And this time it's for real. We keep saying it's for real-- time to put in place our motherfucking action plan-- but we have the fertility monitor print-out, and Nurse Nina has confirmed that the pictures of day 13 of Heather's last cycle (which, out of respect for her and for my readers' delicate sensibilities, I will not post here, although you can find some handy reference photos through the Beautiful Cervix Project) are full-on ovulating perfection.
(A fabulous piece of advice from Nurse Nina: when taking pictures of a cervix, camera phones work best. I have no idea why, but it's totally true. Just keep an eye on your phone afterwards.)
So I have to call. I have to call people and ask them to go ahead and box up our stored frozen semen, put it in a tank and send it to a state where our relationship is scorned and the resulting child will be bullied because his moms are dykes.
I don't even know where they should ship it. What if we're not home when it comes to the house? Does that mean we should ship it to work? Our friend Lamont is the shipping & receiving manager, so he'd be cool with it, but god almighty. Surely he'll have to bring it to Heather's office. Do we race home then to inseminate, or race home to put it in our freezer, or can it sit in her office till the end of the day? I don't know these things, and the last guy who responded to my e-mail query to the Cryobank was not helpful. Not helpful. I wanted to respond, "Dude, stop fucking around and using comma splices. This is a $1000 shipment of my possible offspring, and you need to have enough respect for it to answer my questions in properly-punctuated English."
Maybe it is only I, but conditions are such these days, that if you use studiously correct grammar, people suspect you of homosexual tendencies.
At least Dorothy Parker understands.
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