This month’s baby present — this month’s baby bribe, offering, shiny trinket from the physical world —  is an Orioles T-shirt. Specifically, the one that Wifebian bought at the game the day before we got married. I wore it last night over my regular pajamas to very cute effect.

What I’m trying to say with this t-shirt is this that month’s baby spirit on high might like to know that it won’t grow up down here. Also, I’m mixing metaphors, since this is our Hail Mary insemination, our last chance to go for the gold. And while I am at it, what with all the sports, I will even open my heart as wide open as possible to a boy during this insemination. (Om shanti boy shanti.)

So, if youre a baby spirit out there — boy or girl — and youre interested in two mothers, one of whom is going to be a little more weepy than the other, and you wouldnt mind growing up in BALTIMORE, I have a shirt for you. A very, very orange shirt.

Come claim your shirt.


Basement State of Mind

January 31, 2010

I’ve been kind of crazy and tearful for the past week. And, as previously posted, I got my period about an hour ago. I’ve really never had mood swings as such a prominent symptom of menstruation. I also took two Wellbutrins, now known as “Wellies” in the Basement Family household, about an hour ago, which is not quite how they are prescribed to be taken and am ready to dose up on some coffee, homemade or Starbucks, I can’t decide. I have about 5-6 hours worth of billing to do between now and 10AM tomorrow. And I fucking hate doing it. Hatehatehate.

I saw a Facebook status update for the gay photo group that I had hoped to be a part of until it became clear I would be working Saturdays for the rest of my life. They are putting up their first showcase. And it made me very, very sad.

If I’m not working, and sad for all the things that I dont have in my life due to an abundance of work, I am spending my time avoiding work. I’ve been procrastinating by variously overeating, complaining about being cold, taking a bath, crying, opening tax documents, complaining about being broke, googling Kimora Lee Simmons, trying to sleep, watching Wifebian paint, opening overdraft notices, googling Russel Simmons and Djimon Hounsou, googling Aioki, googling Kenzo, googling Ming, feeling ashamed for having lived in three states this year, insulting Wifebian, opening car insurance advertisements, complaining about being fat, googling Willie and the Wheel, crying, Facebooking, crying, making comments about not having a baby for the baby room, googling hibachi, criticizing Wifebian, staring at the wall, looking out the window, googling the Grammys, and wishing I was skinny. Now you know the real reason I am so attached to the Basement moniker.

Somewhere amidst the uterine cramps and lower back pains, I have a post brewing about the surprising, unexpected and ridiculous blow that failing to get pregnant on the first try dealt to my hopefulness. It’s been a strange conversion from, “It’s OK if I don’t get pregnant” to, “I am a fertility goddess full of eggs and luck,” to, “I am so sorry you are married to a broke, barren lesbian,” but that’s the arc of my thought process over the last four months. I am glum, avoidant of pre-pregnancy chores like temping and taking vitamins. Heaven help me if I actually don’t end up getting pregnant. I only have three tries in the bank for 2010.

I wonder if I would feel this way if I had more money.

As far as the dinner goes, it was actually good. The worst thing that happened was the result of my own major malfunctions. The hibachi chef kept insisting that he pour saki in my mouth and I kept refusing. Then, he just kamikaze started squirting me in the face, which made me angry and embarrassed — a bad combo. I mean, really, dont squirt liquor into the mouth of the tipsy lesbian feminist top who said no, kay? When I finally gave up on wresting the squeeze bottle of saki from his fuckball hand, I tipped my bowl of egg fried rice all over the table, which was a fitting end to my little fit. Luckily, no one said anything, except Wifebian, who was ever so slightly mortified and a little irritated with me.

She must have the patience of a saint and the heart of prince to be married to this here train wreck otherwise known as Basement Face.

The past few days have been full of craziness in every category. Apparently, according to her aunt, Wifebian has a half brother and her biological father was probably gay. Next up on the crazy train, Wifebian’s step-grandparents are getting divorced at 90 and grandma moves out tomorrow. Finally, this is my last night in the home of the mil.

It’s been a nutty month for my clients too:  a house fire, a death, and a looming eviction top the list. It used to be that my most concrete accomplishment was helping a 16 year-old mother of one get an abortion. But now, I can add something less heart-breaking to my resume.

I’m working with a 19 year old whose uncle died a few days ago. The county hospital is paying for the cremation, but they put the ashes in a plastic bag which gets put in a plastic box. Considering that cremation is against the religious beliefs of the family matriarch, signing off on it only to be handed a very heavy plastic box would probably suck. My client and I called everybody: Catholic Charities, the local department of social services, the local health department, city hall, several local funeral homes, the social security office, and the offices of state representatives and elected members of Congress — nobody administered burial assistance funds.

But then, we got a call back from our representative in the state legislature. Four hours later we were meeting her in the parking lot of the local Arby’s picking up two checks for $200.00 which was enough to cover the cost of a real urn. Go-go gadget social worker!

On the cerebral side of things, experiences like this sit the injustices of capitalism right in your lap. When most people think about funerals, they imagine putting a body in a casket and then putting the casket in the ground and then putting a headstone on top of the ground. But that scenario is actually a luxury reserved for rich people because that costs something like 15,000 or 20,000 bucks and I think I’m being generous with that quote because I dont actually know. Poor people, on the other hand, get burned up in furnaces and stuffed into plastic boxes that resemble desk top trash cans. In this neck of the woods, that’ll put you back about 1500 bucks and the local government pays for it, but not anything else. This, I know.

If you want to plant a flower you have to buy it, if you want to grow a vegetable to have to buy it, if you want to eat food, you have to buy it. And if you want to bury a loved one, you have to buy that, too. If you want to have a baby, you might have to buy that too, but thats another post for another day, isnt it?

When my dad died, I had to foot the 2000 dollar cremation bill. The cemetary where his father and three siblings are buried offered to open up his sisters grave for free and just put the ashes in it. I ended up buying the urn off of Etsy for a hundred bucks, I shit you not, and although one of his brothers is worth more than a million dollars, and said he would pay for a foot stone, but he never did, so my dad’s grave remains unmarked. If all goes well, Ill be done paying the funeral home in 8 months — two and a half years after he died.

Le sigh.

So. This brings December to a close. A month of mothers and fathers and aunts and uncles and grandparents, but no son or daughter for me.

I emailed the sperm shop tonight to find out if they have the motility, morphology and sperm count for our donor, as well as the number of unsuccessful cycles with his number on them. I asked if his sperm is IUI ready and found a local fertility clinic that might be able to do the trick. We have enough money for just three tries in 2010, so, with my first try behind me, I’m gonna have to quit it with the naivete and hubris and get down to business.

Some savvy and humble business.