I'm at work, and the tank has been in our kitchen, 10 miles away, for the last five hours. Heather picked it up, under firm instructions to take pictures of it and e-mail them. Only one came through, but I felt like I was looking at a keg; I guess that's how straight folks get pregnant and they want to make us feel more mainstream.
Our dog and cat sniffed it with great interest, in my imagination, until they realized it hadn't been touched by any other animals and was accordingly of no value whatsoever.
That's not how we feel about it.
When I called Thursday to order the sperm, I called Heather immediately afterwards, surprised at how serious things had suddenly gotten. Heather didn't react quite the same way. She was at dinner with friends and couldn't hear me all that well. Also the $220 shipping (which, in fairness, does include return shipping of the keg, minus the semen) was being charged to her credit card, so I suppose it was reasonable she'd have a slightly more subdued relationship to the order. Yet, today, my unflappable roommate stood at my shoulder when I picked up my phone and found a voicemail from 9am from Nurse Nina, saying that the tank had already arrived. Heather listened breathlessly. Twenty minutes later, she called me to say she was on her way to pick our odd package up and her heart was racing. Whether it's the tank or Heather that startled my own, I got tears in my eyes.
My best friend Sarah tells me that the tank looks "space-age-y," which undermines my hetero/keg theory. I think it's because she's not a drinker.
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