Monday, February 19, 2007

What Nots & Stuff

So, i guess we have no music fans in the infertile world (or Heather or Nora fans, for that matter). But, no problem. I was just wondering, is it just me or did y'all cry over the last episode of Grey's know, the scene where a husband was looking for his missing pregnant wife and the hospital had two, one in the operating room and one in the morgue.... KLEENEX!

Or, the episode of Extreme Makeover Home Edition...the mother of 5 autistic children (and a sixth one without). FIVE AUTISTIC CHILDREN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! And they were all hers. God help those with autism and those who parent those with autism and all parents of children with special needs. I am just so happy that familiy got a brand new remodeled house. The bank was about to foreclose on them and everyone came together to pay off their mortgage (sniff, sniff). God bless that show for helping families!

But it just goes back to my new theory...parenting is so FRICKEN hard. I mean, yeah, i always knew that, but now i am finding comfort in remembering just how hard it is. It aint a walk in the park. And if you're lucky, maybe, just maybe, your kids will thank you in 20 years, but dont hold your breath. So, who's up for that particular form of torture? Who's next in line?

Being a parent is suddenly so scary.

Thank God i aint one. Wahoo, yay for me. Okay, i know y'all aint buying that, but indulge me please.

In other what nots, who can tell me how to "strike through" text in blogger? I mean, have you read my bio? Who is that perky b***ch? Someone, shut her up, please. Please!


Tuesday, February 13, 2007

Open Letters

Dear Grammys

Can i have one??? Please, please, pleeeeeze? I dont really sing, but i'm really really cute and i can do a very sexy video if i put my mind to it (but would never sink so low, unless its for dh's eyes only, and then maybe i could be convinced). But seriously though, if the Pussy Cat Dolls can be nominated for best silly song sung by six skinny skanks, then i say, why can't i be nominated for best nonvocal crying blog? I mean, who's going to get nominated next, Hillary Clinton? Oh wait, she already won one. So yeah, gimme mine!

Dear Heather (as in locklear)

Aren't you, like, 50? Why must you botox yourself into looking like a 6 year old? Huh? I was so distracted by your puffy cheeks and lips you couldnt close (or probably feel) that i could hardly watch you in the great Nora Roberts debut movie on Lifetime. You're very pretty without it, girl.

And, was that a body double for the "sex" scenes?

Dear Nora,

Your movie tanked, mainly because there was no chemistry between the two main characters and/or actors. The main character was a nut, and not cute nutty, but just plain old just-been-discharged-from-the-psycho-ward-and-need-to-retire-to-the-mountains-where-i-start-seeing-things nutty...Boooooooooring. And why was normal, balanced, mystery -writer-hero attracted to nutty puffy Heather? I think, i think it might have something to do with him wanting to solve the mystery...who is the woman beneath all this cow blubber? A real man wants to know.

Yeah right!

Friday, February 02, 2007

On Feeling Better

Well, as i mentioned, i have been feeling better, not so weepy or sad--except on random occassion. The only thing that's really changed since the monstrous daily weeps and now is...drum roll please...i've been working on my writing. Anti-climatic, huh? It's very very strange and novel how my own creative pursuits, especially writing, can make me feel better, can calm me down in a sense and give me peace. It's so basic and yet so shocking to me. I guess that's because i've never seen writing as an easy task. And to find comfort or peace in it seems like an oxymoron, unless you're writing in your blog or journal. But creative writing? Where you have to beat down your own internal critic at every turn so that your creative side might get a word in edge-wise for a second out of the day...well, what's fun or peace-inducing about that?

It's a strange world we live in. These are strange times. Case in point--i just received a rejection for a query i sent out 9 MONTHS AGO. It was a rejection from the publisher who also sent me a book with the rejection. Very strange. And the book is a historical romance by Katherine O'Neal (someone i've never heard of before) called The Art of Seduction. I was upset by the rejection...even cried over it. Well, it's all very sad. Why must EVERYTHING i attempt fail miserably??? I know, i know, it's not everything. I just like making grand sweeping generalizations. But anyways, i was feeling bad up until i actually decided to look at this book. The writing isnt compelling, nor does it resonate with the period. It reads like a contemporary novel. I think it's supposed to be a new line of sexier/erotic romance, but i didnt find it so. Actually, i thought, why am i feeling bad when they publish crap like this?

We live in a time where it doesnt take real talent to succeed. Look at Jessica Simpson ... what's her talent? Two boobs? Great. Even monkeys have those. So glad we applaud what's laudable. Or Paris Hilton...what's her reason for fame? Daddy's pocket book? The fact that she can have sex in front of a camera? Again, even monkeys do that. Is that what talent is in this day and age?

Ok, i dont know why i'm ranting about the talentless. I just hate rejections. I just have to remember that someone really stupid blew their chances with me.

Oh boy, i'm beginning to sound like one of the losers on American Idol. This can't be good.

Why, again, do i like writing? It's mental ivf, if you think about it. For months you pump yourself up with drugs (or a story you think is fantastic) and then in the end it fails to achieve the positive results you were hoping. Writing keeps me connected to this constant, illusive carrot.

I wonder what it will be like when i finally taste it ... because i've already decided that it's mathematically impossible to fail at ivf AND publishing. I think there's a theorem some where...if one fails miserably for all time at ivf, then one will eventually succeed in something else.

Oh blah dee.