Driving home the other night from dinner Miss C chimed in matter of factly from the back seat: “Mommy, you know Joe is getting married.”
“Joe who?” I asked. I had no idea who she was talking about.
Joe, Joe, Joe? I mulled it over for a few seconds. The only Joe who came to mind was her classmate Joe we’d just seen at dinner and unless arranged marriages for 3rd grade boys are now the norm in the South, I doubted she was talking about that Joe.
“You know…JOE,” she said, incredulously.
“You mean Mr. Joe at the pizza place?” We are good friends with the manager of a neighborhood pizza joint named Joe.
“NO mommy…Joe JONAS.”
At least she’s not on a first name basis with Justin Bieber. That I could NOT HANDLE.
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