Oh, y’all,I have been having epic writers’ block recently – that written form of constipation that makes you think you might have something to get out, but really, you’re just going to sit there for a while and stare blankly into space contemplating what could possibly help to move things along.  It’s the kind that makes you whine to your significant other about uncomfortable you are, how blocked you feel and wish that things would just move the hell on. Yes, I really did just compare writer’s block to constipation.  No, you can’t un-read that.

Via Creative Commons by photosteve101

I’ve had plenty of topics marinating in the noggin.  But, the process of actually forming the ideas into coherent and witty prose has become an exercise if futility.  My delete button is getting a lot more action than my return button.  Here’s a typical blogging session: good idea pops into head; witty title is prepared; blank page is stared at; first sentence is written (usually starting with the very unimaginative “I”), and promptly deleted because it is a) stupid b) really stupid or c) so stupid a first grader wouldn’t want their name on it.  Two sentences are written, then deleted.  Switch to another topic entirely and repeat.  Spend at least an hour exhausting ideas and fingers writing words that will be immediately deleted for their utter lack of value.

The thing is, I know what is holding me back.  I know it like my son’s face and like the back of my hand.

I am deeply, deply afraid of offending you, dear Reader.  What, you ask, might I have to say that would offend you?  Well, I certainly wouldn’t comment disparagingly on your choice of outfit (which is lovely by the way – very flattering and the color really suits you) or your hair style (gorgeous!).  No, I’m afraid that you’ll be really, really annoyed when I … complain.  Sweet Jesus, I want to complain. But I want to complain about trivial crap.  The minute I do thought I begin to think of those poor people in Joplin who would love to have a house let alone go through renovating the kitchen.  I think about all those fine ladies still dealing with infertility and waiting for their miracle who would love to have a cranky toddler literally trying to throw himself out of their arms while they are walking.  Or I think about people who are orphans and would love to have one more day with their parents even if it is to take care of their house and cars and mail and cable problems while they are gone for six months. Overseas. Traveling. Cavorting. Having FUN. (That’s a whole other post).

You see, life is doing its normal thing here – alternating between being breathtaking (rocking Rex to sleep tonight – if I could bottle that feeling and sell it, there would be no war) and unbelievably frustrating (the tile guys leaving chewed gum on my door jam after removing my old kitchen floor and gouging my wood floor threshold with the refrigerator. Yes, really.).  But, every time I go to write about it, I imagine you – YES YOU – sitting there with one finger on the mouse going, DELETE! DELETE! That’s it, I’m done! She is an ungrateful spoiled brat and I refuse to read another post whining about overly privileged life. Or something like that.

The thing is, 90% of the time I’m very grateful for what I have. It’s the 10% of the time when shit breaks, when Rex puts on his cranky pants and cries because I won’t let him walk on the neighbor’s yard, when I have to spend 3 hours on the freaking phone with the cable company for my parents’ account because it doesn’t work, when the plumber wants to charge me $700 to install a freaking sink and dishwasher, I just want to tell you fine people about it.  So, I’ll make you a deal: you let me complain and I promise to do it in the most humorous and fabulous way possible.  I might even take the constipation analogy off the table.  Deal? A girl’s got to have her toilet soap box you know.

In No Particular Order

Some random thoughts, just because.

I’m having a terrible time with writer’s block for this blog.  I have so many things swirling in my head, but every time I write something, I think it’s lame.  My delete key hasn’t seen this much action since I was in law school.  Anyone have some topics they’d like to share? Questions you’ve been dying to pose to me? I swear, the rut is making my head hurt. Even reading really good literature isn’t helping!

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I love listening to the dog snore, a pleasant rumble coming from behind the couch.  I’d like to think it means that he is content and feels safe enough to snooze as oppose to him snoozing just anywhere.  It’s also a nice contrast from when he barks.  Which to his credit is not as much as it used to be, but I’m sure the plumbers at the neighbor’s house were quaking in their workboots just the same this morning.

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Is the universe trying to tell me something? It took me three phone calls to request my refill for birth control pills.  The first time the system couldn’t validate my birth date.  Now, I admit that I’ve given Rex’s birthdate to the pharmacy so much now that I have to remind myself just who’s they’re asking for, but once I remember who’s it is, I know the date.  So, I don’t understand why my birthdate didn’t match Mr. Automaton’s records.  That was last night. This morning, it was my drunk dialing fingers even though I wasn’t drunk, I was just trying to do two things at once.  I got locked out the system because I couldn’t accurately type in my six digit prescription number. Really.  Once I finally did get it and Mr. Automaton was thrilled to confirm my phone number with my prescription number, he told me that the pharmacy is so damn lazy, they won’t have it ready until tomorrow morning.  I still haven’t decided if I will actually start taking the pills on Sunday.

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I mailed off the paperwork for our embryo donation yesterday.  Mr. X and I had our blood drawn last week as required.  I hope that we can make another infertile couple very happy.

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I am currently sporting at least two band-aids and will likely add a third here soon. First, last week I managed to get a second degree burn on my hand from pulling out a pizza from the oven.  Then, I got some random scratch on my arm that’s not looking very good. And, then this morning, I had a cortisone shot in my elbow – yes, my elbow – which hurt like a *(&^%$.  I swear, my epidural wasn’t that uncomfortable.  Has it helped?  Mmm. Jury’s still out while the elbow is on ice.  There were ominous discussions of arthritis (WTF? I’m 35!) and the possibility of having to have the offending joint ‘scoped’.  That’s in addition to my right knee which has decided to be gimpy again and has earned me an MRI.  I don’t even run anymore, so why is everything breaking now? I don’t exactly put a lot of strain on the system, you know? Ugh.

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Rex celebrated his 14 month birthday today by taking 5 steps! Of course, they were at daycare, but the twinge of sadness that I feel that he had this momentous occasion without me is more than made up for by the fact that he was with his Ladies at day care who showered him in praise for his achievement.  And, when he’s ready to walk for Mama, it will still be a first – for me at least.