If you ordered Practically Perfect through Brain, Child, then your signed copy? It's officially in the mail, hurtling through the United States Postal Service to you. That was the excellent part of my morning, the part that felt very rock star.
The other part of the morning I spent feeling like an S&M rodeo clown, standing topless except for a cape and little silver pasties, watching my breasts get the lock-down. It was mammogram morning, which turned into ultrasound mid-morning and ended, fortunately, with a clean bill of mammary health. "The doctor says it looks normal!" the technician told me. I was sort of hoping for "magnificent," but, really, I'm not complaining.