Ovary!

I've had a few people tell me that I should write a book. Granted, these are all people who either love me deeply, for reasons unbeknownst to me, or share blood with me, or both. But biased lines of thinking aside, it's got me thinking. I think if I wrote a book, it would be of the variety where no one is quite sure of the genre. It would probably sell twenty copies (thanks Mom and Dad for buying 18 of 'em) and fifteen years down the road some conservative college freshman, trying desperately to transition from high school teenage angst to supercool, but still fairly *conservative, coed would find it on a shelf in a used bookstore and devour it because, inevitably, it would have words like ovaries and the lesser known "fudge" in place of a word that just might start with an f and end with a ck. It would certainly have run on sentences that began with the word "but" and had new words. To this, she would proudly show her professor exclaiming, "See, she makes up words all the time. Stop stifling my creativity." This prof would irritatingly take the book, gaze at the cover--designed by the scribbling hand of a toddler--and peer over the rims of his glasses, "Lori who? How do you pronounce this? Is she Pakistani? Taiwanese? What kind of last name is this? I've never heard of her, obviously." This poor coed would take the book back to her dorm room and encourage her roommates to read it. They would get through the first three pages and turn a bored eye. Because no one wants to read a book about being a twentysomething pastor's wife. No one wants to read a book with excessive use of the words ovary, insemination and, most likely, adoption. No one wants to read a book about one girl's struggle with a California addiction. No one wants to read about, "Oh I wish I was an actor or a director blah blah blah!" No one wants to read a book about Garrett, Garrett, Garrett. And these are the only things I can think to write about.

My life is a far cry from exciting. Nowadays I mostly sit around shivering and eating pita chips to stay alive. I curse (fudge, mind you) the writer's strike and silently beg the producers to give the writers what they want and get on with it. I mourn the death of Heath Ledger because, for some ridiculous reason, I take it harder than most when people die too young in the entertainment industry. Especially when they are boho and live in Brooklyn and carry their kids around on their shoulders. I can't even talk about Brad Renfro and how he was all bad boy even at thirteen, in a way that, somehow, even a fourteen year old found attractive and now he's dead. I pay the bills. I cook dinner. I sniff my **flip flops. I dream of New York City and attempt to live there, vicariously, through friends. I dream of San Diego and attempt to live here in Utah, instead of in my own memories. I read my Bible every day, though sometimes it's only a few verses. I change diapers. I laugh. Often. I try, more than ever, to learn from my mistakes and to walk in the direction the Lord leads me. At the end of day, I am mostly content. Books are not born from the content. They are birthed from the twisting and turning and breaking and bleeding of life. I'd prefer not to be twisted, turned, broken or bled, thank you very much. I'd prefer to hold my bag of pita chips and have nothing good to write about. Ovary exclamation point just doesn't seem like too great a book title and my husband probably wouldn't appreciate a narrative on his sperm. If someone would like to give me their, much more interesting, life story, I'd be happy to try to write a book about it. For now, I'm rather content being boring.

*I do not generally think of myself as conservative. I am one of the more liberal members of my family, though this, in and of itself, is not really saying much for left wing thinking. In college I was a registered Democrat. However, near the end of my university days I came to realize that I find the two major political parties to be severely flawed. I do not want to be tied to either of them and am now registered Independent. I still vote and am generally accepting of the thought processes of my many Republican family members and my many Democrat friends. I just choose not to affiliate myself with one party or the other. It has become obvious to me, however, especially since the birth of the boy, that my own thought processes have swung more to the right on the issues that I choose to care deeply about. And on that note, please don't have an abortion. Give your baby to me if you don't want it. Because I want it. I really, really do. Ovary exclamation point, remember?

** Back during my junior year of college, an awful smell filled my dorm room. My roommate, Michelle, and I could not find the source of the smell. We entered the room and were hit with the aroma of skunk. We began to wander the room sniffing in all directions. Eventually we narrowed the stench down to my closet. Further sniffing brought us to a pair of unsuspecting flip flops. They smelled horrid but I loved them, so for awhile I kept them in a bag and would wear them, still. Interestingly, they didn't really smell unless they were confined. However, after about a week of the room stinking, even though the shoes were in a bag, my roommate and I came to the conclusion that, cute as they were, they had to go away. I now sniff all potential flip floppy footwear prior to purchase. It should also be noted that in Salt Lake City, flip flops are often still referred to as thongs. It pretty much makes me laugh every single time, as I picture people walking around with skimpy undergarments on their feet.