Things are
looking up. Not only am I now caught up on both Girls and the Bachelor (yeah, I’m a sophisticated lawyer who watches the
Bachelor, what of it?) is Congress making moves toward immigration reform
and gun control, but check this out: the smart, witty, feminist ladies over at A Practical Wedding/Reclaiming Wife (because “reclaiming marriage” just
sounds homophobic), have kindly posted one of my sassy musings ramblings
on trying to conceive.
And, notwithstanding
the morbidity
of my last posts
(really, I’m okay guys, no need to remove the sharp objects), I’m ready for
another go at all of this. I still need the green light from the reproductive
endocrinologist next week, but here’s hoping that lucky-number-round-three of
Clomid is right around the corner. Honestly, I have never been so physically
and emotionally ready for hot flashes and, you know, being kind of a bitch (nostalgia is, apparently, a very distorting force).
[1] Seriously though, how effing deep is Clueless? So deep, you guys. Cher’s use
of metaphor? Boy, getting off the freeway
makes you realize how important love is. Mind blowing.
