That Sweet Child of Mi-y-ine

Maybe I'm too new to this game.

I take an excessive amount of pleasure in rolling Tweenie's eyes, especially when it's with my inherent geekishness. Exaggerative efforts are like cheating, because I know I can achieve my ends almost instantly.

We were driving somewhere the other day, just the two of us. I flipped through stations, trying to find something mutually enjoyable. I landed on one of those Top 100 channels where they play Justin Timberlake at least 10 times each hour.

"Mom, this is totally lame."

"Oh reeeeeeally?" I started switching.

Axl's powerwhine came wailing over the airwaves. I haven't listened to his captivating caterwaul since high school, which was--

...um...

--several years ago.

I cranked it, boosted the bass, started grooving at the wheel. I sneakily glanced over, expecting to see white orbs centered in a scowling face framed by hands jammed over ears.

I only saw air guitar.

"This is awesome!" she hooted.

Now, whenever it's just us in the car, we turn to the 80s power rock station and bond in a strangely fascinating way. Husband would most definitely approve.