You Probably Need a Will, So Here's How to Have That Potentially Awkward Conversation with Your Family
Remember, if you die without a will, the state will determine who inherits
Here’s an idea: Put a call for sperm out on Facebook! Have a sort of contest –- men must submit a photo of themselves and a poem, that’s it. I read entries and make a selection. I could even charge a $10 entry fee to begin my baby’s college fund! It makes me think of the girl who was auctioning off her virginity –- she got an awful lot of media attention for that! Could I somehow get a reality show out of this? I mention it to my sister, who mentions it to her husband, who works in reality television. We all share a chuckle. But I was serious!
All around me are women with little babies. Or goofy toddlers. Or giant alien pregnancy bellies. Having a croissant in a café, a woman wheels her infant past and I am gripped with the desire to grab her and ask, Where did you get your sperm??????
Because I am a narcissist or something, I forget that not all women had to scrounge around for a scarce squirt of sperm. They likely have a husband hanging around. They might have even got pregnant by accident! This concept is now blowing my mind.
To get accidentally pregnant! Something I lived in mortal fear of -- until I lezzed out, but even then when I was a hooker, and then again later when I got all bisexual. I’ve spent so much of my life fearing the accidental pregnancy, and I am now frothing at the mouth with jealousy at all these straight ladies. I bet you just forgot to put a condom on, didn’t you, I glower privately at a woman walking by, a baby bouncing in its Bjorn on her giant, milked-up cleavage.
Kidding! I did not think that. I more sighed mournfully into my coffee and went on with my day. I have a Skype with my ex-girlfriend Lindsey, who is off in Canada studying how to become a bigger genius in some super exclusive program full of crazy genius nerds.
“Quentin is dying to give his sperm away,” she suggests. Quentin is one of Lindsey’s best friends, a baby drag queen who performs under the name Miss Super Extra Deluxe Pandemonium. She wears a lot of makeup and bright 80s shoulder pads, and her drag queen hair is my actual ideal hair -- a sort of curly, frizzy, halo-y, big, long Jewfro.
Miss Super Extra Deluxe Pandemonium is a Chosen Person who hosts drag Bat Mitzvahs. In his non-drag life Quentin is an exceptionally adorable gay boy who works for non-profits and wears fun outfits and gets involved in cool political campaigns. He had recently asked if I would be part of a date auction to benefit a Mayoral candidate too excellent to actually win.
For 20 years I had managed to avoid being date auctioned, a scenario I thought embarrassing, a bit pompous and not really the best money-maker. But I would do anything for Quentin, he has that affect on me. I said yes, and a book-shopping date with me was purchased for $150.
I sent Quentin the form letter I had drawn up and was now bulk-emailing to gay men. Kidding! I did not do that! My subject line was: A Krazy Kwestion. I imagined circus music and a little dog doing a hoola-hoop.
Hi Quentin! I Skpyed with Lindsey a couple weeks ago and was complaining about how HARD it was to find some gay sperm to make a gay baby, and she told me you are very free with your sperm! Is this true?
Hey Michelle! Wow, I'm totally honored! And I think I'd be up for it, but would like to think a bit more about it before giving you a final yes. I will say that I once tried to donate to the sperm bank in Berkeley, but I was too short (full disclosure: I am 5'6"!).
Hi Quentin! Oh my god I can't believe you got turned down for SHORTNESS! That is GENDER OPPRESSION! Short people are the cutest! I don't care about that. With my genetics I think I can expect a short alcoholic. Bring it!
I went on to explain to Quentin that he would basically pleasure himself somewhere in my house, deposit his man-magic in a warm bowl, and that one of my dear friends would bring it to where I lie, with my feet in the air, waiting.
"You had me at warm bowl," Quentin said.
Oh my god oh my god oh my god! I had my donor! A 20-something, adorable, attractive, artistic, intelligent, politically conscious, super funny gay boy! Who is also Jewish -- bonus! I don’t know why Jewish should be a bonus actually, but it just feels special, right? Everyone knows Jewish people are special. My gay Jewish baby is going to be totally amazing!
So meanwhile, I’m dating someone. It is weird to begin dating someone when you know you’re going to try to get pregnant any minute. The someone is an androgynous girl-person who I will call Dashiell, as it suits her. I met Dashiell at the date auction, where she had come to go dancing with her ex-girlfriend, who is also her bestie.
I later learned that they had been dancing earlier at a different party, and the ex-girlfriend had thrown a diabolical combination of orange juice and cream at Dashiell’s more recent and terrible ex-girlfriend. Ladies, take note! Cream immediately curdles in orange juice, making this a truly repulsive drink to hit someone with!
I was flushed with respect for this outrageously loyal ex, and extra-curious about Dashiell, whose honor was so worth defending. Dashiell looks like Tilda Swinton had a pair of boy-girl fraternal twins, and Elly from La Roux was the girl and Dashiell was the boy. She also looks like the lost Curtis brother from "The Outsiders," the one who just could not handle the chaos of that household and so went off and got himself an apartment and a little Maltese-Terrier mutt and lived a tidy and serene life away from the gang violence.
Dashiell was very polite and asked me where I grew up, sort of wholesome questions that were very charming, and then she asked me out via text, and came and picked me up at my door like a gentleman and hailed a gentlemanly cab and took us to this really lovely seafood restaurant and then walked me home and then we made out and guess what? Totally great kisser! Made me super dizzy!
The old me of like two months ago would have immediately dragged Dashiell up into my lair, this being an exceptional magical kiss, the kind that stops time and makes you feel like your radio fell into the bathtub with you, in a good way. But I was a new woman!
After a bunch of dating mishaps, I had learned that I am seriously sensitive to the awesome chemicals your body produces when it’s hot for someone, and I get sort of swept away too quickly, and then the person winds up being all wrong for me -- like, they want to make me slow dance with them to songs from Glee or they have an unresolved Oedipal complex and are obsessed with their moms or they’re melodramatic pill-poppers or something.
I was determined to go slow in all future romances, something I really didn’t know how to do, but figured not having sex on the first date was probably a good start. Adding additional fuel to this new lifestyle was the baby. I couldn’t just date any old fool with a baby in the future. They had to be seriously amazing, together and healthy in all areas of their life. Not only did they have to be relationship material, they also sort of had to be dad material.
I kept going on dates with Dashiell, waiting for her to unzip her face. She seemed sort of too good to be true. She had a good job and liked her mom. She lived alone. She was happy. Whoa. She was impeccably dressed, like all the time. She kept buying me dinner. She laughed at my jokes. She was sort of painfully gorgeous. She was different than me in ways that were fascinating, her mind was sharp and bright, she was a Virgo -- brainy and grounded.
OK, I thought, as we shared a pizza, This is the date where she’s going to get weird. I don’t know what she’s going to do, but she will do it, and it will be weird, and I’ll get uncomfortable, and thus will begin the long, sad, drawn-out process of me pretending she didn’t make me uncomfortable, making some sort of excuse for how weird she got, ignoring that rising panic that begins when I know someone is unzipping their face but I’m pretending they’re not because I’m just "giving them a chance," feeling the panic rise and rise over the coming weeks until I finally break up with them much later than I should have.
But Dashiell continues to not unzip her handsome face and as we get closer I begin to feel a little guilty that I still haven’t told her I’m about to maybe probably hopefully get pregnant.
Next: OK, when do I tell my new date that I might be pregnant any minute? And who will bring me the Warm Bowl? And what about my cats?