So, I subscribed to one of these music download services for the kids and their new MP3 players. (Yeah, that's the ticket.) After I downloaded like the 20th 80's song onto the computer for my IPod, I finally heard Elaina over my right shoulder, "Are WE getting any songs, Mommy?"
Er, oh, yeah. Hannah Montana. Camp Rock soundtrack. High School Musical 3 Soundrack. Jonas Brothers. I almost forgot to download all of that over the smokin' guitar coming off of The Cult hammering out Fire Woman. (If you don't like that song, it's obvious we have nothing to discuss musically. It's sort of like a dividing line in politics; some things you just can't get past.)
I was completely head banging, singing at the top of my lungs, dancing around the office like some sort of heavy metal lunatic on the third chorus of Love and Rockets No New Tale to Tell when my 8-yr-old grabbed me by the upper arms, spun me around to face her and said, "Mother! You have GOT to get a hold of yourself. You are too old for this sort of thing."
As if. She thinks that dancing in the house is bad...wait until they are teenagers. Heh-heh-heh. It's going to be my complete honor and privilege to humiliate my offspring by rolling up in the Loser Cruiser (what we call the mini-van) to pick them up at the mall blasting The Smiths as loud as the factory jam will allow. I might even get me some Big 80's Hair just for that first time--like some sort of sick initiation ritual. I'm so down with that.
I have totally got to go. Warren Zevon is about to throw down some Werewolves of London all over this home office and so am I. Rock on.
I know those Duran Duran albums are in here somewhere...