And Now for a Rant from My Facebook Page

In my life, I’ve worked very hard to become less judgmental, and I have had great success. But lately I’ve been seeing this photo show up in my feed

1480745_10152073979388588_746600988_n

and to those of you who have Liked or Shared it, I want to say this: I am judging you.

I am judging you because you’re sharing propaganda about an issue you don’t even understand. LITERALLY NO ONE, not even those who are on strike themselves, thinks fast food workers should be paid more than soldiers.

But some of us think that LITERALLY EVERYONE deserves a living wage. And if you comment that minimum wage is a living wage, I will judge you so hard, my head will probably ‘splode.

And if you truly believe that raising the minimum wage and paying soldiers more are mutually exclusive prospects, that lifting the bottom doesn’t in turn bring up the middle, I don’t. even. know. where. the hell. to begin.

30 Days

I’ve been attempting to focus on the abundance in my life, rather than participating my usual Trance of Scarcity. The meditation (see Day 25) definitely helps, but I also thought I’d tweet one of those annoying 30 Days of Thankfulness things, except try to make it not-annoying.

The most difficult part was not coming up with things for which I felt grateful—I got plenty. The most difficult part was staying within 140 characters. You know how I like to babble on. The teacher of a writing workshop I took last year said, “You’ve got 25-30% too much fat.”

I was like, “DON’T I KNOW IT. Wait, you mean my writing?” He was right. I need to trim it down…

Arg! If I wanted to go on a word diet, I would’ve been a poet!

But I did it for thirty days. (NB: The following is not poetry. It’s just skinny prose.)

That 4-year-old, man. She’s dramatic and sassy, she wants what she wants, and she’s in the 8th percentile for height. In other words, she’s me. Hahaha. No, she’s not. She’s her. She’s her own person. But kind of me. I yub her.

This girl. She does something to my heart.
This girl. She does something to my heart.

This goes for both my parents. My parents showed the fuck up.

I’m still bad at crying (i.e., I need to do more of it and less eating/checking Facebook/self-flagellation/etc.), but I have good role models (namely, Cat, EJ, and Melissa).

(Typo: That was supposed to be Day 13.)

When the doc actually felt it, she goes—I shit you not, “Yeah, you got a lot of lumps and bumps, and this one doesn’t feel any different from the other ones.” :/

Also, if they do hate me as a result, that’s their own goddamn problem.

It’s a good job. I just wish I got paid more and didn’t have to deal with so much bullshit. I guess that’s everybody, right? Except I really should get paid more.

Every so often I consider it, dry-heave, and un-consider it.

I’m hosting the StorySLAM on December 11, folks! Come on out!

So, in today’s ironic news, when I need to unplug, I use an iPhone app. It’s called Get Some Headspace, and I highly recommend it. The dude who leads the meditation is a former Buddhist monk, and he sounds a tiny bit like the Geico Gecko so everybody wins.

Terrified of jinxing it, but there’s an amazing woman who has created a passion project, and we met, and it was awesome, and she’s invited me to be part of her team, and I hope I can keep up.

I watched 5 episodes of Game of Thrones in the middle of the day yesterday, true story.

As you can see, I’m thankful for a lot of things, including those of you who’re reading. Happy rest-of-your-holidays!

Signed,

Lumpytits

*Catchy Title*

January.

That’s the plan.

January 2014 is baby-making time. I’m gonna order some of Mr. Happy Pants‘ seed, put my legs up a wall, and think of England.

Or maybe I’ll go out on New Year’s Eve, get wasted, find some rando who seems to have a fair-to-middling IQ, have unprotected sex, and cross my fingers.

(JK, MOM. Condoms r gr8! I <3 protected sex!)

(JK, DAD. I’m a virgin!)

It occurs to me that, if I’m going to blog about this process, and of course I’m going to blog about it, the series should have a name.

Something catchy like:

Single Gal Makes a Baby

or

And Baby Makes Two

(Never mind—just Googled that one, and there are two novels, a documentary, a feature film, episodes of both ER and Three’s Company, and a smug column in the Wall Street Journal with that title.)

Maybe instead:

Fool’s Errand

(What am I doing?!)

Whoever comes up with the best title for the series wins a prize. A really good prize, like brunch or something.

I’m Not Saying I Have Face Blindness

But I kind of have face blindness*?

Recently, I was out with some friends. A very drunk young woman, who I guess I had met at a friend’s party? twice?, came up to me and said, “I’ve seen you walking around East Campus three times, and you always look like you’ve never seen me before.”

My arms went numb. I said, “Yikes, I’m so sorry. I’m the worst. I have a lot of trouble with faces.”

royalty-free-face-clipart-illustration-93729

To make matters worse, I’m not great with names either. Unless you have an unconventional name, or a conventional name with an unconventional spelling, and you tell me how you spell it, then I’ll definitely remember. I’m great with spelling.

What does stick with me is your voice and your story.

I went to lunch with some of my gym gang and introduced myself to a dude I (thought I) didn’t know. He politely told me his name. I said, “So what do you do?”

He said, “I’m a mechanic at a Lexus dealer,” and I was like, “Wait, I’ve met you before.” He said, yeah, we had both been at a birthday party a few months prior.

I think one of the reasons I don’t meet people easily is because I’m terrified that I’ve already met them but I have no recollection of it.

So what I’m saying is, if I’ve met you, and I introduce myself to you or I look right through you, I swear to god I’m not being snooty. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry I don’t remember your face. I just have no visual discernment. (This deficit may explain my difficulty with the aesthetics of home decor, fashion, and makeup.)

I really do love to get to know people, but it takes me a while, so hey, if we ever meet, will you do me a favor? Will you say your name, spell your name, say your name again, and tell me a weird anecdote about you? And then the next time I see you, I’ll be like, “Hey, Veronika with a k! You sold a sawed-off shotgun to an undercover cop once but he let you go because he liked your sleeve tat! How you been?”

*I don’t really have face blindness. I took an online test. But it may be kind of like when I got tested for Celiac and it came back negative, and I was like, “But gluten hates me!” and the doc said I was non-Celiac gluten-sensitive. Maybe I’m not face-blind; maybe I’m just face-insensitive. Or maybe I’m just insensitive. Maybe I’m just an asshole. Gah! I’m the worst. Sorry sorry sorry sorry.

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.