Big shockeroo; here at the house of fab,we are recovering from yet another train wreck of a relationship (we being myself and Malcolm the cat). I got dumped last night. Although, come to think of it, the exact timing of the breakup is subject to debate. My boyfriend came over last Tuesday night and said that he wanted to take a break (this was not entirely unexpected, but more on that later). Now, my perception is that 'taking a break' in guyspeak really means 'i'm going to dump you but don't have the cojones to do it just this moment, so i'm going to drag this out for a little while longer'. Therefore I suspected that a dumping was imminent, although a little (woefully naive) piece of me still hoped that he would change his mind. Cut to Saturday morning, when I get a text from a female friend of his who I have subsequently become friendly with. She texted me to say that she was sorry that X and I split up and that she hoped I was ok. While this was a gracious and thoughtful move on her part, unfortunately she was unaware that the dumping had not yet, in fact, occurred. I sent a rather sharply worded text to X, he came over last night, and after an hour's conversation and multiple discarded kleenex (some of them flung at his head, I'm sorry to say), it was over.
Why, you may ask, would a catch like me be flung back into the ocean yet again? In a word: butterflies. Or the lack thereof, to be more accurate. As much as it pains me, I'm trying to keep the trashing of X to a bare minimum, so I'll ignore the apparent multitude of relationship issues he has for right now. What it boils down to is that he wants to feel butterflies in his stomach every time the woman in his life walks into the room, and since I have been thus far unable to produce a swarm of intestinal insect activity in him, he has concluded that he does not love me. Despite the fact that he is 37 and has yet to experience butterflies in the context of a healthy, functional relationship, he has taken up his net and gone in search of them.
The irony here is that I really tried to take this relationship slowly. This being the first significant relationship since the divorce, I was worried about getting in over my head and getting hurt all over again. I didn't want to fall in love; I wanted to crawl into it, take my time, and hopefully avoid making another huge mistake. And that's how it worked out. Things didn't happen overnight; it just gradually grew better and better. It was really only in the last month or so (we started dating last August) that I finally realized that I loved him. And he admits that we're compatible and click on a number of levels and that the problem is not me, it's him (funny how that last part doesn't help AT ALL).
I would like very much to hate him, but putting aside the bad sitcom circumstances of the 'breakup by proxy', he's not an asshole. He just keeps thinking that there's something better out there and (I think) he's terrified to commit until he finds it - or realizes that the perfect girl isn't there, that we all get moody on occasion and wake up with bedhead and generally act like the flawed beings that we all are. And he is right about one thing; I deserve to be with someone who sees me and all my neuroses and wants me despite them - or maybe even because of them. As hurt as I am now, I hope he figures it all out, because he was often a perfectly lovely boyfriend and shouldn't end up alone (but seeing as how I'm not the first girl he has dispensed with for this reason, I don't think he's any closer to a real solution).
The thing I miss most of all is that on nights that we didn't spend together, he always called me before he went to sleep to say goodnight. I think I need to start shutting my phone off around 10pm so that I'll stop waiting for it to ring. Maybe I should put bedtime calls as dating criteria on Match.com - my coworkers and my mother are both threatening to force me into online dating. I think my mom would like to have more of a say in who I date, since as she pointed out to me several times this past week, if there's a guy out there with issues and emotional baggage up the wazoo, he's going to ask for my number. Very helpful, my mom.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
no, I'm not hibernating
Egad. I've been telling myself for the past week to get on here and redeem myself by updating this thing. And now that I see that my last post was in October I'm even more horrified. I thought of adding "update the blog" to my list of New Year's resolutions. But then I remembered that I no longer make resolutions. And when I do, I don't follow them. So there you have it.
Life at chez fab? Many changes since I last wrote. After hearing how delightful (i.e. snow-laden and freezing) the weather has been in Massachusetts, I am somewhat relieved that I didn't make the move home this year. I mean, I sulk here when the temperature goes to 40 degrees. Who the hell am I kidding?
I did, however, leave BSMC (Big Scary Medical Center). I went in to work one day in November and around 11am, for no clear reason, decided that that was the day I was going to give my notice. And I did. And it was good. My last day was January 2nd (because I am a nice person, I gave them oodles of notice, not that they did anything useful with it, like hiring a replacement that I could train before my departure). I didn't have another job lined up at the time but had interviews set up within a few days, and have been working at a new job since the second week of January. And while everyone in this new office has their quirks, I feel genuinely appreciated and respected. And when I leave the office at the end of the day, I leave. My cell phone isn't constantly ringing, I'm not staying late untangling problems while everyone else goes home, none of it. I actually have a life again. I have personal time. Am I using that personal time for anything useful, like writing, or learning French, or doing more cooking? Not yet. But for now, it's enough that I have it.
Life at chez fab? Many changes since I last wrote. After hearing how delightful (i.e. snow-laden and freezing) the weather has been in Massachusetts, I am somewhat relieved that I didn't make the move home this year. I mean, I sulk here when the temperature goes to 40 degrees. Who the hell am I kidding?
I did, however, leave BSMC (Big Scary Medical Center). I went in to work one day in November and around 11am, for no clear reason, decided that that was the day I was going to give my notice. And I did. And it was good. My last day was January 2nd (because I am a nice person, I gave them oodles of notice, not that they did anything useful with it, like hiring a replacement that I could train before my departure). I didn't have another job lined up at the time but had interviews set up within a few days, and have been working at a new job since the second week of January. And while everyone in this new office has their quirks, I feel genuinely appreciated and respected. And when I leave the office at the end of the day, I leave. My cell phone isn't constantly ringing, I'm not staying late untangling problems while everyone else goes home, none of it. I actually have a life again. I have personal time. Am I using that personal time for anything useful, like writing, or learning French, or doing more cooking? Not yet. But for now, it's enough that I have it.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
obligatory post for october!
Yeah, so I ignored my resolution to write more consistently after my last entry.
What's new:
I went to Boston, interviewed with a big practice there, one that I've admired for years, and got offered a job. But I'm not taking it. I'm staying in L.A., for now at least.
The short answer is that the job being offered wasn't quite what I wanted to be doing, and the salary was a big drop from what I currently earn. The long answer is that I went and met with them, and spent a few days at home, and while I saw some friends and family and had a lovely time, I didn't feel that pull that made me want to stay.
I've been looking for that pull for most of my adult life. After college, I moved to New York City, stayed for 8 years, then came to L.A., where I'm about to hit the six-year mark. And while these are both exciting cities with much to see and do, I've never quite felt like I belonged, like I could commit to staying for good. Leaving has always been in the back of my head. I have this notion that I'll eventually find a place where I'll feel like I fit, like I've found my people, and then I won't always be wondering where the next place will be.
I don't mean this in a snobby way; it's not that I feel like I'm better than everyone else. It's more that I don't know who or where my people are. I'm fortunate to have a small group of friends who are very dear to me, but they are a bit scattered, geographically speaking: northern California, Massachusetts, Kentucky, New York. And yes, I have friends here in L.A., but due to schedules, obligations, and my own weird brand of shyness, I don't socialize a heck of a lot. I guess I have this fantasy that when I find 'my' place - wherever that may be - then I'll be one of those people juggling engagements, having parties, and so on. But I suspect that social butterflies aren't born at the ripe age of 35, and instead of fighting my nature, perhaps it's time that I come to terms with how I conduct my social life, rather than expect it to magically change with a new address. Or, I could challenge myself to improve my life here instead of running away.
Plus, I'm afraid that my first winter back in Boston might result in my weeping into my multiple layers of clothing, and inhaling mass quantities of dark chocolate until I develop a protective layer of blubber that would make Moby Dick envious.
And yes, I admit, there's also a boy involved. But I'm not ready to talk about that yet.
What's new:
I went to Boston, interviewed with a big practice there, one that I've admired for years, and got offered a job. But I'm not taking it. I'm staying in L.A., for now at least.
The short answer is that the job being offered wasn't quite what I wanted to be doing, and the salary was a big drop from what I currently earn. The long answer is that I went and met with them, and spent a few days at home, and while I saw some friends and family and had a lovely time, I didn't feel that pull that made me want to stay.
I've been looking for that pull for most of my adult life. After college, I moved to New York City, stayed for 8 years, then came to L.A., where I'm about to hit the six-year mark. And while these are both exciting cities with much to see and do, I've never quite felt like I belonged, like I could commit to staying for good. Leaving has always been in the back of my head. I have this notion that I'll eventually find a place where I'll feel like I fit, like I've found my people, and then I won't always be wondering where the next place will be.
I don't mean this in a snobby way; it's not that I feel like I'm better than everyone else. It's more that I don't know who or where my people are. I'm fortunate to have a small group of friends who are very dear to me, but they are a bit scattered, geographically speaking: northern California, Massachusetts, Kentucky, New York. And yes, I have friends here in L.A., but due to schedules, obligations, and my own weird brand of shyness, I don't socialize a heck of a lot. I guess I have this fantasy that when I find 'my' place - wherever that may be - then I'll be one of those people juggling engagements, having parties, and so on. But I suspect that social butterflies aren't born at the ripe age of 35, and instead of fighting my nature, perhaps it's time that I come to terms with how I conduct my social life, rather than expect it to magically change with a new address. Or, I could challenge myself to improve my life here instead of running away.
Plus, I'm afraid that my first winter back in Boston might result in my weeping into my multiple layers of clothing, and inhaling mass quantities of dark chocolate until I develop a protective layer of blubber that would make Moby Dick envious.
And yes, I admit, there's also a boy involved. But I'm not ready to talk about that yet.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
rampant lameness
Evidently, a divine force does exist in the universe, because I made it through my stats class with a B+. Not very impressive, but considering my performance on last evening's final, I'm just relieved to have passed. I did really well on my first two exams, but at some point my brain hit its capacity for mathematical formulas, and refused to accept any new entries.
Anyway, over and done with, so I promise to come up with a more interesting entry soon.
Anyway, over and done with, so I promise to come up with a more interesting entry soon.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Digression and rumination
Last Monday's stats lecture was on regression and correlation (whatever that means). In keeping with the rest of the quarter thus far, it took a herculean effort for me to sustain the will to live for the entire 2.5 hours, let alone absorb the information. This was made more challenging by the fact that I blew off last week's class to go see the Beastie Boys, and had no memory whatsoever of the lecture from 2 weeks prior. About 5 minutes in, I gave up any pretense of following along and followed my usual train of thought around whatever jacked-up path it chose to take, rejoining reality periodically only to find out, with great horror, that the lecture was still going on. Hence my choice of title.
I mention the whole wandering-mind thing because I am in the midst of yet another bout of insomnia (it's after 1am on Wednesday, and I have a desk buried in paperwork and the clinic from hell coming my way in under seven hours). I wouldn't call myself a chronic insomniac, but my sleep habits are less than optimal. There have been nights when I have literally slept through earthquakes (the last occurrence only a few weeks ago). Other nights, no matter how tired I am, my brain does a stellar impersonation of a hummingbird on crack and I can't sleep at all. I used to blame this on the five years spent working predominantly night shifts after I graduated from college, but honestly, I remember this happening as far back as grade school. I would find myself at 12 or 1 or 2, staring at the clock and fretting about whatever constituted a stressful event at age 9 - reading a book report aloud in class the next day or trying to elude bullies on the playground.
And I've never been a morning person, either. When I was in high school, my father had the pitiable task of waking me up in the morning. He would untuck the covers at the foot of my bed and tickle my feet; I would generally respond with a solid kick and some barely intelligible curses muttered from beneath my pillow (luckily my dad, being no stranger to foul language himself, was not easily offended). Now my wakeup routine consists of the snooze alarm being slapped down at least twice, and an eighteen pound cat loudly lamenting the fact that he has not been petted in several hours. On work days, I stay in bed until I am guaranteed to be at least fifteen minutes late, then leap from the bed in a frenzied state, loathe to accept that I have not yet figured out how to rupture the space-time continuum and arrive at work before I've actually woken up.
Some nights I do try to get my act together and go to sleep early. I like the idea of being one of those people who wakes before the alarm, makes the coffee, waters the plants, reads the headlines, and still makes it to the office early enough to get some work done before the 8am mayhem commences. I have a hard time accepting the fact that I am not, as yet, that person, nor do I show any convincing signs of becoming her in the near future, and instead choose to berate myself for being thus far unable to rework my personality and obtain the desired result. Which brings me to my next set of ramblings.
What makes us who we really are - what we hope for ourselves and aspire to be, or how the world perceives us as the result of our actions ?
Example: one of my bosses has repeatedly suggested that I put myself on the chopping block known as Match.com (my employers aren't so clear on the concept of personal boundaries). I've blown it off and told her that I'm not interested, but in truth, I did check out an online dating site some time ago. I gave up on it because I was confounded by how I should answer the questions and create my profile. They ask you all sorts of things, about your personal values and habits, and how you deal with different issues, in order to get a read on your personality and link you with potentially compatible mates. But I found myself wondering if I was presenting myself as I actually am, or as how I'd like to be.
I think I'm pretty self-sufficient and have a decent sense of humor, for example, but that's just my opinion. I'd like to think that my opinion is the one that matters the most in this situation, but over the years, in relationships with friends, employers and others, I've been alarmed at times to find out how another's perception of me can vary so greatly from my own (I suppose we all have this, but me being me, I have to fret about it, beacuse that's just so productive). And the fact is that we don't live life in a vacuum. We deal with other people and their opinions all the time, unless you're a hermit or far, far more resilient and self-assured than I am. Life is, I think, meant to be lived in the world and not solely in our heads. But as someone who gets chronically stuck in her head, I find it hard to merge the two, to use my head enough to stay out of trouble, then get out of my own way and get on with living my life.
And now, of course, I'm also thinking that I've just told a whole bunch of people about this blog - I eased my way into this by telling just a handful of friends when I started a few months back- and you are doubtless reading this and thinking that perhaps I am not well medicated enough, or I need to find a hobby. All of which may be true.
But it beats cleaning the bathroom at 1am.
I mention the whole wandering-mind thing because I am in the midst of yet another bout of insomnia (it's after 1am on Wednesday, and I have a desk buried in paperwork and the clinic from hell coming my way in under seven hours). I wouldn't call myself a chronic insomniac, but my sleep habits are less than optimal. There have been nights when I have literally slept through earthquakes (the last occurrence only a few weeks ago). Other nights, no matter how tired I am, my brain does a stellar impersonation of a hummingbird on crack and I can't sleep at all. I used to blame this on the five years spent working predominantly night shifts after I graduated from college, but honestly, I remember this happening as far back as grade school. I would find myself at 12 or 1 or 2, staring at the clock and fretting about whatever constituted a stressful event at age 9 - reading a book report aloud in class the next day or trying to elude bullies on the playground.
And I've never been a morning person, either. When I was in high school, my father had the pitiable task of waking me up in the morning. He would untuck the covers at the foot of my bed and tickle my feet; I would generally respond with a solid kick and some barely intelligible curses muttered from beneath my pillow (luckily my dad, being no stranger to foul language himself, was not easily offended). Now my wakeup routine consists of the snooze alarm being slapped down at least twice, and an eighteen pound cat loudly lamenting the fact that he has not been petted in several hours. On work days, I stay in bed until I am guaranteed to be at least fifteen minutes late, then leap from the bed in a frenzied state, loathe to accept that I have not yet figured out how to rupture the space-time continuum and arrive at work before I've actually woken up.
Some nights I do try to get my act together and go to sleep early. I like the idea of being one of those people who wakes before the alarm, makes the coffee, waters the plants, reads the headlines, and still makes it to the office early enough to get some work done before the 8am mayhem commences. I have a hard time accepting the fact that I am not, as yet, that person, nor do I show any convincing signs of becoming her in the near future, and instead choose to berate myself for being thus far unable to rework my personality and obtain the desired result. Which brings me to my next set of ramblings.
What makes us who we really are - what we hope for ourselves and aspire to be, or how the world perceives us as the result of our actions ?
Example: one of my bosses has repeatedly suggested that I put myself on the chopping block known as Match.com (my employers aren't so clear on the concept of personal boundaries). I've blown it off and told her that I'm not interested, but in truth, I did check out an online dating site some time ago. I gave up on it because I was confounded by how I should answer the questions and create my profile. They ask you all sorts of things, about your personal values and habits, and how you deal with different issues, in order to get a read on your personality and link you with potentially compatible mates. But I found myself wondering if I was presenting myself as I actually am, or as how I'd like to be.
I think I'm pretty self-sufficient and have a decent sense of humor, for example, but that's just my opinion. I'd like to think that my opinion is the one that matters the most in this situation, but over the years, in relationships with friends, employers and others, I've been alarmed at times to find out how another's perception of me can vary so greatly from my own (I suppose we all have this, but me being me, I have to fret about it, beacuse that's just so productive). And the fact is that we don't live life in a vacuum. We deal with other people and their opinions all the time, unless you're a hermit or far, far more resilient and self-assured than I am. Life is, I think, meant to be lived in the world and not solely in our heads. But as someone who gets chronically stuck in her head, I find it hard to merge the two, to use my head enough to stay out of trouble, then get out of my own way and get on with living my life.
And now, of course, I'm also thinking that I've just told a whole bunch of people about this blog - I eased my way into this by telling just a handful of friends when I started a few months back- and you are doubtless reading this and thinking that perhaps I am not well medicated enough, or I need to find a hobby. All of which may be true.
But it beats cleaning the bathroom at 1am.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Sister Christian, oh the time has come
Okay, so it's inherently disturbing that I'm quoting Night Ranger lyrics (frankly, it's disturbing to remember Night Ranger at all). But the time has come, people, time for me to throw in the towel and join a nice, agnostically-oriented convent, preferably one that serves coffee before morning prayers. Because my divorce is finally final, and after reviewing my checkered history of relationships during a few recent bouts of insomnia, I think the time has come to face the fact that I have dubious taste and questionable judgment when it comes to men, and should perhaps consider a life of solitude and celibacy.
To those near and dear to me worrying that, by sheer virtue of the number of the following examples, I am likely to be made the September selection in the Ho of the Month Club, rest assured, I haven't even dated that many guys. I just know how to pick 'em. No, I share these Useful Hints in the hopes that someone might learn from my mistakes. I myself have learned from a few of them; the problem is that I seem to be highly proficient in making new and ever dumber ones.
1) I don't expect the men I date to be stellar examples of physical fitness; I have definite couch potato tendencies myself. But men, in general, need to learn to say no to bikini underwear. Ripped abs or not, the banana hammock look isn't kind to anyone.
2) Likewise, men need to stay away from silk pajamas. Should I someday forget this little fact, I can rest secure knowing that my brother-in-law Chris will always be ready to refresh my memory. Chris, many years ago, was deeply scarred after seeing an old boyfriend of mine thusly attired the morning after a family gathering when we all crashed at my mom's house (to be honest, I was a little freaked out myself: I hadn't realized I was dating Hugh Hefner). My sister tells me that for the next several weeks, he would randomly grill male friends and acquaintances about their opinions on the matter, apparently trying to make sure he was not the only one offended by this sartorial transgression.
3) Dating a bisexual man? Maybe not a good idea. Dating a married man? A worse idea. Dating a bisexual married man? Wrong, wrong, wrong on so many levels.
4) If you tell a man that the influence of a particular "self-development" group/cult contributed to the demise of a pivotal relationship in your life, and several weeks later, they tell you that they decided to check it out for themselves (and by the way, they signed up for the advanced workshop, and the optional seminars, and...), cut your losses and run for the hills.
5) Similarly, if a young man tells you that Ronald Reagan and George Bush were the best things to ever happen to this country, even if you can't remember how long it's been since you were on a date, and you're sporting the freshman fifteen and the sophomore saddlebags and whatever else you've accumulated thus far in your junior year, and he's really, really cute, show some pride and show him the door.
6) It's never a good sign if a man increases his visits to his therapist from once to twice a week while he's in the throes of dating you. Even more so if this man happens to be a psychiatrist who's fiddling with his own medications.
7) Alcohol is sometimes referred to as a 'social lubricant', and on occasion, a glass or two of wine may help a person say the important things that they might otherwise be too afraid to say. After the second glass, however, what comes out is most often stupid shit that is best kept to yourself. Case in point: this weekend, I went to a concert with a male friend - just a friend. We stopped and had dinner beforehand, and he had a few scorpions (i.e. a scorpion bowl poured into a tiki glass, consumed by one person instead of many). I'm still mortified by what came out in the ensuing conversation and can't bring myself to render it in all its glory here, but if I ever go back to his office (since unfortunately he also happens to be my eye doctor), I will likely be wearing a burqa and carrying pepper spray, just in case.
You may be thinking that these are the mean-spirited ramblings of a bitter divorcee. And while my first reply to that is "And your point would be?", I do take responsibility for my part in all of these relationships. After all, I voluntarily dated these people (in some cases, repeatedly). But life is absurd, and love even more so, a sentiment that is perhaps best expressed in my final example today:
8) (my NYU friends should appreciate this one). Let's say you've just met a new guy. He asks you what you do, and you tell him that you're a student midwife. If his idea of a suave response is:
"A midwife? Does that mean you don't believe in birth control?",
trust me, ladies, marry him at your own peril.
To those near and dear to me worrying that, by sheer virtue of the number of the following examples, I am likely to be made the September selection in the Ho of the Month Club, rest assured, I haven't even dated that many guys. I just know how to pick 'em. No, I share these Useful Hints in the hopes that someone might learn from my mistakes. I myself have learned from a few of them; the problem is that I seem to be highly proficient in making new and ever dumber ones.
1) I don't expect the men I date to be stellar examples of physical fitness; I have definite couch potato tendencies myself. But men, in general, need to learn to say no to bikini underwear. Ripped abs or not, the banana hammock look isn't kind to anyone.
2) Likewise, men need to stay away from silk pajamas. Should I someday forget this little fact, I can rest secure knowing that my brother-in-law Chris will always be ready to refresh my memory. Chris, many years ago, was deeply scarred after seeing an old boyfriend of mine thusly attired the morning after a family gathering when we all crashed at my mom's house (to be honest, I was a little freaked out myself: I hadn't realized I was dating Hugh Hefner). My sister tells me that for the next several weeks, he would randomly grill male friends and acquaintances about their opinions on the matter, apparently trying to make sure he was not the only one offended by this sartorial transgression.
3) Dating a bisexual man? Maybe not a good idea. Dating a married man? A worse idea. Dating a bisexual married man? Wrong, wrong, wrong on so many levels.
4) If you tell a man that the influence of a particular "self-development" group/cult contributed to the demise of a pivotal relationship in your life, and several weeks later, they tell you that they decided to check it out for themselves (and by the way, they signed up for the advanced workshop, and the optional seminars, and...), cut your losses and run for the hills.
5) Similarly, if a young man tells you that Ronald Reagan and George Bush were the best things to ever happen to this country, even if you can't remember how long it's been since you were on a date, and you're sporting the freshman fifteen and the sophomore saddlebags and whatever else you've accumulated thus far in your junior year, and he's really, really cute, show some pride and show him the door.
6) It's never a good sign if a man increases his visits to his therapist from once to twice a week while he's in the throes of dating you. Even more so if this man happens to be a psychiatrist who's fiddling with his own medications.
7) Alcohol is sometimes referred to as a 'social lubricant', and on occasion, a glass or two of wine may help a person say the important things that they might otherwise be too afraid to say. After the second glass, however, what comes out is most often stupid shit that is best kept to yourself. Case in point: this weekend, I went to a concert with a male friend - just a friend. We stopped and had dinner beforehand, and he had a few scorpions (i.e. a scorpion bowl poured into a tiki glass, consumed by one person instead of many). I'm still mortified by what came out in the ensuing conversation and can't bring myself to render it in all its glory here, but if I ever go back to his office (since unfortunately he also happens to be my eye doctor), I will likely be wearing a burqa and carrying pepper spray, just in case.
You may be thinking that these are the mean-spirited ramblings of a bitter divorcee. And while my first reply to that is "And your point would be?", I do take responsibility for my part in all of these relationships. After all, I voluntarily dated these people (in some cases, repeatedly). But life is absurd, and love even more so, a sentiment that is perhaps best expressed in my final example today:
8) (my NYU friends should appreciate this one). Let's say you've just met a new guy. He asks you what you do, and you tell him that you're a student midwife. If his idea of a suave response is:
"A midwife? Does that mean you don't believe in birth control?",
trust me, ladies, marry him at your own peril.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Why I no longer write fiction, reason #42
- because I just can't make up this stuff.
Around 1pm today, a call was transferred to my desk. A guy wanted to find out how much he would be paid for donating sperm. While most of you probably don't entertain such questions during the course of your workday, in my office this isn't as random as it sounds. I told the guy that we are a fertility practice, but not a sperm bank, and would therefore have to turn down his offer. He asked me if I knew of any sperm banks, and I gave him the name of a local facility and told him that he could find their contact information on the internet. He told me that he didn't have access to the internet, and then proceeded to tell me that he was in his car. Driving around. Looking to make a donation, presumably in the immediate future. I found the number, read it to him, and extracted myself from the conversation as quickly as possible.
In retrospect, I'm not sure I've done anyone any favors by enabling this man to procreate at large. Consider the thought process going on here. He's driving around, maybe on his way to In-n-Out burger for lunch, and is struck by the sudden urge to flog the bishop (feel free to insert your preferred masturbatory euphemism here). Does he smack one hand down on the steering wheel and say, "Dammit, today I'm going to get paid for this"?
So, how was your day?
Around 1pm today, a call was transferred to my desk. A guy wanted to find out how much he would be paid for donating sperm. While most of you probably don't entertain such questions during the course of your workday, in my office this isn't as random as it sounds. I told the guy that we are a fertility practice, but not a sperm bank, and would therefore have to turn down his offer. He asked me if I knew of any sperm banks, and I gave him the name of a local facility and told him that he could find their contact information on the internet. He told me that he didn't have access to the internet, and then proceeded to tell me that he was in his car. Driving around. Looking to make a donation, presumably in the immediate future. I found the number, read it to him, and extracted myself from the conversation as quickly as possible.
In retrospect, I'm not sure I've done anyone any favors by enabling this man to procreate at large. Consider the thought process going on here. He's driving around, maybe on his way to In-n-Out burger for lunch, and is struck by the sudden urge to flog the bishop (feel free to insert your preferred masturbatory euphemism here). Does he smack one hand down on the steering wheel and say, "Dammit, today I'm going to get paid for this"?
So, how was your day?
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