Month: October 2013

Sperm Committee Update

We’re making progress. There have been no fierce debates, no up-or-down votes, but a couple people have put forth preferences, and we’ve discussed a few medical logistics.

And it has been tremendously validating—I shared 21 profiles (pared down from more than 75 that I looked through), and several committee members were like, “Wow, yeah, I can see why you were overwhelmed.”

First of all, the cryobank writes the profiles like Restoration Hardware catalog blurbs. I keep expecting to find a donor that was carved out of salvaged railroad trestles.

And the writers go heavy on the ol’ double-adjective initial appositive:

“Hard-working and determined, he never lets obstacles stand in his way…”
“Social and outgoing, he makes sure to get the most out of life…”
“Funny and imaginative, his great smile is as warm and engaging as he is…”
“Driven and intelligent, he plans to earn his PhD…”

Repetitive and off-putting, it doesn’t make for compelling reading.

Also, how do I weight the height, educational level, and hair color? Do they all get equal points?

One committee member who listed “great with large data sets” in the Special Skills section of his BBSSC Application said he could make a spreadsheet. That might help.

But actually, now that I think about it, what if I don’t really care about any of those criteria? Do I just print out the profiles, pin them to the wall, and throw a dart?

There’s one donor I’m drawn to but probably only because the handle they assigned him is Mr. Happy Pants.

(sigh)

And I’m still bummed about doing this having-a-baby thing by myself. I KNOW, I KNOW, people fall in love later. I just… I’m having a hard time believing it’s going to happen to me.

Because I have a terrible dating track record.

And because I’ll have a kid that’s not his.

But also because my 38-year-old carcass is not gonna bounce back from this business. Even before pregnancy, my soul-vehicle has never been that great—it always kinda looked like it suckled a couple litters. After three years of hard work in the gym (I’m in the best shape of my life—I even have a muscle), it looks like maybe only one litter.

And now

wreck it ralph

without a man I love having born witness.

[I KNOW THAT THE BODY IS NOT THE ONLY THING DUDES ARE INTO WHEN IT COMES TO WOMEN, BUT I’VE HEARD TELL THEY LIKE IT.]

I guess I just have to hope that the dude I meet later on can tolerate my ineptitude with intimacy, digs my bastard kid, and is really, really turned on by my soul.

Girls Only Want Sperm Committee Members Who Have Great Skills

The applications are flooding—flooding—in for the Baby Bruxist Spooj-Selection Committee. Shiv told me I have a very vigorous screening process, which I do! I have to! Listen to some of the great skills of the applicants:

  • dodgeball winning;
  • untying knots;
  • Humpty Dancing;
  • joining things (like clubs and causes, not like dovetailing wood); and
  • poignantly crying.

Also, one guy says he has an in with an anesthesiologist, so he can probably get me some Class C drugs for the delivery. That baby’ll slither out, and I won’t even know it happened!

My sister nominated herself as committee chair, and I seconded the motion. All in favor? Aye. All opposed? <crickets> SHUT UP, CRICKETS—NOBODY ASKED YOU. YOUR VOTE DOESN’T COUNT.

Motion passes.

Crowdsourcing my pregnancy is probably the greatest decision I ever made.

If you haven’t gotten your application in yet, there’s still time, but act fast—I can feel my ovaries withering inside me.

(Note for Mom & Dad: This is a song lyric. I've never had sex in the WC of a fast food restaurant.)
(Note for Mom & Dad: This is a song lyric. I’ve never had sex in the WC of a fast food restaurant.)

 

Motion to Disqualify the Iggy Pop Look-Alike Whose Paternal Grandmother Had Polydactylism

When I told my friend Meg about the challenge of choosing sperm without a partner, she said, “Why don’t you get a group of your friends together to help you?”

“Like a committee?!” I said.

“…Sure, like a committee.”

**********

APPLICATION FOR BABY BRUXIST SPOOJ-SELECTION COMMITTEE

1. Legal name, or roller derby name, or Carlos Danger name, or whatever:

2. Qualifications:

3. Special skills [do not need to be jizz-related—I’m just curious]:

4. Have you ever been convicted of a crime? [Answering Y will not count against you. This application is also a pre-screen for the Labor Committee, and I’m gonna need people with good stories in the delivery room.] Y/N

If Y, please provide details in bullet point format.

5. In 500 words or fewer, or more, whatever, explain why would you like to be on the committee to choose the other half of Baby Bruxist’s DNA:

__________________________________________________

Compensation for participation:

Gwyneth Paltrow sperm necklace
This diamond sperm necklace* worn by Gwyneth Paltrow.

*Or maybe a hug and a beer.

I Don’t Think Obamacare Will Help Me on This One

My “What I Did Over Summer Vacation” essay would’ve been all about reading sperm donor profiles. I really had a go at it for a while there back in June.

There was a lot to look at. Despite the myriad ways you could narrow your search, I sorted for only one criterion: light eyes. I don’t know why. I guess because, if it was just gonna be me doing this, I wanted the kid to look sort of like me? It’s one thing to be able to say, “You got your daddy’s eyes,” but another to say, “Those baby browns must come from Donor #139704.”

I probably read through 75 profiles. Starred some, Xed some, and left the maybes alone.

Then I started teaching again, and it seemed like too much to ask, to work all day then come home and decide the other half of my child’s DNA.

So I thought, fall break. I’ll do my research over fall break.

Last week would’ve been a perfect time. My only responsibilities were cooking, finding wayward shoes, playing cribbage, and avoiding getting goosed.

But I didn’t do it.

And I’ve been home since Tuesday night. I bet I’ve refreshed my Facebook feed 87 times over the last few days. Why haven’t I devoted ten minutes to this project? Grrrr. Rarrrrr. >:(

I was unloading all this on a friend last night, and at one point, I said, “I just need somebody to help me choose. I need a partner.”

Ah. The Catch-22. I need a partner to help me choose sperm, but if I had a partner, I woulda done chose the sperm—his.

And it really is hard to do by myself. Do I go with “No Mascara Necessary” (seriously, that’s how they tagged him), who has stunning eyelashes and an insatiable appetite for learning? Or the shy Cillian Murphy look-alike who loves acting and painting?

Who am I kidding? I’m not going with the Cillian Murphy look-alike.

cillian-murphy1
Dude looks like a serial killer.

There are a million other profiles to go through. It’s about as much fun as online dating. Which is so much fun. I really think it’s overwhelming me. That’s a real issue.

But there’s a bigger thing, and it’s this: when I sit with myself for five fucking minutes, when I listen to the tiny voice I’m always shutting up by going to Geer Street, trawling Jezebel/Gawker/Wonkette/repeat, front squatting, and eating when I’m not hungry, what always bubbles up is incredulousness. I can’t believe I can’t find someone.

I’m a cool cat! And I’ve grown out of my homely phase, I think!

W.

T.

MFing.

F, y’all.

I think ultimately what’s stopping me from buying vials of jizz is that tiny voice nagging, “This can’t possibly be how it’s supposed to go. This is a glitch in the matrix. Tech support will work out the kinks, and you’ll have a man in your bed who’ll provide you with all the sperm you want free of charge aaaaaaaany minute now.”

The Trip Back Nearly Broke Him

Dad, discussing where we should stop for a bathroom break: There’s a Wal-mart up here, but Wal-mart’s shittoirs are always jammed with people.

**********

Dad: …That story evoked no mirth from you whatsoever.

[No, but that phrase did.]

**********

Dad: (battling with the seat belt) GODDAMMIT.
Me: No, don’t yank on it, Dad. You’re making it do the opposite of what you want it to do.
Dad: (in a sing-song tone) But I get very angry.

**********

It’s 81 degrees and sunny.

Dad: Fucking winter again.
Me: It’s fall!
Dad: But it’s coming.
Me: Not right now. It’s Indian summer. Gorgeous. Enjoy it!
Dad: Yeah, my ass hurts.

**********

Dad: Oh my ass.
Me: I’m trying to find a gas station on this side of the road so we can get out and stretch.
Dad: That’s nice. I’m not complaining. I’m just saying, “Oh my ass.”

**********

Dad, when we stopped at a truck stop in southern Virginia that he’d never been to: Discovery! I feel like Vasco de Gama!

**********

Dad: (to Violet, in the other room) I don’t even need food right now… I need purpose.

**********

Dad: Wait a minute. I need to take my Prilosec. Yoohoooooooooo, Prilosec!

**********

Dad, on our walk: The best thing I could do would be to lie down. In the back of an ambulance.