I find myself defending Gwyneth probably more than is seemly. Part of my defense is that she’s such an easy target, it’s so obvious to pick on her and find her irritating. I guess I’m just being contrarian. The fact of the matter is, I like her view of the world. Rose colored glasses and all. Now, Country Strong was not her fault. I mean… the movie was terrible, but she didn’t direct it. I defend her choice to portray a washed up country pop singer any day. I mean, who else would play her? Reese Witherspoon? UGH, DOUBLE UGH. It’s way more fun to watch Gwyneth be bad in a bad movie than to watch Reese be good in a bad movie - case in point that Johnny Cash biopic. BORING.
Anyway, Country Strong was dumb.
Problem #1 - The baby bird storyline is abandoned 3 quarters of the way through the movie, and that’s one of my main problems with the script.
Problem #2 - Also baby bird related, why did they keep that bird in a cigar box? A stuffy airtight cigar box? And, why did that bird never grow up? Don’t baby birds grow up pretty quickly? I guess not if they’re kept in a cigar box.
But this is not about the movie. This is about ME. memeeemeeemeeeeee (Side note: When I have to do temp voice over at work, I pretend to warm up, and pretend to run scales and go memememememe, lalalalala. It usually makes the editor laugh. USUALLY. When it doesn’t I get sad, because it’s a pretty funny bit I stole from a story producer on another show, and I don’t like to waste it on editors who don’t get my stupid sense of humor.) I don’t know why I even brought up Gwyneth, maybe because of that dumb movie? That I watched after my D&C? That has a lot of dead baby talk? Whatever.
The day after my D&C, I was walking Lula when I saw a hummingbird kind of dive bomb and land awkwardly in the street. I could tell it was in trouble because every time it tried to fly it could only get about two feet off the ground before awkwardly landing on the street again. Lula wanted to kill it. I wanted to rescue it it. But I couldn’t get close enough to it to capture it in a cigar box and carry it around like a symbolic baby. Also, I didn’t have a cigar box.
Two days later I was in the worst pain I’ve yet to experience. As my pregnancy hormones dropped and my uterus decided to disassemble itself from the inside out, I puked out my guts and wailed in agony while I sat on the toilet . It… wasn’t pretty. But then, after Seth made panicked calls to my doctor’s office, and they told him to bring me in, and I told him there was no way in hell I was sitting in that doctor’s waiting room (I HATE that waiting room). I finally got on the phone with the actual doctor, and he told me what was happening to my body and that some women find it more painful than others. In that instant, my ego got all bent out of shape and I was like, “Pain, what pain?” And then I crumpled into a heap on the floor and my doctor called in a vicodin prescription and an hour later I was off to work. Because that’s what a farmer would do, and apparently, I am a farmer. My crops are stories, and my field is an edit bay so the labor is physically more easy, but it’s hard to sit through a notes session when you’re doped up on vicodin AND the pain isn’t being even slightly edged out by the heating pad surreptitiously sitting in your lap. It was a rough day, and my bosses told me to go home, but I refused. I mean, it was either get my show out or lay in bed moaning all by myself wondering what was happening to my show. It’s not really that I’m country strong, I’m country stubborn. Or… country stupid.
*I’ve been writing this post for three days, I am off the vicodin now so everything seems harder and stupider and everything makes me grumpy. Oh, opiates. Why can’t I get a bottle of laudnum for my bedside? Also, why do I feel better, but still have a hard time getting out of bed?
This just in! Just off the phone with the doctor, and my HCG level has dropped considerably but because of the *barfughsorry* clotting, he wants to do an ultrasound next week. Ultrasound of sadness. I’m kidding, I’m very fine with the very brief yolk sac pregnancy of nothing being over. Finally.
Unlike Gwyneth’s character, I am perfectly capable of getting over a symbolic dead baby bird. But I am still wondering about that hummingbird.