said she was 22. The restaurant thought it odd that a twelve-year old was sitting by herself, meeting someone, and then almost had Mads arrested when he arrived. It took quite a bit of explaining, and he barely made it out before the TV news crews arrived. I poured him a glass of pinot, but he bypassed it and finished the bottle.