Really Somebody

Sometimes I feel like all of the good lessons have already been taught, and that I just hear the same regurgitated lesson again and again (not that I always learn it).  Not so at dinner a few weeks ago.

A friend of mine has a friend from home who married an old friend of mine from college.  Friend coincidence.  We all got together for dinner to catch up on the past 20 years of our lives in 90 minutes or less.

My old college friend, Darcy, was ready to take the marine biology world by storm the last time I saw her, when the first Bush was President.  She was excited, invigorated, well-educated and energetic - nothing would stop her.  But then she got married, had children, and made the active decision to stay at home with her children.  I'm sure she is a great mom and it sounds like she has great kids.  But I was surprised to see that the life had been sucked out of her a bit --- she didn't sound very cheery about marriage, being a stay-at-home mom, and the June Cleaver lifestyle.  I mentioned that the good ole dating world ain't so rosy either, and that it certainly wasn't easy to make the decision to parent a child alone.  And then she told me this story:

Her teenage daughter's biology teacher was telling Darby about a class project and Darby mentioned that she is a marine biologist and would love to help out.  The next day Darby's daughter came home and said, "Mom, I am so embarrassed.  Mr. Beason asked me if you could give him some plankton from your lab.  He thought you were really somebody."  Darby turned to me and said, "Your daughter will never wonder if her mom is really somebody."

This comment hit me in the gut.  I've never once considered if my daughter would think I'm competent, important or 'really somebody' --- most likely because I've never questioned this about my mother, grandmother or great-grandmother (all professional women).  I, of course, reminded Darby that being a stay-at-home mom is being somebody.  To which she replied, "You and I know that, and she'll know it someday.  But today this really hurts."

Biebersil

Most single sexually active adults have not only a wide array of 'bad date' stories, but also HPV. HPV is that fun virus that causes women to have bad pap smears, multiple pap smears, decidedly unpleasant gynecological procedures and, yes, cervical cancer. It is now known to cause head and neck cancers as well (and you thought oral sex was safe, silly you) and affects both men and women. Oh, and more good news, condoms don't prevent HPV transmission. I had been lucky enough to dodge the bullet on HPV until my last pap smear. It was then that I learned that I'd likely joined the masses and was invited back in for 'further testing'. Several months later I was cleared and breathed a deep sigh of relief.  And then I decided to get the Gardasil vaccine series.  Granted, it does not protect against all forms of HPV, but offers some protection against some of the nastiest strains.  Sounds good to me.

I marched into my large health plan and was directed toward the vaccination office.  The receptionist took one look at me when I said I wanted the Gardasil vaccine and said,
"You're here for what?"
"Gardasil.  Its the HPV vaccine."
"You want this for yourself?", she asked, looking around for my teenage daughter.
"Yes, its for me."
"Okay then, please have a seat under the Miley Cyrus poster."

Ah ha, I'm not the usual Gardasil demographic.  I get it.

I bravely sat through the shot and praised myself when the nurse said I'd been brave and asked how I was doing in Algebra (I told her I got an A - hey, its the truth. She didn't ask when.)  She explained that the vaccine comes in three doses, spread out over several months, and that they've had trouble with girls coming back for all three.

I've now had 2 of the three,  and was promised a Justin Bieber t-shirt after the third.

Dating Advice: What Would Jesus Do?

Most Jewish girls don't take dating advice from JC, but I do. "Don't hide your light under a bushel." Somehow I doubt JC meant this as one of 'The Rules', but I'm adding it to my version (and deleting all of the others by the plastic surgery twins). Last night I had dinner with a single friend of mine who is attractive, well-educated, kind and an all-around great person. To my horror, she shared with me that she had been advised by some of her 'friends' that she is single because she is too honest with men too early on about herself. More specifically, that she is Ivy-league educated, has a good job and owns her own home. She doesn't flaunt these details - in fact, she is one of the most modest people I know - but also doesn't lie about them when asked questions like, 'Where did you go to college?'. Her advisees instructed that the next time she should answer, "A small school in New England" rather than the truth, which is Yale.

 Are you fkg kidding me ????????????

 I went on a date two weeks ago with a guy from my town, who was decent looking, gainfully employed and even in my age range. To top it off, he was also Jewish-lite and we had lived in many of the same cities. The first date went quite well and he asked me out again within 48 hours. What could be better, right? On the second date we somehow got on the subject of sports and whether we'd played them in high school (who cares?). He had not been athletic, and admitted that one of his brothers was a jock and the other a cool guy. I watched this 45-year old man travel backwards in time to the 'nerdy smart kid' from 1985 who felt inferior to his older brothers. He asked me if I played sports and I said yes, I was was on the swim team and was a cheerleader. The moment those words floated out of my mouth I realized that I'd just shattered his ego. He then asked me some questions about my job and my home (I'm more senior and have a nicer home than he does) and I realized there wouldn't be a third date. Really???

 Maybe my friend's advisees are correct --- maybe I should have told this guy that I was the unpopular girl in high school who stayed home on prom night. Maybe I should have told him that I work at the local supermarket and live in my parents' basement apartment. Maybe then he would feel less intimidated and we could have gone out on a 3rd date. No thanks. I'm done hiding my light under a bushel and I think that's what Jesus would do.

Dating by Contract

Luke left 2 weeks ago for a job in the mid-west. We laughed, we cried, we laughed some more. We had some really good times and some very good sex. From the beginning of the relationship we knew that it would most likely be short-term, and it was. Now he is gone and it is unlikely that we will see each other again anytime soon. And I'm okay with that. This is the first time I've ever had a defined relationship of short duration with a known expiration date. Neither of us could change that date and the date was not due to a fault on either end. There was no bad guy. When he did something I found irritating or unacceptable, I found myself thinking, "Well, its only for 3 more weeks anyway." Its hardly worth a major confrontation if its ending in 3 weeks, now is it? I never had to give much thought to whether this could really work long-term, because the term was short. And because the term was short, I felt free to really get to know him without worrying if he was getting too attached, if I was, if I really thought there was potential, if he was 'relationship' material, if I could live with his baggage, if he could live with mine --- I must tell you, the short-term contract was really freeing.

The Sperminator

I was speaking at a conference on Friday and decided to wear a bright orange/hot pink color block mini dress that I bought on a whim a few months ago. It is 40% Austin Powers, 40% Laugh In, and 20% What in the Hell am I doing? But it matched my mood and the sunny spring day, so I decided WTF? Let me back up for a moment. Three and a half years ago, I had 5 frozen embryos in the cooler while I was looking for my gestational carrier extraordinaire. We used the 3 best quality embryos in round one, with no success. While waiting to cycle and implant the last 2 (one of whom is now Lucy), I decided to transfer my care and my sperm samples to another center that would be covered by my new health insurance. I was told to contact the head of the sperm center, The Sperminator, which I did on multiple occasions by both e-mail and phone. He repeatedly put me off, took weeks to respond to my requests,refused to help me and generally pissed me off. I finally asked if I needed to speak to his supervisor when, voila!, I learned I was expecting a baby. My focus changed and the sperm transfer was temporarily forgotten. A few months later the center that held my sample contacted me to ask about my plans. I explained that I'd tried to transfer the sample, without success, and the woman there said, "Well, you know why, right?" "No, I have no idea. Why?" "Dr. Sperminator refuses to work with single women. He says its an "ethical" issue for him." Gasp. "You have absolutely got to be kidding me?" "Unfortunately, I'm not". A New York Times headline flashed before my eyes. The Nightly News. A lawsuit. The ACLU. A public flogging. A public castration. But, fortunately or unfortunately, the raging bull was lost in the tidal wave of the pregnancy and I never got to confront the Sperminator. Until last Friday. The Sperminator was the MC at this conference and apparently forgot our email tirade, my name, and my threats. I, however, did not forget The Sperminator. The Sperminator is a 70ish looking schmarmy guy with sparse gray hair who very much liked my Austin Powers get up. He shook my hand, welcomed me to the conference, and sweet talked me onto the stage. After my lecture he stopped me on the stage, held my arm (yuck!), and told me what a star I was. He then came up to me after and asked me to stay for the entire conference (no, thanks). I think The Sperminator would have liked to make his own sperm donation - the old fashioned way. I never reminded The Sperminator who I was or how we knew each other. It seemed strangely satisfying to instead give a great lecture wearing a bold mini-dress, to walk out on his invitation to join him for the day without looking back, and to instead go home to take Lucy to the park. These boots were made for walking, Sperminator.

Living the French Movie

A few weeks ago I received an e-mail via yet another internet dating site from a guy I'll call Luke. Luke's profile was basically blank and his picture had a lot to be desired --- but his e-mails were charming and well-written, and his sense of humor was endearing. Luke was on the tail end of a nasty divorce and entering the dating game after 10+ of being married. He was therefore clueless about dating games and without the unpleasant, jaded aftertaste that so many of us professional daters cannot shake. After a witty exchange of e-mails, I reluctantly agreed to meet Luke for a drink. 'Reluctantly', because I was not attracted to his picture and because I've dated the newly-single and heartbroken before -- and it's never fun to be the Rebound Chick. But I still met him.

As on many blind dates before, I was surprised when I met him in person. But for once, it was a pleasant surprise. He was better looking than the crappy picture he had posted for the background scenery. The conversation was easy and we found we had much in common. Yet, he had lived in many countries, spoke several languages and had life experiences that intrigued me. He admitted to being nervous, and acted it, asking at the end of the long date if it was appropriate to say he would like to see me again. It was, we did, and things progressed quickly.

It was obvious that he was emotionally and financially unsettled in light of his divorce. It also became apparent that he wasn't comfortable being seen in public until his child custody agreement was final, which I understood. Last, it was crystal clear that he would likely be moving for work within the next few months. It didn't take a genius to realize that this had no future.

In the past I would have run, not walked, to the nearest emergency exit. But something about Luke kept me engaged and I went with my gut (and my libido). Things got physical very quickly. As he promised with his intoxicating European accent, this would be a way to get to know each other better. And, I must admit, he was right.

We've been seeing each other twice a week for about 3 weeks and speak or text almost every day. The sex is incredible, he makes me laugh, and he cares about what I feel and say. We talk openly about everything, including the fact that this will likely end soon. We joke that we're living the French movie --- and perhaps because we both know that movies only last for about 2 hours and a bag of popcorn, we're able to enjoy this stolen time together without thinking about life outside the bubble.

Condomnation

I like to think of myself as a contemporary, mature woman of the 21st century who isn't afraid to walk into a drugstore and buy herself a box of condoms. Even during the daytime. Even if the drugstore is right across the street from my office. And so, the other day at lunch time, I did so.

And then I got to the check out. The checkout clerk was an 17-year old Hispanic male. Hey, I'm still okay with this, right? Yes, of course. I'm not going to bail. I'm just going to pretend that I'm the average condom buyer and that this is no big deal.

"Good Afternoon", he said, with a big smile on his face.
"Hi"
"Oh, wow! Look at this - you've got a coupon."
"Great, thanks."
"No, this isn't just any coupon, this is $5 off your next box of Trojan's"

I subtly glance over my shoulder. No, that is not the security guard from my building. And who cares if it is? I am woman, hear me roar!

"Seriously, I see a lot of coupons come through here, and they usually aren't for $5. This is a really, really good coupon. You've got to hold onto this."

"Fantastic, thank you."

Why are RiteAid bags see-through?