One More Reason

I should have met Sean Hannity today. I thought it was written in the stars. Instead, it turned out to be just another day when I didn't get arrested for assault.

Hannity was in the building where I work today. He was broadcasting his radio show from one of the production studios. All day, whenever anyone unfamiliar walked by, all heads would swivel. It isn't that we all don't know what Hannity looks like, we just weren't sure what form he would take. At one moment I was sure I had spotted him. A clutch of suits moved quickly down the hall opposite my desk, the room seemed to get colder, and there was a slight whiff of burning sulfur in the air. Turns out it was just a government official with bad gas, and that someone had opened the door to the studio. Damn it.

It was around 11am when we learned of Hannity's exact coordinates. He was across the hall, doing a meet and greet. A meet and greet in a studio anyone with a key card would seemingly have access to. I have such a key card. They didn't even ask my political leaning when they gave it to me. I grabbed my camera, my trusty boy wonder Albert, and off we went, ready to meet our destinies.

Little did we know there was a list. A list neither Albert or I had any chance of being on. A list guarded by a police officer. And that police officer didn't care who we were, or that Albert was making this face:

I stole this picture off Albert's family blog.
We were not trying to meet Hannity in an open field.

Doesn't that face just melt your heart? I guess Hannity and his list wielding thugs just don't have hearts to melt.

It isn't bad enough that Sean Hannity is a lying, pandering to the lowest common denominator for money, hatemonger, but now he has disappointed Albert. MY Albert.

Next time, Hannity. Next time.

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Frank: My Silver Lining

We all have heard the saying about the dark cloud having a silver lining. We all have figured out that saying is pretty much bullshit. That's why after my accident yesterday I was expecting to spend at least 450 dollars on my stupid mistake. I didn't count on a silver lining named Frank.

Frank is a chain smoking Albanian immigrant slight shorter than I am (I'm 5'0"). He chain smokes, has trash in his office since the mid 1980's -- including multiple copies of a promotional calendar he had made in 1995, and calls everyone either "Sir," Ma'am," or "Sweetie." Oh, and in less than 24 hours he fixed my car, and only charged me 65 dollars. I think I'm in love.

I was fully expecting to get screwed, at least a little, when getting my car fixed. I mean, you go to Costco, you get free samples; you get your car fixed, you get screwed. My first meeting with Frank didn't really change my opinion. He cooed over Meg's cuteness, but really, that's like saying the Mona Lisa is a nice painting. He said he could get the part -- if it was in stock. When I asked how much it would cost he said "under 50-thousand dollars" and laughed. Then he called me "Dear." I got my punching hand ready.

When he called me 45 minutes later and told me he had the part, I started thinking 50-thousand may have been an underestimate. When he said I could bring it in any time, I started thinking about taking out loans. However, I figured I had already come this far, so I might as well go forward. When I dropped off the car this afternoon, I asked one more time how much it would cost. "About 60 bucks, unless you want to pay me more, Sweetie" he responded. I figured he was joking again.

I took Ryan with me when we picked op the car, just in case I needed back up but I said I wanted to go in first. Frank was sitting there, his cigarette dangling over a Pepsi can ashtray. He called me "Honey." I curled my fist. He printed out my bill. I clenched harder. "Oh, I made a mistake here," he said, looking at the bill. I saw the number -- seventy five dollars. "I told you sixty, Dear" he said, and crossed out the number writing the new one in.

I told you, I love him.

Oh, if you want to love Frank too (yeah, that sounds bad, I know), just check out Empire Body and Paint in Salt Lake. Tell him Sweetie sent you.

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Crashin' and a Cryin'

I stayed home from work today with a combination of menstrual cramps and a flu bug that had me hunched over like Quasimodo, sweating like Al Sharpton, and as emotional as Tammy Faye Baker. The emotional overload was really the worst part of it, and I'm sure my period made it worse. I cried because I didn't feel good. I cried because I didn't want to eat anything. I cried because I couldn't hold Meg because I didn't want to get her sick. I cried when I had to hold Meg for a second because Ryan needed to go to the bathroom. We rented "The Blind Side" and I cried all through that; and not because of Tim McGraw's awful hair piece.

It wasn't until about noon today that I actually started thinking I wouldn't dissolve into a puddle of sweat and tears. I felt hungry, and went to the fridge, only to discover we had absolutely nothing to eat. That made me cry. It was so bad that for a minute I considered making tomato soup out of ketchup and hot water -- only to discover we were out of ketchup. I love ketchup, so I cried more. By this time Meg was looking at me like "what a fucking baby." So, I dried my eyes, decided to leave my sickbed, and head to the store.

I should have ordered pizza instead.

Things pretty went well at the store. I got food for the week, enough ketchup for the next six years, and only cried when I couldn't find frozen green peppers, and when the Uscan wouldn't register I had already put the celery I had just bought into the bag. I got the groceries in the car, got Meg into her seat, and figured we would make it back home in time for both of us to have a nap. Then I pulled out of the parking lot, and directly into another car.

Don't worry, everyone is okay. Meg was kind of startled by the noise of my side mirror crunching into the back tail light of a minivan, but other than that was unfazed. Damage to both cars was minor, and really, it shouldn't have been a major tragedy. Oh, except for the crying.

The minute I realized what had happened I started to bawl. I mean, ugly, red faced, snotty bawling. The other driver got out of her car, screaming at me, only to be stunned into silence by my display. The 9-1-1 operator asked SEVEN times if I was sure I was okay when I called to report the crash. Ryan flew to the scene, unsure of what had happened because he couldn't understand me on the phone. When he got there he found Meg sleeping in her seat, everyone okay, and me sobbing like the Hinderberg had just fallen onto our car. When the cop wrote me the ticket (it was my fault) he apologized, told me I really shouldn't feel bad because accidents happen all the time, and said he hoped I felt better soon.

I don't know which is more embarrassing: the way I cried after the accident, or the way I cried during "The Blind Side."
I do know which one is going to cost me more though -- and that just makes me want to swear.

I guess that means I'm feeling better.

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Et Tu, Tina?

Dear Tina Fey,

Please come back to the geek girls.

Yes, you are on the cover of Vogue -- with Vogue airbrushing. But they don't love you like we do. They didn't love you when you were the fat girl who was funny asking questions from the audience on "SNL." They didn't love you when you first appeared on "Weekend Update." No, they looked at the TV and said "who the hell is she?" They said the same thing when you started on "30 Rock." Actually, what they really said was "maybe now glasses will fail and now she can't run with prime time TV people." Really, they did. I didn't want to tell you, but I heard it. I can't tell you where, but I did.

Didn't you see "Mean Girls"? Didn't you write "Mean Girls"?

The only reason the pretty people are paying you any attention is because you are an oddity to them: a smart girl who can also be considered pretty. Just wait though. Sooner or later they will remember that smart people make them feel dumb, and go back to the pretty and vapid girls. Nicole Kidman will once again be on the covers. Then the next time you see yourself on a magazine cover it will say "Tina Fey: the next Kirstie Alley?" I hate to be harsh, but someone needs to speak the truth, and bring you back from the dark side.

You know, I don't think I would mind the transformation so much if you hadn't decided Liz Lemon needed a makeover too. Oh, you think I didn't notice? She used to be my fashion icon. A woman who looked schlumpy, yet professional. A woman who looked like she just might be wearing pajamas to work, but fancy pajamas. On tonight's show? You had her wearing a zebra print tank top (with cleavage!) and a fitted mini skirt. I almost threw up.

I wish I could say I will refuse to watch your show, or see your movies until you change back. Unfortunately, I am an overweight smart girl, which means I have a low self-esteem. That means I will be waiting patiently for you when all of the pretty people turn you away. Oh, and I will probably buy you ice cream and tell you how they didn't deserve you in the first place.

Damn it I'm weak.

Best wishes,

Libby

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I'm Like Sunshine! No, Really I Am! Oh, Shut It...

I have written before about my feelings on blog awards. However, I just had to take this one from Jen at "My Tornado Alley." First of all, she says I am "sunshiney." Now, I have been called many things in my life, but sunshiney just ain't one of them. Second, she told me she had given me an award by advising me to go over to her blog and get it "before it rots." How could I have said no to that? Oh, yeah, and I don't really have much to say today, so phoning in a post sounds just about right.


I think we all know how this shit works. I now pass this on to five other bloggers who bring a little sunshine into my day -- or at least don't make me want to jump off a bridge.

1. Married Geeks. I loved this blog when Greg and Suzanne were living in Reno. Now they have moved to China, and really kicked it up a notch. If nothing else, read it to follow Greg as he tries to find something to eat that doesn't have weird meat, vegetables, or hot sauces; and Suzanne as she looks for wine that doesn't scare her.

2. The Circus Has Come to Town. Summer's kids are adorable, and they just may be plotting her death. Now, that's comedy.

3. We're at Dad's That Week. So many reasons to love this blog. The mud. The kids left standing on the porch. The ex in the underwear. What really made me fall in love though? This post. And yes, I know she's gotten this award before. Really though, if you had one pint of ice cream anad someone gave you another would you refuse it? I thought not.

4. Blogging is for Dorks. I think of Erin as the glue that keeps my blogosphere together. She is the reason I have found every blog I like, and she always provides good blog fodder herself. Also, boobie owl. Enough said.

5. Mean Girl Garage. She reminds us that children aren't the future, and I couldn't like her more for it. Also, she's raising money for her friend with lymphoma. Every bitch has her soft side...

Okay, sunshine squad, now it's time for your part:

1. Put the logo on your blog or within your post
2. Pass the award on to five bloggers
3. Link the nominees within your post
4. Let the nominees know they have received this award by commenting on their blog
5. Share the love and link to the person from whom you received this award.

Now I'm off to spread more sunshine in the world. Or have another glass of wine. Same diff.

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Slow Your Roll, Joe

Dear Vice President Biden,

I can't tell you how glad I am that you are Vice President. I know, that might come as a shock that someone feels that way after your "fucking big deal" gaffe today, but it's true. You see, I read somewhere that during the campaign Obama gave you the choice of either being his running mate, or being Secretary of State. I think we can both agree it has been much safer having you behind a desk for the last 14 months. Otherwise, I think we can agree, foreign relations would be a fucking disaster.

Take for example the current situation in the middle east. Now, I am not saying this definitely would have happened, but I can easily picture you calling Netenyahu a dick after the announcement that Israel plans to build new homes in east Jerusalem. I can also picture you calling Ahmadinejad a damn loon. I am not saying that either characterization would have been improper, I'm just saying that they wouldn't have been helpful.

Your "aw shucks" train riding folksiness is just right for the VP slot. You let people know the White House isn't just about eggheads, it's about people who aren't sure when the television was invented. It's not just about crafting ground breaking policy, but also about gloating inappropriately in front of an open mic. Also, it's about knowing when to make the perfect gaffes, so the Republican hate machine pundits focus on pounding you for a little while, and leave Obama alone on possibly the most important day of his Presidency.

Yes, Joe, I am glad you are the Vice President. I will proudly buy and wear this t-shirt in your honor.


Best fucking wishes,

Libby

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Meg's New Look

We think she might (finally) be teething. We know she is getting attitude.





I don't think I could love her more. She really makes me believe God and grace are best seen in the face of children. Oh, and Ryan? Slayed. She now says "Dad," when she is upset. He has already ordered her an Amex gold card.

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The Green Menace

I have not eaten broccoli in more than 20 years.

The last time one of those tree like devils passed my lips I was either 12 or 13, had a bad perm (is there a good one?), and was helping my Mom prepare for one of her Saturday night Trivial Pursuit parties. "Solid Gold Saturday Night" was on the hi-fi, and we were laying out the weekly bounty of vegetables, pretzels and cheese, and TWO types of M&Ms. There was no such thing as fancy "pre-cut" veggie trays in those days, so we were cutting up carrots, celery, cauliflower, and BROCCOLI. I had liked cooked broccoli in the past, so I dipped a piece in ranch dressing (the cure all for any food) and popped it in my mouth. It was delicious. Like a forest of flavor bursting on my tongue. I popped another piece in my mouth, this time sans dressing. It was even better. I ate more, and more, and more, and more. I was like a broccoli eating machine. There was nothing I wanted to do more than eat broccoli, and eating broccoli was what I was going to do.

I spent the night writhing in pain on the floor of the bathroom. I swore that night that if God made the pain go away I would fight against broccoli dominance in the world.

I did just that, for more than two decades. I refused to eat anything with broccoli in it. I turned down soup, souffles, quiche, and veggie mixes. On the night we got engaged I was served broccoli on a pasta dish and told the waiter I was allergic to send it back. Ryan disputed my claim, and made me just put it to the side. I was furious -- until I saw the ring.

When Meg was born I vowed I would try broccoli again, because I never want her to think she can dismiss a food out of hand. So, tonight, as I was mushing some up for her, I ate a piece. It was really good. Like, better than I remembered. It could have been the mizithra cheese on it, but really, it was good. I ate four more pieces. I figured I had been mistaken about broccoli, and all was forgiven.

Then I came home and drank half a bottle of Pepto while I prayed for death.

Damn you broccoli. Fool me once? Shame on you. Fool me twice? Yeah, just go to hell.

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No One Gets My Books

Writing a will is nearly as exciting as I thought it would be.

When I was a kid I would look around my room and decide who would get what if I unexpectedly croaked. Once or twice I even wrote a cursory list in my journal. I would picture my friends and loved ones going through my things, crying with grief and joy when they learned they had been bequeathed my favorite Depeche Mode poster, or learned in my absence they would be kept company by my pet newts. I could see my sister roiling with jealousy when she learned she got none of my cassette tapes. Yeah, I was a morbid little shit, and vindictive too.

Once I got older I didn't really think about my will. I figured I didn't have anything anyone wanted, and as long as my Mother didn't clean out my apartment, or have to go through my bank statements (I had a little credit card debt), all would be well. I actually remember one night when I almost got hit by a car thinking "oh, man, thank God I didn't die owing American Express. Mom would be pissed."

Now, I actually have a will. Ryan and I decided to get one after Meg was born. And that's pretty much what it is: getting a will. We didn't have to sit down and discuss anything, or make lists of our possessions, or decide who to leave out so that our wrath can be felt from beyond the grave.

There was no writing of heartfelt tributes, or giving of explanation as to why Tara gets one, but not both of my monkey earrings.

No making someone spend the night in our basement where the ghost lives in order to get our silverware.

All we had to do was call our friend Ben, and ask him to draw up a will. He did -- a basic whoever dies first leaves everything to the other, and once we're both gone Meg gets it all. We have to pick a trustee, sign some papers, make sure Ben didn't put in any clauses about the Pittsburgh Steelers, and then it will all be done. Nice and legal. And boring.

I guess this is the best thing. I mean, after all, we're adults, and the most important thing is making sure our daughter is taken care of in the long run. We're really lucky we have a friend who is a fantastic lawyer who is helping us do that. And it's not like any of our friends or family are really going to be wishing we had left them the "Devil Baby" artwork instead of Meg. Still, it makes me yearn for the excitement I pictured in a will when I was young, and stupid.

Maybe I'll write a secret will and hide it somewhere. Then I'll leave a series of cunning clues as to where it is...

Oh, that would piss Ryan off so much. Piss him off from beyond the grave.

I think the first clue should have something to do with llamas.

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And, BREATHE...

Is it just me, or are things getting a little too serious in Blogland as of late?

It seems like people are bickering way too much, casting aspersions at each other as if a New York Times article is a personal insult lobbed at their own mother. Yes, I know that blogs, especially "Mommy Blogs" are how some people make their living. Really though, if you are a professional blogger, you have to learn how to deal with professional criticism. If you don't? Then you need to pick another profession.

I know that writing a "Mommy Blog" (how I hate that term, does anyone else think that is the root of the problem?), is different because it is so personal. After all, tech writers don't have to go home and wonder how well they are treating their iPads, and operating systems. However, they do have something in common with the MBs -- they chose their professions, and likely enjoy the attention they receive from them. Yes, it would be wonderful if that attention was always wonderful, and positive. It would also be wonderful if I could control by weight by wishing.

I just can't get over how a group of clever, funny, talented, intelligent women get their panties in a bunge so easily, and so publicly. Do they know how hard it is to get a mention in the New York Times? Do they not realize that, yes, something is considered a trend for quite some time until it has unequivocally proven it's social worth? Do they not know that even after that it will likely still be mocked and criticized by people who are jealous or don't understand?

Nothing is ever universally accepted right away, and if it is, it probably is a scam. If you aren't willing to do the tough work of breaking down preconceptions, then maybe go into a profession where that has been done.

I guess what I am trying to say is that instead of fighting amongst ourselves (which just makes us look insular, like D&D freaks) let's prove our worth. Oh, and let's get rid of that fucking "Mommy Blog" label. I think Steamy would agree..

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Sweet, and Kind of Gross

The grocery store where I like to do my shopping is on the same block as a retirement home, and it offers a myriad of free samples -- those two facts make it like Vegas for the the Utah elderly. On the really busy days the aisles are a traffic jam of Jazzies and walkers. You can say "excuse me" and hope someone has a hearing aid turned up, but it's likely you will either have to wait, or find an alternate route.

Meg is like old person crack. Even the most racist curmudgeon cracks a smile when they see her. I cannot make it through the store without being told at least twice that the bakery gives out free cookies, and that all babies love cookies. It doesn't matter if I tell them Meg has no teeth, or that we don't want to give her refined sugar (that one NEVER goes over well, not even with my Mother), or that Meg would just drop it on the floor, looking for the dog to pick it up, they think Meg should have a cookie. Twice I have been hunted down by an elderly do-gooder, who was either sure that I was too dumb to find the bakery, or that I was just too mean to give my baby a cookie. Both times I have picked up said cookie from the floor while Meg looked around for Sally.

I could change grocery stores. I could go to the one by our house which is filled with nothing but college kids, and where beer is always on sale. However, there is a reason I like this store -- and it isn't just the produce -- it's the old people. Every once in a while I witness something that is the definition of awesome. Like today: I was walking out to the parking lot, Meg in the seat, Luke eating chicken fingers, basket full of groceries, Sally waiting in the car -- right behind an elderly couple. They were moving slowly, and I wasn't sure if they had their arms around each other out of affection, or for support. Then, as they turned into their car, they parted, but not before the woman slid her hand down the man's back, and lovingly cupped his butt cheek.

I told you, awesome.

Luke saw it too, and started to say "did she just.." but I put my hand over his mouth, and laughed loudly, hoping they didn't hear it. Then I pulled out my cell phone and made Ryan promise I could grab his ass in public in 40 years.

I will never shop anywhere else.

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Second Generation

I am not what you might call a "fashion plate," and not just because I don't put on outfits by rubbing crayon over raised plastic drawings. I like things that are comfortable and functional, and that preferably don't touch my body too closely. Yes, I am talking about fun pants. Over the years my fashion choices have been misunderstood and mocked, mostly by my sisters, Tara, and my friend Murphy -- who started his mocking before we even knew each other.

Murphy and I met when we lived in the same apartment building in D.C. It was an L shaped building, which meant Murphy and I could see each others apartments from our windows. Now, at the time I was sarcastic and judgy, but I had nothing on Murph. He had formulated named for everyone in the apartments he could see. There was "lonely computer boy," "three way girl" (she lived up to her name), "sex on the floor girl," and me: "lesbian overall girl." I earned the name because I never had male friends over (I was horrible at dating) and I liked, no, loved, my overalls. Even after we met, and I had boyfriends, he kept the name for me.

I still do love my overalls. I would love it even more if I could fit my ass in them without looking like a joke involving Lynyrd Skynyrd. Luckily, Meg looks great in them, and is finally big enough to wear a pair...

See that smile? I sent that picture to Murph and he said he was calling child services -- or "What Not To Wear." Cynic.

If only he knew ow much she loves the Indigo Girls, and Crocs. Then he would understand...

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Fashion Backassward

Spring is springing up all over the place! As it happens every year the weather is getting warmer, the days are getting longer, and everything is my closet positively disgusts me. Really, every morning I open the doors, and the corpses of outfits past stare back. The clothes I would still love to wear are all worn, and either have stains, or little holes. I should throw them out, but I am hoping that hobo chic comes back. Then there are the clothes that are still in good shape, because I hate them and never wear them. They just glare out at me in their too sweatery, too dowdy, or too impulse buy looking way. I should probably throw them out too, but then I would feel bad about spending money on them in the first place.

Regardless to say, I have been doing a lot of online browsing as of late.

I don't know what it is about spring, but every year I am sure that I can turn my closet around with just the click of a button. Out will go the oversize tunics, and in will fly classy, yet kind of slutty sundresses that can be worn with snappy sandals, and paired with a light sweater for work. Never mind that I don't have snappy sandals, and that I think all light sweaters accentuate my back fat; the fantasy still exists. I usually start at Ann Taylor, and Anthropologie, veer over to Lane Bryant when I feel my self esteem getting low, and then make a pit stop at Old Navy when I consider the fact Meg will have to go to college.

Oh, Old Navy, what a circus of the pointless.

I will admit that I buy all of my t-shirts and jeans there, and have even found the occasional all purpose schmatta dress for five dollars in the clearance rack. However, when it comes to their "stylish" clothes, I just laugh. Take for example this little item they are offering without irony this season...



Yes, folks, that's right: Old Navy is trying to bring back the jumpsuit. I think they must be stopped.

Never mind that in order to pee any woman wearing one of these will pretty much have to get buck ass naked. Never mind that a bra is pretty much impossible to wear with this, and so a lot of boobies will be swinging in the wind that shouldn't be swinging in the wind. Never mind that the material it is made out of is the tissue paper cotton developed by NASA just for Old Navy, that will guarantee we see the panty lines, and camel toe of every unfortunate woman tricked into buy one of these monstrosities. Actually, mind all of those things, and put on top of them, like a gleaming cherry of fashion injustice, the fact that many, many people were praised, and paid handsomely when they came up with this idea.

Suddenly the things in my closet don't look so bad.

Who am I kidding. Yes they do. I'm going to end up in a fucking jumpsuit.

Just don't laugh at my camel toe.

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Eight Months

From this: To this:


I am almost positive that any day now Meg is going to stand up, smile, and run at top speed down the street. She is all about movement right now. Whether she is bouncing in her bouncer, or rolling around on the floor, or sitting up and throwing herself back, she is always on the move. She is always moving towards something, and it is usually something being kept out of reach for a reason. Yesterday? She broke my Dad's glasses. He says before he knew what was happening she had taken them off his face and snapped them in two. Luckily he's smitten with her, so he didn't mind wearing the old pair that practically render him blind.

Meg is a big talker too, with an ever growing repertoire or words. She can say dog, and mama, and hi, so far; and Ryan swears that one day she said her own name. She is also a big fan or clicking her tongue and sticking out her tongue, which crack her up to no end. I really worry that some day soon I will no longer be the funniest in the family. Well, at least I will still be the most sarcastic.

We are spending more time outside now as the weather warms, and Meg really seems to be a fan. She loves watching birds, and taking walks, wrinkles her nose when the wind blows on her, and is mesmerized by flowers. She has always been a very observant child, but there is something about nature that really seems to draw her in. Watching her I find myself believing in reincarnation, because he isn't just seeing the world, she's drinking it in, savoring it like a connoisseur. I just watch her in awe, feeling so lucky to have her in my life.

What a wonderful girl. Oh, how I love her.

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Liberty Catlance

I am thinking about buying a holster. No, not for a gun, for a squirt bottle. It is time to take down a rogue kitty.

When we got Olive I think both Ryan and I knew it was a risky decision. She just had that look in her eye: crazy, and not just normal crazy, but grab a cop's gun crazy. However, Ryan was worried about me after Rita's death, and I was brought up to believe that any animal who picked you was meant to be with you. Oh, how delusional we were.

Don't get me wrong, Olive is a darling cat. She is affectionate, and playful, eats whatever is put in front of her, and loves everyone in the house, and loves living here. Actually, she loves it a little too much. She loves it so much she acts like she owns the place. The spray bottle is to convince her she doesn't.

The enemy.

I don't think it would be so bad if we could pick our battles. The problem is, Ryan and I have different battles. He doesn't want her on the counters. I don't care about the counters, I have Lysol to take care of the counters. I don't want her sleeping on my shoulder, and pawing at my face. Ryan doesn't care about that, because he sleeps like the dead. We both don't want her in Meg's crib, but Meg actually likes her in there, and will call to her.

No wonder the cat is so crazy. We are fighting all of the battles, and so she is getting sprayed all the time. Really, I am surprised she ever dries.

I guess she'll just have to deal with it. After all, there is a new Sheriff in town.

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Spawn of Tara

I do not keep secrets well. I am the person who ruins surprise parties, who never gives a gift without asking the recipient if they will like it, and who reads all spoilers available, and then recaps them for people who don't necessarily want to know. However, for the past three months, I have kept a HUGE secret. Tara is totally knocked up.

Yep, that's right. She's got a bun in the oven. She's with child. She's in the family way. She's got a one way ticket to Momville on a placantal pony. In other words, she's pregnant. And I have known the WHOLE time. Since the first pee stick. Since the first panic. Since the moment when her partner said "I don't know what to say. Maybe you should call Libby." Yet, even though I've known, and I am a horrible secret keeper, I haven't said a word.

Okay, maybe that's not entirely true. Maybe I told a few people. I mean, of course I told Ryan, we share a brain. Oh, and I told my Mom. I didn't have to tell my sisters, because my mom told them. Ryan told our friend Lee, who told his wife Julie. I accidentally told our friend Meghan. And our friend Katie. Oh, and our friend Lindsey. Other than that though, I didn't tell anyone, and when you think of the number of people in the world, and how much I like to talk, that's pretty impressive. I mean, she's 17 weeks along by now, and this is the first blog about it. Really, I deserve a secret keeping medal.

If my almost stellar secret keeping ability isn't impressive enough, consider how I got the people who knew the secret to keep the secret that they knew from Tara. She was here over Christmas, and she saw them all. Yet, until this moment, she didn't know that any of them knew. When you think about it, I am really a master of manipulation. I could be a mob boss. I SHOULD be a mob boss. Except, then I would be telling everyone I was in the mob, and that probably wouldn't work out.

So, now you know. Tara is pregnant. Soon, the most sarcastic child ever will be born into the world. You should all be trembling with fear. Oh, and should it not be naturally sarcastic, we will nurture the shit out of it until it is. After all, Meg can't be the only child who learns to roll her eyes before she can walk.

I am so frickin' excited.

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