I blame it on Count Chocula. We teach our daughters from an early age that vampires are the harbingers of chocolate milk and sugar induced comas. Is it any wonder that when hormones kick in, they totally forget that combined with juice, toast, and milk, vampires are part of a nutritious breakfast?
Instead, our daughters are swooning over the romantic brooding undead, centuries their senior, the original May-December relationship. Why aren’t they interested in boys their own age? Because vampires don’t ride their skateboards down the steps of city hall. They rarely blow up mailboxes or tip cows. You won’t find a bloodsucking creature of the night working the lunch shift at McDonald’s, bagging groceries, or squeezing a pimple.
Modern vampires have impeccable table manners. Their bite is more about pleasure than pain, and they never gorge. Angry villagers are more likely to show up at the Capital Building with torches and pitchforks then storm the castle. Okay, that may be setting the bar kind of low.
Where are these girls’ mothers? Probably slipping into a bubble bath with a bodice ripper and a glass of champagne, but that’s beside the point. It’s time to teach our kids the harsh realities of paranormal romance.
Vampires wouldn’t be caught dead helping with housework. They leave the toilet seat up, and use the whole night thing as an excuse not to cut the grass. The undead don’t like cats.
Obviously, there’s only one solution. Buy your daughter werewolf romance novels. Werewolves really like cats. Yum!