YourTango.com's Celebrity Love blog has discovered the ugly truth on how Katherine Heigl breaks crucial relationship rules with her husband Josh Kelley.
Last year, when Jay got on one knee in Battery Park in Manhattan and proposed, I accepted and realized I was filled with joy—at the prospect of spending the rest of my life with him—then panic, associated with the idea of becoming a bride. So after saying yes, I said, "Let's elope!" trying to make it sound bright, shiny and enticing. To my frustration, his response was, "No way!" I threw my hands in the air and issued my challenge: "Fine. You're planning this thing."
As I watched them work, I felt a thousand miles away from my staff job, and a million miles away from business as I knew it. It wasn't just a gender thing; I was seeing physical evidence of that tectonic shift we've all been reading about for years. The corporate office as safe haven from domestic reality is finally dying. Here are my pregnant wife and her friend, a newly single mom, venturing forth together into the wide world on the deck of a new business model. No doubt about it: this is Oz territory.
This is one man who's happy to ask for directions. But should he trust his wife… or his new GPS? "For the last nine years, my wife has been my shining directional beacon, a kind of sit-next-to-me Northern Star. When we lived in New York City, she would send me on the subway with yellow post-it notes that detailed the stops and transfers. Without these handwritten guides, I'd likely be penning this story as an emissary of the mole people. But this year, I was given a Garmin global positioning system (GPS) as a birthday gift—a robot whose sole responsibility was to offer me the best route to take."
It's a plot as old as the movies themselves: girl meets boy, boy needs to be married for some reason or another, girl agrees to marry boy as a business-only arrangement, wackiness (and maybe a bit of love) ensues. Indeed, it's a crowd-pleasing formula. Who doesn't like to see power dynamics turned on their ear and love blossom from unexpected arrangements? But one can't help but wonder when watching such movies, how many of us would do the same thing if faced with similar circumstances?
After not speaking to one another for over twenty years, Farrah Fawcett and ex-husband Lee Majors were able to reconcile before her death. According to Us Weekly, Lee and Farrah had been in contact through friends once Lee found out Farrah was diagnosed with cancer in 2006.
The whole Salsa thing started with my wife's friend, Autumn. Autumn is a Salsa-dancing junkie. She Salsas the way most of us brush our teeth, which is to say, pretty frequently. Recently, Autumn got Tara all fired up about how much fun Salsa dancing is, how sexy it is. Soon, Tara wanted us to go, despite the fact that I cannot dance, that I do not understand dancing. Dancing, I am the title character in a short film called "White Man in Terrible, Self-Conscious Pain." My wife, by contrast, doesn't do self-consciousness. Which I admire, no end. Preferably from the couch, in my own house.
We had been married for eight years. We had been trying to get pregnant for six of those years and between IVF and ICSI had gone through five fertility cycles. We knew we could get pregnant but we didn't know if we could stay pregnant. We had spent over $200,000, and all we had to show for it was a glossy photo of four egg cells. That photo still sits in the drawer of the night table besides out bed, buried there. We're unable to look at it—or dispose of it. Other friends who were on the IVF merry-go-round and got pregnant, had their children. Some had their second child while we waited and tried again. Every couple who had a child swore by their doctor, their method, their technique—success was its own affirmation.
Amy had been referred to a Beverly Hills fertility doctor, who was so reassuring that I took him to calling him Dr. Mellow. His office had a wall of photos of smiling babies, as if to say, "This will be you." We sat in his waiting room holding hands. We believed. We didn't know we had just taken our seats inside the Hope Factory. Once inside, the possibility of getting pregnant never ended. If one technique failed, you tried another, and kept trying. There seemed to be an infinite supply of hope.
Without referring you to the many, many, medical sites, books and journals I immediately consulted on the subject, there is some belief that a certain vein that traverses one or both testicles can, in one way or another, affect the quality of sperm production. Operating on it may, or may not, improve sperm quality. In my case, a double varocelectomy was recommended.
I suppose everyone remembers their first time. I certainly do. I put on some mood music, dimmed the lights and proceeded to romance myself. Eager to please the laboratory (and myself), I marshaled my forces to climax, and then promptly fumbled the collection. Most of my contribution missed the container.