(Start with "Monday" if you can. "Sperming" -I've made up so many great words this week, you'll want to see them all. Now I know how Lewis Carroll felt when he wrote Jabberwocky.) So, what were we talking about? Oh right. The two guys who were in court (and got a suspended sentence, by the way) for selling sperm over the Internet without a license.
I know their customers were women who were looking for an easy, inexpensive way to get good sperm, and the sperm banks in the UK have a long wait. I'm just very uncomfortable inseminating myself with... okay, before I finish that sentence, let's pause right here and ponder a moment.
Yes. I would feel very uncomfortable inseminating myself.... Wait...Listen... I feel a rant coming on.
I just realized something. I paid a fertility clinic a total of...let me see... carry the six... nine million thousand dollars and I could have inseminated myself?! I already had to fill the syringe every night and give myself subcutaneous injections in alternating fat rolls...Now you tell me I could have inseminated myself too?
I'd better stop reading infertility websites. If I find out I could have done my own egg retrieval from the comfort of my couch while watching Top Chef, I'm going to be pissed.
Anyway...thanks for letting me vent...very nice of you...... I don't know that I would want to get my sperm from some online dealer. I don't even feel comfortable getting my Paul Mitchell hair products from an unauthorized dealer.
Not so much because I think it won't be quality conditioner, I'm just always afraid I'll end up the victim of a sting operation. I'll be reaching for my hair product in aisle 3 at a pharmacy chain and the innocent, pimple-faced stock boy/photo lab manager will slap a handcuff on my wrist.
Although, I don't know about any of you, but nobody could pay me enough to be the one to slap a handcuff on a woman mid-self-insemination.
Another interesting article in the infertility current events this week is about rotifers. Come back, come back! I promise this won't be dumb.
Rotifers are tiny aquatic creatures who can choose whether to find a mate to reproduce... or they can just skip the whole dating: "Hey, come to this ocean often?" BS and clone themselves. No baby daddy. No Valentine's cards. Just you in the mirror, next to a smaller you in the mirror.
Interestingly, scientists found that when these creatures travel, they usually choose to reproduce with a mate. See, we can't get away with that.
You go with your girlfriends on a little get-away to the Virgin Islands. You come back pregnant...Suddenly your "travelling" would be called "whoring". You were not travelling around the islands. You were hoin' around the islands. You left as a traveler. You came back as a trollop.
And how about this cloning?
Well it would eliminate all the messy sex stuff. I'd probably never need a shower again. Of course my husband would have no incentive to ever buy me flowers again either. On the other hand, it's a way to find out whether all of those flowers were heartfelt love or just a sweet smelling ulterior motive.
But would I really want to walk around with...and raise... a little Lori?
Maybe if she was taller. And had a better nose. And controllable hair... And nicer teeth...And didn't curse so much...And wasn't such a smartass... Okay... so there's no way I could clone myself and wind up with Carrie Underwood.
...And could wrap a present without maiming it. And was a little tidier. And didn't have neck problems. And wasn't such a smartass... (See? I'm such a smartass I had to put it twice.)
Listen, I gotta go. I'm playing hooky from work today and I'm really not well enough to be at a computer. (cough cough)
I'll talk with ya again tomorrow.