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.

T-Shirt Update:  I have posted pictures of the actual shirts we’re using, check them out at my stupid T-shirt site. 

Since it’s Paid Friday, I decided to post an article that printed last month. I tried to paste in a photo of the article so you could get the full effect but I’m a computer idiot. Here’s the text. 

You can also click here to check out this week’s article!

Hello. My name is Annie, and I’m a carbaholic.        

I’ve been clean for four months now, but yesterday my wagon hit some sage brush that tasted a lot like bread dough and it bumped me clean off into a field of soft, pliable, sticky wonderment. 

My nephew is getting married on Saturday and like a good little sister, I offered to make all the rolls for the occasion. What’s a few hundred warm, white, fluffy rolls sitting around, yearning for butter and homemade peach jam anyway? I can handle that right? Right? Right?

Wrong.

Three hundred and seventeen rolls later, I am now convinced that I am in Carb Hell. Every surface in my kitchen is padded with carbs that call out each time I pass. They say things like, “Eat me! Savor me! You know you want me!”

Working with the bread dough, I find myself stuffing enough little snippets of that tender, sticky goodness into my mouth that as I sit here, my bloated tummy is protruding over the top of my pants because now the yeast has really hit the fan and that dough is expanding in my very own toasty oven.

Why is it that as soon as we plan to do some kind of service, it turns around and bites us (although I guess in my case, I bit it)?

My girlfriend’s husband helped out a poor old widow from their church by clearing out some brush around her house. His reward? Two months of systematic poison oak. Systematic means it gets in your blood stream. Itchy blood. Nice.

Then there’s my own Poor Husband who was doing a similar service project and usurped a hive of wasps (which flew directly up his shorts). Let’s just say that one didn’t end well either. 

So how is a girl supposed to survive this kind of madness? We’re talking about days and days and pans and pans and snippets and snippets and now there’s no turning back, I’ll simply have to indulge until Saturday when I can get these sinful treats out of my life forever.

Well, forever until Monday when I’ll think up some excuse to “bake bread for the neighbors” and watch as my good intentions pave the way right back down to Carb Hell.

Okay, I think I sounded like a room mother jerk in that last post. Bad Annie. Harry’s teacher rocks in every single way. She’s laid back and fun and totally easy going, and doesn’t care a stick what I do for the party. I think sometimes I make something out of nothing just for an excuse to blog. I know no one else has EVER done that. 

Guess what. I know, you’re all dying to hear my big news. Because it’s big. Real big. I got a job today! That’s right, the guy at the T-shirt place is so impressed (my word, not his) with my entrepenurial enthusiasm that he wants me to work for him. And my job? Salesperson of the century, of course. But not just any salesperson, his High School rep. He’s got some good ideas and needs a front man. Since his ideas mean fun part-time work for me, I said wooo whoo! Actually I just nodded in an professional manner and gave him two thumbs up. The thumbs were probably a bit dorky…

Anywho, so in honor of my newfound money-maker (because I stand to make a nice wad of cash here), I am slashing, cutting, cropping, making much smaller, the prices of my T-shirts! That’s right, $15 bucks a shirt plus shipping/handling and we’re in business! So if you were worried about the previous price, WORRY NO MORE! I’ll still make a buck or two off the shirts, but more importantly I have a fantastic new job that will take me back to High School. So cool.

So I’m Harrison’s kindergarten room mother. Not because I want to work my way up to VP candidate, but because I was the last parent in for testing (his testing, not mine) and it was the only position not filled. I asked the teach what it entailed and she said a few phone calls, a little planning, no biggie. I like the phone, I like a little mild planning, no problem. I signed on the dotted line.

Riiiight. She forgot to mention creating the class calendar and making all holiday assignments. I’ve been avoiding her since Johnny Appleseed Day. Out of guilt, I stopped by the classroom yesterday to see about the class Halloween party. Turns out, I AM the Halloween party. 

“Oh, nothing big, just a few stations, maybe four. Easy stuff, a craft (WE ARE NOT CRAFTERS), some kind of cookie decorating activity (WE ARE NOT COOKIE DECORATORS), a game or two (I totally rock at games), and maybe a witch that reads stories…” (sometimes I’m kind of like a witch) Okay, I thought, you “just” want me to plan a Kindergarten Carnival then, is that is?

So if you have any great kindergarten ideas and happen to like working with five year olds (I’d take a teenager ANY DAY) please don’t keep all that brilliance to yourself. 

And a BIG FAT THANK YOU to Danielle! Danielle is the button queen of the universe. I absolutely adore her, she’s made a fat load of Stupid Twilight Buttons for me and no one is more amazing. You should hire her to make you a button because she’s the coolest Buttoniere out there. If I believed in giving online awards and knew how to make a button, I’d make her a cool Buttoniere button and send her the code. 

And I know nothing about code. I am going to figure out how to put the code up there (Al, where are you when I need you?!) and then you too can have a Stupid Twilight T-shirt Button.

So here’s the deal. Jason has seven more weeks in Georgia. I have seven more weeks of taking care of his (our) children. Seven weeks is a long time. And so, we have decided that in the month of November, I am flying out to Georgia for a kidless visit. That’s right, all his attention focussed on me. Here are a few reasons why I must go:

1. I really need something to look forward to.

2. I really need a break from Jason’s (our) children.

3. I finally weaned her. 

4. Because I kind of get whatever I want.

HOWEVER.

Funds are a little tight, so I’ve been sloughing around the bottom of my barrel in search of some quick cash. Since I see myself as a successful entrepreneur in a stay-at-home dormant state, I always have one or two business ideas floating around under the bleach. Here’s what I’ve come up with. Hold onto your hats (but feel free to take off your shirts).

I have designed a pile of Stupid Twilight T-Shirts. Stupid, but really more like witty and funny and cute and charming and everything-a-girl-could-want-in-a-t-shirt stupid. My friend’s hubby owns a t-shirt company and has agreed to take us on and help with the cause. All proceeds from the Stupid Twilight T-Shirt project will go toward getting me to Georgia so I can have a thrilling vacation with my man. Four nights, people, FOUR NIGHTS. If we get enough practice in, maybe we can get one more cute kid by the end of next year.

There are three ways you can help me.

1. Buy multiple t-shirts for yourself, friends, family, babysitters–then wear them to the premiere. Also telling every high schooler you know about them will help. Tell EVERY SINGLE ONE.

2. Put a BIG FAT LINK on your sidebar for Project Twilight and write a heartbreaking post about how much I love my husband and how sorry you feel for me (even though my life really does rock and you shouldn’t feel that sorry). Then ask all your friends, family members and babysitters to buy the stupid t-shirts.

3. PRAY THAT THE T-SHIRTS SELL. And fast. Fasting is good. 

Have I told you how much I love him? Have I told you that I would walk across the country with a handcart even if it meant I could only go on one piddly little date to Wendy’s followed by a lame-o two-star movie with him? Would you like me to break into “Hopelessly Devoted” right now (since it’s the only song I sing in the shower these days)?

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE support Project Twilight.

Buttons are coming soon, and I know you’ll all want a Stupid Twilight T-Shirt Button for your blog. Just to dress it up right.

Now go click the link already. Go on, get outta here.

Okay, I never post pictures because I’m too lazy to take my camera downstairs and plug it in. This took some serious effort on my part, and I’m putting these up for my husband and my mother. The rest of you are welcome to peruse them at your leisure. Or not.

Photos of: Gardner Village with my three children and Jason’s mom. Notice Indiana Jones and Indiana Jones Jr.? Rex was happy with just a hat. Harrison takes his current Adventurer status very seriously (he’s currently outside whipping the heck out of one of our trees).

Next is me at a Halloween party in my bumblebee costume (June will also be a little Bumblebee this year). Yes, I know the horizontal stripes did nothing for me. It was the only modest girl costume Big Lots had to offer (and it matched the baby). Sorry about the cleavage, everyone, but I can’t help it. I didn’t realize that the shirt would keep slipping down so far–I kind of looked like a bumblebee floozy. A has-been queen. A bee who’s lost her stinger… It could be worse, I could have gone as a Pirate Whore or a Lusty Wench. 

I had to throw in a recent photo of June. She was so sick at Gardner Village you can’t see how cute she usually is. I love this picture of her. Lastly, a photo with my husband from last weekend. I really like him (even though I look fuzzy and drugged up. This is what happens when your five year old takes the picture).

We pulled into church fifteen minutes late today. No biggie, I’m a single parent and once in a while if I want to be late for Relief Society, I can be. It was one of those mornings where I kind of wanted to stay in bed and sleep the next seven weeks away, but we got it together and made it to church. 

As I pulled the car into a parking place, I suddenly started thinking about my calling. I teach RS the third Wednesday of every month. Hmm, I thought, what week is this?

I’m guessing you’re a little quicker than I am and have already figured out that yes, at that very moment I was supposed to be delivering a rousing lesson to the sister of my ward. On what, I  had no idea. This is one of the sad side effects of using too much bleach in your hair. 

I threw Rex into the nursery, shooed Harrison into Primary and waltzed into Relief Society with no manual, no scriptures, and no nylons. I dumped June into someone’s arms (I didn’t look to see who it was) and headed up to the front of the room. They were excited to see me until I asked if anyone had a manual I could borrow.  

Of all the lessons to come unprepared for, it was the lesson on Joseph and Emma’s letters to each other during times of separation. Let’s do a quick recap. My husband is on the other side of the country. I have not cried about this yet. Don’t misunderstand, now and then I’ll tear up a little in the car when I’m listening to country music or lost 80’s love songs, and sometimes I exhibit unstable behavior toward family and friends, but I’ve spent over three months avoiding any kind of actual tear and snot riddled break down. 

Until today. In Relief Society. In front of my entire neighborhood. 

In actuality, I have no doubt that the Spirit didn’t remind me about this lesson because it was supposed to go off exactly like it did. The lesson was good, the comments were great, the teacher’s guide on the last page of the lesson was a life saver.

But of all the lessons to teach off the cuff, this one did me in. I actually had to leave during the closing song because I was such a blubbery, snotty, lonely wreck. I went and locked myself in a bathroom stall and had words with a roll of toilet paper. 

And I feel great. Why haven’t any of you reminded to cry about this? I feel like I’ve lost four pounds (water weight, probably) and gained a little perspective. Crying is so underrated.

Okay, I can’t help it. I don’t care how old and how grey (HOT) and how unsettled George Clooney is, the man has forever got it. 

Tonight I rented and watched Leatherheads, a cutsie movie in which Georgie Boy plays opposite Renee Zelwiger in a retro 20’s football flick. Personally, up to this point in her career Renee hasn’t done anything for me, and in fact I’ve wondered what all the fuss was about. But tonight I loved her.

At first I thought maybe it was a maturity thing, but I’ve changed my mind. Frankly, this movie is proof that George Clooney makes any woman look good. The way that man looks at a girl makes my toes curl. Remember One Fine Day? The whole kissing scene at the end? Take me now, George. I would shave my legs for you, I would I would!

And while we’re discussing hot men in general (and we all know NO ONE rings my bell like my own secret agent man), what’s happened to Matthew McConaughey lately? Ten years ago my roomies and I would grab a Zuka Juice with some ginseng in it and go watch him on the big screen. I swear that man with his shirt off could send me into fits of hyperventilation (might have had something to do with the ginseng). But he’s kind of lost his blush. I used to wish he and Brad Pitt would star in a remake of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (since Pitt reminds me of Redford and Matty reminds me of our dearly departed Newman). 

But back to Clooney. I hate agreeing with female fans that someone with his impossible reputation could possibly be attractive to a woman as intelligent, cultured and tastefully refined as I, and in fact I fight the desire to watch him on the big screen, and yet…he does this whole head tilt, pause and look through his lashes (the man has LASHES) while going in for the kiss only to wait just a second longer than you think he’s going to before BAM. He kisses her. Bliss. 

And that, my friends, is worth paying big bucks at the Red Box to see.

Is there anyone else out there who could hold an actual weight-loss gimmick garage sale and earn enough money for a four person cruise? Check out this girl for a good laugh.

Day 2

He’s still gone (imagine that) and I’m doing great. That’s what I say to my mother, sister, neighbor, and the lady at the cash register at Dan’s Grocery (who responds by looking at me and wondering why I just offered that bit of overly-positive information when all she asked was ‘paper or plastic’).

But I’m a little worried about Subconscious Annie. I caught her bawling to “Can You Feel The Love Tonight” this morning, and noticed she fed her ten-month-old daughter chocolate cake and chocolate milk for lunch (she would have eaten it herself but it doesn’t mix well with Salami). Yikes.

I woke up this morning and decided I’d try my hand at wallowing in bed all day. Unfortunately wallowing isn’t very entertaining and twelve minutes into it I was bored stiff. So, I opted for good endorphins and went down to exercise. This was a good option considering the fact that last night I chased my Lean Cuisine with a bowl of Mac-N-Cheese and two honking pieces of chocolate cake (the same amazing cake I’m avoiding today, thank you Tiffany). And I have to say, the cake really did make me feel better. 

In other news, I’ve decided I want to be a Professional Conversationalist. I could pimp out my services to uncomfortable gatherings like Meeting The In-Law’s, Lunching With His Ex, or Telling His Mistress to Take a Hike. I’d also be available for larger gatherings like office baby showers, class reunions and Pampered Chef parties. I’m telling you, some of these places really need someone who can talk. I just need someone to market me. A good party pimp would do the trick. I wonder how many hits I’ll get from putting the word “pimp” in this post?