I have bad kid karma. Recently, a little tow-headed urchin, right out of Disney’s central casting, looked up at me on the corner of Amsterdam Avenue and West 75th Street and yanked on his mother’s blouse.
“That man’s crazy, Mommy,” the precious one said. “He’s talking to himself.”
His mother took one look at me, wrapped her arm around her son’s shoulder, and scooped him closer to her. Granted, I hadn’t done my morning boudoir ablutions yet—I was still in my sweats, my hair certainly wasn’t bouncin’ and behavin’, and I was sporting a five o’clock shadow that was creeping toward 7:30. So when the light turned green and Precious Mom yanked the kid, he trailing behind her like a broken kite, and hurried across the street, I tried not to take it personally.
It would have been one thing had I been wearing a Bluetooth ear bud and been on the phone with Indonesia or was surfacing after a Lower-East-Side-four-in-the-morning boozefest. But the truth is I was on my way to shop for food, and I was singing my grocery list. Read more »