Me: "Honey, I AM a girl. Just ask your little buddy down the street. Heh."
Oldest son: "Mom, you're NOT a girl..."
Tool Man: "Trust me, son. Your mom is a girl."
Oldest son: "Whatever. You're NOT making me listen to them."
Honestly? That's fine by me, because I think I need to be alone when I listen to these boys so I don't feel quite so guilty for all the nasty, nasty thoughts I have when I think about them. Well, mostly I think about that sexy, sexy Joe and his skinny little jeans.
Yes, I am so thinking about his jeans! Or, you know, whatever...
I want to slather Joe Jonas in cougar sauce and casually gnaw on him while enjoying a glass of wine. Of course, he's not yet old enough to drink (but he turns 19 on Friday, which I know because I may or may not have read it in Tiger Beat magazine while on break with my adorable coworker, who is gay and also hot for Joe, but I would totally fight him for Joe, and he knows I would win), so yeah! More wine for me! Confession - While my family was away on their recent male bonding weekend, I sat in my darkened living room on a Saturday night and watched Camp Rock. Twice. OK, three times. But the last time, I fast forwarded through that creepy girl's part just so I could get to Joe's subtly superb turn as Shane, the ne'er do well, ego maniacal rock star who learns, through the course of clearly unrealistic nature scenes and what was referred to as hip hop dancing but absolutely was not, that it's more important to be one's self.
Especially if one's self can pull off those tight, tight pants.
And by 'pull off,' I absolutely mean "allow me to admire the quality craftsmanship of your well tailored ensemble."
I know. I know! I'm 40. A few bottles of wine 20 years ago, and I could have kids as old as this trio. Only if I had, my kids probably wouldn't be able to carry a tune, and, like my 10 year old, insist I'm not a girl.
But I am a girl, and whether I like it or not, I've got a big old girly boner for the Jonas Brothers. Rawr!
(Did that sound like a cougar's roar? Yeah? Excellent...)
Labels: Tool Man doesn't like it when I ask him to sing S.O.S. in bed (or if I call him Redneck Mommy)