Let me tell you, the biggest mistake I ever made was coming up with my Stupid Twilight T-shirts. Actually, that was only my second biggest mistake. My real biggest mistake was buying into them again. That’s right, once the first crop sold successfully, I decided to give it another whirl.

The whirl has been more like a nose dive, and at this point what I deserve is a swirly, one that takes place with my head in a toilet. Quite frankly, I’d rather do that than ever try to sell T-shirts again.

For some reason, the second crop of T-shirts has been sitting in the Quilted Bear for the past six months, stagnant as I try to pay down my rapidly accumulating monthly booth fee. I kept thinking that when the movie came out people would buy them. They didn’t. Well certainly, when Christmas came and I clearanced them people would buy them. Nope.

So here I sit with an entire box (and an entire bag) of unsold Stupid Twilight T-shirts, and every time I look at them I know Dave Ramsey would have my head if he knew that I’d even attempted such a stupid business scheme.

To make matters worse, payday came this afternoon and I had to dip into our emergency savings to clear my T-shirt debt. Ouch. Let’s just hope the car/washer/house doesn’t break in the next five months while I make a pitiful attempt to pay it back.

In case you aren’t feeling bad enough for me (although we all know I was the stupid head that got myself into this big fat mess), my husband is practically going blue in the face trying not to say, “I told you so.” In fact, he actually said to me this afternoon, “I’m not saying I told you so, but I did say that this was going to blow up in your face.” So glad he didn’t say it. What a saint.

So help me. Please, I’m seriously begging you right here, right now. If you send me $7 I will send you a very stupid (but actually kind of cute) Twilight T-shirt–that’s 70% off (and less money then I paid for them to begin with). I need to earn a couple hundred dollars and I’ve got a lot of shirts to sell here, people.

All the T-shirts are really good quality (I should have gone cheaper) Bella brand shirts, stretchy and long. I have S,M,L and XL. They retail for $24. I’m unloading as many as you can take for $7 a piece, free shipping. Really, this is a total charity drive for me, so I can pay back our much needed savings account and pacify my husband.

Here’s the brown and pink one. The “Team Jacob” graphics are a little different than this but equally cute.

I also have a white one with “All I want is a perfectly sculpted immortal who drinks blood and likes to bite. Is that too much to ask for?”, a “Team Edward Sorority” on white that’s stinkin’ cute, and my personal fave, “Twilight Girls Are HOT” on pink with black lettering. (I wear this one all the time.)

Please, save me. Buy a T-shirt from your old friend Annie, or at least tell the young women you know where they can get a killer deal on hip Twilight Tee.

Email me and we’ll work out the details. regardingannie at gmail dot com. Happy Pay Pal-ing.

How come my best stuff comes with so much pain? Seriously, I wrote this week’s column in a complete and total kidney stone haze, one draft, no edit, and I barely made my deadline. And yet, it’s so raw and so totally painful in the most delightful way–I hope I never have to read it (or write it) ever again.

Check it out here. And so far so good, the Coke and asparagus (two liters, not one) seem to have done the trick. I’ll let you  know if any more stones start to move.

Why is it whenever one of us is about to go out of town, we fight? And to be perfectly honest, it’s not always his fault.

Let me back up a sec. I was in the car with a girlfriend last weekend, and she started telling me about her sister’s marriage, and how wonderful it was. Since I would like to think that my marriage is wonderful/has potential to be more wonderful, I cranked up my listening cap and memorized everything she said.

Apparently, her sister has had a rough year. She and her hubby have a ton of kids, life is crazy, and to top it off they’ve been dealing with her health problems. But instead of kicking at the pricks (or each other’s shins), they’ve grown more tender with one another.

And that was the word she used. Tender.

Something about that word set off bells in my head. I’m loving, I’m affectionate, I’m passionate–but tender? For some really kind of awful reason, when she said that I knew that I’m not necessarily tender with my man’s feelings. And he has them. Feelings. Of which I should be more tender.

So I decided last week to add ” Be Tender with Jason” to my New Year’s resolutions. It lasted six whole days.

On our way to the airport last Thursday I totally picked a fight. Why can’t I just leave and be sweet and be kind and kiss his face and be tender like those other wives? Why do I have to make waves at the worst possible moments? (And why aren’t New Year’s resolutions easier?)

Lucky for me he’s loving and forgiving (most of the time), and despite my sometimes wretched behavior, gets that I’m a work in progress. (Come on, we all know I’m a piece of work. It’s the progress part that counts.)

To make a long story short, I’m home, he still wants me, and luckilly tomorrow is another opportunity to be more tender. And as long as there’s Diet Coke in the house, everybody should be just fine.

So I’m in Washignton with my sisters and mother, sequestered away in our favorite hotel haunt up in Tacoma. I’m sharing a bed with Jen and none of us remembered to bring toothpaste. (Translation: we all figured everyone else would bring toothpaste.)

Went to the pool last night, I swear I’ve gained five pounds and could hardly squeeze it all into my swimsuit. There was this poor little five year old who kept almost drowning, I was kind of concerned (but not enough to ditch the hot tub for the frigid pool). His mom kept saving him just in time, and since we heard no sirens, I’m assuming he survived the remainder of his swim.

What I really want to say is that there is nothing like being surrounded by women who love you. Yes, sometimes we drive eachother batty, but for the most part, I have the best family in the entire universe. There’s no one I’d rather be locked in a dressing room stall with than these girls right here.

If you’re feeling lonely, call a sister or call a friend. It’s the best free therapy in the world. (Warning: some sisters are more opinionated than others, so proceed with caution.)

Every now and then I write something and think to myself, “Hey, haven’t I written this before?” For some reason, this story seems awfully familiar–like I’ve lived it over and over and over.

If you have a second, check out my favorite relationship game that showed up as last week’s column. It will probably change tomorrow, but act now and it’ll still be there.

Love to all, I’m off for a little visit to my mom and sisters. I’m sure the hotel lobby has a computer, so I’ll let you know how it goes. (And kudos to my man for taking a day off of work tomorrow to make it happen. I’m sure he’ll sit around all weekend playing mommy. I mean, it’s not like he’s going to escape to his mother’s house and let her watch them or anything…)

Yesterday was my dear dear friend Tricia’s thirty-somethingth birthday.

Here’s the thing about my friends. It seems that no matter where we move, the Lord has blessed me with the most wonderful girlfriends imaginable (and you know who you are). It’s always heartbreaking to leave, but I’ve been lucky enough to find lifelong friends all along the path.

And good friendships never, ever happen overnight. I think we lived here for a year before our casual mom friendship morphed into the “Come Clean My Bathroom With Me” friendship. Cause let me tell you, it takes some serious trust to let a girlfriend in that deep.

So here’s the thing; I’m bad with birthdays. I forget them, and even when I remember I usually fall through on whatever fun thing I plan. And the more I love you, the worse the birthday treatment (except on the rare occasion when I get responsible and put something great together). But the best I could offer Tricia yesterday was an afternoon play date where the  kids stayed downstairs, and we watched Wolverine upstairs.  So lame.

But what do you think she did for me on her birthday? She brought me a plate of brownies (thanks a lot) and a bag of fresh tamales purchased from a tamale solicitor (which is why, by the way, I will never put a ‘No Soliciting’ sign on the door. I wouldn’t want to turn any possible tamale sellers away). Tell me the girl’s not a keeper.

But the main reason I love this dear friend of mine is because I know my name is safe with her. She’s not a gossip, she’s good and kind and humble, and I know that she’d never say anything behind my back that she wouldn’t say to my face. Now that, that right there, is the sign of a quality individual.

Does this mean we always see eye to eye? Heavens no, where’s the fun in that? But even when she disagrees with how I do something, or thinks I’m just plain loco, or even if/when I accidentally offend her, I know she’s going to tell me about it straight out. This right here, this is the kind of friend I hope to always be.

So happy birthday Tricia, I wouldn’t have made it this far without you.

It is true, and if you ever doubted it or refrained from trying it, I pity you.

Coka-Cola Classic has magical properties.

Being the kidney stone veteran that I am, I can tell you that I would rather do anything than pass a kidney stone. I’ve had big ones and little ones, but I swear it doesn’t matter the size. They hurt. Like a mother.

So a few years back (just before we moved to Utah) I felt the beginnings of a kidney stone on the move. One of my girlfriends insisted that I try the Coka-Cola and canned asparagus remedy she’d heard of. Being the desperate believer that I am, I signed on the dotted line and the misery began. The recipe is this:

1 liter of Coka-Cola Classic + 1 can of asparagus with the juice. Drink entire liter of Coke in 2 hours and wash it down with the asparagus.

Sounds easy, right? Trust me, it’s not. In fact, I wrote about it for this week’s upcoming column on Thursday. (Actually, I was having writer’s cramp over the weekend and couldn’t think of anything to submit for my column. So I prayed about it, and what do you think the Lord blessed me with? Kidney stone inspiration. It was the most painful column I’ve ever written.)

But the miracle is that both this time and last, I went to bed with kidney pain–and a body that was more carbonated than the Good Year Blimp–but I woke up pain free. It’s been 24 hours and the pain is still totally gone.

I think this test just goes to show the value of Coke. Anything that has the ability to melt rock must be good for you. This is the second time I’ve singed the stones with Coke and asparagus, and let me tell you, I believe.

I think I need to die. Right here, right now, I would like nothing better than to curl up in a ball and leave this frail kidney stone existence, and float away to the great big emergency room in the sky.

But instead, I’ve decided to offer you five ways to avoid/ignore the pain.

1. Pass out.

2. Infect your husband with a kidney stone that’s twice as big, so he can really understand your pain.

3. Cut off a limb, preferably an important one.

4. Give birth. Wait, that’s easier.

5. Try every home remedy you can find on the internet, which will, inevitably, only make it worse.

If you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to go roll around on the floor and moan a little bit. And can I just say, hurray for Martin Luther King, Jr. Thanks to him, my man is home today.

After reading through yesterday’s questions, I’ve decided to assume that the women who take offense to the “Are You Nursing” question are the ones who don’t nurse. This makes me sad, but I don’t blame them.

I may have nursed all of my kids for right around a miserable year, but I have a number of close friends and family members who either didn’t nurse for long, or opted for the bottle from go, and personally, I’m all for that. Hey, have you ever tried to nurse a third child while potty training the second? It’s like giving yourself an enema then trying to sit through Avatar without making any bathroom runs. Misery.

I know there are women out there who consider breastfeeding a religion, but I’m not one of them. Personally, my own dear mama was no dairy cow and only nursed me for a few months. Hey, look how happy I turned out. Scored high (enough) on the ACT, got a hot husband, I can do basic math and balance a check book–the lasting effects really haven’t been too terrible.

If mom’s who choose not to nurse, or who can’t nurse, feel like they’re going to be judged by women who can and do, then we’re not doing our job as fellow mothers. Who are we to throw stones, or try to convert someone who isn’t a good nursing fit? We’re not all dairy cows, people, no matter what the books say. I know plenty of Red Angus that made amazing mothers, despite a low milk supply.

Personally, I’m looking ahead to #4 and I can tell you right now, I’ve seriously considered the pro’s and con’s of giving the girls a rest on this one. June was miserable to nurse, I made it ten months and felt like I deserved some kind of golden brazier as a trophy.

(Of course, Dave Ramsey says formula is expensive, and it does seem like a waste of perfectly good homegrown cream. And I hate dishes and I’m lazy. I also like the calorie sucking bonus.  If I end up  nursing or not, it will be for purely selfish reasons either way. So shoot me)

Let’s all support each other. This decision isn’t easy, and being a new mom is hard enough without feeling inadequate because of a few milk glands.  So I’ve decided that they’re right, it’s nobody’s business to ask, and it’s nobody’s business to judge why or why not a woman chooses to nurse.

And in the future, I will only ask about breastfeeding if a woman pulls out her breasts. (Hopefully the answer will be yes.)

In case you missed my little stunt on Studio 5 yesterday, or would simply  like to spend a few minutes staring at the side of my head, click on this link to check out the writing segment. I look like Cousin It. Yes, we know.

We did another segment halfway through where we discussed current events. They brought up boobs. Okay, breastfeeding. Since I have a pair, and have put them to good, nutritional use multiple times over, I weighed in.

The question was whether or not it’s appropriate to ask a woman if she’s nursing. This came from a blog post where some woman said she’s offended when people ask her.

I’ll tell you right now, I’m not about to go asking every young mother I see on the street if she’s using her goods, but if I’m visiting with a girl who’s recently had a baby and the conversation goes there, I’m all over it. Why? Because nursing is darn hard. In fact, it’s one of the hardest skills I’ve had to learn in my entire life. I don’t ask to pry, I ask because I want young mothers who are struggling to know that yes, it’s hard, and yes, you can talk about it.

Half the time new nursers don’t even realize that it doesn’t have to be a miserable, painful experience, and they’re probably just in need a minor adjustment. Because really, it’s hard to ask for help. What do you say? “Hey, will you have a look at my boobs? I think the kid isn’t sucking right.” Yeah, how often is a new mom going to open up with that at a play date?

So yeah, I think it’s okay, in the right situation, to ask a new mom about breastfeeding. There’s nothing like the realization that you have more support available than just a wimpy nursing bra.

(P.S. If I’ve ever asked you this and you were offended, I can honestly say that I’m really, really sorry. It was never my intention, I only asked out of love and concern. Whew, glad to get that sin off my chest. I said chest, get it?)