Gattacca Baby Sees the Psychiatrist

I just received this email from the egg donation agency:

Dear Anna:

The potential parents have an option to have a psych evaluation done for their donor and they have opted to do this. It will not take long and will most likely take place on the same day of your initial physical exam.

xxxx xxxxxx
Premium Egg Donation, Inc.

Now, since I received this, I’ve been trying to figure out for what reason I would be asked to take this psychological evaluation. Is it to evaluate what level of bat shit insane their future child may acquire? Or perhaps they just want to know if all the crazy ass hormones they’re going to invade my already ridiculous mind with will make me feel like personally tearing out my ovaries to give them is a much more effective way to present them with my little baby machines.

What if I just decide to start crying and masturbating in the middle of my evaluation when they ask me how my relationship with my father is? What if I just started screeching at the doctor with raptor sounds? That’s how I say “No” when people ask me on a date and I’m sure it’d work just as appropriately with a psychiatrist. See, I feel like I’m being set up for failure, because these are the questions that flood my nonsensical mind because I can only think of the doctor’s face when I tell him I bathe in Chef Boyardee ravioli and want to have Tim Allen’s baby.

Baby Making: Gattacca Style

Almost a year ago, I discovered a company called Premium Egg Donations. I’d heard some people talking about the high compensation rates young women could get for selling their eggs and as a miserly Ginger Jew, I loves to gets me some high compensation rates. I knew men donated sperm for somewhere around $50, so I didn’t expect the number to jump too obscenely high for lady juice. After reading their donor compensation section, though, I realized their version of payment was $10,000. What the shit? I’d never realized that a monthly cycle wasn’t just an annoyance, but also fiscally irresponsible. Every month, I was flushing my future children and thousands of dollars into the septic abyss. What am I supposed to do to make up for such a loss? Demand it back because it’s the American way? That would be like a guy hosing a girl down with some steamy man milk and demanding a check for lost wages.

Well, I applied to this agency because while I won’t become a high-class hooker for $10,000, I’m definitely not above sucking out my unborn baby halves with an enormous needle for it. Applying to this place was like applying to college, a dating site and the military all at once. They wanted SAT scores, transcripts, medical records and a million blurbs about myself. You can tell them about your desire to win a Pulitzer and all your previous abortions all in one cozy questionnaire.

Now, people have asked me if I’m bothered by the idea of having a kid running around this earth who is technically mine. My answer is no. Yes, the kid will have half my DNA (and I apologize for that) but it’s not going in this womb, so what connection would I really have to this kid? For most of my adult life I considered ripping my uterus out and turning it into a hat, because it would probably have more use than the dusty, lonely bitch it is now.

The other day, I heard back from the woman who runs the company and it turns out a nice couple in Connecticut think I’d be a perfect donor for them. I, of course, quit smoking so as to not taint the litter with my love of Parliaments and at this point, I’d French kiss a Pioneer Square hobo just to suck some of the tar out of his throat. Some time this week I’ll be doing a phone interview with their doctor and will prepare to start my hormone injections to beef up those little eggies. Apparently, for the next month I have to inject these hormones into my ass and they’re going to teach me how. Finally the local heroin addicts and I will have something to talk about.

Who’s excited to make babies? This bitch. Let’s get to it.

Crazy Girl Translator

There are few things that piss me off like people who fish for compliments. And when I say “people,” I mean women, because unless you are a Lady Gaga loving, shirtless, boy-whore, this is a characteristic strictly perpetrated by those of the feminine persuasion. See, this is why my relationships with women never last: I want to throat punch them. I’m enough of a sleep-with-a-nightlight-daddy-issue-ridden-fuck-up of my own without having to listen to some high pitched whimpers about banal insecurities. Don’t ask me to pretend to care that you think the bagger at QFC gave you the stink-eye or that you think your boyfriend tipped waitress at lunch so well because he “must be fucking her.” I will literally projectile vomit in your mouth to make you stop talking. But I digress.

The point is we all need to know when someone is trying to use crafty language in order to rip a compliment. This way they can receive an appropriate verbal smack down and learn to bury all their insecurities deep down where nobody can find them like the rest of functional society does. So, I have again put together a small guide. Things girls say, what they really mean and how to respond.

1) Do these pants make me look fat?

Translation: “TELL ME I’M SKINNY!!!!!!!!!”

Note--> This one is generally reserved for girls who wear a size 0-4. If you can snuggle into Jim Belushi’s pants, generally you’re not so dumb as to ask that question. Now, remember, most of these nutters indulge in either anorexia or bulimia. Good job for trying to be proactive in your battle with the bulge, but don’t ask me to validate your lame-ass existence. These skinny bitches know they’re string beans, fuck that warped perception nonsense. You can sleep inside your underwear drawer? Boom. Skinny bitch.

Response: Now, while the obvious answer is to simply say, “No, your ass makes you look fat,” take it a step further. Why not call out something they may not have even been worrying about? “I think it’s great that you aren’t insecure about that forehead of yours. You kind of have this whole Corky from ‘Life Goes On’ thing going, but you really own it.” Backhanded compliments: always a winner.

2) I think I’m destined to be alone for the rest of my life.

Translation: “My boyfriend of two weeks just dumped me and I need you to tell me it isn’t my fault, I am more lovable than a puppy and that there are at least four Facebook groups dedicated solely to obsessing over how amazing I am.”

Note--> You are their friend, so obviously you find something amiable in them. Whether it’s their shining personality or their brand new Porsche Panamera, you have decided to associate with them.

Response: Call your local mental hospital and tell them your friend is suicidal and showing symptoms of severe psychosis. This kills two birds with one stone: when they get manhandled into that crisp, white straight jacket and whisked away to their two week vacation, not only do you prove you care for their well-being, you let them know their pity party should be kept to the confines of their Strawberry Shortcake diary.

3) Every time I meet a nice guy, he suddenly just wants to fuck then becomes distant and emotionally unavailable.

Translation: “I’m somebody’s personal jizz sock right now and I need validation that I’m not as much of a slut as I’m pretty sure I actually am.”

Note--> Now, there are many levels to what this ho of a friend of yours is doing. More often than not, she’s someone’s fuck buddy but has diluted herself into thinking it’s a real relationship.

Response: Give her the number to a local Escort service. If she wants to slut-out, she may as well go all out and get paid for her work and future abortions.

High Class Hooker Pants

Before I got my grown up job as a copywriter with Publicis Seattle, I was going to school full-time at the University of Washington and working as a bartender. I was paying for college with my GI Bill and didn’t have to live in my mother’s basement drinking alone and reading Harry Potter. I could do that in the confines of my own apartment, a fact I was incredibly proud of. Apparently, I shouldn’t be, though? My friend Becky (name changed for purposes of protecting her identity and my safety against being shivved as retribution) came to visit me at the Polar Bar and we began catching up. We went out for a cigarette and she said, “Can I tell you something? I mean, you have to take this to your grave.” Oops. Well, that’s the hazard of dating or being friends with a writer.

I nodded my head as she proceeded to explain how she was no longer teaching 2^nd grade, but had ventured into the exciting world of being an escort. While in modern pornographic films this is an obvious vocational transition, in the real world this is a bit of a non sequitur.

“So, you’re a prostitute now?”

This, for some reason, offended her. She told me she was not a common hooker.

“So, you’re a high-class prostitute?”

She began to get frustrated with my apparent ignorance of her new line of work.

“I go on dates with rich, older men. I keep them company and they pay me for my services.”

Color me confused, but last I checked keeping old, rich guys company with your vagina and getting paid for it is prostitution. Here’s where the differences between street hookers and escorts becomes clear. A street hooker has the lady balls to say what she actually does. She continued to rave about her new job as if she were pitching it to me. Turns out she was.

“I can get you started, make some amazing money, you know? I’m trying to get a really amazing team.”

Was she trying to put together some kind of elite slut squad? When our vaginas combined we’d form Voltron? Swap out my black vodka splashed pants for some matching crotchless hooker pants? My answer, of course, was no. I was perfectly content where I was and though I had no clue where my dignity was, I hadn’t fallen to the point where I’d consider getting smacked in the face with old man balls for a condo in Madison Park.

As we were saying our good-byes she turned to me and said:

“You know, Anna, I come here and I just feel bad about seeing you in this place, you know? I’m ending my night with a few grand and staying in a huge condo. I really want to help get you out of this bar.” Wait. What the fuck? Did a hooker just talk down to me?

She winked and swiveled her hips all the way out the front doors. I just continued to stare blankly, my mouth agape. It felt like the first time I heard Kim Kardashian’s pop debut: horrifying and funny, but mostly just confusing.

I haven’t spoken to Becky in a couple years, but I hear she’s enjoying a mind-numbing addiction to cocaine. I’m glad she’s still living the dream.

Memories from the Bar: Advice

The Polar Bar in the historic Arctic Club Hotel is an upscale cocktail lounge reminiscent of the bar from “The Shining.” The walls at the entrance are littered with pictures of its early members who made their money from the gold rush, the pool table dates back to its original opening as a gentleman’s club in 1916 and the lead bartender even dons a classic white jacket just to add to that “old timey,” sophisticated style. One would think that with such a classy feel to the business, the clientele would most likely match that sense. Yet, week after week, I was faced with a clusterfuck of the wretched assholes this city has to offer. Don’t get me wrong, a majority of the people who frequent the bar are making six figures, sending their children to private schools and banging their 22 year-old secretary. Unless you have worked in the industry at some point, though, you may not realize that these upper crust fuckwits are the worst offenders of all that made my job a joyous hell. It would seem the more money a person has, the more likely they were to ask me to take my pants off to get a look at the scar on my leg. Let’s go over a few basic rules you may want to abide by when going to basically any bar.

1. No matter how softly you think you’re talking, the bar staff is always listening.

I was standing at my station ringing up a few tickets, when from behind I heard a group of lawyers change their subject from their most recent verdict to how one could tell the difference between a hooker who’s a transvestite and a cop. Words like “hooker” and “transvestite” stand out, I thought this was common knowledge, but perhaps I just listen very hard for discussions about prostitutes. By the way boys, if there’s an Adam’s apple... that’s a dude. Not rocket science.

2. Stalking is not as flattering as you may think.

During my shift, my phone was hiding at the side of the bar, unseen unless you knew where it was. After my shift was over at around 1 am, I got a text from an unknown number telling me the party was in room 1001. I, of course, wanted to know who it was and they kept responding in a come-hither, coy “you know you want it” manner. Turns out they had snuck to my phone while I was away from it and called their own phone to get my number. This is a no-no. This kind of privacy invasion results in a swift, well-aimed dick punch. Don’t do it. It’s creepy.

3. Do not touch your server or bartender.

I dropped a drink off for a man and he said, “Thank you, sweetheart,” and then proceeded to put his hand on my thigh. I slapped his hand away and he gave me a look of total shock. “I’m sorry,” said, “did me smacking you get in the way of you groping me?” If you don’t know them, no touchy.

4. Do not ask the server or bartender to touch you or your friends

I had been serving three gentlemen over by the pool table for about an hour when the older one (probably late 50s) said in a mildly slurred voice, “Anna, would you do my friend a favor?” Now this is always a loaded question, so tread gently. “What do you need?” He got real close to us and said, “Could you spank him for me? Just a quick slap? He’s had a rough day.” The answer to this is always “no” and it’s a sure way to get yourself cut-off. I make it a personal rule to not spank my customers, because it doesn’t give the right impression of what I do. His friends apologized profusely and then proceeded to give me a 100% tip. I felt like a prostitute who gets paid beforehand for a blowjob, but the client passed out before the fellacio could be performed. Bad analogy. Not the point. I won’t spank you, so don’t ask.

5. Don’t linger once the bar is closing

When we say “last-call,” that means order your drinks, down them and get the fuck out of our bar. I don’t know if you realize this, but bartenders love to drink. It’s probably not a coincidence that I have been in the three most drunken professions in my life: Soldier, bartender, ad writer. Some may say we border on alcoholism, but the point is you’re not the only one who wants to get blasted and make bad decisions. I used to have a long-standing appointment with an outside table at Il Bistro for a pack of Camel Lights and a gallon of Redbreast Irish Whiskey and I didn’t like to reschedule.

Oh Go Daddy

Apparently, there was something in me that felt like I had an internal need to feel dirty, because I'd been using GoDaddy.com for my blog. I no longer feel like looking at Danica Patrick (Creepy Dwarf Racer) when I log in, so here I am. And every blog post will be added here because goddamnit, I worked hard on (drank a lot during) writing those.