-
-
The Groups
A Mother Talk Review: Choosing You
There are many things in our life that are deemed as easy choices: should I turn left or should I turn right? Should I eat another cookie or go to the gym? Should I call my Mother back or would an e-mail be better? These are the choices that ultimately don’t effect the entire orb of our being (except the cookie or gym situation…)
Then there are the big whammy choices we are faced with: Should I move to Los Angeles or stay in NYC? Should I quit my job and take care of my Grandmother? Should I sever that relationship or should I let the abuse continue?
Those were some hard, soul-searching questions that I have had to make choices about. But one of the things I never thought I would have to choose was a life without a child. Somehow I always knew that I would have one, with a husband or without one. I remember putting that idea out into the universe as early as my freshman year in college.
Being raised by a single Mother and being the Granddaughter of an extremely independently minded woman basically taught me that I could do anything I damn well wanted – and if that meant having a kid on my own then so be it. I never lamented or mourned the concept of not having a husband or boyfriend to take the journey with. Not then.
Reading Alexandra Soiseth’s chronicle of her personal journey to single motherhood was eye opening. Choosing You brought up lots of issues that up until now had been tucked neatly away in a box marked, “to shrink later”. For starters I had this interesting reaction to the cover of the book that featured a stunningly beautiful baby being kissed by a stunningly beautiful woman.
I should explain for those that are unfamiliar with my own struggles, I am a woman that wants to be a single mother, but after three plus years of trying I am still sadly in the ‘wants to’ group and not so much in the ‘has one’ group. So I bring to this book a complex bag of emotions that many of you may not.
And back to the cover…where the beautiful people are lounging. My gut reaction was to immediately flip to the back of the book for the author’s bio page. Seeing the portrait of Alexandra, a kind and sincere looking woman gazing back at me was instantly comforting. Ok, so this was written by a real person. I needed to know that this book wasn’t going to be exclusively for something that I will never be.
The book begins with a sweet dedication page to the author’s daughter. I felt empowered knowing right off the bat that this was a success story. Love that. The next page (& I swear I won’t be reviewing the book page by page, work with me here) was a table of contents. Usually this is something I would totally ignore. This isn’t a reference or how to book so I didn’t need to find an applicable chapter and pass go. But for some reason I was drawn to read the chapter titles. Chapter 5: Torn between two donors goes swiftly into Chapter 6: I’m pregnant!
And then almost instantly my previous feelings of empowerment were replaced with something a bit more bitter. I hate that, but I feel I should bring it up as it happened. Before I even read the book I was judging. Bad, very bad.
The book begins with an endearing epilogue: a brief and simple insight into the thought process of Alexandra. How she always knew she was born to be a mother. And I found myself nodding my head. Yes, I thought, I get that.
We are introduced to Alexandra better in chapter one where she lets us know about her gift for creating a close knit community of friends wherever she goes. And it is also where we learn that Alexandra has some food/body/esteem issues. It is where we learn that she feels that the number on the scale is in direct proportion to the feelings of loneliness that she feels. It is also where she proposes the following to her best friend: “I want Ken to be my just-in-case guy.” Ken being her best friend’s brother and just-in-case meaning sperm donor. A few days later she is out on a deck of her friend’s vacation house and talking to Ken. It is a scene that immediately feels tense and awkward and Alexandra writes it with delicacy and tenderness.
This same delicacy is also used to describe many painful moments in Alexandra’s life from the childhood abandonment of her Mother (and eventual return) to sexual abuse she suffered at a young age from a neighbor. I begin to understand this woman more, feel her pain, her longing. I resonate completely with her body issues and happily cheer for her when she embarks on a weight loss plan and begins to make her health a priority.
The things that baffled me were the shame and guilt that always lingered when food or weight issues were addressed. It is a theme that will run through out the book, sometimes surfacing at the most unusual times. I found myself wanting to reach out to Alexandra, to call her and tell her to ease up on herself. But I instantly recognized that her behavior is something that I probably do as well. A lot can be suffocated in the tight clench of body issues.
Years pass and Alexandra is still single and frustrated. There are many awful dates and awful men detailed and it becomes so clear that there is a great divide between a woman’s need to have a child and a man’s need to be a parent. That Alexandra makes the mental switch to stop looking for a baby via the typical husband route seems so natural and obvious. The steps that she takes to evaluate the moving on to trying to become a Mother alone are healthy and done within a resilient support system of friends.
The only voices of doubt come from Alexandra’s own family. Her sister, married with children, wonders if Alexandra can handle something as difficult as child rearing on her own. “I sometimes think you don’t know how hard that would be.” Then she wonders if the need for having a child is masking something else. “Is it a baby you want? Or is it that you just don’t want to be alone?”
Reading this conversation brought up questions about my own path and conversations that I have had with friends. It reminded me of the friends that I have lost because they don’t understand why I would ever opt to have a child without a husband. It made me wonder how many of us have had to justify our choices to loved ones. How many conversations have we had where we had to defend treatment options or a road less traveled? Alexandra chooses to answer these questions with a confident silence and I admired her strength in that instance. Some things are not up for questioning, more of us should remember that.
This is not a book about infertility, and it really isn’t a book about being a single Mother. Rather it is a book about making a huge choice and following it through from the heart. Alexandra’s book is a great example of how each of us are on our own individual journey’s that travel at different speeds and sometimes end up at different destinations.
I would probably not suggest this as a book for a woman in the trenches of complex infertility. However it is a good book for any woman or friend of a woman that is contemplating becoming a Mother on her own. If you are thinking about embarking on this adventure alone I would make sure each of your friends reads this book. Then call them over and talk.
So, question for you guys: At any stage of your motherhood journey have you heard disparaging comments? Has anyone in your family or circle of friends been less than supportive or helpful? How did you work through it (if you did)?
More information on the Mother Talk Book Tours can be found here.
Women create sperm?
ooooooooh. Now THIS could be interesting.
I dashed this link up in a hurry (Fridays are crazy busy around here) and I didn’t have a moment to hash out my feelings on this scientific theory. Wait, is it a theory or is it a study?
I had no idea this study/theory was going on. Then, from the laundry room, I heard one of CNN’s mid day talking heads chuckle and say, “Women may no longer need men to get pregnant.” I dropped my load of whites and sprinted to the den, hit rewind on the dvr, and listened to the story.
Of course it was all presented in a sort of female-hating, chuckle, chuckle, we bet those feminists will get a kick out of this, way. But I managed to block out the stupid and found myself wide eyed and sort of dreamy at the idea.
And yes, if I am going to be 100% honest with you then you should know that my original reaction was, “you mean I can impregnate myself?” Lizards have done it, now maybe I can do it? Yeah, maybe using my own DNA filled sperm to impregnate my own DNA egg is sort of a knee-jerk Alabama influenced reaction. But it would be so nice, says my fiercely independent, “I don’t need a man!” self, to just take care of getting pregnant without having to use anyone else.
As a single woman on this journey there are so many things that frustrate me. Not only do I not “get” to have the emotional and physical support of a partner/mate, but I also have to look to a stranger to help create something. Lots of strangers actually. The sperm donor, the doctors, the nurses, the lap techs, the ultra sound wanders, the blood takers, the makers of ovulation predictor kits, the people that assemble and package fertility drugs. I am shit when it comes to asking for help. In fact, one of the stupid things that I say over and over is, “I got it!”
“I got it” - meaning back the fuck off. I don’t need you. I don’t want you. I can do it myself, thank you very much.
When it comes to making a kid I don’t ‘got it’. I can’t do this on my own. I am 100% certain that I can parent on my own. I may not be as perfect as a 2 parent house, but I know I will be a great Mother. But I can’t become a Mother on my own. I can’t just buy the kit and make it myself. And that is sooooooo super maddening.
But hey, maybe someday…
Or maybe some day some kick ass rock star lesbians will become sperm donors.
Radio Therapy & Twinkling
Yesterday was a bit of a headache. I woke up resentful that I had to tend to GM 24/7, annoyed that I had agreed to feed and walk a neighbor’s dogs while she was out of town, and pissed off that the weather was turning warm. I was also extremely jealous that Mother was still fast asleep in her room and having a good and true day off. Where the fuck was MY day off.
Oh and I was super pissed that the pharmacy didn’t have a prescription in stock for pick up on Friday. I mean for cripe’s sake, we live in a town with a bazillion senior citizens and you are telling me that you don’t have aricept?
So I took my bad mood self and begrudgingly got into the car for a quick trip to the pharmacy. The car was too hot inside which pissed me off more so I rolled down all the windows. I cursed every single person that was out & looking like they were carefree and happy and all the things I wasn’t.
On the way home I realized that I wasn’t quite as bitchy. Then it hit me: the random satellite radio station that I was listening to had just played three songs in a row that utilized the phrase, “shake it”, within their chorus. And yes people, I had, without my realizing it, been “shaking it” within the confines of my cushy and over-sized driver’s seat. And “shakin it” felt damn good.
By the time I got home I was fucking singing and smiling. Radio killed the volatile girl.
AND the good vibes somehow managed to stay with me today. I woke up kinda late in the 8am genre and decided to call up a neighbor to see if she wanted to go for a walk. We ended up walking the 2 miles to the club’s fitness center and THEN we worked out.
I have been walking around 2 miles a day for the last week and a half (one perk of agreeing to dog sit) but the extra oomph of weight lifting and machine involvement was powerful. At one point I glanced over and saw a very studly looking man putting some weights back in their place. “Oh!” my libido woke up and suddenly I was checking myself out in the overly abundant gym mirrors to see how fugly I was looking.
As I was mentally giving myself lipo I heard an all too familiar rip. I looked over at the studly man and saw that he had slipped on his yoga style matt. But the sound, oh that sound, was so farty sounding that you couldn’t help but laugh. So, being the mature and sophisticated person that I am, I laughed. Which, in turn, made studly go all cute and pink in the face. Which made me make the, “I know you didn’t just fart, but it sure sounded like you did” gesture. Which made him make the, “well just as long as you know I didn’t really break wind then that is cool” nod. Which made me…TWINKLE at him.
In case you are not familiar with twinkling, it is the precursor to flirt. It is that extra something in your eyes or smile that lights up when you are considering going in for a full on flirt.
I haven’t twinkled at somebody in 600 years, and yet there I was in all of my spandex, large ass, red faced, sweaty head glory twinkling. Of course I couldn’t keep my gaze long enough to see if I got a twinkle back. Chances are that I didn’t, but I don’t give a shit. Just knowing that I still CAN twinkle is something to celebrate.
Obligatory Single Girl V-day Post
MOTHERFUCKING valentine’s day. Stupid red roses. Lame ass chocolate hearts. Stupid chalky tasting cutie-pie etched in pepto bismol colored candies. Embarrassing thoughts about my last roll in the hay. Itching from all of the cobwebs cluttering up my crotch. Detesting every single smug person with someone to go home to. Regretting not stocking up on red wine to get me through the evening. Wishing I was a size 2. Size 2 women always have valentines. Bitches. Wishing that I could get away with smoking and not feel like crap or guilty about it - the kind of guilt where I imagine my ovaries shriveling up and exiting lke crusty bits of nicotine scented ear wax. Aware that this holiday was made to torture single people with no one to love, but still daydreaming that some day I will not be so bitter. Some day I will have someone to come home to.Until then, I will just keep on hating this day..
My hatred for all things Valentine’s day began in the 8th grade. I went to an all girls school. It was chock full of long legged horsey gals with ridiculously large white, perfect teeth and flawless complexions. The girls all called their fathers “daddy” and honestly believed that they would always be taken care of. On Valentines day the janitorial staff would assemble over 10 large lunchroom style tables and place them in the main rotunda. Before the end of first period the tables would start to fill with obscene floral displays. Giant arrangements of roses, monster truck sized teddy bears, those freaky giant balloon thingies with the weird shit inside. And as we made our way from one class to another the world slowed down allowing for a few extra minutes of wandering by the tables and fervently searching for your name.
In 8th grade almost all of the flowers were from Daddies and as I got older they started coming from boyfriends. Having neither a Daddy nor a boyfriend it was my perogative to become bitchy about the entire ordeal. There was a nice little group of us that bonded over the perversion and spectacle that was made over the holiday. How it set back the women’s movement! How it was hell for those of us with allergies! How it perpetuated the myth that love could be bought!But you so fucking know that we would have peed in our laura ashley underpants if we ever saw our name on something.
I have only been involved with someone twice when the relationship encountered a valentine’s day. Both times I made it very clear that I would not want to made a fuss over, that nothing special should be planned. And both times I got what I asked for and secretly hated it. You see a girl that didn’t have the flowers from Daddy or the 9th grade boyfriend is a bit damaged. There are tiny cracks on her heart. In order to prevent more cracks she sets herself up for bad things to happen so that when they do she is not shattered to pieces. But that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t pine for the day when her heart will melt and all of the cracks won’t be so fragile.
So if you are out there having a bit of a pout, I’m right there with you. If you are lucky enough to have a sweetie take care of them and let them take care of you. And PROMISE not to make out in front of me in the checkout line because I will never forgive you for that.
(have some of your own candy heart fun here.)
I Love Lucy Saturday
Things started out pretty fucking great. I managed to remain in my dragonfly pj’s until nearly noon. There was even that fab purchase I made from Good V*brations. I was feeling well rested and happy about having nothing big to accomplish today.
I went in to GM’s office and turned on the ancient xerox machine we own exclusively so that we can copy and enlarge the crossword puzzle every day. Once the machine was on I noticed a flashing green light: low toner. A quick hunt turned up a full bottle of toner and I glanced at the directions on the bottle & actually thought, “looks easy!”
In the past my GM has always called this Mom & Pop office supply store when she needed her toner changed. For five bucks some part time university student would come over to the house & add the stuff to your machine. It seemed like a waste. Plus- I was smart. I totally understood the directions. All you had to do was remove the little plastic cap thingie & flip it over.
And then half a bottle of black toner falls out.
I guess I was lucky. 99% of the toner fell INTO the machine as opposed to on my GM’s green carpet.
But here is the thing about toner- it does NOT clean up easily. At all. I spent an hour and used up three rolls of bounty & there is still black powder. I need to get one of those little mini vacuums that you can use to clean out between the keys of your keyboard to finish the job. ugh. My poor dragonfly pj’s. I had to throw them away.
Oh- & guess what is really tons of fun after such a disaster? Blowing your nose. Chim Chiminy Chim Chim Cherooooooo…
The day got even more nuts. I took out the trash I created (double bagged) and heard the dogs going crazy at something in the back yard. It is primo chipmunk season so I have learned to tune out the average yip from the dogs. But something about today’s shriek type barks made me realize that whatever they had cornered was not average.
It was a ginourmous (I’m talking the size of a very, very large round platter) turtle.
Turtles are actually pretty common in my backyard as I do live in a lake house. But there is a fence that runs across the backyard that separates usable yard from about 1/2 acre of wild backyard. This turtle was INSIDE the fence. As in a couple of feet away from my front door.
How the hell this massive turtle got in my yard is a mystery. Having two Scottish terriers I know every inch of my fence as I am always on the lookout for holes they have dug.
Upon seeing the turtle I turned into such a prissy girl. ahhhhhhhh!!
I called Mom, who was little help a katrillion miles away in Florida - and seriously was not even helpful for moral support as she was still laughing her ass off over my toner nightmare.
I then called, (now you will see how serious I was) the Uncle. He was not in so I called a good friend that lives down the road. He, like a true Friend warrior, promised to be there in thirty minutes or less. He just had to take a shower. (a fact that now in restrospect cracks me up) We discussed a plan. He lamented that we did not live up north because then we could use a snow shovel. I offered that I had just a regular old shovel & we agreed that that would be the tool for turtle extraction.
About three minutes after I got off the phone with him I had an awesome girl power moment. I could get that turtle and set it free. So maybe I couldn’t add toner to a xerox machine, but how hard could loading a turtle on a shovel be?
Go ahead & get that picture why don’t you.
I spent five minutes shrieking like such a baby trying to put the turtle on the business end of the shovel. I was so nervous that I would hurt her soft belly or that, in defense, she would lob off my big toes.
Luckily (because Lucy always, always has a luckily) I heard voices from the carport of my next door neighbors. Like a mad woman I ran over, shovel in hand, humidity induced sweat pouring down my face, “Can you come get this TURTLE????”
The voices belonged to the college student son and friend of my neighbors and they were so game they came running across the yard as if there was real, mortal danger.
One of them used the shovel to flip the turtle over and then he carried it, bowl side down, in both of his hands. Oh, so that’s how you do it. They were so macho at first and then they immediately started flying their geek flags by telling me exactly what type of turtle she was and guessing her age. They asked if they could have the turtle and swore that they would take care of her. So I let them. Which I now feel guilty of. She wasn’t mine to begin with. She belonged to the lake.
But as wrong as it is to admit, I am going to pull a Scarlet and think about that another day.
Shit, it is only 2:30pm. What else is going to go crazy today??
FOIS
Friend of Infertile Single.
It’s got to be hard to be my friend. In addition to my sarcasm, my self-deprecating love/hate relationship with my body, my juvenile tendencies to laugh when you trip, and the fact that I suck at returning calls/letters/e-mails - I am trying to get pregnant.
How weird. How bizarre.
I am enmeshed into a world that is so Lifetime Movie. I talk about my Vagina all the time. I wear the same pair of jeans every time you see me (as they are the only ones that fit & you know this as I keep telling you this & then jiggling my inner-tube of lard at you while singing ‘Fat Bottom Girls’). I get moody as a motherfucker. (which the spell check would like me to change to “Moody as a motorbike.”) I get sad. I don’t ask what is going on in your life because, really, what could be more exciting than my fertility - or lack of it?
How annoying I must be. How tiresome. How utterly run on sentence.
And yet you keep calling, keep writing, keep letting me know that you are available to me. You genuinely seem interested when I tell you about luteal phases. You react perfectly when I show you how I have to jab myself with needles.
Being a FOIS must be awful. It must be so hard to wrap your mind around everything that I am putting myself through. But you are still here.
You wouldn’t believe the number of FOIS that are in my life. Men and women that deal with my shit and still seem to want to know me.
Sure I have some great friends that have excused themselves for a while. “Pardon me, I’m just going to wait until you get pregnant before I call you back.” I can actually understand that more than I can understand the friends that have decided to stick around for the long haul.
But I tell you, these FOIS that are around…man, there is nobody finer. Nobody more amazing and lovely.
I hope you know how much I love you and adore you. You know that Bette Midler song? Oh come on, of course you do. There is a line in the chorus of that song that I am bursting to sing to you:
It might have appeared to go unnoticed,
but I’ve got it all here in my heart.
I want you to know I know the truth, of course I know it,
I would be nothing with out you.
To all of my FOIS and to those of you in the blogosphere (Fois-blogs?): thank you, thank God for you.
Sperm Mate + Poll + Theme
When it comes to men I have eras of being extremely picky and times when I was pretty foolish. I will confess that I have never been in adult love. I have been infatuated, obsessed, turned on, & hopeful - but never the full on deal. I’ve never been swept off my feet. A few have tried, but I’m a big gal & it isn’t so easy to hoist me up. I am an Amazon female in all senses. Not only do I walk the earth six feet above the ground, not only do I have feet bigger than the average man, not only are my jeans larger than most men that I have dated, but I am loud, outspoken, opinionated. I was raised a feminist by a feminist and the man that will be my partner will be just that: a partner. Co in everything. I am only submissive when I want to be.
My dating resume includes, but is not limited to:
1) Making out with anonymous boys in the church parking lot
2) Making out with anonymous boys on road trips
3) Having awful crushes on ugly boys
4) Having intense crushes on gay boys
5) Having an affair with a woman
6) Having sex at the Turkish Bath house
7) Dating a semi-famous musician 
On-line dating
9) Googling an ex, contacting ex, having sex with ex
10) Things too embarrassing to mention
So to put it mildly- I am a bit of a dating disaster. When I had a great (but abused) body I lacked the self esteem to go on the prowl. Now I have self esteem but lack the body. But I still consider myself a sexual being. Even though it has been two years since I last had sex. (awful on-line dating disaster) I wish with all of my might that I was in a happy, healthy relationship. But I have this vague notion of the kind of love I want & it isn’t something you troll a bar for. It isn’t something that you rush.
I know you are wondering what all of this has to do with how I select a sperm donor, but I get so many e-mails from polite strangers asking why I have given up on men. Why I would want to start a family alone. Well I don’t. But I am, if nothing else, basically pragmatic. For all of my lofty ideas & silly talk - I am, to the core - realistic. The reality is that I don’t know where my mate is. I don’t know when I will find that person. I’m ready to have a family now.
I have used three different donors & am currently looking for lucky number four.
I started looking online for donors about two years ago. I approached it almost in the exact same way that I approached on-line dating. I went strictly by the notes in the staff impressions. If it was noted that the donor was attractive or had a specific attractive feature I wrote down his profile number. That first round I had a list of ten. From there I started weeding out by ethnic background. I am Irish, English & German & that first round it was very important to have a donor with that makeup. I figured if anything I would be able to paint a background of the donor that emulated mine. There was some sort of odd security in that.
So of the ten three made the 2nd cut. Then it was time to be very, very picky. I wanted a donor with my eye color, I wanted a donor with some height. In a sense - I wanted me.
In the end I wasn’t able to get the donor I first wanted. So I went with my second choice and convinced myself I was really excited about it. He didn’t have blue eyes, but he had red hair! I would have a red headed child for sure. & in his baby picture he looked just like GM!
Well donor #1 didn’t pan out. Three cycles later & I was ready to move on. & to be honest I never felt that enthused about him.
The selection for donor #2 was a lot easier. I maneuvered through the donor search engines with amazing speed. Give me height, give me blue eyes. No whammies! Immediately a donor attracted my attention & it was the first time I paid any attention to things other than physical characteristics. (shame, shame on me.) He had a science background but also expressed interest in the arts. His donor essay was clever and funny and he wrote well about his family. His baby picture was adorable & he got nicknamed Leif. Leif had rock-star numbers. Each IUI day the sperm techs would comment on how amazing his count was. I had a lot of faith in Leif. So much so that I used him for tries 4 through 8. Ironically the musician for which he was nicknamed after had a falling from grace around the same time as my affections with the donor waned.
Finding donor #3 was emotional. One of my best friends, after much soul searching, had offered to be my donor. This would have been my ideal. It was something that R. & I had joked about at University all the time. We fantasized sharing a townhouse in Park Slope. He would live on the first floor & I on the second. He would be free to date any boy he wished & I would be free to date anybody that offered. We would eventually use a doctor to have kids and raise them to be the most wonderful peace, love & harmony babies you could ever imagine. We were going to be Will & Grace before NBC had ever heard of them.
Unfortunately the dream of having R. be my donor ended with his HIV diagnosis several years ago. R was always stoic about how the disease had changed his life. But he mourned Fatherhood deeply. When I was just thinking about getting a new donor R called me with insane excitement. He had met a doctor that promised he could “wash the HIV from his sperm”. I was wary, but I will admit that my heart fluttered at the idea. I even called my RE to inquire about the process. (My poor RE who tries so hard to handle my outspoken ways had an audible gasp when I asked about the HIV wash.) Turns out such a wash is considered illegal in the states. It is only currently being performed in France but exclusively for straight, married couples. I then got the speech about how Gay Men were not allowed to be donors unless they were celibate. yadda, yadda, yadda
Breaking the news to R was devastating. But I know that it was the right thing. Even if we had been able to wash his sperm I don’t think I would have been ok with subjecting R to the emotional anguish of each new cycle. It is hard for me, a healthy woman, it would be cruel for him.
It was with R in mind that I went in search of donor #3. Instead of looking for someone like me I restarted my search looking for someone like him. R is of nordic decent with dimples and thick blonde hair. He also has an insane obsession with Game Shows. I found a donor that matched him physically & then almost peed in my pants when I read in his donor essay about how he was on the same game show that R was on when he was a child.
So #3 was a tribute donor. R and I nicknamed him Guy Smiley and talked about the future kid’s life of cash and prizes.
But I lost my love for Guy after his counts were consistently sub par. I felt that I had picked him for the wrong reasons. It would have been great if it worked, but each time it didn’t I questioned why I was using him.
Now I am on a quest for #4. I am employing all new search criteria. In other words I am going to look at the whole package. But first - I will only look at donors with my blood type. I know that may have nothing to do with compatibility: people with different blood types fuck & have babies every day. But I need to have something different to give me renewed hope. I’m also going to ease up on the height standards. Hell, I’ve got enough height to hook the kid up if it wants to be a super model or basketball champ.
One thing I find myself being adamant on is blue eyes. This is where my true narcissism shines. For my entire life I have gotten complements on my eyes. They are the exact same shade as my Grandfather’s. There was always something about being able to see myself in them & him in me. I really want that with my kid. I want her to be able to see herself in me so that there is no doubt that we belong together.
I have three donors in mind & I will decide within the week who the lucky champ will be. I need to look closely for that special ingredient that shines. The thing that whispers to me, “This is what the Universe was waiting for.”
& yes, I am quite guilty of romanticizing my sperm donors. Not in a pervy way. & not in a way that I imagine us together.
It is much like how I hope for a soul mate. I am also hoping for a sperm mate. The charmed one that will have all the right ingredients to help me create my child.
________________________
____________________
Next week’s theme will be: reflections - could be literal reflections in mirrors or puddles or ponds or metaphoric - a photo that reflects on something
This theme is courtesy of last week’s winner, Art-Sweet.
I Love You.
Sure, I could join the huddled masses of singles crying out how evil St. Valentine’s day is. But why be a joiner? The truth is I am, to the core, a mushy-gushy sap of a romantic. I love the idea of love. & some day I hope to hear somebody say and show how much they love me.
Looking back on 19
So this is my last day of being 29. Tomorrow I will begin a new decade. It will be a quiet day. I have requested bagels for breakfast & that is about the extent of my celebration.
This morning I woke up sad. It’s a combo platter of sadness: turning 30, side order of single, extra helping of low self esteem, and for dessert - the realization that this last attempt to have a baby didn’t work. (for those of you playing at home: no period, no positive test, lower morning temperature)
Every couple of years, & usually around my birthday, I like to check in on how far I have come. God bless my journal obsessed youth. I have shelves of the books all filled with angst, rage & hope.
I am always so amused at how extremely dramatic I was. Sure I still can flare it up now, but nothing like I used to.
So for your amusement I am going to transcribe my journal entry from December 24, 1995: My 20th Birthday. Try not to hold it against me. I will make some comments in blue.
_____________________
My Birthday. 20. Well. Things were just as they were anticipated. Slow & dull. Birthdays should only be celebrated by little children. That cracks me up.
I woke up and had food being shoved in my face. Thanks for listening people.
I kept having to decline & everyone was being so awkward about it. Just FYI - this was at the height of my eating disorder.
I got some nice things: a wall calendar, a plaid hat and a victoria’s secret card thing from Mom (ew!). Looking back - that was pretty hip of Mom. I should have given her more credit.
Later it was more food. We went to the mall to eat. How glam. Could I be more of a brat?The girl that waited on us went to school with me in the 2nd grade. That made me feel shitty because she was still living in Alabama & I am training in New York. wow. look how the tables have turned.
After dinner Mom & I went to a movie called Speechless. Pretty lame romantic comedy.
Then it was time for, you guessed it: MORE FOOD. I remember being horrified by food.
This family eats so fucking much. No wonder I was such a fatty child. But I was good & tomorrow I am going to go for a run before everyone wakes up. ahhhh…running. Haven’t done that in a while.
& I found out that L. smokes. So that will come in handy.
I am so utterly bored. I feel like I don’t fit in with my family anymore. Everything that someone does has started to annoy the shit out of me!!! I! can! tell! GM & GF seem so racist not sure what this was about, & L. is so pathetic. Mom is really getting on my nerves. She so wants to be RIGHT THERE in my life that I feel like she is stepping on my heels and making me slow down. I’m sick of her singing along to every fucking song on the radio she still does this & I now think it is adorable, I’m sick of her talking through movies I have trained her not to do this anymore. & she keeps saying dumb things like, “Well YOU would never accept that kind of role.” I think she is so out of touch with her own life that she is making my life the focus. I had a LOT of issues at this time also because my Mom had just been diagnosed with MS and had started her manic depressive therapy. I’ve only been in fucking Alabama for 3 days and it is driving me crazy! I hear ya, sister.
Twinkling
After my date with Leif yesterday we (Grandmother, Mother & myself) had our annual tree fetching afternoon.
It began with a late brunch at a local, VERY Southern, restaurant. This place is located next to the train station & is essentially a big living room with 12 tables. It is only open for a small window every day and there is always a crowd & a wait. Taking Grandmother is tedious as she lacks the concept of time when it comes to food. And the biggie- because all the tables are right on top of each other she likes to listen in on what other people are saying. & she isn’t exactly covert about it — sometimes she will join in. Most (like 90%) of the time the interrupted table is amused & find GM totally charming…but sometimes they just ignore her & that drives her nuts.
The trick at dealing with this is to come when we know that friends of the family will also be dining. & then we request to sit near them. That way we are amongst friends that know of GM’s condition & can deal with her interjections.
Yesterday we got there in between the post church crowd so it wasn’t too crowded. I saw a couple of tables with family friends, a table with some DAR ladies, & even a small group from GM’s church. phew! Now I just needed to focus my energy at staring down nearby tables so they would wrap up & leave.
As we waited a couple of professor types from the local University came in & waited near us for a table. GM immediately joined in their conversation & they were very kind with her.
Then the door to the restaurant opened behind me & suddenly my heart started humming ‘Dream Weaver’ as my eyes landed on the cutest guy I have seen in this town…EVER.
(I should point out that I have a very specific type. This specificity is most likely why I am single. But I can’t help it. I am attracted to big, burly, lumber jack types. The hammy boys. Somebody that looks like they could pick up my charming zaftig frame and haul me over their shoulders. & Eye crinkles are a must. Hell, I have a massive long list…but you get the picture.)
Mom sees him at the same time & nearly knocks me down by jabbing my side with her elbow & then wiggling her eyebrows in his direction. My entire face flushes & I immediately have this beautiful pervy image of myself with this fellow.
The hunk is part of the professor type group so he joins in on the conversation…the one that my GM is actively participating in. GM, who has her freaky moments of clarity, does one of those ‘look of the hunk’, ‘look at the granddaughter’, ‘look at the hunk’ bits and then asks the hunk to stand next to me.
Mom laughs & makes a joke in the family of, “Isn’t this lady silly! ha ha ha” But GM is on a mission & she starts kind of shoving the hunk towards me. At this point I am so flustered that I am literally holding my mouth shut because when I am flustered I have an awful tendency to blurt out inappropriate things. & the biggest thing running through my mind was, “I just got loaded up with SPERM this morning!!!!!!!!!!!!”
So the poor hunk shuffles over next to me & we nod & say hello. GM seems pleased with herself & seems like she might be imagining pervy thoughts about me & the hunk as well.
But then everything takes a turn. The restaurant door opens again & in walks the cutest girl. Her hair is all shiny, her clothes are uber trendy - right down to the jeans shoved into the boot look. & where does she go? Into the waiting arms of the hunk.
I mentally detach myself from the hunk in my mind but GM is intrigued. & she stares at the two of them together for a bit & then she says it, “oh. So you like the black girls.”
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
The poor hunk actually responded sweetly with, “I like *this* black girl” & gave her a cute squeeze.
I mean the couple was adorable - catalogue worthy for their loveliness. But GM, not really up to snuff on the state of the world as far as race issues goes, was freakishly fascinated. I could tell she thought the girl was beautiful. (GM kept petting the girl’s suede jacket) But I think seeing a black girl with a white boy was a bit of a mind blow for her.
So of course we all got seated near each other & GM didn’t say a word - she just smiled at the couple.
When we were at the hardware store later picking out our tree she asked me if it was ‘common for white people to date black people’. I told her it was. Love is color blind. She nodded & said, ‘Well I dated and married a Yankee so I kind of know how that is.”
oy.
-
-
Great Hosting By:
