In the kitchen:
My sweet-tough 16-year-old daughter says -- with wry irony, "I would have trouble being friends with me. We both have very strong personalities. We'd fight a lot and it would probably end badly."
I get this. I can't tell you how much I get this.
In the car:
Dave and I are alone. It's early morning. I'm not a morning person. Dave wakes up whistling; it's hideous.
I say, "That's a painted-on outfit," pointing out a woman wearing something that really pulls it all in.
He says, "Painted-on?"
"It's not like you to miss a Lionel Richie reference. 'She walked by me in painted-on jeans, meaning tight.'" I'm kind of proud of myself because I'm bad at pop culture references in general, and music in particular.
"Ah, that would be Billy Ocean and the exact line is, 'She brushed by me in painted-on jeans."
I turn morning-hour hostile. "Ever the intellectual! Really LORDING it over me, aren't you?"
Dave starts whistling Billy Ocean.
In the playroom:
My three year old asks, "Did you play Dress-Up Olivia on the computer when you were little?"
"There was no such thing as computers when I was little."
This baffles him -- and then terror settles in.
And then I realize how elderly this makes me seem -- like from an epoch that's referred to by using the term epoch -- and then the terror settles in.
We stare at each other, bug-eyed.
Late at night:
In a moment of sweetness, I say to Dave, "You're my Starsky."
He looks at me, startled. "Really? I've always seen myself as a David Sole type."
He must now soul search. (How awkward is that pic of Starsky and Hutch, huh?)