Warning: When you decide to become a graffitti artist, get spell check.

You know, my son, Wesley, is very bright.  There are times, however, that even the brightest child can display bursts of goofiness.

Example 1:
If you read this warning, you should know Wesley's proclivity to Sharpies.  Recently, in middle school, the new fad is to "tattoo" yourself with Sharpies.  This trend coupled with his Sharpie usage and unpredictable goofiness in this warning is trouble. 

Last month, he comes home with proudly displaying his tattoo.  "I wrote 'I was here'," my little junior Andy Warhol announces. 

I try not to laugh as I read his leg.  "It says, 'I mas here.'  You wrote upside down, didn't you?  Don't worry--it will come off when you take your weekly bath."

Wesley shrugs off my attempt at spell check.  "No, it won't 'cause it's in Sharpie."

If you're going to be a criminal, be a great one and use spell check.  It will come in handy with future body art, ransom notes and any correspondence with your attorney.

Example 2:
While this is not in the graffiti arena, I felt that it fit in this warning.  Wesley volunteers me to make cupcakes on Wednesdays to sell at school to replace a poster making machine.  I don't mind because hey, we all need posters, don't we?

I make the cupcakes and Wesley makes a sign proclaiming that my cupcakes are great. 

Notice the spelling of "homemade".  While I admit I can be a word that rhymes with witch, I am no ho! 

Warning: When applying a new hand lotion, make sure it is not actually a self tanning lotion because if you don't rub the lotion on your arms, your hands will be several shades darker than your arms.

'nuff said.  Not going to elaborate.

Warning: My children will take the gold if whining was an Olympic sport.

Welcome to WhineFest 2012!  This year's contestents are Wesley and Regan.  The official is the Mean Mommy.

Here is the schedule of arguments and whines:

1.  Who gets to pick out their donut first?  (Wesley)
2.  I want to go first getting my hair cut. (Wesley)
3.  Feeding the dogs while throwing a fit. (Regan)
4.  This rare number 2 yellow pencil is mine (Wesley)
5.  What to record on the DVR--Gator Boys or Big Time Rush? (Regan)
6.  This sock is mine.  No it is mine. (Both)
7.  I'm running away to be with a family who appreciates me. (Wesley)
8.  Long division--God's revenge on children (Regan)
9.  I can't get out of the car because my stupid bookbag is blocking the door. (Regan)

Please be advised that whine topics may be subject to change and the official may drink some cheap wine. 

Warning: Don't stop for possums or other rodentia

I was driving to school at 6:00 a.m. the other week with a bickering Wesley and Regan. 

On Monday, a flash of four legged creature caused me to brake suddenly.  Oh my God, I almost hit a dog.  I get out and it is still dark. 

"Here, puppy, puppy," I call softly.  After all, I don't want to wake anyone--I'll leave that task to the smackdown going on in my backseat.  Regan is "hammer fisting" Wesley who is screaming that he'll do a kick on her.  No wonder the puppy ran away.

I get to the ditch where the dog was hiding and see a set of glowing pink eyes and a large hairless tail.  So, the puppy has conjunctivitis and male pattern balding?  Oh, but no, it's a large possum growling at me.  I squeal like a stuck pig and dive back into the car.  Fortunately, the kids are still arguing and pay no mind to the hysterical parent.

Tuesday comes and I watch for the possum.  Instead, a intoxicated squirrel falls from an overhanging tree onto my poor Vger, the now paid for Dodge Avenger.  Like most inebriated rodents and humans, the squirrel has no apparent injuries and scampers off back to the tree.  My children remain clueless as they argue the merits of school pizza vs Mom's frozen pizza from Walmart.

Hump day finds a wake of vultures greedily eating the remains of what looks like a raccoon.  I speed up and try not to get splashed with raccoon guts.  An aggrieved vulture swoops down on Vger splaying it with vulture poop.  Wesley raises his head from his video game to comment that "that bird was a large eagle." 

By Thursday, I'm a nervous wreck.  What assault will the Animalia Kingdom have for me today?  Fortunately, I don't have wait long.  Bambi and his horrid mother prance across the road, stopping momentarily to pose for the classic "deer in the headlights look" and listen for my multi-cultural swearing (I can swear in Spanish, French, Latin, English and Korean, thank you very much.  I believe in the fruitless hope that swearing is ok if it's not in your native language.)

Friday--I'm ready.  It's Ticked Off Chick vs. Wild Kingdom.  Alligator, snake, wasp--it doesn't matter.  I'm loaded with a Super Soaker Thunderstorm.  Only one living thing will make it and that thing will be me.

The assault started with the fading sound of a cicada and then....the cat, Phat Phrancis.  She hopped onto Vger, giving the vulture poop a wide swath, and started purring under my hand.  She jumped into my hands.  Oh, she wants to be friends.

With the  precision of a field marshall, she dropped the dead cicada onto my shoulder which rolled down my arm.  I am sure she had coordinated the entire animal attack this week.

What a canis (Latin for female dog--not a sin because it's in Latin).

Warning: Godzilla needs our sympathy and not "being made fun of because he's a lizard."

Summer boredom has overtaken the Hissyknit household.  Wesley is busy directing plastic army men in a life or death battle with a neighborhood friends.  I'm still addicted to my Kindle while Regan complains that she has nothing to do.

I flip on the TV and search for movie.  Thinking it would be funny (it wasn't), I left the channel on to Godzilla.  It was almost over and Regan soon became engrossed.  And then there was the scene where the humans are trying to blow up the eggs containing mini-Godzilla-ettes.  Predictably, the eggs hatch and out pops hungry tyrannosaurus rex thugs.

"OH, NO!" Regan screams loud enough to shatter my eardrum and make Zack howl.  "The poor Godzilla lizard babies!  Make them stop!"

"Regan," I sighed.  "The baby lizards are trying to eat the humans.  They have to die." Then I think for a second and continue, "You know this is not a real event."

"I don't care.  They are killing them just because they are hungry."  Apparently Regan has been in dreamland all her life because she has not observed Zack eating and fighting over food with the cat.

"Mommy, just because they are lizards doesn't mean they don't have rights." Regan states with her blue eyes shining with ears.  "You don't get blown up when you fishtail into Sonic for a bacon cheese toaster."

She had me stuck in her twisted logic web.  The little PETA advocate/Perry Mason/cute blonde.

A New Blog to Read

If you are so inclined, have young children, are Catholic or even bored, there is a new blog for Catholic kids.  My BFF and I saw a gap in the Catechism curriculum so here is the sight:

www.catholicism4kids.blogspot.com

Warning: Don't blame the rotten smell on the dog.

****This warning is not for faint hearted.****

I know what y'all are thinking...6 month old puppy in the process of being potty trained.  This is not to say that she does not have the occasional accident or that she really meant to eat Regan's stuffed elephant.

No, this warning is dedicated to Wesley and his annoying habit of wanting to eat everything in sight. 

"Mom, I don't want to go to make sandwiches today." Wesley complained as I roused him from his bed Friday morning at 8ish.  The kids and I go every Friday to a local charity to make PBJ sandwiches for hungry children.

"I'm hungry," states my own starving child.  "Can we stop at the Texaco to get a biscuit?"  Our neighborhood Texaco station has a mini-restuarant and makes the most awesome biscuits.  "Because we going because YOU [emphasis on you by Wesley] make us.

"Yes," I breathed in and out in an attempt to get out of the house with maiming my children.  I also wanted to get to Vger, my beautiful, now paid for, Dodge Avenger and switch on the air conditioner since it was supposed to be rather toasty (105 degrees).

Wesley happily goes in and buys [Read:  I bought.] a large steak biscuit with egg.  He's happily munches it and for a brief period, Wesley's mouth is engaged without insulting his sister or pontificating on how hard his life is.

Saturday comes and reaches a high of 105 degrees.  I stay home most of the day and Dave has the misfortune of driving Vger to a meeting.  "That's a powerful smell you got going on," Dave grimaced when he gets home.  I'm thinking maybe he doesn't like my new cologne.

Sunday arrives in all its 107 degree glory and as we are going to Mass, I open my door to the foulest and potent smell this side of hell.  Something is rotten in Georgia and it's dying in Vger.  Somehow I knew it was one of the kids.  The smell was wafting from the back seat.  I tore the car apart but nothing.  It was as if my very own septic tank had overflowed into my car.  Both children deny any and everything related to the smell.

Baking soda!!!  Baking soda absorbs odor.  For good measure, I opened up a new Arm & Hammer box to stay in Vger overnight.

We have a cool down today--only 95 degrees but Vger still is malodorous.  The baking soda is a bust.  Holding our breaths, I again search the front seat as Regan searches the back. 

When Regan pulls down the center console in the back seat, I almost pass out.  I learned a few things in that moment:

1.  I will never be a crime scene technician. 

2.  Stinky air travels quickly.

3.  My son will be put up for adoption.

There in the drink console is Wesley's half eaten, rotting sausage biscuit marinating in record high temperatures.  Even touching it has befouled my hands.  I have washed them at least seven times in the past few minutes and I still smell it.

Wesley, of course, blames me.  Apparently he was so sleep deprived he picked up the wrong biscuit, thinking it was steak and not sausage because "as you know, Mom, I don't eat sausage.  You made me pick up the wrong biscuit because I had to get up early to make sandwiches and you tell us not to litter and I didn't want to do anything that you tell me is wrong and....."

I have to go now.  I'm going to try bleach on my hands.