I'm pregnant. Don't ask me to collect my thoughts any better than this.
I'm on the cusp of the first trimester, about to head into Phase II, and the official "what are we going to name the baby" conversations have begun. Holy shit, I'm having a baby. I'm going to be the mother of FOUR. Someone please tell Brian that Rupert is a terrible name. Because I'm tired of telling him myself.
I'm prouder than proud to be an Episcopalian right now. Although every time they said "first gay bishop" on the radio I have to shout out "openly! openly!" Because, God knows (and plenty of other people too), that Gene is not the first gay bishop. Some of us, wink wink, may even have been confirmed by a *gasp*gay bishop.
Flash mobs: your 15 minutes are up. Playing duck duck goose and walking around like Mary Poppins? OK. I guess I'm too old for flash mobs. And, plus, I didn't get invited. Not that I'm jealous or anything. Not that I would have time to go downtown with a black umbrella and walk around like Mary Poppins. I'm all grown up now, I have a job and stuff. So I DON'T CARE that I didn't get an email, OK?