These are the right knees of my jeans. Only the right, never the left. You figure it out, I’ve got too many fish to fry to contemplate the deeper meaning of one-sided holey britches. (Quite frankly, I’ve had enough of “one-sided holy” anything to last a lifetime.) I have 2 more pair in the same condition that would have made this picture, I’m sure, more compelling, but they went AWOL for the photo shoot. Swallowed up in the belly of the house monster (you know you have one, too) there to live until it sees something so vile and disgusting it will regurgitate them in a most inexplicable place. I expect that to be by the end of the week based on the condition of my kitchen counter as we speak.
I apparently spend quite of bit of time on my hands and knees. Make no assumptions about my piety, as I certainly make no assumptions about yours (and, I might add, love you just the same). It’s more likely from washing the kitchen floor with 409 and a rag as yet another incident of “oops, sorry mommy, I may or may not have just placed an entire gallon of orange juice somewhere other than my 8 ounce Dora cup” is going to make my socks stick to the floor and I’ll be stuck in the kitchen forever (which is my second worst nightmare) if I don’t get this cleaned up. I would buy more jeans, but the size on the tag needed to adequately cover my back porch frightens me almost as much as the house monster.