I was feeling a little bummed last night, and not just because I found out that Michael Jackson’s son’s name is not really “Blanket”.
The truth is, I had filmed a pilot for a show on a major cable network, and I found out yesterday that it didn’t make the network’s new roster.
And as I’m sure you all know from personal experience, when your TV show gets axed, you could use a little pick-me-up. So my husband had the perfect plan: watching a DVD of “Zero Dark Thirty”. But strangely enough, this rollicking comedy did not cheer me up. So I prayed for a long time, felt better, and then God sent me something that made me feel MUCH better. He sent it through my dear friend and long-time writing partner, Charlie, because God discontinued his email address due to too many ads.
Are you ready?
Yes, those are my feet. My feet in 2004 when I was pregnant with The Pistol. My feet, the day I stood up after spending six weeks on bed rest. My feet, with sweet little polished toenails that were just about to pop off my flesh due to the pressure.
I have not seen this picture since 2004, when Charlie came to visit me and he was so horrified/delighted by my ballooning peds, that he asked permission to photograph them, so he could make himself laugh/shudder for years to come. Of course I said yes. And so he did.
Something about the sight of those Fred Flintstones put everything back into perspective. Not only did I survive that pregnancy sans preeclampsia, but 8 1/2 years later, I have a healthy child, slim ankles, and a friend who knows when to pull out the big guns (so to speak) to cheer me up.
I am blessed.
For the “Dream” part of my title, head over to In The Powder Room. My post, “From Dreamer to Doer“, is a treatise on how real life is not at all like the movies. Well, you know, except for “Zero Dark Thirty” which is a true story. Except that I would never look as good as Jessica Chastain does if I were torturing war criminals in an undisclosed location. But I digress.