Enough about me... let's talk more about me

1.28.2003 Some Little Thoughts

We’ve been thinking about spawning off little ones.

You know, the type that run around recklessly, bumping into things and screaming their little freakin’ heads off—miniature versions of us. Well, we’ve been pondering about this for quite some time actually, time and time again, when we get a breather in our schedules, we start to ask, ‘is it time yet?’

We talk a lot about what we would name them. If it were a boy, we’d name him this or this or this—a girl, we’d name her this, this or this. The only problem is that we can think of a half dozen boy names, but can’t really think of one girl’s name that we like. I joke by stating Shaniqua and Lashonda as placeholders.

Last summer was our first serious attempt and we realized soon enough that there might be some complications. So, we had to go to a fertility doctor. It wasn’t really too bad, except the fact that he was a bit shady, and I constantly had a trust issue with it all. It was sort of a weird situation. He was a nice guy and very cordial, but his office wasn’t the most professional looking, and seemed to only accept cash. He noted that the insurance companies seldom compensate for this type of medical treatment. Whatever, I figured I'd let it sly for now.

The first things to be done were to find out exactly where we were so we had to make appointments with a nearby hospital to have some specimen samples examined. I asked Elizabeth, “What could this mean? What do I have to do?”

“It could be your… Well, it could be your mojo baby.”

“My mojo?! Oh baby, but me mojo’s good.. It’s all good.”

“Are you sure? How do you know?”

“Err…I guess I don’t really. It just seems to be working well. See?”

Of course, one would think this was simple as pie. My thoughts wandered through the closest of scenarios. My point of reference in many occasions such as this, is of course, old television sitcoms. All I thought was that I was going to a place where they were going to treat me a selection of fine magazines and I was to slip into one of these two by four rooms, draw the curtain, and then basically aim into a specimen cup.

What I wasn’t counting on was that this was too far from the truth. I was told that the sperm in the specimen cup had a 2-hour lifespan and that I should be aware of that—of course, this does not include the time that the hospital has to transport it to the lab and examine the boys. Okay. So, there’s no little room. There’s no special magazine selection. There’s no curtain to be drawn. There’s me, a specimen cup, and New York City traffic to contend with. I hope I get a freakin’ lollipop after this.

[Gory details excluded]

“Err…I’m too old for that. A few years ago, maybe, but… Alright, I think we can make it. Look! I think that’s the hospital. Now all we have to do is find parking.” Fortunate for us, the parking lot is located only across the street and of course, the closest spot within there is located in the opposite corner. Fifteen minutes left.

“You don’t want to know.”

We run onward and into the fertility department. Five minutes left.

There’s a crowded room. A long line to see the two receptionists where one of them is busy gabbing on the phone, “Can you believe he said that to me? Can you? You know what I said to him? …” She converses onward while twirling her hair.

I apologetically approach the working receptionist, the person she is helping, and point to the bag, “Four minutes… I only have four minutes.” The receptionist snatches the bag, practically rips it apart, scribbles my name on a sticker, slaps it on the cup, and screams, “Lab! Lab!” A person emerges from the door behind her wearing a white lab coat, grabs the cup, and runs back in.


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...One thing is that no matter how old I am, I probably will not like being called sir or mister, for they have always seemed too far out of reach...




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