Here it is, the first day of 2012. If the Mayans are correct, this will be the last time we all have to endure the fallout from New Years Eve partying. Myself, I'm just fine this morning since I long ago parted ways with the late night partying crowd. I was comfortably settled in for a night of NCAA football last night until about 9:30. 

That's when I received a phone call from Co-pilot Egg.

Just to set the stage, Egg just recently had a birthday and is now old enough to be considered an adult for the purposes of voting, fighting a war, or going to prison for knocking over a liquor store, but not yet old enough to (legally) drink alcohol. That's just fine with both of us, frankly. For me it's because I'd prefer to not have to worry about her any more than I already do, and for her it's because she just doesn't seem to have any desire to imbibe. 

Or so she says. There's a lot riding on trust here.

In any event, recognizing that she will be out on her own in less than a year, I've begun trying to loosen the leash a little bit with regards to her comings and goings. Sure, I still like to know where she is and when she will be back, but when she said she was going to a friend's house for a New Years Eve get together, I didn't probe too deeply for details regarding which friend, where he lived, the arrest history of his parents, currency of rabies shots, percentage of allowance spent on pornography, or any of the plethora of things I used to try to determine before granting permission. I did refuse her request to drive my car instead of hers, though, since it wasn't supposed to get cold enough for her to really need the heated seats that she likes so much.

That turned out to be a fortuitous refusal.

So, the phone call: "Hey, Dad, I'm at... wait, the sheriff is here. [click]"

Ah, nice. Nothing to worry about then.