I have nothing sassy, snarky, or sarcastic to lead this one off with, Internet. That kind of writing requires actual thought, and for that to happen, I'm pretty sure sleep has to be part of the equation. So I'm just going to start off with exactly what I said when I first saw my finalized cover for BabyFat: Adventures in Motherhood, Muffin Tops, & Trying to Stay Sane:
*Annoying and yet utterly essential iPhone notification ping*
Me: Oh...wow.. I wonder what could have arrived in my email. Perhaps something exciting and life changing! Wait...no...just a bunch of requests from my uncle in Zimbabwe to give him my bank account number and how the hell did I miss the one from Easter equating a vibrator with an extremely well-written religious experience? That PR writer is worth her weight in gold!
(This is probably the part where I sighed miserably because my uncle in Zimbabwe is probably an asshole because why else would he never have been invited to the family Christmas dinners? I consider sending him a digital I Miss You So Much card but don't feel like having to explain to Mom that I broke the Family Wall of Silence.)
(I'm totally making that up. I'm too lazy to scroll back and copy/paste what she actually said. Which, in retrospect, was probably more like "I posted the final cover in admin forever ago. Can we stop chasing squirrels now for author approval, maybe?" Because Michelle is badass like that.)
Me: This is AMAZING.
Michelle: That's all you got? You didn't even italicize.
Me: Yes, actually. I have to save the good shit for the blog. You get this. It's a compliment actually. Kinda like when your husband to be knows you really do love him because you don't almost implode trying to hold in the fart you usually try to pass off as a dead skunk a few blocks over.
Michelle: Please tell people that we never actually had this conversation.
Me: What? Dammit. I knew it was too soon to claim it because I laid it.
Michelle: Have you actually looked at the cover yet? Because I have things to do not involving imaginary conversations by sleep-deprived and delusional memoir writers.
Me: I'm looking at it now.
Me: I'd ask you to marry me but you already made it clear that you have a problem with my ability to digest Taco Bell. I'm guessing that would be a deal-breaker.
Michelle: You're welcome.
Me: I love you, too.