Since I feel entitled to whatever might make me happy these days, I swung into one of those make-it-yourself frozen yogurt shops yesterday.

In case you haven’t experienced the joys of Frogurt, or Yogurtland, or one of their many, many yogurt related relatives, here’s the deal. For a cool thirty-something cents an ounce, you choose a yogurt and pile on as many toppings as you’d like, with no one around to skimp you or go too light on the peanut butter cups. It’s brilliant, and also costs a small fortune. Who says gluttony doesn’t have a price?

So I’m making my current favorite concoction of peanut butter and strawberry ice creams with Reeses cups, peanut butter chips, and fresh strawberries (I know, my ice cream brilliance astounds you), and I start in with the strawberry ice cream. Now, the secret to these hand crafted beauties is not getting too much of anything so they can’t overcharge you. I like just a little tiny bit of everything, mixed together. I do not need to fill the five gallon container they make available.

I turn on the strawberry and what do you think happens? It gets stuck. That’s right, in the blink of an eye I had three times as much strawberry as I wanted at 35 cents an ounce.

“Um, excuse me, but this machine got stuck and gave me way more than I wanted,” I say to the ten-year-old behind the counter.

“Oh, yeah, it does that.”

“Really? Because I’m now paying for your faulty machine.”

What did she do? She shrugged and went back to picking her nails. That’s right, picking her nails. Stupid ice cream cost me nearly four dollars and tasted terrible. I even glared at her over my pregnant belly. I should have demanded a refund and a sign saying, “This machine gets stuck. User beware.”

I hate getting ripped off.

And now I need frozen yogurt. (Hey, at least I’ve got some motivation to finally get dressed today, right?)

Apparently, if you spend three days laughing your belly button off, you are then required to balance it out with an equal amount of sporadic and rather constant crying.

I. Can’t. Stop. Crying.

Songs on the country station, urine tests at the OB’s office, Design Star–you name it, I’ll bawl about it. And this isn’t the nice little teary up crying, this is the full blown, sob down the front of my shirt, cry fest.

I have realized in the past week that I most certainly need to stop having babies. Apparently, all those side aches and stomach cramps in Vegas weren’t as related to the laughter as I thought they were. I can’t seem to sit in an upright position for more than about twenty minutes without this baby snuggling up to my left kidney.

(For the record, kidney’s are not made to be cuddled. They are made to be left alone so the owner of said kidneys are free to do little things like walk from one side of the house to the other without hollering out in pain.)

And so, to add to my current state of Niagra, I am now living with the very scary realization that I am incapable of taking care of anyone. My sweetheart is hell bent on being both mom and pop, but I can’t seem to convince him that the mom part needs more than an hour a night. Not sure what I’m going to do about that, no doubt I’ll think of something. A blow up doll to make lunches and accompany June to time-out, that would probably do it.

If you’re in the mood to pray for someone today, consider including my kidney. I know at least one of us would appreciate it.

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.