oooh, baby, baby

As I've mentioned before, J and I are trying to have a baby. J will be the bearer of said child and I will be in charge of all that pertains to the day-to-day maintenance of a pregnant lady. Having been on the pregnant lady end of things, I'm not sure which job is more difficult - I'll let you know.

Anyway, we're coming along rather nicely in this process. We've selected a donor - a tall fellow of Jamaican descent. His profile indicated that he has things in common with both J and I - he's a reader and a soccer player and J, being of Puerto Rican descent, liked the idea of a fellow islander. And not that race/ethnicity matter to us, it must be a deal-breaker for some folks, as it was amazing (creepy? weird? sad?) how rapidly the white-boy sperm gets snatched up.

So here's how the whole artificial insemination thing works: after you fill out a shitload of paperwork for the sperm bank, as well as for the doctor's office and you've selected a donor, you begin tracking your ovulation. This requires the mother-to-be to pee on a stick every morning until the telltale sign of the pending ovulation inidcates that action must be taken! Immediately!

We obtained a positive ovulation result on our third try. But ovulation is the easy part. The getting preggers part is a little bit more difficult, despite what sexually-eager teenage girls are told. Upon receiving a positive ovulation test, we needed to phone the sperm bank and alert them that we're ready to pick up a sample. We also needed to page the fertility nurse to schedule an insemination appointment with her for the following day. These both needed to happen by noon.

Upon phoning the sperm bank, J encountered a voicemail on the other end. This wasn't what she was expecting, but she left a message anyway. After hanging up, she told me that it seemed weird that she got a voicemail when she was expecting to reach a lab and give them time-sensitive information. She double checked the number we had written down versus the number she'd dialed. Sure enough, she'd just left a voicemail for someone with her name, phone number and telling the poor voicemail recipient that she was "ready for her sperm."

In the meantime, we waited for the fertility nurse to return our page. About fifteen minutes later, the phone rings. J practically trips over what appears to be air to get to the phone and check the caller ID.

"Hello?" J says, as if she has no idea who is on the other end of the line.

"Hi, this is Joanna, the fertility nurse - I was just paged?"

"I'm ovulating!!!!!" J exclaims excitedly.

"That's great!" Joanna replied, "but let's start with your name. Tell me who you are."

J became suddenly shy and embarrassed, but Joanna turned out to be a good egg and was very kind and understanding with regard to J's outburst. She must deal with this sort of thing all the time.

The next morning at the crack of dawn, we had to head to the sperm bank to pick up our sample (yes, we called again - this time with the correct phone number). After forking over a lot of money, we were handed a tank similar to the sort of thing one might use to inflate helium balloons. It was only about one third to half as tall as a helium tank and weighed around 25 pounds.

We carried our "man in a can" to the car to head over to the doctor's office for the insemination. Upon starting up the car, J and I suddenly exchanged surprised expressions. The radio was playing Bob Marley's "Lively up Yourself" - a minor coincidence that we were hoping was a good omen.

Later, however, when we were in the waiting room at the doctor's office, J nudged me and said, "are you seeing this???"

I look over just in time to see a very pregnant woman walking down the hallway.

What was so remarkable about her?

She was wearing a bright yellow t-shirt with a large green, black and yellow flag emblazoned across the front and the word "Jamaica" across the top.

Coincidences?

So we won't know for about another week whether or not we're knocked up (cross your fingers for us!), but if J's behaviors, sensitivities and food cravings ('let's dip these Fritos in dark chocolate!", "I wonder what peanut butter and cheese mixed together would taste like") are any indication, then it's a no-brainer. That or she's just somaticising every symptom in the book. I'll keep you posted.

The Inept Intern

My introduction to the professional world of information organization began with watching Patricia pull up an unfamiliar computer screen from who-knows-where and proceed to rapidly click in various parts of a template, changing some things, adding others and then calling it good.

"See," she said, " that's all you need to do."

On my second day, it was revealed that I was conducting searches with the incorrect criteria and, since my method would often return the same results as the desired criteria, it didn't occur to me that I might be doing it incorrectly. Well, until it was pointed out to me:

"What are you doing? Why are you searching that way?"

Um, because I'm a total idiot and wasn't paying attention when you whipped through an instruction session that I wasn't able to follow, but thought that I had. That's what I wanted to say. Instead, I sat there somewhat paralyzed willing the ground to open up and swallow me whole and then wake up in my bed to discover that it was only a bad dream.

Nevermind that I'd never used this particular software and that I'd had no experience at all doing any hands-on cataloging. I started asking questions at the rate of one per millisecond. I wanted to know exactly what she was doing, how she was doing it and why.

I've taken on an internship in a local-ish suburban/rural public library where it seems many of the library employees don't really care so much about reading, aren't very friendly and know pretty much diddly-squat about pop culture. On top of that, none of them seemed to have any clue as to who Nancy Pearl was. This, it seemed, was a mere job to them. Employment and nothing more. What kind of Librarian Twilight Zone have I stumbled into?

I continued asking a lot of questions. I wanted to know what I was doing and not just learn the factory imprint of the task, but to capture a true understanding of the philosophy behind the required actions. This seemed to perturb Patricia. I suspect that when she signed on to obtain an intern, she saw this as an opportunity to keep costs down and productivity up and not so much as an opportunity to nurture a curious mind and mentor a student in her chosen field.

My suspicions of her irritation with my continued queries were confirmed when, several times throughout the day, others would say hello to her and ask her how she is doing and she would reply by bemoaning her lack of productivity due to "all of the interruptions" and then I would feel terrible about being the cause of 99.9% of those interruptions.

So I stopped interrupting her.

I would then save all of my items with questions in a pile so that I only had to interrupt her once. This didn't go over so well, either. She simply couldn't understand why on earth I would let it all pile up like that. Frankly, it made perfect sense to me, particularly since the same question would often apply to multiple items and so one answer to one question would knock out about four or five items. She reprimanded me with her words, telling me to ask her when I had a question. Of course, then she would don her headphones and privately listen to music while she worked.

I then seemed to be on the right track for a couple of weeks. Well, seemed anyway.

I came in one day to a stern Patricia face and when the lips moved, the words "We need to talk" emerged, piercing me and causing me to contemplate turning on my heels and walking out to my car, never to return again. What would happen if I did that? Would I still have enough credits to graduate in June? What about the $$$ I'd plunked down for this opportunity?

Turns out, there were some steps I was overlooking in my cataloging. Why was I overlooking these steps, you may ask? Because I had not been taught them - that is why.

Problem is, Patricia was convinced that she HAD taught me these things. How can this be, you ask?

Well, there is another intern, also in my grad program, who is there to learn the same things as I. Turns out Patricia (perhaps not realizing that there are two of us) sometimes teaches him things on days that I'm not there and is under the impression that she has taught me these things. So I am then held accountable for things I haven't even been taught.

Very frustrating, particularly when I try to tell Patricia that I haven't been shown how to do something yet and she is convinced that I have and tells me that she must not have made herself clear. Ayayayayay.

And if that weren't bad enough, I watched in horror as Patricia tormented a high-schooler (let's call him 'Tim') who is volunteering at the library and was under Patricia's charge. Tim was working on putting some labels on some new cd cases and was listening to his iPod and working quietly. He gets up to use the restroom and, after about 7 minutes, Patricia begins to wonder aloud what is keeping him. She exclaims, "I seem to have a student who is more interested in hiding in the bathroom than in working."

A pit began to form in my stomach and my heart ached for Tim, who was in for some sort of degradation that will likely be the cause of a lifetime of gastrointestinal issues. I began an attempt to telekinetically lure Tim from the bathroom to save him from what looked to be complete and utter humiliation.

But I have no telekinesis, I only pretend that I do.

A good three more minutes passed and Patricia was at the bathroom door, knocking loudly and saying, "Are you going to come out soon?"

It was then that I made a mental note to myself to only visit the restroom when Patricia was on her lunch break.

I raise my *Grasshopper to my dearly departed Grandmother, Doris

May 11 was the one-year anniversary of the death of my dear maternal grandmother (see also this post) and as I was speaking to my biodad (not to be confused with my dad, who is my dad - he raised me, taught me, helped me through school, has been emotionally supportive when I needed it most, helped me become me - he has done everything a father should do and so much more, but he was not the one to initially create me...hmm, I see my future Father's Day post here) on the telephone, he told me that his mother (who was, I think, 93 years old) was not doing so well and he believes her to be near the end.

Instantly, I thought to myself that it would be so bizarre if she passed on this day, the exact same day one year later than my maternal grandmother...but I did not utter that thought aloud, as it seemed inappropriate and somehow morbid. Instead, I offered words of support and assurance to my biodad (who I have really only known for about two and half years but, again, this is the subject of another post). I reminded him that she has lived a long, wonderful and happy life and is fortunate that she is still rather healthy and not in pain. He expressed regret that she never really got to know me and I was touched by this - it felt very kind and warm, hearing this.

This conversation reminded me of how important it is to value the people around us who really matter and to tell them that they are loved. I made a point of telling my wonderful wife and fabulous daughter how loved they are and how much I treasure them both. I vowed to myself that I will spend the summer devoting much quality time to those I love the most and that I will let my loved ones know how wonderful I think they are.

I have some regrets that I had some friction with my grandmother a few months before she passed away (I regrettably refer you to this post ) and am happy that I put that behind me and spent some quality time with her before she was gone.

Later that day, I learned that my paternal grandmother passed away earlier in the day. Yes, the exact same day (albeit one year later) that my maternal grandmother had passed away. So, to Dorothy, who I did not know very well at all, I remember you with warmth and love in my heart and may you rest in peace.

*A Grasshopper is a nasty drink that my grandmother used to concoct in the blender around Christmastime. On the day she died, last year, I bought all of the ingredients for this libation and proceeded to whip up a batch in her honor.

Grasshopper

1 1/2 oz. Green Creme de Menthe
3/4 oz. White Creme de Cacao
3 oz. half-and-half

Combine in blender with about one cup of ice. Blend until smooth and then pour into a parfait or margarita glass. Enjoy, if possible. (Note: does not glow in the dark).

Delivering mail through snow and sleet…and volunteer?

aka, The Saga Continues...

So Friday rolls around and, still, the spot at the end of the street where the giant metal mailbox for the entire neighborhood was rooted remains empty. As I am expecting some important documents from school and want to read my new New Yorker, I decide to give our local postal branch a call to find out what gives. I am informed that “someone ran over the old mailbox” and that the new one is scheduled to be installed that very day. I am then told that the corresponding keys for the new box will be delivered directly to our doors shortly thereafter.

Then Friday night, I receive an email from Sheri, a neighbor from a couple of doors down, informing me that she was told that the keys are locked inside of the newly planted mailbox and will be distributed on Saturday, since more people are likely to be at home then.

Well, Saturday comes and Saturday goes and nobody darkens our door with any keys. Sunday is, of course, the national day of rest for those who carry the mail, so I hang out at home on Monday, expecting my doorbell to chime at any moment. I make certain that music isn’t on too loud and try to summon the arrival of a key-bearing postal worker at my doorstep using my psychic powers.

My psychic powers seem to be taking a personal day off.

I wish to take a shower and am certain that, if I do, that will be when the doorbell will ring and I will miss my opportunity to have access to my mail until…tomorrow? The next day? Whenever they get around to it?

By 4:30pm on Monday I’m beginning to, again, wonder what gives. I decide to phone my local post office once again. As I begin to explain why I am calling, the woman who answered the phone says that she will transfer me to Larry, who is handling that situation. When I explain to Larry the discrepancies between what I was told would happen and what has actually occurred, Larry tells me that “they were having difficulty getting all of the keys out” and that if I go to blankety-blank address tomorrow, I’ll be able to pick my keys up from Arnie.

Arnie does not work for the postal service. Arnie is my neighbor and is one of those distrustful-of-the-government, uber right-wing republicans. He is the one with the bumper sticker on his car described in this post. I do not trust Arnie. He hates gay people and has not been very friendly to me. While my jaw is dropping to the ground, Larry hangs up.

After mulling over my thoughts for a moment and phoning J to see if she knows if this is even legal (as I’m thinking it’s not), I decide to phone the post office again and clear this up with a supervisor. The woman who answered the phone claimed to be a supervisor when I requested to speak with a manager and, when I began to explain the problem to her, she told me that she was going to transfer me to Larry.

“But wait,” I tell her, “I thought you said that you were the supervisor.” She tells me that Larry, too, is a supervisor. Too many chiefs…not a good sign. I tell Larry that I need to clarify what he told me only moments ago.

“So, let me make sure I understand this correctly. All of the keys to all of the mailboxes in the neighborhood are being left with Arnie –my neighbor, Arnie- tomorrow?”

“That’s right,” Larry assures me.

“Is that legal???” I am unable to contain my incredulousness. Larry stammers and tells me that he doesn’t know.

“I don’t think it is and it’s not okay with me.” Larry then informs me that Arnie “volunteered” to distribute the keys since “they were having trouble getting them out.” Interesting.. I never knew that one could "volunteer" with the U.S. Postal Service and gain access to the private mail of others. I'm certain that there are many aspiring criminals who would be quite interested in this civic opportunity.

I inform Larry that I am not comfortable with them giving access to my mail without my permission to someone who does not like me and who I do not trust. I pause briefly for a deep and cleansing yoga breath and then ask Larry if he realizes how rampant identity theft is and that I'm really quite surprised that they would just give all of those keys to a complete stranger. Clearly, this sort of thing hadn’t entered anyone’s mind and Larry tells me that he can leave a note for my postal carrier to leave my key under my doormat if I am uncomfortable with Arnie distributing them. Still, it hasn’t dawned on him that it might not be such a good idea to leave access to twenty homes’ worth of mail to a random stranger who “volunteered” to take care of it.

Content with the outcome that Larry will instruct our mail carrier to leave our mailbox key under our doormat (although not fully believing that Larry will actually do this) and envisioning the awkwardness that may occur as a result of the interchange between our mail carrier and Arnie: "Well, Arnie, here are all of the keys except for one. She didn't want you having access to her mail. Thanks for helping out, Arnie, and if we ever need any more help, we'll let you know!"

I then pose to Larry one final question:

"I'm just curious. If I hadn't called you today to find out what was going on with our keys to our mailboxes, how on earth would I have known that I was to pick them up from my neighbor? Was the postal service planning on sending out some sort of memo to everyone on the street?"

And do you know what Larry told me???

"Oh, Arnie was going to take care of that."

No sooner do I hang up the phone from Larry and it rings. It’s Arnie and he has our mailbox key and can we come and pick them up from him? So, Larry the “supervisor” not only has no clue that it’s quite likely illegal to give keys to locked mailboxes to a random stranger, but – despite being the one who is “handling this situation” – he has no idea that said keys had already been distributed to said random stranger.

J then walks in the door, home from work, just in time to see the steam emerging from both my ears. She offers to take over while I drink my coffee and attempt to locate calm. Like a crazy person wandering urban streets, I’m pacing and muttering to myself…the occasional I can’t believe audible and somewhat clear.

J retrieves our key from our bigoted and unfriendly neighbor and returns home with an armload of our mail. She then phones the main postal number and registers a formal complaint. The woman graciously receiving our complaint tells us this should never have happened.

expecting and predicting

Currently, I know four women who are pregnant. So, I thought it would be fun to log my predictions for the anticipated gender of each child-to-be. Then I figured, while I'm at it, I shall take a stab at the due dates as well (although I must confess that my track record on due dates is not nearly so good as my track record with gender)(Recent correct predictions on gender: Angie (3 times), Sarah, Lisa, Lori). Will my excellent streak continue? Or will I be wrong every time. Stay tuned as I will update as I obtain confirmation of any of my predictions:

Susan will have a GIRL and will deliver on SEPT. 7, 2005
Lisa will have a BOY and will deliver on SEPT. 4, 2005
Dana will have a BOY and will deliver on OCT. 26, 2005
Liz will have a BOY and will deliver on NOV. 11, 2005

While I'm at it, I also predict that Anna will become pregnant within the next year.