Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Standing Offer

Hey, guess what?  You need sperm?  I can help you out!  Haha!

Apparently men get off, so to speak, on talking about their sperm.  It's not enough to talk about sex all the time, or about lesbian sex, given the opportunity.  Guys have to reinforce that they are not only into sex, but into fertilization, too.

What the fuck?  Men have an inordinate number of lesbian fantasies, and I have seen the porn.  (Not all of it-- although there are a couple guys I know who might have.)  I've always assumed they got turned on at the idea of women so sex-crazed they would even do it with each other, or that it was a power-trip to get a woman who didn't want men to have sex with one anyway.  I've never asked, though, because I know that would delight the man even more. 

What definitely delights men is reminding us that they have sperm.  Yep, they've got it.  Don't bother buying it, ladies: they've got your semen right here. 
Is this about masturbating?  They want to talk about jerking off?  Um, hot, dude.  Tell me more about how you're so ready to fill a cup for me. 

Undoubtedly there are evolutionary imperatives manifesting themselves.  Friends, co-workers, other friends and co-workers... they all want to alert us to their fertility.  Not to take advantage of an easy cliche, but the New York Times says monkeys do, too: they tote their fresh-birthed offspring around, not 'cause they like them, but to let other male monkeys know that they've reproduced.

But that's fucked up, guys.  Put the porn aside and go inseminate a woman you've met-- in person!-- and persuade her to carry your child.  Don't rely on us dykes to get you off and spread your seed.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

"My kind": A traditional non-traditional parent?

Heather and I had an emotional discussion about the book of essays I'm reading, Confessions of the Other Mother.  I said it reassured me that there were other women in my situation, struggling to find a role.  Heather said that my role is "mother," just like hers, and that I'm wrong to get caught up in distinctions between the two of us.

The lady whose essay I just read is all about being butch.  She describes her haircut as akin to that of George Clooney.  (Who else had a fine Caesar-style haircut?  The butchiest writer of them all: Gertrude Stein.)  The writer reports being delighted to find a multicultural term-- Baba-- to describe her lesbian fatherhood, and, once the language barrier has been conquered, all is well.
My hairstyle points of reference run more towards Winona Ryder and Rihanna.  Short, but emphatically not mannish.  And my lingual points of reference start at "mommy" and end at "mama."

That's where the faux-George and I are different: I am not different.

Biodad, on tape

Heather couldn't sleep last night.  I was not to be swayed and held tight to my pillow, no matter how much she squirmed.  What happened sometime around 5am is that she decided that we ought to have the audio interview of our donor-- from now on referred to as Biodad, thanks to the wordsmithing of my friend Sarah-- and downloaded it to her iPad.  I was vaguely aware of her asking me where her headphones were, but not much else.

Around 5:03, Heather's disregard for my beauty sleep came full force.  She had listened to the interview, and it was not good.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Defined by what I am not

Heather, if you weren't aware, is a stellar lady.  And clearly I am, too.  We're making kissy faces at each other right now.

Still, there is that gulf between us as the baby-making journey moves forward.  I nag, and she puts up with it.  I read fertility cookbooks and she grimaces as I announce the growing list of restrictions.  She's the body that grows the baby, and I'm the voice that makes things harder on her.

That's not supposed to be how it works.  She's supposed to be euphoric, I'm supposed to be euphoric, and we're supposed to feed off one another's euphoria-- instead, we feed off one another's stress.  I want to be nothing but supportive and comforting.  I want her to be at peace knowing that I'm here with her.  What I am, though, is here with the books and the phone calls and the vast library of ignorance.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010


It's knittin' time, boys and girls.

After a week-long cruise with my extended family, Heather and I got home and down to brass tacks.  As we started our detox from the surfeit of desserts and red meat the folks at Norwegian Cruise Lines provided for us, we had to let go of some other baggage, too, and I surprised both of us by telling my parents about our baby plans.

For those of you playing along at home, you'll remember that I've avoided mentioning the bun we hope will soon be in Heather's oven.  I thought they'd say I was too young and too poor and it was too early in my relationship.  And, wow, I f-ing called it.

Top ten sperm-donor drawbacks

The Cryobank sent me an e-mail to say that donor medical histories were offered free now, along with the essays, profiles, and staff impressions (my favorite.)  I don't know if that's like Target letting me know that they're offering affordable Alexander McQueen designs, or if there's any elasticity to the sperm market at all.

Suffice to say, though, that I'm easily suckered in by Target e-mails and promptly logged back into the Cryobank site to see if our saved donors were full of defective genes.

The answer is that they have about the same problems as anyone else: high blood pressure, depression after a spouse's death...  And they have acne listed.  If there's anyone out there rejecting a donor because he had pimples during puberty, that is a picky goddamn lesbian.

We're back where we were, and where, I suspect, we'll stay.