With the sunroof wide open and Boom Boom Pow blasting out of the speakers, Alexis and I made our way through a little town, on our way home. I was thinking about the look on Alexis' dance teacher face the day that they had gone around and asked for everyone's favorite music. Alexis had declared, "Black-Eyed Peas," but she may as well have said, "Ornery Paint-Huffing Aliens" because the teacher had stared at her like she had sprung three heads.
As the stoplight turned from red to green, Alexis looked around, probably in search of a yellow car. She still plays the silly little game she invented years ago. These days, she's a bit more ruthless about it. Fortunately, she hasn't figured out that I don't actually play along, but rather just say, "UGH! You got me!" every time the kid yells, "YELLOW CAR!"
Alexis didn't spot a yellow car, but instead spotted a bicyclist coming from the opposite direction. He was a few dozen pounds overweight, a fact that was made very obvious because of his bright green skin-tight spandex pants and tank top. His sunglasses seemed better suited for someone closer to Alexis' age than for someone definitely older than me. His hair was the billboard proclaiming his age to be somewhere in his forties, not just because he was sporting a mullet, but also because he had resorted to a bad comb-over to create the business in the front.
Let's just say he was quite the sight as he pedaled furiously down the street.
Alexis looked at him and then said, "Momma, he can be your boyfriend if you want him to be." It was in that moment that I knew, without doubt, that sarcasm is genetic. Alexis and I are going to have sooooo much fun mocking the silliness of life in a few years.
