In lieu of my unborn child’s upcoming birthday, I ditched my family for the weekend and forced a few of my girlfriends to drive me to Vegas so I could have some last minute away time. When I say forced, I might mean at gunpoint.

With much apprehension, Kristina and Amber drove the car while I lounged in the back and tried not to go into labor. We picked up DeNae (who claims to live in Vegas, but who’s neighborhood is closer to the Pacific Ocean than the strip) and drove south to the Last Stand for Gamblers for a heady weekend of pillow fights and jumping on the bed.

Here are a few things I learned while in Vegas.

1. Someone finally invented a place where you can spend an entire day, and the price of a theme park, to do nothing more than eat. For $35.95 you can buy a Buffet of Buffets pass and have access to seven different all-you-can-eat treasure lands, complete with a shuttle and a puke bucket. So cool.

2. There is such a thing as going to the pool without fear of death. Not only did I lounge and float, but at no point did I worry that someone was going to die (except Amber, of skin cancer). I did, however, want to kill a few of the children who consistently followed me around splashing.

3. It’s possible to eat so much food that you go into labor. If you ever need to induce a baby, go buy a ticket to the Buffet of Buffets and have at it. You will definitely birth something at the end of the day.

4. Pants are optional. Especially if you’re Kristina P.

5. We are not as young as we used to be. Over the course of the weekend, the four of us came up with more ailments than a nursing home. I think DeNae might have caught pregnant from me, since I noticed her breathing through her nose periodically over the weekend. We’ll have to wait and see.

All in all, it was one of the best weekends I have ever had, ever. I actually kept wondering why I’ve wasted so much time vacationing with my family when I’ve got friends like these around. I had forgotten that a seven (nine) hour car trip could be so fraught with laughter, or that girlfriends and food are good for more than heartburn and stomach cramps (probably brought on by the laughter).

If you haven’t had a girls’ weekend lately, I suggest you squeeze one in every ten years or so. It will keep you young.

So I’ve had a few facebook friend requests lately from people who are complete strangers to me. For the record, complete strangers and I have no virtual friends in common, and do not live in the same town (that I know of).

Now, if these strangers are male, there’s no question, I instantly deny them. But when they’re girls who look really nice, I find myself totally confused. Do I accept? Do they simply know me from the blog and want to see a photo of me pregnant? Are they Russian spies who think if they can get in good with me they’ll glean some military secrets that my husband accidentally let slip, and which I ran down to post on facebook? (Come on, we all know that’s totally possible.)

The whole privacy thing doesn’t worry me too much. At the moment, I know who all my friends are, and most of them are old contacts from other phases of life. Then I’ve got my virtual girlfriends from the blogosphere, and a few random neighbors who have facebook accounts.

But what do I do with these strangers? What is the rule here? Anybody?

Yesterday I was the world’s most amazing seven month pregnant mother. Honestly, I was so impressed with myself by four o’clock that I could hardly stand to look in a mirror.

My summer home learning is going way better than I would have ever guessed possible. This is our third week, and I have found that to my total and complete shock and delight, I enjoy spending one on one time with my kids. I know, it goes against all my parenting beliefs, this whole “personal attention” push, but if I’m being completely honest, it’s not half bad.

Yesterday we went to the Air Force museum. Normally I would have tried to find some fellow mother to muddle through with, just to make the task more palatable. But this week’s Be Attitude is Be Involved, and yesterday we talked about being involved as a family–hey, if I’m going to tout it, I’d better try it.

I was shocked to find that when there isn’t another adult present to shoot the bull with, my kids aren’t half bad. They’re entertaining, happy, randomly obedient–it was a refreshingly lovely afternoon. We had such a good time that I took them to Walmart AND a playplace.

But the biggest shock of all this summer is the realization that if, in the event of a cataclysmic catastrophe, I could no longer send my children to public school, I kind of think I could home school and still avoid bloodshed. Who knew? I’ve always been baffled where home schoolers are concerned, but after this summer, I can kind of see that it’s not all bad. In fact, it’s brought a massive dose of cohesiveness to our family. The kids do school together in the morning, and it just carries on to their playtime. I think they actually like each other better because of it.

I don’t know, maybe it’s just the pain killers talking, but aside from the misery of pregnancy (as I write this it feels like someone’s got a knife in my back), overall we’re having a darn good summer.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an episode of A Baby Story to catch up on.

I’m over at Beautiful Emily’s blog, “Is This Really My Life?” today. She’s fun, she’s smart, and she makes having four kids look way too easy. No one should be able to run 23 miles a day and still manage to make dinner (the mileage might be a slight overexageration, but she really is a modern day iron woman in heels).

I know there's a way to make this a button, I just haven't learned it yet...

She’s a Superstar Sassy Scoop and one of my new friends in the blogging world. We had way too much fun at the CBC, and I secretly long to be part of their sassy little club that reviews really cool things in Utah. Hop on over to see the Christmas picture I forgot to post on this site.

Here’s this week’s Regarding Annie column, pasted in.

“Last Friday my husband came home from work absolutely exhausted.

In memory of a fallen comrade who lost his life in the line of duty, his office does an annual ruck sack march. It’s a 13 mile trek across wild terrain, carrying a 30 pound pack.

Mr. Tough Guy did it in just over two hours, the first in his group to finish. Impressive. Of course, the moment he walked in the door, all his quiet strength flew out the window.

“I’m so sore!” he says, “You’ve got to feel this pack, you might not think it’s that big of a deal, but this was seriously tough.”

I went over and lifted his pack. Yep, felt about like 30 pounds. Now how would I know what 30 pounds feels like? Oh wait. That’s how much extra weight I’ve been carrying on my poor abused body for the past month.

“Look at these marks from the pack,” he says, showing me a few spots where his load had rubbed him wrong. I immediately thought of my permanent stretch marks, the ones that never go away.

“And I’ve got blisters,” he says, taking off his socks and showing me two slightly raised spots on his heels. Wow, I forgot what it was like to be able to lace up shoes. With my recent swelling, I’ve reverted to a hobbit-like state and can usually be found barefoot. What I wouldn’t give for the chance to trade that in for an afternoon blister.

“Honey,” I said very sweetly, “You do realize that not only am I carrying 30 extra pounds right now, but I don’t get to take it off, my shoes don’t fit, and I’ve got permanent stretch marks. And frankly, 30 pounds is a lot more on me than it is on you.” Did I mention my broken back?

“Well,” he says defensively, “It’s not like the baby weighs 30 pounds.”

Yes, he really said that. This was another moment to chalk up on my, “Why Men Are Dumber Than Women” chart. Frankly, there are some things you just don’t say to a pregnant woman, and that right there is one of them.

It took about two seconds for him to realize that he’d crossed over into the Land of Really Stupid Remarks.

“Do you have any idea what my body is going through right now?” I said to him.

“Uhh…”

“Do you know what it feels like to relinquish every ounce of personal space you once delighted in? To never really be alone? To see the scale and your waistline increase daily, and know that even though you’re trying to eat fruit and vegetables, the baby insists that you eat ice cream and cookies as well? Do you think I’m choosing this!?”

He stood there dumbfounded, not quite sure how to respond, and very aware that he was walking in a pregnant mine field.

“What would you like me to do?” he asked quietly.

“Put that pack back on and clean the house, then we’ll talk.”

Sometimes justice is a beautiful thing.”

I just saw a tag line to an article on the internet with the most interesting theme. The tag said something like, “An expert says people are single because they’re too picky, focussing on things like attractiveness…”

I had to stop for a moment and try to get my eyeballs back into place, they had rolled so far up in my head. Wow, it took an expert to say that, huh? An expert in what, the obvious? Journalism has sure come far in the past century.

It made me think about dating again, and I actually went ahead and read the article. The story goes that in the single world, there’s a “picky” pandemic sweeping the single scene. People rule out potential partners because of stupid things like height and weird laughter. (Don’t get me wrong, there are some laughs out there that just…no.)

But the main point is good. People put too much emphasis on the paper resume and not enough on the things that count.

Take looks, for instance. Just because a guy is short with gaps in his teeth doesn’t mean you aren’t going to have crazy chemistry with him (you wouldn’t believe some of the less-attractive men that I’ve been totally into). It’s one of those things that can’t be explained, but often sneaks up and surprises you when you least expect it–if you give it long enough to get there.

Looking back, Jason is lucky that I’ve got so much depth. When we were first hanging out, my otherwise fashion-conscious boy had the most horrible collection of shoes. He had these green suede Doc Martin’s that he got on clearance and thought were so cool. I didn’t have the heart to tell him there was a reason no one else wanted to pay $15 for them.

I think the best advice I could ever give a friend in the dating industry would be to rearrange some of their priorities. Sometimes when we’re not finding success, it’s because we need to shuffle things around–not eliminate, just shuffle. Instead of looking for someone who’s got a college degree first, start with a guy who makes you laugh, or who likes to give money to panhandlers, even if he’s not currently hitting the books. There are things that, in the long run, might not be so important when you find the one that makes your heart sing (paychecks do not go in this category, BTW). You’ve just got to give him a chance.

(And with all our chemistry, I didn’t realize I was hot after Jason until I finally kissed him. In fact, I was worried there would be no sizzle. What a lucky idiot I was.)

Today, Junie came into the dining room with a big smile on her face. I know, if you’re thinking what I’m thinking, that kind of pleased expression probably means that something’s on fire, we have a water event happening in the bathroom, or she found my stash of sugar-free candies.

Imagine my surprise when her smile turned out to be angelic. Literally.

“Mommy,” she says, “Look! The Holy Ghost is on my back! I’m giving him a piggy back ride. He’s pink. Shhh, he’s talking. What Holy Ghost? You’re blue? Oh, sometimes he’s blue, Mommy…” and so on and so forth. For some reason, I didn’t doubt for a second that she really was giving him a ride.

She also informed me that she got me at the Mommy Store, where they have lots of Mommies. And of course, she came from the Baby Store where there are lots and lots and LOTS of babies. And Rex came from the Rexy Store. Gotta love the way that brain thinks. She’s only two, and already, everything relates to shopping. What a woman.

I love having this virtual space to keep track of things I’m certain to someday forget. That’s the problem with parenting,we block out such a big part of the pain that some of the good stuff gets tossed out as well. I’m vaulting this one.

Here’s this week’s Regarding Annie Column, pasted in.

“I have discovered something wonderful. Strawberry chapstick.

While Jason was gone this past month, my darling little two-year-old June Bug transformed herself into the most destructive child ever. From desitin to powdered crystal light, this place was a war zone. At one point I almost called one of those disaster relief hotlines, but I didn’t think they could handle her.

And then, on a whim, I bought her some make up. Hey, she’s getting into mine all the time, in addition to the destroyed carpet and routine chocolate syrup incidents, how much more damage could she do?

None. Absolutely none.

In fact, from the moment I put that chapstick and eye shadow in her oh so anxious and capable little hands, she’s been a virtual angel. Makeup in each paw that she’s not about to put down for anything, equals peace for mother. I’ve had an entire week of bliss, thanks to some sweet pink grease in a tube.

But today her “lipstick” disappeared. She woke up and looked in her bed (because of course she sleeps with it), and for the next three hours rolled around the floor of the house crying for her makeup. I tried to look a little here and there, but have you ever misplaced a tube of chapstick? Say farewell to soft lips baby, those girls never turn up.

And so, while lounging on my boudoir trying to read a book and ignore my children, she pushed me past the point of parenting.

“Look,” I said to my very small child, “Just…ask Heavenly Father to help you find it.”

Of course, while offering up this bit of spiritual guidance I forgot to remember that she might be a little young to put prayer and faith into effect without some hands on mentoring. Of course, she jumped at this suggestion and immediately began praying about the food.

And so, I had to put my blasted book down and help her. It felt like such an effort. Yesterday I was supermom, cleaning and playing and parenting, and today the well is dry, dry I tell you. The last thing I wanted to do was drag my pregnant self around the house to find a missing tube of chapstick.

But you know, we found that darn chapstick in about four minutes. And the moment we found it, I had an overwhelming sense of someone telling me that her prayer had been answered. Not mine, hers. It might sound lame, but it brought tears to my eyes to remember how aware Heavenly Father is of her and what’s important to a two-year-old.

It might not have been a huge grown-up spiritual revelation that will lead me to salvation, but that moment filled my bucket in a way I can’t explain. It was better than a sermon and as good as a southern revival. Never underestimate the things a kid can teach you.

According to my sources (I like to call them Mom and Dad), the year Mt. St. Helens erupted resulted in the worst weather ever. They didn’t even see the sun that summer, and from what the folklore says, it affected weather around the world for at least a short while.

Because I’m so scientific and smart like, I’ve realized that the reason we’re having regular rain, thunder, and enough clouds to cover the state of Washington, is because of that *&$# volcano in Iceland. It’s determined to ruin my summer, one storm cloud at a time.

And in fact, I’ve decided to blame just about everything on the volcano this year. Bad hair? Ash in the air. Unquenchable chocolate craving? Brought on by the lava. General grumpiness? All those dead animals. Really, it’s the only logical explanation to why the world is less than perfect. Poor Obama, if the volcano only hadn’t erupted…

Maybe we should name the baby after the volcano. Hey, it’s a start.

(By the way, I’ve added Marjorie and Patsy to our list of girl names. Feel free to not tell me if you hate them. Then again, I’ll just blame your feelings on the volcano anyway.)

When I first started my column, I learned quickly that I don’t have to take personal criticism personally. I have a great editor at the Standard who regularly reminds me that it’s my job to stir the pot, even if it means that sometimes I get mixed in there with the beans.

For those of you who read yesterday’s post about motorcycles, I had to share this totally awesome letter I received today from a reader (one of the many outraged cycle lovers who took the time to write back). To my regular blogging friends, you know I get desperate for material sometimes, and let’s all be honest and admit that my motorcycle-crazed article was probably the best sample of this you’ll see. I had a deadline, and it was such a fun piece to write. The end.

And for those of you who are privy to the in’s and out’s of my marriage (which would be most of you, if you’ve been around long enough), I hope you find this as good of a read as I did. It also made me think back, have I remembered to remind you all how much I adore my man lately? In case you missed the memo, I’m more whipped than a naughty two-year-old who missed her nap. I love him, he loves me, and that is the only reason I don’t want him to die. Come on, we all know I could take care of myself.

(And for what it’s worth, once that garage door goes up at the end of the day, he doesn’t last thirty seconds without getting mauled by my pregnant self, and I regularly make him late for work because I think it’s hot when he puts on his gun. There, I said it.)

Here it is:

“Annie,

I read your article several times. My gut sank as I read it. You missed one of the greatest relationship building opportunities of your mariage. What came through lound and clear:

1. Your main interest in your relationship with your husband is financial.
– If he becomes sick he can count on you hitting the road.
2. There is a certain amount of work you rely on him to do. He’d better be up to it.
3. Your fears are more important than his feelings.

There was a way better way to aproach this. When asked why you objected to a motorcycle simply reply:

1. You love him and would be lost with out him if he were injured or killed.
2. That you would be constantly worried that he would be injured or worse.
3. That your children love him and would be devistated if he was injured or killed.

Do you feel the difference. At this point it may be too late to send this most important message of love. Thanks for the reminder of why I kiss my wife each time I leave the house or she does. Nobody has a guarantee of life beyond this present moment, and so I kiss her so that if it is out last, she will remember  that I love her with all my heart. Countless people process oxygen into carbon dioxide but are not truly alive, because they live in fear rather than passion.

I drive a small motorcycle when I can. I know it is a dangerous thing even though I only ride in town. I just love sticking it to the man (I can ride on $5 of gas every 2 weeks at 70+ MPG).  I ware my helmet and live by three rules to be as safe as possible. #1 Nobody can see me. #2 If they could see me they would go out of their way to kill me. #3 I am 1 accident away from never riding again. This is because I love my wife and want to grow very old with her. I draw the line at 2 lane highway ridding. 4 lanes? No way, the risk is just too great for me. It’s a personal thing.

Here is some good news for you if you still are worried about your financial future. Lawyers are your best friend. I’m not sure which would be more lucritive a dead or vege hubby in court. You can sue for all the wages he would have ever earned. PLUS you get SSI for being a widow or having a vege hubby and 75% of that amount for each child under 16 until they reach 16 year of age. Dang he might be worth more dead than alive to you, if that is truly your overriding concern. I doubt it though. I think it was just a missed opportunity to build the relationship you both really want.

If at some point you look back and ask where your relationship broke down. It was probabably when your fear was stronger than love.

Name Withheld”

For what it’s worth, my “fears” haven’t kept my man from pursuing his dreams, dreams which include comforting things like drug busts (this week, actually) and bullet proof vests. Also, we could throw in a few years specializing in counter-terrorism, weapons of mass destruction, and routine seminars on things like “How To Not Die in a Gun Fight” (that’s what he was doing in Florida last month). And yes, he always gets a hug, a kiss, and a slap on the butt when he goes out to get the bad guys.

So yeah, if I want to preserve a little of him for our family by asking him to hold off on things like motorcycle riding, I think I’ve earned that.

So thank you, dear reader, for taking the time to write to me. I had no idea my marriage was in such dire straits due to the stringent restraints I keep on the man; I’ll have to find a way to remedy it.

It just won’t be with a motorbike.