It was a perfectly crisp autumn day and the leaves were just starting to go. The weather was mild and the clouds were scattered over the sun–ideal weather for a photo shoot. 

In the past, I have been too cheap/busy/lazy to have professional photos done of my kids. I don’t care for the canned studio pictures from Walmart, so I continually put the whole picture thing off, finding fleeting contentment with my own candid pics.

Then I see real photos hanging in someone’s house and guilt crashes down around my Kodak EasyShare. Harrison is five and I’ve never had professional photos. I’m a loser mother. I could wait until next year…then he’ll be six and I’ll hate myself even more.

And so, with the support of my husband, I made a plan. This plan included falling leaves and old barns, fishy crackers and an entire laundry basket of potential wardrobe choices. But most importantly, this plan included Veronica Reeve. 

I have to say that the biggest catalyst with this whole photo thing was finding Veronica. I check out professional photography sites now and then, see what other people are having done, but when I saw this girl’s work it was all over. She was the one. No contest.

In the hours before our scheduled shoot, I coerced Harrison into letting me clip his hair (no time to get to Aunt Heather, who works at Cookie Cutters in Bountiful. He likes her way better) and chased Rex around the house with scissors, snipping a little here and a little there and leaving a trail of whispy blond hairs all over the upstairs. The price, my friends, the price. 

In my frantic attempt to get the boys ready, June fell and smashed, that’s right smashed, her little face. Huge scrape across her nose, red and instantly swollen. Note to self: next time strap baby into the car three hours before departure to ensure safe arrival (thank you photo shop).

We finally pulled into the parking lot to meet Veronica. I hadn’t actually come clean with the kids about the purpose of this trip, I’d only told them we were going to go see trains and school busses. At three, Rex kind of freaks out about everything. Prepping him doesn’t help. 

We followed cute Veronica to the first photo site and got out. At first glance, it didn’t look like a picture perfect setting, but I wanted Urban Chic so that’s what she gave me. And chic it was. The boarded-up warehouse was ideal with its ladders and perches and rusted metal stairs. 

I’ll save you the details of Harrison’s photo shoot. Picture Mr. America at a press release and you’ve got a good idea of how much he loves the camera. She had him jumping through hoops, literally. 

Then she turned the camera to Rex. “NOOOOO!” he said, clutching his ziplock bag of animals and running for the nearest homeless person. Do not ask me how that woman got such fantastic photos of him, she’s got the magic touch. 

I do have to admit that at one point the kids were all sitting on some metal stairs and Junie was so cute I could hardly stand it. Then she fell forward and smashed her face again. I stood there in horror watching in slow motion as she toppled down the rusted iron stairs, yelling “Nooo!” I was kind of stuck in place, it was like watching a bad film. Thankfully, Veronica sacrificed her body and camera, pushed me out of the way and saved June from certain doom and a trip to the ER. Now that’s dedication. 

Let me tell you, when I saw the proofs from this photo shoot there was no doubt in my mind that this girl is worth every cent. I must plug her, it can’t be helped. Her niche is children and families and she’s absolutely incredible. I know she’s booked up through the end of the year, but she’s got some openings in January.

Check out her blog for recent (totally amazing) photos–and not just these. Be sure to scroll down and see the mom pushing the baby carriage. Precious.

And hey, maybe if you tell her we’re friends she’ll cut you a deal…

Okay, I know I said I wasn’t going to post the T-shirt winner until tomorrow because I was worried it would maybe break the Sabbath, but the sun is down now and if we were in Jerusalem, Sabbath would officially be over anyway. 

You’re not reading any of this, are you?

With no further adeau, the winner of the Stupid Twilight T-shirt Give-a-way is…

Chicken Little! 

I had a family member choose a number between 1 and 32 (since only about 27 people actually wanted one of the blasted T-shirts), and that’s the number they picked.

So yay to Chicken Little, aren’t you cute. When the sky falls, let’s all hope you’re wearing your new T-Shirt and that some chilly vampire boy whisks you away to Forks to live happily ever after. 

Have I mentioned that I’ve been to Forks? Multiple times? And that it isn’t much to see? Neither is their very stinky girls’ locker room? That was before the vampires, but still. Kind of lame. 

Thanks for playing. 

I leave for Georgia on Friday, come Hell or low T-shirt sales.

I saw a hilarious perverted costume in the Halloween store this week. It was blue coverall for a man with the label, “Recreational Gynecologist” on the right. The logo on the left said, “I may not be a doctor, but I’ll take a look!”

Do you think I could go back and buy it for like, $1 today? Then I could disguise Jason next year and make him wear it to the ward Halloween party. I’d then spread horrible rumors about the pervert with the mullet. They’d never know…

Growing up, very few kids lived on our country road in Elma. For trick-or-treaters willing to make the trek, Halloween brought full-sized candy bars and mini cans of pop. To a seven-year-old with an appetite, this was the coolest thing ever.

But Halloween meant something else on that little rural road. It was the one night a year we threw caution to the wind and approached Mrs. Simon’s house.

Mrs. Simon. To this day, that name sends chills down my spine. She was terrifying, definitely the scariest 80-year-old I had ever encountered.

Mrs. Simon had only three fingers on her left hand. Legend said that shortly after the birth of her son, she cut her fingers off in an attempt to avoid caring for him (holy creepy cow). That’s right, she was an 80-year-old with eight fingers and a knife.

My blood pounded as our car slowly made it’s way down the road. I trembled as the tires turned onto Mrs. Simon’s gravel driveway. I can still hear the crunching sound, like bones in a vise. What if she has a vice? I thought.

My mother shooed us out of the car with a reminder to be polite. Making the approach with my sisters, I thought desperately of our escape options. What if she had a weapon? What if she pulled me inside?

Somewhere amid the terror and melee that accompanied us on the short path to her door, I was firmly shoved in front of my big sisters: the martyr, the sacrificial lamb, the bratty little sister they could certainly live without.

They pushed me up the two soggy steps of her porch. “Do it!” I heard. I could feel my eyeballs throbbing with terror as I softly rapped my knuckles on the glass.

No one answered.

“Let’s go!” I said, backing into them just as the main porch light flicked on. I watched in horror as the door inched open, bracing myself for the butcher knife.

“What do’ya want?” she said in her terrifyingly old, raspy and rusty voice. In my fear-induced stupor I stood there, speechless (rare, very rare).

“Trick or Treat,” someone said limply. She looked at us for a moment then motioned to us with her three, lone fingers.

“Wait.”

And she left. To get the knife!  Of this I was sure.

I don’t know what held me in place (other than my big sisters) as I waited for her villainous return. When the door once again creaked open, I felt panic hit my throat and stick, and in an attempt at self-preservation, I shut my eyes and thrust my arms out to ward off the imminent slashing—

Plop. Plop. Plop.

She dropped three pennies into my candy sack and shut the door.

I know what you’re asking. Poisonous pennies, perhaps?

We’ll never know.

VOTE for THIS STORY! Or my sister’s (which is really good). Visit  crash-n-sewl to read the top frightmare entries and CAST YOUR VOTE.

And you thought I didn’t have one for you. So here it is and I’m giving it away. For FREE. Just because you visited. Oh yeah, and posted my button on your sidebar.

That’s right, if you want to be eligible, simply enter a comment in the box and post my stupid t-shirt button on your blog from now through November 21st and YOU could go home with THIS T-shirt!

This contest will be open until midnight, Saturday Nov. 1st. The lucky (random) winner will be announced first thing Monday morning. And the shirt will ship ASAP. 

Here

And for the record, the young women in my ward saw me wearing this shirt last night and went gaga for it. So go comment already and get yourself, your daughter, or your favorite Twilight fan this cute T-shirt. 

Or go here to buy one. We have lots…

Holy crap it was Sue.

CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP. Seriously. Sue is the coolest person EVER.

My friend, you had me at “Hi My Name is Cordy“. I like your regular blog and all, but Cordy? Now that was some addictive reading. Why? Because no one is that interesting and funny and heart wrenching in real life. And yet I believed. I WANTED to believe. I had conversation after conversation about Cordy and Seth, argued with my own sister that Cordy was real, and TALKED TO SUE ON THE PHONE about Cordy without knowing she was biting her tongue (because she knows I can’t keep a secret to save my life–this is something we all should remember about me).

And so, if you were somewhat sad/angry/spitting nails when you found out the truth about Sue’s brilliantly deceitful addictive “other” blog, please don’t waste a moment being mad. Personally, I think it’s the coolest thing ever. You should email Cordy and tell Sue how cool she is (to offset the onslaught of hate email she’s been getting). Send your praise to cordyishopeless at gmail dot com.

Hat off to you, my friend, hat off.

In honor of last night’s Biggest Loser episode, today’s post will appear on Natalie’s blog, Desperately Seeking Skinny Pants. If you’ve ever avoided weighing yourself, this could be the post for you. Jog on over and work off those cyber calories.

Bad things happen to people who bleach their hair. I don’t care what the professionals say, my hair folicles aren’t the only things getting damaged up there. 

Example. I recently designed a brilliant line of Twilight T-shirts to sell on the internet right over there (look at the button on your right). You might have looked. You might have loved them. You might have WANTED one. You might have followed the ordering information and tried to GET one. But would you have succeeded? No. 

Because I’m an idiot. 

I found out a few days ago that the email address I’ve had up FOR AN ENTIRE WEEK had a typo in it. My typo. I typed it wrong. It was me (and my hair). I tried to blame cut and paste for a while, I tried to blame the baby for getting poopy at an inopportune moment, I even tried to blame Mac. It’s no use. Those things are all innocent. It’s the bleach. 

But I can’t stop. There’s no way for me to back pedal now. Once you’ve gone this blonde, there is no going back. It’s like an addiction. When I feel that purple pasty acid hit my scalp, burning the color out of my hair one folicle at a time, I sit there amid the itching, stinging, scorching fumes and smile. Bleach is my vice, I can’t give it up now. I was made with white eyebrows for a reason, people. I will be forever driven to kill the color staining my locks and be, forever, platinum. 

And so, if you tried once to order a T-shirt, try again. This time you’ll have success. 

And people are ordering them now!! So if you’re reading this and you’ve placed your order, then just know that you are an angel with a credit card who is helping a worthy cause. And I love you. In a world wide web kind of way.

I have a confession. I hate LOL. Not laughing out loud, but LOL. Don’t ask me why I cringe every time I see it, I live to make people laugh. With me, at me, about me, laughter is my favorite sound ever. But when I see LOL my eyes immediately roll up in the back of my head and I have a “fingers on a chalkboard” moment. 

So, I have come up with some alternatives to *LOL.

1. LMBO – “Laughing My Butt Off”. I don’t know if this is already popular anywhere on the world wide web, but I re-made it up for this blog so I don’t want to hear any chatter about it’s pre-existence. Besides, it looks like Limbo and limboing is hysterical. When I try it. With my broken back.

2. PMPL – “Peeing My Pants Laughing”. I know when you read this it looks like a shortened version of “pimple”, but really, that just makes it funnier. Then the person reading that you’re peeing your pants can laugh at your pmpl. 

3. KSSF – “Knee Slapping Snorting Funny”. I know, you thought these were the call letters for a new soft rock station, but no. This should be reserved for momentous blog entries that leave you running to the bathroom to PMPL. 

Feel free to use these new abreviated versions of hysteria all over the WWW. Maybe we’ll start something great here. We could have people PMPLing all over the place. Talk about an outbreak…

*the only exception to this reaction is when Jason texts me that he LOL’d at something I wrote. When he types it, it’s like the coolest praise EVER.

Here we are: Indiana (he wouldn’t let me wash off the beard and chest hair before bed), Rex the Great Animal Tamer (notice his animals), and the matching Queen Bees (thank you, Mommy, for hooking me up with the retro Beehive hairdo). I bet you’re just dying to get to your local Halloween party where you too can rub shoulders with ghouls, vampires, and polyester heros.

Rex spent the evening gorging himself on every edible piece of candy (and a few that were unedible), Harrison proved his prowess at pumpkin bowling, and the June Bee and I flitted around in our best social bumblebee impersonation. 

Rex The Great

To top it off, we now have a houseful of pre-Halloween candy to deal with. Oh joy. Fuzzy teeth.