|Grade “A” government inspected / certified Cheerleaders!|
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.|