Fuck You, Katie Couric: A Love Story

For those of you living under a rock or some other place where no one gives a shit about egg donation, Katie Couric recently did a segment about a donor egg conceived child and her family who met their donor for the first time on her show. The program went as one might expect: some nervousness, lots of sweetness, and tons of positivity.

Afterwards, however, the tenor of the donor egg recipient community turned a vivid shade of fury because the language used on the show was different from the language we prefer. Whereas PVED uses "donor vs. biological mother" to differentiate the roles of the women, the people on Couric's show referred to the donor as the biological mother. Gasp.

The outrage went something like this: donors aren't mothers, and Katie Couric is an asshole.

Although I'm tempted to get into the weeds of the discussion, that would require too much tedium, so instead I'm just going to piss everyone off and say that I believe we're being overly sensitive, reactionary, and irrational because we're insecure about our roles as mothers.

Or at least that's true for me.

I've written my share of posts about language, and so I know all about the emotions that propel the fervor. Differentiating genetics from biology as if genes aren't a part of biology. Proclaiming that the donor is not a mother even though the entire history of science has a very clear definition of parent to the inclusion of the source of donated gametes.

Over the last few years, I've rallied against these truths, but all the while, something about my cries never sat right. Even in calm settings, these were never calm conversations. I tended to get a little worked up when talking about mine versus the donor's roles. Defensive. I always wore some layer of I-dare-you-to-challenge-my-legitimacy armor instead of admitting that "yes, as a factual matter of science, our donor is a biological mother to my child. Now how am I going to deal with how vulnerable that makes me feel?"

Because vulnerability is where this dogma comes from. Plain and simple, I'm afraid. I'm afraid that some people don't see me as the real mom. I lay awake wondering about the effects of my slow bonding process with my daughter and whether our relationship will suffer for it, or how much. I worry that she won't have enough of me in her, and she'll navel-gaze her way through adolescence until she ultimately disconnects from me completely. And if all of these questions didn't haunt me before, now I have to deal with them in the shadow of another mother.

But all of this is OK. I don't expose my fears to solicit comfort and validation, and I don't want your hugs. I don't want to feel better. I just want to feel.

It's important for me to sit with my grief. I cozy up to my sadness deliberately, and I make myself cry because I want to see my reflection in my tears. The more I feel the truth of my fears, the more quickly I can get through to the other side, even while the darkness makes me forget that another side exists.

I imagine that other donor egg recipients share some of the same vulnerabilities, and I imagine that some women are vulnerable in ways that are wholly different from me. I also imagine that some moms feel only a teensy amount of vulnerability and rarely think about their children's not uncomplicated (yes, that's a double negative) conception.

But I'll stop short of saying that any of us are 100% OK with the world of egg donation because I suspect that we all hang on to some degree of vulnerability. Even for those who are most at peace, at some point someone might say something that will trigger us, and suddenly we need to gouge out eyeballs, which - let's face it - is not the inclination of a person who's confident and secure.

Which brings me back to Katie Couric. As it did for most of my fellow egg donor recipients, the program challenged me. I almost didn't watch it ("biological mother? Come here so I can kill you."), but then I reflected on my resistance for long enough to muster up the courage, and I clicked play. I was nervous at the start, and as it went on, there were parts that definitely made me uncomfortable ("other grandmother?"). It wasn't easy, and it raised a lot of questions for me.

What if my daughter will want to meet her siblings? It's possible that she won't think about her genetic relatives, but it's also possible that she'll feel existentially incomplete until she gets to know this other part of her family. Will she want her donor in her life for milestones like graduations and her wedding, or will she need her around more often than that? And how in the world will I handle the threats of these possible futures without removing anyone's eyeballs?

But despite my emotional response, I can't deny that Couric did a pretty good job with the subject. She showed a healthy balance of curiosity and support, and she made her guests feel open and safe. Moreover, when all was said and done, I think the segment could potentially help normalize egg donation for people considering their family-building options. And maybe it even helped normalize egg donation for a certain someone who's already used it.

So fuck you, Katie Couric, for making me feel vulnerable. I hate you.
And thank you, Katie Couric, for making me feel vulnerable. I love you.

"Grey's Anatomy," and Other Autobiographical Stories

I've been brainstorming ideas for how to borrow from popular culture to frame my autobiography. Here's what I've come up with so far:

"Grey's Anatomy" - An eternally-running television series about a middle-aged woman's eggs and their quest for McSpermy. (Genre: medical, dramedy)

"Snow White" - The story about how a Maiden turns into a Crone and only then decides to become a Mother with the help of seven in-vitro cycles. So far. (Genre: Brothers Grimm fairy tale)

"1984" - An Orwellian tale about the number of subcutaneous and inter-muscular shots it takes me to get pregnant. Or not. (Genre: non-fiction)

"The Terminator" - It's 2029, and I'm still trying to have a baby after 23 years. Stars Arnold Schwarzenegger as my uterus. (Genre: sci-fi, action)

"Rite of Spring" - A composition about life and renewal everywhere except my uterus. (Genre: classical music, ballet)

"Exodus" - The Passover story where the 10th plague is God's "passing over" my uterus so that I never get pregnant. (Genre: Biblical)

"Cats" - A foreshadowing of my life after the pursuit of family-building ends. (Genre: Broadway musical, horror)

Or, if I'm really lucky,

"Sticky Fingers" - An album of Rolling Stones songs about life with a baby. Or two. (Genre: rock and roll, fantasy)

Prospective Perspective

I have a question.

I always swore that I'd never consider egg donation. My reasons were that it'd be creepy, it'd feel false, and it'd be socially confusing. But after years of failed in-vitro treatments, my doctor said that the only way to get me pregnant was to use a donor's egg, and now here I sit with fingers crossed, Viagra in my vag, and hoping against hope that tomorrow's transfer takes.

So, have I lost perspective, or have I gained perspective?

And once these last cycles prove a bust, I'll no doubt follow the same trend down the adoption path - again something I swore I could never get into because how do you raise another woman's child and pretend it's your own? But still. When the time comes, I'll do it.

Are these moves of desperation, or is my experience allowing me to open up to other options that I wasn't previously ready for?

I don't know why this question is an important one for me. Maybe it's because I don't like to be reactionary, and I want to know that I'm making decisions with grounded perspective, but either way, it's been nagging me for months. I've been pondering it and imagining that I'd one day blog about my brilliant answers, but I don't have any brilliant answers. Just more questions.

Questions like: what the hell kind of M. C. Escher shit is going on in my head?

So if you have an answer, let me know, would you?

Dietary Supplements

Here's what happens 3 months into quitting gluten, soy, dairy, nightshades, caffeine, sugar, and alcohol:

1. You never have any gas or stomach pains
2. Your previously painful period cramps completely disappear
3. You have long, regular, perfect poops
4. Your donor gets pregnant

It's possible that the last of these things has nothing to do with my food intake, but they say dietary changes can be powerful, so I'm going to assume a correlation. I'm also going to assume that you've heard enough about my periods and poops, so here's more about the donor thing.

She texted me three weeks ago, which she does every once in a while just to say hi or to update me about things going on in her life. The conversation went something like this:

How's it going? I'm good! Still not pregnant, but otherwise great. That sucks because you're going to be such a great mom. Aw, you're very sweet. How are you? Really good! I met a guy, and we're probably moving away together, so I'll let you know when that happens. Oh, yay! I want you to be as happy as can be. Me, too, for you! You're the sweetest. No, you're the sweetest.

There were lots of exclamation points, exes, ohs, and more exclamation points -- all of which were sincere, mind you. I think there may have even been a kitty emoticon in there somewhere, although I'm not sure why. Then there was this:

Me: Hey, one last thing before you go. Have there been any other pregnancies with your eggs since the first recipient? I'm just curious if there's anything I should know about your fertility.

Donor: Well, I didn't want to say anything, but I took two tests this morning, and it looks like I'm pregnant. That's why I texted you today. I wanted you to know right away, but then I wasn't sure if I should tell you because you've been going through such a hard time.

Can I just say how much I've grown to appreciate my donor? Yes, I had reservations about her in the beginning, but when it comes to my donor's personality, thoughtfulness, and adherence to the parameters of our contract, this girl's been awesome. She knows that medical and fertility updates are important to me, and she's unendingly thoughtful, sweet, and respectful about it. Personality-wise, I couldn't have chosen better.

And I'm actually excited about her pregnancy. To ride a wave of delusion for just a moment, I LOVE the possibility of my child having a genetic sibling who'll be the same age. My donor and I both intend for her to meet my child(ren), and it would be so wonderfully cool if she and I had virtual twins. Very Post-Modern Family, no?

I'll concede that if my quest ends in a bust, then her child will be a reminder of mine that never was, but then again, if I never get pregnant, then we probably won't stay in touch, so it won't be an issue. (My avoidance coping mechanism is smarter than your honors student.)

But back to the diet, here are a few tips that have helped me get through being denied the most delicious foods on the planet:

1. For meals, all you can eat are fruits, nuts, legumes, gluten-free grains, vegetables, meats, and eggs. Just accept it.
2. For flavor, because so many spices are made from peppers (a nightshade), you're limited to salt, peppercorns, cumin, turmeric, garlic, ginger, and fresh herbs. Outside of that, squeezing a little lemon or lime onto veggies can be good, and a modified peanut sauce works, too.
3. For dessert, you can alter cake and muffin recipes, but otherwise the best thing I've found is tahini mixed with honey and spread on rice cakes. It's better than it sounds, but I won't refuse your pity.
4. The West Wing is streaming on Netflix, and it's just as compelling today as it was when Jed Barlet was my presidential antidote to Bush 43.

Once more, it's possible that the last of these things has nothing to do with my diet, but you can't prove a negative, so let's assume a correlation.

Speaking of negatives, my pregnancy test will be on April 7, which is also my 41st birthday. That'll be fun.

Archetype Casting

For 2012, I had three new year's resolutions: to do more crosswords, to breathe, and to focus more on integrity than on goal-setting. I only succeeded insofar as I'm still breathing.

Because I tend to fail wildly at at these annual vows, you'd think I'd consider setting a lower bar, but that's not how I roll. Case in point: for 2013, I resolved to become a different person.

But unlike with crosswords, in this I have some experience. Back in the summer of 2009, when it became clear that I wasn't easily going to become a mother, I decided to become the opposite of a mother. I decided to become a whore.

It started with an anonymous twitter profile where I wrote clever little quips with sexual twists, and it developed into a WordPress blog for original erotic short stories. By the end of 9 months, I had 1500 followers and made regular appearances on Favstar's Tweets of the Day - the Twitterverse's gold medals. I was an e-slutty sensation.

The accolades didn't stop there, though. I also got several sexual propositions, a marriage proposal, and about a dozen nude photos of men who wanted me to know just how much they cared. Eventually I got tired of pretending to be a single 20-something who was always searching for the next big thing between my legs, so just as quickly as she was born, I tweeted one final RIP tweet and shut her down.

For that short time, however, I'd transformed myself into a different archetype of womanhood -- well, as much as was possible for someone who was married, monogamous, and nearing middle age. Through her, I was a sexually-liberated model of femininity, and even though the character was virtual, her personality influenced several aspects of my real life: my wardrobe choices were edgier, I lost those last 10 pounds, and my sex life became more lively. She was good for me.

The best part of the character, though, was that she allowed me to escape from living the life of a woman who only wanted to be a mom. I've seen it over and over again with infertile women, and it's a story I know too well: we put our lives on hold while making choices that revolve around what we think will be the quickest route to motherhood. In the meantime, all the rest of ourselves - all the other parts of our identity with potential to be fulfilled - just whither away within us. When the struggle takes years, it gets ugly.

So this year I resolve to be a different person once again, only now I'm choosing a whole new archetype: the female warrior. Or, in modern parlance, I plan to become a professionally successful woman.

Until recently, my career has been in non-profit program management, which is really just a professionalization of motherhood, and thus one of the reasons why I don't want to do it anymore -- the other reason being the non-profit part. Beginning last summer, though, I started working with a career counselor with whom I discovered what seems like a great new career direction for me: public relations.

So that's what I'm on my way to doing. I'm taking two PR courses at the local university, and this week I begin a volunteer job that will give me experience in government administration, communications, and public relations. I've also joined a local PR group through which I make it a point to meet with at least one person every week to explore ideas of what I want to do and what it'll take to get me there.

This isn't to say that I'm giving up on becoming a mother; I'm just giving up on needing motherhood to define me while the reality is that it just plain doesn't. I'm done putting my life on hold while I ride the pendulous swing that takes me back and forth between my doctors' optimism and confoundedness. That person no longer gets the lion-share of me.

It's 2013. I am Athena. Hear me roar.

Future Present Tense

I've always felt there was something eerie about the state of transition, and in trying to put my finger on it, I realized: it's not transition that I'm experiencing. It's suspension.

Suspension of time. Suspension of truth. Suspension of breath. All by a thread. Or perhaps something thicker.

I've set up permanent residence in this state of suspension, because here, a decidedly unBuddhist mindset allows me to hope for a future present with a different past.

Second hands don't tick here, and so yesterday and tomorrow are just parts of today. It hasn't been weeks since I've blogged. It hasn't been months since I've spoken to my pregnant and parenting friends. It hasn't been years since I started at my clinic. And it hasn't been nearly a decade since I bought my house with its fenced-in yard for the kids to play.

It hasn't.
(Yes, it has.)
It hasn't.
(Yes, it has.)
It hasn't.
(Yes, it has.)

This idiotic dance is what finally got me to discover the fabric of the noose: Nothing is happening in the third dimension, and therefore nothing can be happening in the fourth.

So there's the realization, and it's not eerie at all. It's just your basic, homespun denial wrapped in a Matrix film.

And with that a-ha, I have a choice: do I turn to face a new direction where purpose doesn't hinge on ifs, or do I wrap myself more tightly and take a nap?

Quotable Quotes: “You’re Good”

In case your man needs support in seeding those eggs.

Sincerely,
Christopher Walken

(PS: Thanks to those of you who've been checking up on me in the days leading up to my transfer. You make my heart sing. For those of you looking for something more than a Christopher Walken pep talk, I'll post something more meaningful in the coming days -- at latest during bed rest, because what else will there be to do? xo)

Plagiarizing Frankenstein

I could have written Frankenstein.

If we're talking about the story of someone who is overwhelmed by grief, who can't accept life's fate, who wants so desperately to defy the limitations of our bodies that the only escape is to create a human composite made of other people's body parts, then yes, I could have written Frankenstein.



Like the eponymous Victor Frankenstein, I'm doing everything I can to bring an unnaturally conceived person into this world: a brand new life spliced together from other people's body parts by combining painstakingly selected pieces in order to create my very own monster.

Two centuries ago, this was a horror story. Some argue it was the original tale of science fiction. Today it's science fact.

There are those who don't like science facts, however, and many of them strongly oppose egg donor in vitro. They see the procedure as a severe encroachment on the laws of nature and an ungodly experimentation on human life.

They're not entirely wrong.

I'm aware that donor egg IVF is some freaky shit. I recently got pretty skeeved out myself after reading an article about how donor egg babies are more strongly linked to pre-eclampsia - a condition that was essentially described as the uterus rejecting a foreign body that it doesn't recognize as its own.

I read "foreign body" as "Frankensteinian monster."

All of which brings to mind the last time I read Frankenstein during a college course on The Gothic Imagination where the professor drove home an essential question:

In the book, the monster is actually a loving, emotional, and vulnerable being, whereas Victor himself is an arrogant man who ignores the grotesqueness of his scientific interventions because he's too much of a self-absorbed coward to accept the limitations of the human body's vulnerabilities. If this is the case, then who is the real monster? The creature or Victor?

Or, since we're plagiarizing: my baby or me?

But before we demonize me or Vic too quickly, it bears keeping in mind that most medical procedures were once thought creepy and weird. The first organ transplants were over 100 years ago, and I don't imagine those went over too well. Isn't it possible that donor egg in vitro won't always be met with the same cocked heads and scrunched faces that I get today?

Either way, I'm doing it. My donor's egg retrieval is in 3½ weeks, and my embryo transfer is in four. In 5½ weeks, I'll have my first pregnancy test, and at that point we'll know if there's a little monster in the works.

Copyright laws be damned.

Two Weeks' Silent Apostrophe

Watching shitty romantic comedies is my most guilty pleasure.

Actually, that's not true. Watching shitty romantic comedies is a guilty pleasure, but my most guilty pleasure is watching shitty romantic comedies over and over and over again.

Anything with Reese Whitherspoon, Meg Ryan, or Julia Roberts are obvious must-see-four-dozen-timeses, but I'll even watch Kate Hudson or Drew Barrymore vehicles at least 8 or 10 times over. Hell, I've seen Jennifer Aniston's Along Came Polly twice, and that movie is terrible.

It's a disgusting vice, I'll admit, but I do have a small shred of dignity that enables me to draw a line somewhere and keeps me from seeing one particular chick-flick a second time. I'm sure you've heard of it: it's the one where Sandra Bullock is a brilliant but uncouth attorney who works for High Grant's amoral yet lovable billionaire, and because he drives her crazy, she gives him her notice of resignation after which they fall madly in love and live happily ever after. (If I've spoiled the ending for you, I'm sorry. Also you're an idiot.)

I'm hoping you know the movie title so that I don't have to write it because I refuse to write it because it contains a grammatical pet peeve of mine that frustrates me more than almost any other: the absence of an apostrophe.

I will, however, write the title of the movie as it should have been, which is Two Weeks' Apostrophe Notice. The apostrophe is silent.

Similar to Two Weeks' Silent Apostrophe Notice, if there were a documentary film about my day yesterday, the title of that movie would be: Two Weeks' Apostrophe Delay. The apostrophe is, again, silent.

Yup, my donor has to delay the cycle for two weeks because she can't get off from work until June. I'm less than thrilled, as you might imagine, but I'm actually quite fine. I'm not crushed or mad at her. I'm not even remotely bothered by it. It really is totally fine.

I let my fellow PVEDers know about the postponement, and they appropriately booed and hissed and grumbled at the news. They really are a sweet and supportive bunch, and I'm super grateful to have them on my side.

But this isn't a tragedy. It's just two weeks' delay. Things could be far worse. I mean, someone else could have blogged about it, and there'd be apostrophes missing all over the place. How infuriating would that be?

Let Us Now Praise Famous Eggs

Google "pregnant celebrities over 40," and you get over 20 million page results. Yes, there are a lot of them in Hollywood, but it isn't because of age-defying seaweed wraps or chemical peels. Those have no effect on ovaries.

It's because of IVF procedures and donor eggs.

As I've mentioned before:

• By 35, women have a 10% chance of getting pregnant each month. The miscarriage rate is 25% 
• After 40, 90% of a woman’s eggs are genetically abnormal 
• After 44, women have a less than 1% chance of getting pregnant with their own eggs even if they use IVF.

This means that Hollywood moms are using IVF and egg donors behind closed doctor's curtains, and they're trying to keep it on the down-low in an effort to preserve their youthful image.

Conversely, the purpose of this post is to out them.

~~~

Donor Egg Moms Who Used Surrogates
This group is pretty easy to identify since almost all women who use surrogates also use egg donors. Many women try to suggest that their surrogates are carrying babies fertilized with their own eggs, and this could be true for younger women (as in the case of Dennis Quaid's wife who was 36), but among women over 40, it doesn't really work that way.
* Giuliana Rancic is having a baby via surrogate at 37. (Fingers crossed for a healthy baby due summer 2012.)

Joan Lunden had two sets of twins via surrogate when she was 42 and 44.

Sarah Jessica Parker used a surrogate to conceive her twins at 44.

Angela Bassett had twins via surrogate when she was 47.

Annie Leibowitz had twins via surrogate at 56.

Cheryl Tiegs used a surrogate to deliver twins when she was 53. I love her story best because she told Larry King that they were conceived using her own eggs, which pretty much means she's crazy.

~~~

Donor Egg Moms Who Carried Pregnancies Themselves
This group is tougher to guess at, but when it comes to moms over 44, it's fairly safe to assume they've used donors. For women closer to 40, it's less obvious, although twins are a pretty big clue, especially if their babies follow years of infertility. Anyhow, here's my list:
Nicole Kidman had a baby at 40 and another at 42. A third baby was born a year after that via surrogate. With all her history of infertility and miscarriage during her 30s, I suspect that she used donor eggs for all three.

Patrick Dempsey's wife had twins at 41. Considering the 5 year gap between this pregnancy and their first daughter, I'm going with egg donor.

Mariah Carey delivered twins at 42 after years of struggling with infertility. She credits the miracle pregnancy to acupuncture. I credit it to an egg donor.

Iman had a baby at 44. A successful IVF is possible, but statistically unlikely. I'm going with egg donor.

Jane Seymour delivered twins at 44. Donor.

Marcia Gay Harden had twins at 44. Donor.

Mary Stuart Masterson was pregnant with twins at 44. Egg donor. [She was supposedly due summer 2011, although I haven't seen any reports about a successful delivery, so hopefully things didn't take a bad turn for her.]

Marcia Cross gave birth to twins at 44. She's admitted to going through IVF treatments but not to using donor eggs. She has, however, acknowledged that egg donation exists. Baby steps.

Mimi Rogers had a baby at 45. Egg donor.

Susan Sarandon had babies at 42 and 46. Egg donor. (Although the kid she had at 39 obviously has her genetics.)

Jane Kaczmarek had babies at 42, 44, and 47. Donor, donor, and donor.

Kelly Preston had a baby at 47. Donor.

Holly Hunter and Nancy Grace each had twins at 47. Donors.

Bridget Jones scribe Helen Fielding gave birth at 43 and 48. Donor, obviously.

Geena Davis gave birth to twins at 48. Egg donor fer shur.

Beverly D'Angelo had a baby at 49. That's forty-NINE.

* Elizabeth Edwards had kids when she was 48 and 50.

Annie Leibowitz gave birth when she was 51. Obvee. [As noted above, she subsequently used a surrogate for twins.]

Jennifer Aniston isn't pregnant, but she's 43 and a long-time heavy smoker, so I'm calling it early: egg donor.

~~~

IVF Moms
Then there are the celebrity moms who have done IVF. Again, I'm totally fabricating this list based on assumptions, but twins are a giveaway, and singletons born to moms close to 40 are suspect, too. My guess is that many of these women have also used donors, but I'm less sure of these than I am of the group above.
Rebecca Romijn had twins at 36. It's possible that this was natural, but I was infertile at 35, and we used the same wedding photographer, so I'm going with IVF.

Julia Roberts had twins at 37 and a singleton at 40. Definitely IVF. [More specifically, my guess is that the second pregnancy was a frozen embryo transfer leftover from her first cycle's retrieval.]

Jennifer Lopez had twins at 39. IVF for sure. Egg donor possible.

Lisa Marie Presley gave birth to twins at 40. IVF for sure. Egg donor possible.

Courtney Cox Arquette had a baby at 41 after years of struggling with infertility. Definitely IVF. Probably egg donor.

Julianna Margulies had a baby at 41. IVF is likely, particularly since it was her first child. Possible egg donor.

Diana Krall had twins at 41. IVF for sure. Egg donor possible.

Molly Ringwald had twins at 41. IVF for sure. Egg donor possible.

Celine Dion had six IVF cycles and a miscarriage and then finally gave birth at 42. It's possible that the 7th try was the charm, but an egg donor is more likely.

Angelina Jolie is pregnant with her second set of twins. I realize that she's only 36, but - as my friend A pointed out - the odds of having two sets of twins is pretty low. That combined with the fact that she's crazy makes it clear that she's using IVF. Own egg, though. And Pitt sperm, obviously. I mean, wouldn't you?

~~~

I suppose there should be some moral to this blog post: something about how bad it is that these upper-class, professional female role models are perpetuating the myth that you don't have to start worrying about your biological clock until you're 45 even though the true start-worrying age is 27, and how bad it is that celebrities are setting real-life women up for failure when instead what they could be doing is educating folks that ovaries expire, and that women would be wise to make more informed decisions when it comes to their plans for family-building, and that the only way to do that is to reject the illusion of Hollywood youth, glamor, and invincibility once and for all.

But, whatever.

Right now I just feel like outing them.

~~~

* Update, April 24, 2012: With the announcement of Bill and Giuliana Rancic's surrogate pregnancy, I decided to keep this log updated as pregnancy news emerges. Names preceded by asterisks denote additions made after the initial post.

Battlestar Portlandia

I'm mostly a movie junkie, but I've been known to get drawn in to really good television, and right now I'm obsessed with Battlestar Galactica.

I just watched Season 2, Episode 5 where Starbuck has been kidnapped by the enemy Cylons and is being held hostage and drugged in a hospital called "The Farm."



And Starbuck isn't alone. Dozens of women are trapped there, all having their reproductive systems experimented on, their ovaries prodded, and their eggs harvested so that the big robot Cylons can make little baby Cylons.

I can relate. To the Cylons, that is.

And with all the costs and delays that have been going on with my cycle, I was just thinking that I should do exactly the same thing. If I found someone who didn't make too much of a fuss about being abducted, it could really work out.

Now, obviously I know that just because a woman is fertile, that doesn't mean she wants to have her eggs harvested, fertilized, and transferred into another woman's body. I appreciate that she'd have reservations, which is why I would to explain to her that the process would be short, that it's just a few eggs, and that I really want a baby.

I'm sure she'll understand.

I hadn't told anyone about my plan, but as it happened, I went out for Lebanese food with JM, and halfway through our veggie mezza platter, she pointed out that our waitress would make a great genetic parent to my children.

"Yeah, I guess she would," I said, as if I hadn't already been thinking it.

When the waitress brought our dolmas, I noticed how lovely and thick her hair was, and I imagined that its darkness combined with N's curls would be gorgeous on either a boy or a girl. She seemed healthy - not too thin but definitely in good enough shape that her my kids would probably be athletic, and since I've always wanted a basketball hoop in my driveway, I knew that kidnapping our waitress was the right decision.

I turned back to my falafel and considered next steps. The fact that JM suggested our waitress made me wonder if she'd help. JM does have a thing for reading horror books, although to be reasonable, that could be strictly recreational. More in my favor, though, is that JM has chickens whose eggs she steals every morning before dawn, and if you think about it, keeping chickens caged in your backyard is not that different from abduction, systematic-drugging, and organ-harvesting.

On the other hand, JM does have a level of empathy that might get in the way. She's got this über-feminist, "my-body-my-choice" streak, so she might take issue with my plan. Plus, now that I think about it, my clinic might have a few concerns, too; the waitress would need several medical exams, and I suspect that you can only bring in a patient unconscious so many times before they start asking questions.

By the time my pita spooned up the last of the hummus, my hopes were fading and reality was setting in. There were too many kinks in my underdeveloped plan, and my dreams of a Cylon-inspired reproduction farm were dashed. I had no choice but to go with my current donor - however long and expensive the process would be.

The plates in front of us were empty save a few sad sprigs of wilted parsley around the edges. As our waitress came to collect them, she unabashedly showed off the straight teeth, perfect posture, and long legs that my kids would never inherit.

"Anything else I can offer you?" she asked.

"Now that you mention it," I said, overwhelmed by both despair and garlic, "I'd love your ... baklava."

Quotable Quotes: LOL Cats

Usually LOL Cats makes me LOL. This one didn't.