Don't Mince Words

Here’s some math to ponder: in another 10 days I’ll be ovulating. If I were to get knocked up, I’d have a baby summer 2004. Baby Bungie would graduate from high school when I’m 56 years old.

To the best of my knowledge, unless you produce a child star or a prodigy of some sort, kids are not a revenue generating proposition. One of my friends, who shall remain nameless for the sake of the kids, refers to her offspring as “loveable money suckers.” Diapers cost money, lessons cost money, clothes cost money, and don’t forget the medical deductibles. Kids are like that roommate you had in college that always bummed money off you and drank your last beer without asking.

As of today, I have limited savings and no retirement. I don’t get these women who say their biological clock is ticking. Screw the clock. Do the math. Do you really want to be 56 years old wondering how you are going to put a kid through college when, in your heart of hearts, you really want to downsize, retire, and get a home in the mountains? And you know as the spinster daughter, you are going to get stuck taking care of your aged mother.

Bleak financial future aside, let’s say I plan to do the Murphy Brown thing. Who should my unsuspecting sperm donor be? Well, in 18 years, I want Baby Bungie to be able to get full-ride for college. In order to increase the odds, I’ve determined that I’m going to have to have a minority baby. That way, if Baby Bungie is smart, there are scholarships. If he/she isn’t smart, then there’ll be minority grants. So, my sperm donor cannot be Hispanic or Black because in 18 years, those populations will not be in the minority.

So, does anybody know any horny Eskimos or American Indians? I have a dream that my child will be able to confidently check the Other race box on all the applications that I currently check Decline on.

Who am I kidding? That dream is still a nightmare any way you look at it. I’m going to continue to use my disposable income the same way I did 20 years ago: I’m going to buy music, beer, and vacations. Maybe I’ll even save for retirement one day.

Maybe.

Last week, on three different occasions, women of various socioeconomic backgrounds made reference to me to the fact that our trailblazing sisters of the 60’s have made us current-day women doubt how much actual progress we’ve made. I immediately started thinking about my mother’s ‘kept woman’ reference (see 9/23/03 post). Since I’ve had a career and I know what I enjoy, is it OK to bail on the workforce now and find a man who can support my habits?

Would that be selling out?

I spent $7,000 on a graduate degree that would have been better spent paying off a credit card. Why did I get the degree? So I could distinguish myself in the piles of resumes during the recession of the early 90′s. Since that time, I’ve been working long hours to try to distinguish myself from the men. In my last position at a Fortune 25 boys club, I think only a sex change would have helped me get promoted.

In these three months of unemployment, you know what I’ve realized? I’m tired. If I work at all, I want to work in a happy place with normal hours and normal people. But you know what? If I NEVER worked again, that would OK as well. This kept woman idea my mother had might be a clever little plan. I resisted in my early 20’s because I felt like I had to develop my professional identity (and get an ROI on my degree). Now that I know I am a marketing communications professional that would sooner never work again, let’s figure out this EVIL PLAN B.

If I were going to create my own Ozzie and Harriet bra-wearing utopia, what kind of man would I need and what could I provide in exchange? I need a full-size kitchen with a behemoth SubZero refrigerator and a Viking six burner stove with bun warmer. Here I would create gourmet meals for my Ozzie in addition to baking for block parties and hosting random neighborhood social events. My Ozzie would also need to provide me with an open line of credit at Home Depot so I could actually DO the tasks they teach you at those weekend How-To clinics. I would do everything from grout to crown moldings. On weekends, I’d teach Ozzie how to use all the power tools I bought. Let’s see, what else… Oh, I would probably need a car, but it can be a beater… like maybe a ’72 Scout w/the top chopped off. Something that hauls and says fuck you to the current day SUV owners. I might need a little allowance too…just enough to have a few beers with the girls on book club night.

What does Ozzie get in exchange for funding my lifestyle? Well, he gets fed and he gets a well-maintained house. And, instead of 2.2 kids, he’ll get to have sex 2.2 times a day.

That seems fair, right?

The first time I heard the word cucamonga, I believe I was in third grade and it was a derogatory term of unknown origin or meaning. Nearly 31 years later, I heard the word again, except it was Rancho Cucamonga and the area was on fire.

On Friday, October 24th, my Venice skies became yellow, then dark and overcast. By 4 p.m., I could not see the stop light two blocks away. I discovered that the Santa Ana winds were blowing the smoke and ash 60 miles west to my Venice coastline. It kind of felt like 9/11 all over again, except I wasn’t drunk in Brooklyn watching burned memos land in my backyard.

Saturday was less overcast. I took a bike ride up to the beach and could barely see the end of the Venice Pier. Things weren’t much better a few miles north in Santa Monica. I could hear the kids yelling on the Ferris wheel, but they were a little fuzzy in the distance. There are usually dozens of sail boats in the bay on the weekend. The smoky visibility didn’t make for a good day of sailing.

A 9/11 flashback isn’t what I signed up for when I moved to California. The end result is the same: some asshole has ruined a good place for a lot of people.

Then again, we might all be saying the same thing after Arnold takes office. Who knows.

When you are unemployed, sometimes you think about employment opportunities that, under normal circumstances, you’d never consider in a million years.

Let’s take egg donation for instance. I still cower in fear every time my mother yells, “Whatever you do, don’t get pregnant.” I’m 37 and it hasn’t happened yet. Perhaps I should turn over these unused eggs to someone who could use them. Biological recycling…waste management. Take them all out and maybe my mother will shut up. Win-win.

There is a company called the Donor Source advertising for egg donors on Craig’s list. This is serious commitment: several weeks of injections to increase egg production and then harvesting (scoop out) under general anesthesia. I’d be willing to bet that these horror-mone injections screw with your mental state to the point where you probably want to strangle a man with your chocolate IV drip. What’s the compensation? It is a mere $5,500 to fuck with your delicate chemical balance all in the name of giving someone else life. Here’s the funnier part. Donor Source requests that you be less than 29 years of age and a weight appropriate non-smoker.

So much for that get rich quick scheme.

On the other hand, we have sperm donation: men doing what they do best – jerking off. The California Cryobank is seeking healthy males aged 19 to 38 for anonymous donation. They require proof of an undergraduate degree. Dumb sperm need not apply and no Strom Thurmond-aged sperm either. The men are paid $900 a month to whack off two times a week. Since they are already probably meeting that frequency, the only inconvenience here is location.

As infertile couples bypass adoption to flip through photo books to assemble their genetically superior Petri dish specimen, my fat, old ass has realized, once again, I’m overqualified for another job.

That’s alright; at least I have my health.

He was bent over the pool table when I first noticed him…a nice ad for jeans. I turned and resumed drinking my beer with Anne. We had one mission that evening and that was to get her pickled before her redeye flight out of LAX to go back east. Anne was sticking to plan when a bar band began a string of recent-rock cover tunes. We giggled watching the 20-something band groupies in front whistle and ya-hoo while their buddies strummed along. You could tell they were minutes away from ordering shots. Anne and I rolled our eyes and giggled in an I-remember-those-days kind of way.

It was right about that time that I could tell the drunkest kid out of the bunch was going to dance. Ripe for white-boy mocking, I did the white man dance on my barstool. Thumbs up. Shoulders gyrating. Head bobbing. I was cracking myself up when Mr. Nice Ass/I mean Nice Jeans walked up to our table.

Oh fabulous.

He said something to us. Of course, I couldn’t hear because the Counting Crows’ “Mr. Jones” was too loud. When I got closer, I discovered his name was Don.

“I love redheads. If I could, I’d kiss every freckle on your body right now,” he said

All the blood rushed to my head and I took a big sip of my beer and sighed. Now I remember. I’ve been internet dating too long. No two week string of leading emails culminating in a Photoshop-ed picture of my e-paramour who has oh-so-delicately cropped out his ex-girlfriend. Nope, I was in real time now and I was freaking out.

When you are a 37-year old, divorced female, the Internet provides you with an efficient channel of dating possibilities that you can turn on or off in between running to Costco for economy packs of AA’s. I’m at that age where I’ve learned that you don’t meet men in church (name a couple you know that met in church). The courtesy dates your married friends arrange are wonderful Monday morning water cooler talk. I have never wanted to date anyone from the office. And the guys I’ve met volunteering have been gay. Because I’ve been tied to the web business since 1996, I’ve always felt it was perfectly normal to use the internet as a recruitment tool. And I’m old and lazy and know what it’s like out there.

I’ve had limited success with the internet. My most recent boyfriend answered a personal ad I placed on Craig’s list. Eight months later, he left me to join Ringling Brothers. Seriously. He left me to join the fucking circus. Needless to say, I’ve curbed my addiction to internet dating since then.

Tonight I’m reminded that meeting guys the old-fashioned way, in a bar, is kind of refreshing. I’m giggling and flipping my hair. There’s no keyboard in the way. I’m smiling and they know it.

Anne slid off her barstool and staggered to the bar to grab the tab. I grabbed Don’s ass, gave it a squeeze, and I kissed him on his cheek while passing him my card.

“Email me sometime,” I told him.

Some habits are hard to break.