Good Friends

I’m sad when I think about the window closing on having another baby. I could put my twelve years of parenting knowledge to good use. I’d probably be pretty good at it; the third time is a charm.

I thought of three ways of going about doing this. The first would be to go out to a bar and find an attractive and charismatic man. This was a real suggestion my grandma gave to my sister after her divorce. My grandma was worried my thirty-year-old sister was going to be childless and she told her, “You could always go out and get pregnant from a guy at the bar… we’ll raise your baby as a family.”

I thought the last part was really sweet. My grandma had all her four children by the time she was twenty, it was a different time, now thirty is the new twenty. It was also a time when there was no ancestory.com blowing up everyone’s genius plans to get a baby by heading to the bar while ovulating.

The other issue with this is not knowing family history. What if you left their house and saw some evidence they were a complete whack-job? Then you got to go home and pull some Revolutionary Road shit, sitting on a garden sprinkler trying to power wash your uterus.

The second way I considered was writing letters to all the male brilliant minds of our time, asking them if they’d generously spare some sperm. It could come off as psycho, but given the size of their egos, I’d assume they’d be flattered and would even consider it after performing some type of background check. They might deem me as too stupid though, which could hurt. However, I would promise to give the baby a daily cold plunge.

If you get that genius sperm, and then raise the kid to be loving and kind, who knows what they would do… they could really change the world for the better. I remember a few weeks before I got married, I was at the Bigfoot Lodge in West LA, with my sister and cousin. We were standing outside talking to some guys, and the one I was talking to gave me a memorable lecture on the importance of mating with someone smart. Maybe he was recently dumped for a Rhodes Scholar, but he had a passionate argument. I was ready to get that ring on my finger so I could meet my future kids, so I nodded along, and thought, “Well good looks also get people far in life… some could argue farther.”

I was talking to my brother about the artificial insemination route, and he thought it was super scientific. He said, “It’s really expensive. Maybe your work will pay for it.”

I told him, it’s not what you think. I looked up the company online. It’s in Seattle and you basically inject yourself with this de-thawed turkey baster of sperm. He didn’t believe me, but it’s true. Google it.

The third method would be asking my ex-husband for sperm so the baby would be a full-blooded sibling to my two kids. I thought about this more, and how we are barely able to utter a few sentences to each other without a rage outburst, and I decided it would never happen. Not even if I was Daniel Day-Lewis with the longest sperm-sucking milkshake straw.

When talking on the phone with my sister I decided to fill out a dating profile on EHarmony. I answered the 400 questions about myself, and then started shopping for men. I realized I looked for the wrong kind of man when left to my own devices because I matched well with libertarians who are super into fitness. I didn’t at one time say I liked camping or hiking, and every guy I had off-the-chart compatibility with was in a kayak in their profile picture.

I figured, don’t fuck with the algorithm, and just click the heart buttons. So I matched with people. Then I sent someone a message, and they wrote me back, but I couldn’t read it without buying the subscription. Eharmony wants you to find a partner, for 400 smack-a-roos. 

So I deleted my account. To be honest, I was a bit freaked out reading the profiles and people saying they’re looking for someone to grow old with or for a deeply fulfilling relationship. I have a pretty full schedule, and I’ve recently been assigned the kids’ Dungeon Master on Wednesday nights.

I read an interview with Angelina Jolie, and I thought it was so lovely how she talked about her kids. She said, “… we’re close friends.”

Maybe this made me eager to bring another friend into the fold. I think about how my kids will be off to college in six to seven years, and then what am I going to do? Go kayaking? No thanks. A baby will stretch out this fun time for another 10 years. 

Last week the kids had spring break; they had a staycation while I went to work. This is the first time I’ve been able to leave them for long stretches and know they’ll be fine. With a baby, were setting back the clock on our freedom. I’m happy with how our lives are right now. I won’t be impulsive about a new addition, but whenever I hear a fifty-something woman being interviewed on Armchair Expert and she talks about her preteen kid, I quickly google her age. Plenty of women have kids at 43. I still have a year to commit to this plan.

We have so much fun together. I know my first time was a charm, and my second time was a charm. I guess I just want to keep the good times rolling. And for some reason, now I really want to take the kids camping.

Pizza Swans

 

I started a new writing class, or I should call it writing clash. The teacher irritated me the moment he all-knowingly explained that billionaires have to be insane since they should have retired by the time they made 500 million. I rolled my eyes and muttered, “Oh great, my teacher is a lazy communist.”

When he gave me notes on a script, he explained a friend told him the difference between a man who is a pedophile and a man who likes young women depends on when the girl goes through puberty. I felt like throwing the barf face emoji in the group chat. The teacher finished up the anecdote by saying, “If anyone needs to make this distinction, it’s not a good sign.” And I was thinking, “Then why did you just say all that shit?”

What struck me as cosmic orchestration was that the next day, after I vented to everyone I knew about my teacher, a student in my class had a similar reaction to me. I was writing on the board and someone raised their hand and rudely said I was going to fast. I noticed they were on their phone so I said, it helps if you put your phone away, and they stuffed all their shit in their backpack and stormed out of class.

It was awkward and I’ve never experienced a student having a bit of a stamping-their-foot moment in class before. I choose to ignore it, but only externally. In my brain, I was processing like mad. I was like my teacher was to me, to this student. Did she think I was an out-of-touch pedo-symathizer?

That night Netflix infiltrated my dreams. I dreamed I was on the show Love Is Blind and I followed another contestant who was drunk off her ass and distraught that her apartment was haunted by ghosts. When I walked into her room, the ghosts turned out to be other contestants dressed up in powdered wigs pretending to be ghosts. I jokingly threw up two middle fingers and said, “Hey sluts, suck on this.” Then someone said something like “finger-bang fingers,” and I replied, “These are butt-banging fingers.”

I woke up laughing but concerned. I need to find someone to have sex with before my brain caves in on itself. Most people get out of a relationship armed with evidence their ex-partner is a narcissist, but I get out of relationships even more convinced I am a narcissist. How can I still think you can have a purely sexual relationship with someone? I can’t explain this to my family because they don’t understand my situation. They’ll be appalled, maybe disgusted, when I announce, “I’ve decided to take on a lover.”

I started watching Feud: Capote vs. The Swans on Hulu, and the swans have given me the perspective that “Gurl, you better get yours!” They’re like Carrie, Samantha, and that’s it. Charlotte is too prudish and Miranda is not glamorous. In the last episode, it was disclosed that the fabulous Babe would have suitors drop in, and she’d dazzle them with her fashionable outfit before giving them an average roll in the sheets. She didn’t hold these guys to the same standards as her TV mogul husband, she liked a handsome food delivery man.

I could take a hint from the Swans, and ask the pizza delivery guy, but what if he became obsessed with me? It just seems unsafe. My narcissism, rearing its beautiful head.

I’m too old for Love is Blind, and too young for the Golden Bachelor, but reality TV wouldn’t serve me well. I'm an introvert who loves controlled attention, and I don’t drink which is the main ingredient to these storylines. 

If I did drink, I liken myself to Leah McSweeny from RHONY. I would annoy the shit out of everyone by being an obnoxious loudmouth after two glasses of wine but ultimately endear everyone with social schadenfreude after ending the night doing cartwheels naked across the lawn and launching tiki torches into the swimming pool like an Olympic javelin thrower.

I’ll just have to find this lover the old-fashioned way, praying to God that a man falls in my lap with his dick out and my pants off. There could be a small conversation. Maybe something sophisticated like, “Leave the pizza in the dining room, darling.” I will be cordial, not overtly nice, and I won’t be funny.

Next week, I’m going to class with a rewrite and I know my teacher won’t get it. I have my classmates though who I can glean an accurate reading of understanding and connection to the culture. I’m not getting caught up in the dramatics of my feelings because it could cause some type of mirrored disaster in my own classroom. 

The moral of the story, emotions are for peasants, pizza is for sex, and sex saves lives.

My Garfunkel Era

The kids and I drove to Tahoe for Christmas, and I played Simon and Garfunkel the entire drive. I love the happy songs they sing, and I laugh to myself every time I hear Garfunkel say, “Deep forest green.”

At one point the kids started to bicker, and Kingsley who went to the doctor the day before for her 12-year-old wellness check boasted, “I am so happy to be vaccinated for meningitis.”

Which infuriated Geoffrey, and made him say, “It’s not for certain… you could still get it.”

Then she looked at me scared, and I said, “You can’t get it. Geoffrey leave her alone, and Kingsley stop bragging about your meningitis vaccination.” 

We spent six nights at my parents’ house. The kids, the dog, and I shared a bedroom. My older brother was there too with his wife and five kids. My younger sister, who lives up the street, would come by after work, but her four kids were always with us. It was like a daycare center, commune, cult, whatever you call it when there are too many people in one house.

What I miss most when I’m away from home is eating my food; tofu creations, cereal, and Top Ramen with an egg in it. When I’m at my parents I wake up and eat Ruffles potato chips all day long, and then eat whatever cafeteria-style meal has been prepared for dinner. They like to watch TV at volume level 98. What’s stopping them from going to 100 is unclear to me. At home, my kids and I watch TV at volume level 9, maybe we go up to level 14 when we’re eating chips.

I hope it doesn’t sound like I’m trashing my family. I love them, but we would just make for a really unhealthy cult, physically and mentally. I’m used to the big family dynamic, and I know it’s easiest to just go with the flow. This is where being a middle child serves me very well: sit back quietly, quiet is key, and watch the chaos. Like Garfunkel, step in only when completely necessary. 

I generally stick around my mom, who seems unfazed and adds levity. As we headed to church for the second time on Christmas Eve, she said, “I’ll be so holy, you’ll be able to see through me.”

By next Christmas, I’ll have amnesia, but when I pulled into the driveway of my house on December 26, I walked up my porch steps like Tim Robbins after escaping Shawshank State Penitentiary. The next day, the kids and I had our Christmas, and then they left to go on vacation with their dad.

I’ve been walking, reading, writing, and doing yoga. The dog follows me around the house, and when I put on my running shoes, he looks at me the same way I stared at the TV when I was a kid watching Mr. Rogers change his shoes, frozen with excitement about the upcoming journey.

I called my older sister while I was making Top Ramen. I found a jar of olives in the cabinet, excited I asked rhetorically, “Should I have olives too?”

Always game, she said, “Hell yes!”

I strained to open the lid and sounded like I was pushing out a baby. The lid wouldn’t budge. She knew I was going on a walk after I finished eating and suggested, “Take the olives with you on the walk, and when you pass a man ask him to open your jar for you.”

I laughed but put the olives back for another day, maybe after I start lifting weights.

On the walk, I ran into a neighbor I had been intentionally avoiding since he told me my garbage bin was too full, for the third time. I usually pretend I’m on the phone when I walk by him. However, going from the most intense social setting to the most mellow, I was up for some small talk. He asked where my kids were, and I told him they were on vacation. He asked, in seriousness, “You miss them?”

I was reminded why I hated talking to him, and I said I had to go before the sun went down.

The yoga studio I go to has an amazing instructor. The first time I went last year, I was asked to join by a friend who warned me, “It’s sort of like a cult.”

How did she know I would be drawn in? Hot yoga is an hour and a half of intense cardio, and some meditation in a room with the thermostat set at 98 degrees. The people in this class could easily do cross-fit, but we prefer the calming presence of our teacher, who like Mr. Rogers, tells us everything is exactly the way it is meant to be, and we are perfect.

After yoga, my friend and I chatted in the parking lot. She started saying, “I’m not really into New Year’s resolutions…” and told me about wanting a career change for the upcoming year. I encouraged her to go for it, and said, “New Year’s resolutions, or not, it’s natural to make life plans around this time, everything is dead and it’s cold.”

I pointed to the leafless trees surrounding us in the gloomy gray parking lot. I love New Year’s resolution, it’s like a baby shower for the year. This is the fattest and saddest time of the year, and given all my downtime self-care, I’m feeling and looking pretty good. Plus, I'm vaccinated for meningitis! But, I want to be prepared for when everything comes back to life.

My cousin and I had a fantastic two-hour conference call on New Year’s Eve to plan out our year. Then I typed out my list, printed it, and thumb-tacked it to the wall behind me. The list to me is like running shoes to the dog, it’s taking me places. Places like lunch, with my dad, who opened my olives for me.