I'm a mean, mean, mean person.

Zack has developed a hot spot (see this Warning).  And while I am not surprised that he has taken up a nervous habit, I had hoped the vet could prescribe some sort of medication or a lobotomy--whichever is cheapest.

We had to put a halo collar on him this week to prevent him from making the spot worse.  Dave and I--well mostly me--have had a wonderful time telling people different reasons why Zack has this on.

A few of our favorites are:

• Zack misread the instructions on his new umbrella
• Zack has decided to be Elizabethean Collie
• Dave wants all access to college football games on cable but refuses to pay for it.
• A new invention:  The Catch All Bowl.  A portable way to make sure NO food thrown your way goes to waste.  Act now and you'll receive two Catch All Bowls.  Just pay S & H.
• Zack is the Catholic Church's newest saint but they ran out of halos.
• A emergency braking system for my car.  Just let Zack hang out the window and viola, instant stops
• The sunflower in the new school performance of "Chicken Little"
• The new sun-tanning sensation
• A standing water basin designed specifically for chipmunks

Please feel free to add your interpretation of Zack and his new collar.

Happy New Year

Have a safe and hangover-free New Year!  There will be no drinking from me since I know that wine causes pregnancy.

Merry Christmas!!

In anticipation of future hospital visits (Regan wants a karate training room and Wesley is asking for an archery set), I thought I'd wish everyone an early and take your pick depending on your culture or views,

**Merry Christmas and Happy Birthday, Jesus**

**Happy Hannukah**

**Safe and wonderful Kwanzaa**

**Joyous Festivus**

**Happy Cat Herding Day (12/15) for all the parents or people in charge of impossible tasks.  Sorry I missed your special day**

Warning: I'm about to become famous.

One day into Christmas vacation, Wesley and Regan are sent to their rooms because of bickering over--get this--who gets to move the Advent Calendar today. A mere seventeen minutes of Christmas peace before Wesley and Regan began their daily arguments. To add insult to injury, I tell them to clean up their rooms since Wesley's Star Wars figurines and accoutrements make him look like a candidate for the hoarder reality show. Regan’s stuffed animal collection (now hovering around 152 minions) are spilling out into the pantry. One poor dragon met an untimely death in a boiling pot of pasta.

"You are the worst Mommy in the World." Wesley wails and crosses his arms for dramatic effect.

Regan, not to be outdone by the King of Melodrama, announces that she would like to be traded to another family. For a moment I envisioned a Major League type swap. For a future draft pick to be named later? For money? With the stomping of feet, she heads to her room to sulk or set up therapy appointments with Dr. Phil via a toy cell phone.

"You are ruining my life." Wesley interjects. "I will not clean up my room. I do not like this. And I do not like you right now. I'm calling DFCS {Department of Family and Children Services which is the child protection agancy in Georgia} and tell them you are ruining my life."

So when I get the the nomination for the Worst Mommy in the World Award for my anger-filled performance in "Ruining Wesley's Life", my fame will spread to all the world. I can just see myself accepting the bad mommy award in prison orange pantsuit via satellite hook up.

I'm off to practice my acceptance speech. "I owe it all to the Advent Calendar and for inspiration for my role, my two former children."

Warning: Parents say things they never thought they say.

I used to think my mom was sometimes a bit strange. Now I know that her children drove her to Strange-ville. I always thought I would be the "cool" parent. The one the kids go to when they want to have fun. Geez, was I off! Dave and I actually are the parents the neighborhood children whisper about on Halloween. Well, me actually since Dave is sometimes a big kid himself.

Picture one of the neighborhood children whispering covertly. "You know, Bobby once went over to Wesley's to play and he came back with his hair combed." Or "Regan's mom is weird. She told us to jump on their bed."

So this is dedication with love and a great deal of guilt to my mom. These are actual rantings.

"Wesley, get your train out of the toilet."

"If someone does not pick up these toenails, you won't like it if I do."

"Zack, drop that dead chipmunk right now."

"Dave, quit being Diaper Head."

"Regan, your dragon is clogging the shower."

"My lipstick does not belong on the grill."

"Please pick up your Lego shirt."

"How are we going to get the salsa off the ceiling?"

"Yes, Build-A-Bear. What do you recommend to clean pee off one of your animals?"

"For the last time, my bed is not a mixing bowl. Get the beans off."

"I do see it but Regan, you should keep the unicorn out of the microwave."

"Who mixed my Dr. Pepper with the ranch dressing?"

"Why are you pouring hydrogen peroxide on the deck?"

"Get the toilet paper out of your shirt."

"You really need to get the reindeer out of the tree."

And lastly, my personal favorite! "Take that doll out of the dog's water bowl and get your Transformer out of the dog good bag."

Warning: Count Dooku and the Geeks are taking over the world.

Wesley was reading "Brain Questions". Apparently, it is a kind of Jeopardy for kids.

Below are sample questions that Wesley read outloud trying to stump me.

Wesley: What monster did Count Dooku change into?
Me: Don't you mean Dracula? Dookou is a Star Wars character.
Wesley: Oh, yeah. Dacula
Me: No. Dracula. D-R-A-C-U-L-A. Dracula is a vampire.

Wesley: What was the name of Christopher Columbus' flagship?
Me: The Santa Maria
Wesley: Ha, ha. Tripped you up. It's the St. Mary.

Wesley: Which civilization was responsible for our system of numerals? The Aarons, Chinese or the Geeks?
Me: Those silly Arabic geeks.

Wesley: What kind simple machine is a crow bar or a liver?
Me: Don't you mean a "lever"?
Wesley: No, it's a liver.
Me: Honey, the liver is an organ inside your body. Look again. L-I-V-E-R is the organ. L-E-V-E-R

Wesley: Who settled at Pluto rock?
Me: The Klingons (I said this in a sarcastic voice)
Wesley: No. Gotcha. The Pilgrims

I let him have it. After all, who can compete with Count Dooku and the Dark Side.

Warning: Trying to pick up a date at a Red Box outside Kroger is not a good idea.

There are several warnings in this post. It is an open letter to that gross looking guy who provided the inspiration for this warning.

1. Trying to pick up a date at a Red Box outside Kroger is not a good idea. Really, seriously? Just because I'm leaning against a vending machine does not constitute an invitation to coffee. I was just waiting for my hubby. There's a boatload of better pickup lines and venues than saying, "Do you use this machine often? Why don't we go over to the Steak and Shake and talk?"

2. If you feel the desperate need for companionship, visit the Dollar Tree store to buy some bifocals and hearing aid batteries. Wesley and Regan were with me although I did try to shake them in the floral department at Kroger. If an aging chubby redhead with two loud bickering children does not deter you, perhaps you need some mental health therapy or at least a 1-900 number to relieve your needs.

3. When I smiled smirked and rolled my eyes at you, I was being polite. I am no Red Box technician but when a sign is posted across the machine that says, "Not in Service", talking to it and asking me for a refund is well, a bit odd.

4. Calling your children the "goons" is a good indicator of that person being sort of mean. Come on...any person worth their salt should recognize that. And you still continue to ask that mean person (me) out. Again, you need therapy, bifocals and a business card for Busty Gals of the World 900 line.

5. Lastly, telling you "Go Away" (I used much stronger language) should make you go away. Finally you left after realizing the noises emanating from the broken Red Box machine was actually Wesley making rude bodily noises in an attempt to repel Regan.

I hope you have better luck at Blockbuster.

Warning: Slingshooting beanie babies does not produce the same result as a Looney Tunes slingshot.

It's fall break and my delinquents are out of school. It's not been too bad except for:

*a disastrous attempt at Rice Krispie treats
*a minor medical emergency involving Zack and aforementioned Rice Krispie treats
*another medical emergency involving Zack and a wasp
*a frantic search looking for Bob the Pterodactyl
*Regan and Wesley pushing each other in Target over a disagreement involving salt and pepper shakers
*a vain attempt to deliberately stain a shirt for a Halloween costume
*another vain attempt to make reindeer antlers out of craft foam
*discovering I have bought 7 bottles of ranch dressing in an overzealous coupon spree
*packing bags for Wesley and Regan's Scout camping trip with Dave. This also led to a yelling and foot stomping fit by Regan when I pulled out four stuffed animals from her bag.

Now, readers, it does seem like a lot for a week. But if you have read my blog, you'll understand (especially Kitten with a Whiplash) this is normal for my little corner of paradise.

The straw that broke the proverbial camel's back--or in my case, Bob the Pterodactyl--was the construction of a slingshot made from one of my bras. If I had known Bob was to be abused this way, I would have never found him hiding in Regan's sock drawer. Regan and Wesley decided to use the bra to propel Bob across the house.

By the time I stopped the revelry, one of the kitchen drawers were upended. Zack was cowering in the basement, frantically trying to chew off the bandage covering the wasp sting. The mantle of the fireplace had been rearranged to become a target. Wesley was spitting out commands like a four-star general to make sure Bob would land on the mantle in one piece. Regan was soothing Cutie Pie (another stuffed animal) because she was next in line to be shot.

"Mean. You're just plain mean." Wesley accused me. "We're not fighting now and we're having fun. Blah, blah, blah." I tuned him out until he said, "You're not the boss of me. And I've got rights." Honestly, that kid is going to be a major crime figure in the near future and so he continues, "Someday, you're gonna miss us fighting with each other." He will not be a psychic for the police force.

I not so quietly remind him that I am indeed the boss of him and if he could name five of the Bill of Rights, I'll let him continue playing. He named two (religious freedom and right to bear arms). He tried to slide in "Freedom to think" but I nixed it.

"Benjamin Franklin Pierce wrote it." My little scholar grunted. Too many MASH reruns.

Turning my attention to the girl, she lets Cutie Pie loose on the slingshot down the stairs. The poor dog (Zack) never stood a chance as Cutie Pie assaulted him in mid-bandage chew.I disassemble the sling shot and put it back into my drawer as Wesley puts on a pair of socks.

"I'm going outside," he announces with anger. I almost tell him that he put on Regan's Hello Kitty socks but remind myself that I love my children. I love like my children. I like tolerate my children.

Please remind me to look into military academies for Wesley and convents for Regan.

Warning: Pizza is the second leading cause of near automobile accidents.

Cats are the first. But I digress. Dave is called away out of town and it falls to me to feed the kids (BONUS Warning: If you feed kids, they will never go away). Feeling lazy and not at all like June Cleaver, I call in an order to the local pizza parlor. I am in way disparging June. It had been a long day and I was tired. We get a large, gooey cheese pizza and an order of garlic knots. Garlic knots are these magical wonderful bits of homemade bread drenched in garlic and butter. They are my weakness and I would do just about anything to eat them.

We're pulling into the driveway when Wesley lets loose a high pitched scream that I swear, could break wine glasses. Apparently, Regan breathed on him and he was infected with Regan Cooties. According to Wesley, this is a terminal disease and it required immediate action. Not medical attention but retribution. He grabs Bob, Regan's stuffed pterodactyl, and throws it at my head. Regan begins to karate kick her brother who is continuing throwing her stuffed animals into the front seat. Instead of stopping the car and calmly talk to my kids, I grab Bob who has fallen down my shirt--the pervert and toss it back to Regan. Then in a horrifying minute, the garlic knots begin to slide out of the box. I made a split second decision to save the garlic knots and let the kids fend for themselves. After all, we have health insurance in case of serious injury and we have met our deductible for the year. Then BAM!!!. The passenger side mirror hits the side of the garage. I stop instantly. By the time I threw the car in park, both kids have mysteriously disappeared into the house. The damage is minimal. The mirror is fine as well as the garage. The only remnant was Bob the Pterodactyl who was an innocent pawn in the fight. So the lesson, readers, is not that inattention while driving is bad (it is) or that Regan needs to cull her stuffed animal posse (she does) or that Wesley overreacts (he does). No, the lesson of the day is garlic knots are worth any price to a hungry mother.

Warning: If your son compares your hair color to condiments, it's time to padlock the pantry.

When Wesley compared my hair color to Regan's ranch dressing, I knew it was time for touch up.

I'm all about saving money. My last professional hair color job was about four years ago and cost around $80. So in an effort to save some dough, I started dyeing my hair by myself.

I've tried them all--Revlon, Clairol, Loreal, Henna. There was also a disastrous
incident with peroxide and lemon juice when I was 15 but that's ancient history.

So Loreal has come out with a "Sublime Mousse" line. I chose Spicy Auburn Brown because that looked like it was the closest to my natural hair color (Not the Peroxide/Lemon Juice color). I did have problems applying the stuff. The mousse went everywhere including but not limited to:

*the bathroom ceiling
*a small fingerprint on Dave's toothbrush (I replaced it)
*my Scooby Doo socks
*Zack's tail
*the water bill

After 30 minutes, the color was rinsed. I walk into the living room to see Wesley dig around the cabinets looking for ketchup. He pulls out a bottle of Kraft BBQ sauce and said, quite innocently, "Mom, now your hair and the sauce are the same color."

Smart aleck kid--who was still smarting from the lawn mowing strike this past summer.

All I could say was, "Ha, Ha." Not original but I was still stinging from his comments.

But to his credit, he was quick with a comeback. "Let's try for Cheeze Whiz next time."

Little guttersnipe

September 11, 2011

God bless all the victims and their families. May He bring comfort to them.

God bless all fallen and living heroes. May He keep them safe and secure.

God bless all Americans. May we never forget.

Warning: "Betta fish killers should be punished," states Regan

I'm a killer. Now I don't mean to be but according to my daughter, that's no excuse. Under some obscure law in Georgia, I deserve to spend time in "solitaire confussment" (aka solitary confinement) because I accidentally left Darth Betta in my car overnight during a cold night in January earlier this year.

It really was an accident. I harbor no ill will toward fish--I don't even eat seafood. I wince when we go into Red Lobster (I'm there for the cheddar bay biscuits) and pass by the lobster tank. Granted my unease has nothing to do with the lobsters' impending death. I just hate seafood. Being forced to eat Mrs. Paul's Catch of the Day fishsticks every Friday for 13 years does that to you.

Well back to the crime of the century. I had a boatload of items in my hand and told myself that I would come back down to the garage to grab Darth. It was almost 24 hours later when Regan happened upon the corpse. Darth was deceptively dead. He looked like he was just hanging out. We shook him and then it happened. He floated to the top looking like an unfortunate squealer from the mob. I nixed the idea of calling 911 or calling the vet.

Instead of flushing the fish like 99.97% of world, Regan insisted we had to bury it. Military honors and prayers. I patted the grave with a trowel and that was the end.

Until today. Phrancis dug up Darth's grave. Maybe she is Frankenstein reincarnated or maybe she is just a ghoul. Regan saw the desecrated grave and promptly insisted upon my immediate punishment.

Please direct donations to my paypal account and mark it as "bail".

Warning: It is permissible to cross a picket line if the picketer is your child.

Wesley is now 10 years old. Dave and I have been waiting for this moment for 11 years--ever since we found out we had a boy cooking in my belly. And what a sweet moment it was when Wesley ventured out and started pushing the lawn mower by himself.

Oh the joy! Oh the pride! Oh the sweet smell of freshly cut grass and weeds on a hot summer day in Georgia. Made especially nicer when you were not the mower!



It took one mowing of our front yard before Wesley demanded payment. Dave, as upper management in charge of exterior landscaping, offered $15 in a moment of weakness.

It took three mowings before Wesley went on strike--asking for $20 per job. Since I am chief financial officer, threw back another number--$12 per job but I would allow frequent water breaks under this new contract.

And then the National Organization of Chore Unionization started. Darn schools! They had teach him to add. In an unprecedented move toward sibling cooperation, Regan threw herself and all her 137 stuffed animals (yes you read that right 137 stuffed animals and I've picked all of them up at one time or another). Regan wanted compensation for being cute and giving good hugs.

I went back to Wesley at $15 per job partly because of Dave's impressive resistance to mowing anymore. Wesley agreed only because I started charging for meals, rent and washing. He quickly ran into the red and started suffering from Milky Way withdrawal. Regan was temporarily satisfied with a grilled cheese sandwich.

However, he said he will be back later in the year to start contract talks. Regan is now preparing her 137 minions how to picket.

Thank you Norma Rae.

The Martyrs of Compiegne

Tomorrow is the feast day of the Sixteen Martyrs of Compiegne (France). Today is the feast day of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. I am presently in the discernment phase with the Lay Carmelites. The Carmelites are an order of Catholic nuns, priests and lay people. Our mission is to seek a closer relationship to God through prayer and the intercession of the Blessed Virgin, Our Lady of Mt. Carmel.

I was reading about Carmel saints several months ago while trying to decide if this was the path I was meant to follow. I came across these brave nuns who were beheaded in 1794 in the latter part of the Reign of Terror during the French Revolution. They were murdered because they refused to stop living their vocation of prayer and service.

Now, God sometimes has to hit me on the head with a newspaper because well, sometimes, I don't listen. Not only did this story of courage speak to me, July 17 is my late father's birthday. So I took God's hint and decided to join the Lay Carmelite group in my church.

There is no particular reason why I am posting this. It has nothing to do with knitting or my wacky warnings. I guess I wanted to show God that I do follow His direction.

Warning: There is no suicide hotline for chipmunks

Nervy little rodent or deeply depressed squirrel whannabe?

As I type this, there is a small chipmunk peering through the glass in my front door. I'm almost afraid for him. And the fear is not from our lazy cat, Phat Phrancis who, I notice, is lounging four feet from the chipmunk, slowly cleaning herself.

No, I'm afraid of what Zack the Collie will do to our door once he sees this intruder. Borrowing from Dr. Doofenschmirtz, there is a back story to Zack and chipmunks. I won't bore you with the details but once upon a time, Zack swallowed hole a baby chipmunk which he promptly threw back up. Poor hubby had dispose of the slimy animal. So, dear readers (and I am sorry if the details of Zack's food intake made you sick), I am sure you understand my anxiety.

Back to the present time. I don't know if the chipmunk wants to end its' life via through the jaws of a Collie or if the chipmunk equivalent of peer pressure is at work.

"Oh, come on, Fred! The dog is old and not as fast as he used to be. Oscar was asking for it when he got swallowed. I double dog dare you to ring the doorbell," says Petey the delinquent leader of the Chip's Crips. Petey smiles as he elbows other rodents.

And you know what? As Zack FINALLY spies his nemesis and is well on his way to a collision with double pane glass, I now officially don't care if the chipmunk makes it out alive. I just want an estimate on a new front door.

The Joke's on Yahoo.

Okay, Yahoo is under the impression that I am a writer. They've published two of my articles. Here is the link for the latest entry. The more people visit, the more I get paid which is ssssoooo nice since teacher pay is being cut again.

Warning: Daughter + Toothless Mask + Cowboy Hat = Tylenol

Please make sure you take the recommended dosage for headache medicine followed by a long swig of Dr. Pepper and Tums.

Warning: A 7 year old girl should never wear six different colognes at the same time.

Question: How many showers does it take to remove the stench of 6 colognes?

Answer: Not three or four or five.

Regan, Regan, Regan. My beautiful girl was watching Justin Bieber (aka the "Squirrel") or was it Big Time Rush? I readily admit my shortcomings as a mother who was more worried about a ninety pound dog trying to eat a snake (another warning for another time) than monitoring the show my daughter was watching.

I caught a whiff of a familiar scent while pulling Zack back into the house. Was that my Amazing Grace cologne? Then another breezed by. Now I know that was my Tocca Colette scent. When the third, fourth, fifth and six whafted by (and in no particular order: In Bloom, Clinque Happy, Chloe, and D&G The One), I knew something or someone had been in my room.

I ruled out the dog and other male family members since Dave and Wes were at a Scout Pack Meeting.

Regan was dancing around my bed to a BTR or Squirrel Song in a perfumed haze.

I immediately tried to take a breath but choked. I managed to grab Regan before she applied my lavender foot cream.

"Regan," I started.

"Don't you love it? London wears perfume." Regan smiled

"London? As in the city?"

"Mom," Regan rolled her eyes and I spied my Clinque eyeshadow on her eyelid. "London on TV." Apparently, my repertoire of 'tween TV characters suck and my daughter was not afraid to let me know.

"Get in the shower and hose off." I ordered.

I felt a little better when Regan aquiesced somewhat docilely. Then I caught her sing, "Baby, Baby" by the Squirrel as Zack took off with my lavender foot cream and his rubber chicken.

Warning: I always win in a Mexican Standoff.

In the ten or so years of living in the middle of the woods, we've only one invasion of a field mouse. That is until a week ago. Minding my own business and insulting the local weather person for a bad forecast, I spied a little rodent scurrying from my kitchen to our TV cabinet. At first I was angry--how dare that mouse watch our cable television without paying his fair share. Then I realized I was transferring my anger at Wesley recording his Transformers cartoon over my Supernatural episode to the poor mouse.

Nonetheless, it had to go. I stocked up on humane mouse traps from the "maze trap" to the sticky Mouse Hotel. I place them in various mouse hot spots.

Three days go by and no Mickey. We come home from school and lo and behold, Wesley sees the mouse in the middle of our hall. We all freeze including the dog. I whisper to Wesley to get the cat.

Tangent here: Yes we have a cat but she is an outdoor cat who catches various animals from time to time including moles, chipmunks and three snakes (a dead snake made onto the top of my car but that's another story). Phat Phrancis does not do well indoors--she teases Zack and quite frankly, is more of a pest than any rodent. Maybe Phat Phrancis only does reptile extermination in the house. I don't know but she is totally useless in this situation.

Phrancis prances down the hallway and comes within a foot of the mouse. She twitches her tail and leaves (the cat twitches, not the mouse). Apparently the mouse is either a)inbred and does not know that a cat is a mouse's enemy or b)is completely blind and has no sense of smell or c)got into the wine cabinet and is so intoxicated it blew the Mouse Breathalizer.

I smudge a bit of peanut butter inside an old coffee can and ask Wesley to bring my trowel so I can shove the mouse inside completely once it goes in.

Tangent #2: If that mouse escaped and made it into Regan's room, Regan would never sleep in there again. If it made it into Wesley's room, the mouse would sue us for unsanitary conditions. If got to our bedroom, I'd stay awake all night fuming about the mouse's cable theft.

It goes into the can and here comes Wesley with a six foot post hole digger. The mouse was released into the woods and warned never to come back or else be billed for cable.

Warning: Never let your children watch "House" episodes.

Never let your children watch "House" episodes.

Dave is a fan of the TV show "House". He used to record it on the DVR but Wesley watched a few minutes of one of the episodes before I caught him out of bed (it was 9:30 p.m.)

The next day I get a visit from the school nurse. Wesley is in her office and has self-diagnosed himself as having a Vitamin K deficiency. He has no symptoms except that he can't concentrate on an upcoming test because of this. Nurse sends him back to class.

A few days later, Wes is again in the nurse's office during lunch. Dr. Wesley tells the nurse he has anorexia as he stuffs the last bit of garlic bread into his mouth. He is too tired to go on. The nurse asks if he knows what anorexia is and he replied that it is a bad case of snoring at night.

We've put the dvr on parential lockout. Wesley is now trying to find a disease on Ben 10 or Spiderman. If he thinks he can get out of school because he's sticking to the walls, he's got another thing coming.

The Shining.....Day 2

We are snowed in here in Georgia. At first it was powdery and how cute it is we thought. Ray tried to sled down a hill but she weighed too little (how I wish I had the problem) so I ended up pulling her like a Budweiser Clydesdale.

This morning we woke to a slick sheen of ice that covered the snow. Zack the Collie raced down the deck stairs only to try to use the bathroom while sliding across the backyard. He managed to create a Jackson Pollack painting using nothing but snow, hair and well, pee.

So I leave y'all with a line(s)from another winter horror story....

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

Warning: Never, ever make the blue jean fairy mad at you.

Never, ever make the blue jean fairy mad at you.

Recently the school that I teach at allowed the staff to wear blue jeans all week. Normally, I'd jump on that like a chocolate eclair but my poor deflated balloon belly has expanded. And I don't mean just a tiny bit. The last time an expansion like this was seen was during the Lousiana Purchase.

Well, because of this growth, I'm unable to fit into most of my blue jeans. I am down to five pairs of jeans--all in varying stages of wear.

Monday: I pull out of the garage and hear a large POP. Wesley jumps out of V-ger (for those who don't know about V-ger, it is my beautiful silver Dodge Avenger) and tells me that I ran over a can of green spray paint. I look at him and Wesley immediately denies using and leaving the can out. I get out and am drenched in Krylon Hunter Green. V-ger and Wesley escape unpainted. Adios Blue Jeans #1.

Tuesday: I bend over to tie one of my student's shoes when another POP. The button of Blue Jeans #2 shoots out and beans my student in the head. The resulting fit causes half the school to poke their heads out their doors just in time to see me hold my pants up in hand and the student in the other. Bon jour, Blue Jeans #2

Wednesday: It's pajama day. Although I am wearing my new pajamas, one of my students take delight in pulling the waist string to test its' strength. The string lasted an hour. I pull my emergency blue jeans out only to discover a huge rip down the backside. For a moment I consider wearing it but in the end, I staple the pajamas together and stay away from the children. Ciao, Blue Jeans #3.

Thursday: Cleaning a classroom is a full time job--especially during outbreaks of strep, flu, measles, colds and pink eye. And I excel at wiping down Legos, tables and children. Apparently keeping my jeans away from the bleach cleaner is also a full time job but I suck at it. Blue jeans #4 is now dotted with bleach down my right leg. Sayanora, Blue Jeans #4.

Friday: Blue Jeans #5 is my last pair. This pair manages to stay together all day but only because it was hot glued at the zipper. Aloha, Blue Jeans #5

Personally I don't think there is a blue jean fairy but a mad conspiracy by clothing companies to drive me insane.