If I were a man, I'd donate my sperm.

One of the sundry "ETC" type job postings on craigslist I encounter repeatedly is for egg donors. At $5,000 or more a go, it's tempting to consider syringing up with hormones to give would-be moms and pops their fair shot at parenthood. I only hesitate for two reasons: 1) I'm now out of the ideal egg donor age range, and 2) My own resources are finite.

Wouldn't I know? Every time I turn on my computer I'm repeatedly assaulted with stories about how all of my shiny, healthy academic-superstar-future-leader type eggs parachuted out on a suicide mission the very second I turned 30----and all that remains are a motley assortment of future criminals, bored, flatulent dysphorics, and Sarah Palin fans.

We all know how scare tactics tend to nudge us into one mindless life choice after the next, so I'm learning to filter out these stories. What's the moral anyway? The audience to whom these messages are directed won't exactly find this "advice" helpful, as they are either ambivalent about having children, lack the means to support a child, or are facing an array of unsavory relationship options. All poor circumstances for considering the weighty matter of parenthood.

Still....

Most women know that *supplies are limited,* and that what we give up just won't be comin' back. I'm going to hang on to the rest of my batch of little miscreants just in case. ;)

Not so for men. Not so.

Men have the remarkable ability to produce all the wish-fulfilling procreative awesomeness they need to make a needy couple/person happy. If I were a man, I would donate my sperm. Consider this: The average sperm bank pays $100 for each "contribution." So, this could be a tidy little source of commission-based income that won't dry up for a long, long time. Far more importantly, with minimal effort, you have the ability to alter the course of somebody's existence for the better. Think about that! Most of us spend ages trying to figure out how we can impact the world, make it a better place. You can Chloe, Jason, Max, and Lulu your way to a better world with a flick of the wrist. Woot!

Yes, I know that I just do-si-doed around some serious moral issues. What about if the kid wants to meet you when they turn 18, etc, etc. Well, in the U.S. you can still opt into anonymity, but that wouldn't be very sporting, would it? Look-----how bad could it really be to meet some of your donor progeny? Most likely, it would be one of the coolest things that ever happened to you. Meeting somebody with whom you share biological material past the point of having to: A) Change their diapers. B) Pay for their braces. C) Weather being told that you're hated repeatedly during those rocky teen years. No, I'm not promoting some weird version of negligent, Lucy-goosy "parenting" with a few fringe benefits. Rather, the child would be unlikely to perceive you as a parental figure (we all know A,B, and C is the stuff parental bonding is really made of,) but somebody of great interest with whom they share common features and personality traits. At the risk of revealing my patchouli-scented roots, I have to say----would it not be terrific to encounter one more person that you could...just...maybe...love?

Also, this is one way in which you can fulfill your biological destiny of seed-spreading without leaving a trail of angry ladies, hostile children, and assorted child support checks. Instead, put your emissions to use, good man, by spreading joy to ladies and gents who are really darn committed to being parents. The likelihood that your sperm would go to a scary Octomom-type is relatively slim. Oh, the power you hold in your hands.

I rest my eggs.

The windy road to entrepreneurship

This marks the second week where I will be working at 80% time. I'm finally ready to launch my private practice. I've been dreaming of this day ever since I was a wee graduate student anticipating all of the interesting little projects that I would cobble together into a robust full-time career, as opposed to a dull, predictable full-time job.

Since then, my career path has been surprisingly---ahem---steady.

One of the exercises I love to do with clients is to have them develop a career/family genogram. One of my mentors developed this very applicable tool. Us career counselor types use it for getting to the bottom of how the career choices of one's family of origin and ancestors might've helped shaped our client's ideas about career.

So it goes without saying that my own family is full of teachers, government employees, and folks who work for "stable" private companies.

Very few entrepreneurial types dangling from the branches of this here family tree.

I was having a discussion with my cousin about how difficult it is to know where to begin when one has the germ of an idea, ample motivation, and gripping fear about taking the first step to implement said idea. We both marveled at the fact that many of our friends, and significant others, etc, seemed to approach entrepreneurship fearlessly. Most of them have parents who just....well...did it.

So that's what I've decided to do. I'm going to hang my little shingle and market, market, market. Because from what I understand, marketing makes up the bulk of what I'm going to have to be doing for the next, oh, 5-6 months or so, anyway. Fine by me. As I often ask clients, what's the worst that could happen? There's so much to gain, and so precious little to lose. Pride is overrated. Pride keeps us tethered to activities which we've already mastered. Constantly letting ourselves be absorbed into the fog of possibility is what nurtures growth.

Cellular Exhaustion

As in atomic level. As in if I napped for the next two days straight it wouldn't chip away at this fatigue. What's strange is that it isn't horrible to feel this way....it's actually kind of peaceful...like the 5 minutes in between an alarm clock snooze. No particular reason; just the time of year. Every time the seasons change, I go through a kind of mini hibernation.

The thing about fatigue is that it excuses me from feeling obligated to do anything. Downtime is rarely so enjoyable, because my underlying guilt is lingering within every "wasted" moment. But when I feel this way I indulge my every lazy desire. Eating spoonful after spoonful of cold chocolate fudge while watching Moonstruck....zipping and unzipping my jacket repeatedly, reading Craigslist rants and raves (you don't know mindless entertainment until you've tried it.) Yes, indeed. Here's to sacrificing ambition for a delicious and long overdue round of navel gazing.

My Tankini did, in fact, kick ass.

I'm an absolute tankini convert now. Having tested my theories about the merits of the tankini as opposed to the bikini, I'm pleased to say that the tankini is:

A. Sexy
B. Comfy
C. Perfect for all seasons!

I mean, how brave was I to disrobe even partially in the dead of winter, right after Gluttony Fest 2009? Not to mention unveiling my trademark pallor before hoards of artifically tanned or naturally sunbaked beach goers. Yet I felt downright svelte in those suits. C'mon people. Kudos are due.

Still...

Upon consideration, I'm not going to post a picture. That's just a bit too much visual information, and I pride myself on being at least *sporadically* conscientious about privacy. Besides, it's not that exciting, right? The skinternet has ensured that a photo of me modeling my swim wear of choice is of little interest to the teeming masses.

My Tankini Kicks Ass

As long as I can remember, I've never felt comfortable in a bikini. It isn't because of some demoralizing beach incident during my tender years, or because I harbor a secret modest streak. I just don't particularly enjoy the sensation of the sun beating down on my incandescently white belly. This also explains how it is possible that I can dislike bikinis but love the way that I look and feel in beautiful lingerie.

Two years ago, I took a trip to Brazil with one of my travel cronies. After casually disclosing my lifelong appreciation for one-piece swimwear, I was lectured about how I could not be seen on a Brazilian beach in anything but a bikini. I packed a couple of two-pieces and an ordinary suit with every intention of relying on the suit. Of course, anybody who knows anything about Brazilian beaches knows that my friend had it right. I'm not sure what would have garnered more attention: My snowy skin or the (apparently) MASSIVE quantities of fabric wrapped around me.

In Rio I was told that I should replace my bright red halter bikini with a string bikini...as it was STILL too old-fashioned and stuffy for the beach. Indeed, every woman and child roughly between the ages of 5 and 90 was wearing one of these bizarre creations. Yes, bizarre is the word I choose. I'm pretty sure--no, I know that I'd feel more comfortable stark naked than wearing a nipple's worth of fabric designed to detach and float away at any wave's caprice. Also, is it just me, or do string bikinis kinda flatten the girls out? They seem to drift east and west, as if in disagreement. I'm sure I could find an obliging pair of conch shells and a shoelace that would provide more support!

So that takes me to today, a week before a vacation to Costa Rica. Darn you, tropical vacations. Why do I have to want to take you???? *Queuing violins*

Sure, I could wear a bikini again. I'll certainly pack one. But a couple of weeks ago I decided to experiment with another option: The Tankini. That lovely compromise of a tank top with a bikini bottom...exposing just a tantalizing stripe of midsection, while providing maximal bosom support! Hooray!

Truth be told, I already own one, but even I will capitulate to it's ugliness. A high neck and boob-deflating level of spandex make it a great swimmer but a terrible bore at parties.

Here's what I discovered: Victoria's Secret swimsuits are awesome. They are very sensibly priced, and what a selection! They make lots of tankinis. Tankinis with animal prints (Raaaaaar!) halter necks (meow!) and best of all, the kind of hardware, ahem, that you'd come to expect from lingerie people. Although I kinda hate their crappy bras. Moving along....

I ordered two: A chocolate brown halter tankini and an aqua blue tankini with a sweet little bow. I diligently took my measurements and chose sizes accordingly.

The aqua is definitely a keeper. Fits like a glove and I would wear it fearlessly. Bravo!

Halter top is ill-fitting. The cups are too small and the waist is all loose and goofy-looking. So much for their handy measurement charts! Moral of the story: Order two sizes and send one back.

Here is the one that I'm keeping:



Why yes, this is my attempt to promote the potential sex factor of a tankini. Just try and stop me.

I will post a picture and detailed review upon my return. Pura vida awaits....

1984

I love looking backwards at this time of year. The longer the view, the better...nothing is more amusing than revisiting music, movies, old journals and other tokens of my youth with these gradually aging eyes. I know that when I'm eventually hobbled by old age and potentially abandoned by loved ones due to my increasingly eccentric sense of humor, I will continue to derive satisfaction from this yearly exercise. Bless you Youtube, if for no other reason than allowing me to watch my favorite music videos from the age of 6/7...1984...a banner year.

I had a well-loved VHS with a random assortment of MTV videos that I watched repeatedly. Billy Idol (Flesh for Fantasy,) Twisted Sister (We're not gonna take it,) Art of Noise (Close to the Edit,) INXS (Send a Letter,) Elvis Costello (She's not the Only Flame in Town,) O'Bryan (Lovelite--I'm actually a little surprised that the censorship-loving conservative element on Youtube haven't flagged this video yet. In the meantime, the uncut version is here.

But my all-time favorite was definitely Laura Branigan's Self Control. Dare I say...they just don't make 'em like they used to? Yes, I'm aware that this comment automatically ages me by about twenty years.

But really, when was the last time you saw a music video that included an orgy simulated by people in leotards and masks on a floor lined with what appears to be tin foil? For a six year old this was some pretty heady stuff. I was equal parts terrified of Distorted Mask Guy (!) and giddy due to the overall naughtiness factor and accompanying feeling of getting away with something that watching this video gave me.

Viewing it now, I am surprised by how much more provocative the suggestions in this video are in comparison to the currently popular yet terminally boring grind-o-rama music videos.

Here it is, in all of its era-specific glory. Hope you have some time this winter to reflect on some of your favorite youthful memories.

Five Years

What a difference five years makes.

Five years ago....

Egads, I was married! I had just graduated from my counseling program. I had two jobs, and had just bought a house.

Five years. If fortune smiles on me, a mere 17th of my life span. And yet, I am miles away from that description, and miles closer to...something else. Oh, the possibilities. Mind boggling, really, to consider where I may be in five more years.

This whole five years concept has gotten me thinking about all of things I'd like to do before I croak. Morbid topic, you say? Perhaps. But nothing mobilizes the chronically lazy like a bittersweet swig of mortality.

I'm currently working on a short list of will-do's.