Blame for my disdain could squarely fall upon the Herculean shoulders of one Mr. Eldrick “Tiger” Woods, but were I to heave it there I’d have to toss it on the petite, bony backs of Ms. Julia Fiona Roberts and Ms. Keri “Felicity” Russell, as well. I fear that their waifish frames couldn’t support my colossal angst, however, so unless I acquiesce to snapping them in half, effectively ending the genre of romantic comedy as we know it, like Atlas I shall stand.
Celebrity babies are falling from the sky like perfect, privileged rain drops that keep pelting me in the eye while I sprint down the street looking for an awning under which to duck. I cannot continue to stand idly beneath their downpour and absorb their arrival or read about them in my morning newspaper day after day – I just want to be dry.
Celebrities deserve babies, and I’m sure they deserve their blinding beauty and padded bank accounts, too, but enough already. At this rate, Julia Roberts will front her own co-ed soccer squad by the time we have one measly baby. So, to rebuff their frequent fertility, I am abandoning all celebrity news until we get pregnant. No more Pink is the New Blog, no more TMZ and certainly no more People.com. I’m done, and if I spy my local newspaper passing off the birth of another Jolie/Pitt creation as headline fodder, I will cancel my subscription effective immediately.
Surly? You betcha. Constance’s pizza chin began expanding into an all-out pizza face by late Monday night, and perhaps it’s merely the emergence of her Italian heritage, but as of this morning her body isn’t so much of a wonderland as it is a pizzeria. Her period is coming soon, and then we’ll be moving on to the next steps with our reproductive endocrinologist.
What those steps might be, however, we do not know. You could ask me to map the lineage of Martha Washington or quilt a sombrero and I’d probably have a better idea of the task ahead.
Novices like me, or any member of the Atari/Sega/Nintendo generation who appreciates the simplicity of retro graphic capabilities, might find this bizarre tool over at MSNBC both useful and entertaining. “Making baby the high-tech way” is an interactive presentation of the vast opportunities for infertile couples to become pregnant. From ovarian stimulation via drugs to in-vitro to intracytoplasmic sperm injection, which sounds Ghostbusters-ian in method, this tool shows you what occurs in the body during different treatments.
I could spend days watching that animated sperm being sucked into an eerily intrusive tube whose methodical movements remind me of a slow-moving serial killer in a horror film.
Which, sadly, isn’t far from reality for those undergoing intracytoplasmic sperm injection.
It has, however, been a good primer for a non-celeb like me who is dealing with taking the next steps to solve infertility. Perhaps if I could find a way to get famous in the next few months we could put this all to rest: Mother Nature obviously prefers her fertile lands be populated by devastatingly gorgeous, successful humans. If all else fails we’ll get Julia Roberts to be our surrogate. I’ve always wished for a child with an inexplicably large mouth and a laugh that could crack paint.