Click on the purple wording to read the full horrific account.  And you might want to remove your eye makeup before reading it (because you’re gonna shed tears of sympathy for me).

Oh yeah, the “handsome young man” I refer to? He was a poor unsuspecting mormon missionary on his way home to Salt Lake City.

The good news – Rex is potty trained.

The bad news – “potty trained” is a relative term.

I am also pleased to report that after six days sequestered in my house, I finally made it outside today. I am not one of those people who can survive being confined in one small space without other people to laugh with. I was kind of going insane. It’s okay to laugh at yourself, but when you’re standing in the kitchen all alone cackling like a crazy woman, it’s just not the same. I’m also happy to report that today I used shampoo and toothpaste, such an improvement.

Now I’m off to the doctor with a sick baby (yes, I know it’s late). I think the flu shot is a hoax.

I heard we got a new president yesterday. Since I was busy chasing five children (under the age of five) around my house the last two days while simultaneously potty training Rex and avoiding washing my hair or brushing my teeth, I kind of missed it. But if you want to see the best Here Come’s Obama post I’ve read, check out Wenderful. She’s possibly the smartest mother on the planet (with the smartest children).

Have I mentioned that I was there for Clinton’s first inaugeration? I was in 8th grade and went in search of cute boys. Seriously, I didn’t listen to a word the tour guide said the entire time, I was so busy trying to see if there was life outside of Elma.

Some things never change.

As for The Biggest Loser, Joelle is INSANE. I am serious. She should be handled with kid gloves and a straight jacket. But I do think the best way to get through to her is to constantly tell her how good she’s doing. She’s not a girl who performs well under “you suck” pressure and that seems to be all she gets.

I feel for her, the best way to get me to do anything is to tell me how talented I am at it. Clean the toilets? Try lavishing me with “Best Toilet Cleaner” awards and watch me scrub. Jason likes to call me his Little Peacock. I don’t think he fully appreciates my feathers.

So this is the thing with me and exercise. I love it, it makes me feel great, the endorphins rock–I would do it every day if it meant I could stay a size 2. But for some reason, it doesn’t. In order for me to be thin, I can’t really exercise.

This is sick and wrong.

When I was first doing the Salami Diet, I was exercising every single day and I didn’t have much success. After about two weeks, I decided to stop exercising and see if it would help the cause. That’s when the weight started to fall off.

In order to find a nice middle balance, I do pilates a few times a week. This is necessary for my broken back. But as soon as I throw in the cardio, my body says, Warning! Warning! We’re doing too much! We can’t take all of this calorie burning! Quick, stock pile the fat cells!

So, as far as exercise goes, if you’re trying to lose weight and diet and exercise aren’t working, try dropping the exercise for a few weeks. I know some people can’t lose without working out, but you might not be one of them. You just might have to skip that 5:30 Body Torture class you’ve been jumping out of bed for, sorry.

In the meantime, the best “exercise” you can be doing is getting in a few positive affirmations every day. I recommend choosing a word that you want to be. Do you want to be thin? Muscular? Willowy? Last year I chose “Skinny” as my image word (although I didn’t really think it was possible). Always use this word to describe yourself to yourself and to others. “I’m getting so toned/thin/skinny/hot, it’s great!” And if you don’t know what to say to yourself in the mirror, try this on for size (positive affirmations should be said in the mirror, BTW).

“I love weighing ___ pounds because I feel happy and healthy. Besides, I’m so hot! Look at how skinny I’m getting, I love being skinny!”

“Man, I can’t believe how good I feel when I eat ___ , it gives me so much energy. The pounds are just melting off me!”

“Whooo Doggie! Who is that hottie in the mirror? She has some killer abs/legs/arms! And look at how thin she’s getting. You go girl…”

You might feel foolish, you  might feel stupid. But in a few months, you will feel fantastic.

So here’s the problem with most teen novels. It seems authors and publishing houses are under the false impression that the majority of kids today drink, smoke, do drugs and have sex. But the fact is, tons and tons of kids don’t. Still, everything they see and read sends the message that this is what kids are doing.

Enter Becca Wilhite.

Becca Wilhite’s first novel, Bright Blue Miracle, was launched this last month. Unlike most of the YA main stream writers we see, Becca writes cleverish, “clean teen” novels that would make any writer bright blue with envy. Her writing style is kind of along the lines of My Super Hopeless Romance (which Becca has never read). Reading her new novel, I laughed, I cried, I wanted to kick the main character in the head–it’s a book any woman can appreciate. Get it for your daugher, your cousin, your neice, or yourself.

If you’re interested, click the bright blue button link on my sidebar, or check out the display at your local Deseret Books.

If you poke me in the eye with your mouse, you can read this week’s column.

Have a thoroughly fantastic weekend.

Okay, for all those Sensaria/Spa junkies out there, I have to post this month’s special because it’s sooo good.

Spend $75 and you get a FREE Sweet and Smooth.

Since most of my friends are highly addicted to the Sweet Orange chunky sea salt/sugar exfoliating magic of this intoxicatingly delicious stuff, I thought I’d pass on the link for anyone interested. Plus, Sweet Orange is a natural anti-depressant, so if you know someone who gets the winter time blues, have them check this out. Believe me, the second this hits the steam in your shower, you’ll think you’re in sweet Cabo heaven.

And if you live in Utah and want free shipping on anything (their skin care is nothing short of magical, especially for people with sensitive skin), email me  at regardingannie dot com and I’ll hook you up. Because I’m thoughtful like that. Go HERE to order, or try sensaria dot com and type in my rep number “10235”.

PS – Tell your husband that this stuff makes the best Valentine’s Day present ever. Seriously, there’s nothing like using the sweet orange oil from the sweet and smooth to shave your legs. It’s so good and moisturizing, you’ll be saying bye bye to lotion for a week.

And no, I’m not selling/doing parties/signing people into my pyramid of terror. Just in it for the discount, people.

It’s amazing the things they put in Spanish these days. Take pregnancy tests, for example. Just in case you don’t feel bad enough in English, they double up and write it in Spanish as well,  just to be sure you get the message.

“You’re not pregnant! Stop peeing on us! Not not not! NO EMBARAZADA!”

I guess I should be grateful for the opportunity to add one more Spanish word to the four I already know. I can’t name those words at this moment because I have to hear them in order to remember that I know them.

But I have the feeling over the next few months, I’ll get to know this one really well. What is it with pregnancy tests? Even though I know I’m not pregnant, have no signs whatsoever, when there’s a pregnancy test hanging around the bathroom I fight the urge to pee on it until finally, in a moment of stupidity and weakness, I rip open that six dollar magnet, let her go, only to be told, “No embarazada!”

The biggest problem with infertility is the waiting game. Don’t get me wrong, my waiting is chock full of diapers and laundry and more chicken nuggest than I’ll ever admit to, but I think it’s more about the not knowing. If someone would just tell me, “You’ll conceieve sometime in July so stop freaking out,” I would breath a sigh of relief and go back to the dishes.

But that isn’t going to happen. Since I never have any signs of not being pregnant (if you get my drift), how am I supposed to help thinking all the time that I am pregnant? Would someone restrict me from purchasing pregnancy tests until further notice? Like morning sickness notice?

ps – Yes, I know you can get PGT’s at the dollar store. But they’re not the five day early ones and I can’t stand that.

There is no way I can let Bob’s rampage on last night’s Biggest Loser go unmentioned here.

See, there’s this fat girl in the house who talks. A lot. We’re talking, every time he tells her to jump up on the step she stands there like some southern revival preacher woman saying things like, “I will! I believe in myself! I’m not afraid of this!” But does she actually jump? No. Why? Because Joelle is an attention whore who really likes the camera and really hates to exercise.

Don’t get me wrong, you put me on any reality TV show and I guarantee I will glue myself to the camera man and kiss his butt for the entire show just to get face time. But this is The Biggest Loser. It’s not about getting on tv or earning a life time supply of Jello. This show is about changing your life, and this season is kind of incredible. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many totally dedicated, committed, bust their soon to be smaller butts 24 hours a day people in my entire life.

Except for Joelle.

During the Last Chance Workout, Bob had his team running 30 second sprints on the treadmills. We’re talking six 300 plus pound people doing an all out, kick your tail burst of cardio like they weighed 150 pounds. It is, to say the least, an impressive sight (I guarantee I would have faked a knee injury day one to avoid such torture).

But do you think Joelle is doing it? No. As soon as she gets to 20 seconds, she jumps off. Every. Single. Time. Obviously, the two week torture of training Joelle was too much for Bob, who unleashed the beast and ripped into her like a pregnant woman with a carton of Moose Tracks. I am telling you, I’ve never seen such a satisfying chew out in my life. By the time he spit her back out, that girl would have run the Boston Marathon without uttering a single peep if Bob told her to.

I must say, seeing that makes me glad I’m not a reality TV star. There’s nothing worse than watching yourself three months later and thinking, “Wow. I’m an idiot.” Ouch.

So, my girlfriend Tricia and I have this brilliant New  Year’s resolution. Each week, we take three hours and play Cleaning Ladies (we’re currently looking for a more catchy title) at one of our two houses. We’re trying to find uniforms and matching feather dusters, so we can really get into character.

Today we worked untill our hands looked like they’d received a chemical peel and her dumpster was overflowing. We even Little Green’d the carpet in her car (okay, I confess the car was only done because yesterday Rex Humpty Dumptied a 24 pack of Costco eggs all over the back of her vehicle. Eggs everywhere). Really, we were amazing as cleaning ladies. But in the mommy department? Not so good.

See this is the thing about having a clean house. If your home sparkles, your children do not. If the children are well kept and thoroughly entertained, the house is trashed. It’s like you can’t have your cake without smearing it all over the kitchen floor. Today my children were in filthy, nasty jammies until 2:00 when I changed them into newer,  less filthy jammies.

This week I’m once again deeply invested in potty training Rex. Today I put him in undies and took him to Tricia’s house, thinking it’s time he started peeing on someone else’s floor–uh, toilet. But once I got there and all those chemicals started messing with my brain, I forgot about the undies. So he pooped. His pants.

Oh disgustingness of the universe, at last I’ve found you.

Apparently, the only way to have a clean house and well-kept children is to hire either a babysitter or a housekeeper.

Which to choose?