As we entered some little town, the cheer leading squad turned out in force to greet us.

Grade “A” government inspected / certified Cheerleaders!
There was a lady standing on the side of the road right before the cheerleaders, taking pictures of them.

She must have interpreted the look on my face as quizzical.  (It was more than likely, “How far off the road do I have to get so these bikers don’t run me over?”)  She offered without my asking, “These are for my husband.  He told me if I ran into any cheerleaders to take pictures for him.”

I was mock-aghast.  “What kind of man likes to look at pretty girls?  It’s not like it’s in our DNA or anything.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, not catching my sarcasm.  “I just know what my husband likes.”

I told her that’s she’s probably got most men figured out.

We made small talk for a little bit. She said she was anxious to get to Des Moines because her daughter lived there and was serving roast beef for dinner.

“What?  And I didn’t get a invitation?” I asked.

“Well, I guess I could call her and see if she has enough . . . ”  She still didn’t get my sarcasm.  I guess I need to work on that.

This is Julie.  She was standing to the right of the assembled cheerleaders (above).  I asked her if she was a cheerleader, too.  She said, “No, just a mom.”  I seem to remember they made a movie about a cheerleader mom.  Some woman in Texas, I think.  It didn’t end well . . .

My daughter wins all the competitions.  I personally see to it.