Ticky Tacky

Sometimes, when I’m out on the bike, I sing this song.

I don’t have a radio on the bike and it’s illegal to use an iPod so I tend to sing to myself.  I don’t know any whole songs so my singing sounds a lot like one of those late night informercials for 80s Love Ballads or Rock Classics from the 70s. Never more than a line or chorus or two and all run together in snippets of crazy, tone deaf…  well, craziness. Sometimes I even find myself singing Barney songs.

It’s ridiculous but amusing.

I tend to sing this song whenever we go through areas that have a lot of houses that all look the same, subdivisions full of mini castles.

Gods, I miss riding already.

I’m half tempted to bundle up and take the Rebel out for a putter this weekend if it decides it wants to run.  (It’s the only bike we haven’t parked yet and it’s too small for me but I’m not sure I care at this point.)

Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky tacky,
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes all the same.
There’s a green one and a pink one 
And a blue one and a yellow one,
And they’re all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.