Soon, I Will Jit in a Cup

And, later that day, I will blog about it.

Because that's the kind of society in which we live, and that's the kind of guy I am. And, fortunately, that's the kind of wife I have-- who will tolerate my exposing explicit and painful components of our lives to you, all-too-perfect strangers-- and not divorce me and/or pelt me in the junk with a tennis ball.

Such an act of junkular violence, obviously, would rather run counter to our procreation mission.

When we miscarried in the autumn of 2009, I innocently thought that we could wait the prescribed three months and just, you know, make it happen again. Turns out that, unlike ordering the "Rooty-Tooty Fresh & Fruity Breakfast," is easier said than done.

On Friday, Mrs. Apron went to a fertility clinic. They have prescribed her hormone medication. They're going to inject dye into her girl parts and take a look to see what shape everything's in. They're going to test her blood.

And, of course, they're going to test my spunk.

I'm not thrilled about this prospect, but I'm trying to be positive and mature about it. As you might imagine, neither comes naturally to me.

Heh-heh. "Comes."

See?

The good thing about the semen analysis is that I get to masturbate into a cup in the comfort of my own home on a Wednesday morning, and then drive it over to this clinic on my way to work. I don't have to do it in the exam room like some creepy bastard, and I don't have to let the scrubs-adorned pony-tailed chippy behind the counter know any of my peculiar pornographic proclivities. Which is nice.

What's going to be weird is that, on Wednesday mornings, my wife is at home. Like, how is this going to work-- logisitically speaking? I'll wake up, get dressed, walk the dogs before they explode all over the place, and then, like... what? Will I be here upstairs jackin' away while she's downstairs eating her "Smart Start"?

I mean, weirdsies.

There was a funny thing in the packet that says, "Occasionally, due to religious reasons, the sample may have to be obtained during intercourse. A special condom designed for this purpose will be provided." My wife read it to me and we laughed. Good ol' Catholics: saving the day with a dose of ice-breaking "Every Sperm is Sacred" comedy once again.

There is, of course, nothing funny-- about Catholics or infertility-- going on here, but I don't know what else to do at this point but be an idiot. Really, it's kind of my default. And thank God Mrs. Apron encouraged me, or at least allowed me, to blog about this.

"You realize that, if I do that," I said to her on Friday afternoon after her appointment, "that I'm going to do it my way, right?"

She smiled at me.

"I wouldn't expect anything less."

"Ha!" I laughed, "or more."

"Exactly."

I want a baby-- a son or a daughter, but not both at once, please-- and I will jit in a cup if it means that we'll be one step closer to the life we've wanted together for a very long time. I'm not in a rush or a hurry, but I am getting a little impatient to get started with this next part of our lives. It's not a contest, or a race, or a anything, really. And it's certainly not a joke. But, sometimes, it's really all I've got.

Well, that, and a hell of a lot of love.

A Very, Very Long Way to Go

My gum hurts.

It's on the left side (right if you have the misfortune to be staring at me/it) of my mouth, right by the canine. It's a bit white and puffy. I brush my teeth twice a day ("Tom's of Maine" Orange & Mango [Kids] Toothpaste + Flouride, if you must know-- mint and I don't mix) but I've never flossed. I was somehow able to convince myself that rubbing a brush-shaped object schmeared with jookiee-joop all over it wasn't silly-- but the idea of jamming wax in between my teeth till blood was drawn never really caught on in my brain. I know, I know, if I flossed regularly, after a month of so the bleeding would stop.

Sorry-- that's a tough sell where I come from.

My mother has more silver in her teeth than you have in your necklace collection and my father's real teeth are kept in an envelope. Every now-and-then he pours them out onto the dining room table and plays Jacks with them-- usually to impress guests at our annual family Passovers seders. Dental fastidiousness was not, shall we say, overemphasized in my childhood abode.

I have, however, miraculously made it to 30 with zero cavities. Go figure.

To most people, painful, puffy gums might be a reminder that it's time to go to the dentist. For me, it's a reminder that my best friend and I haven't spoken since May of last year. See, when you're me, one of the side-effects of your best friend not speaking to you anymore is that you stop going to the dentist-- because your best friend's father is your dentist.

Or, was your dentist. I suppose. I haven't severed the business relationship officially yet, but I think, after all this time, he probably gets the message. See, although my best friend stopped talking to me ("going off the radar for a while" was how he put it) in May of 2009, I probably last went to see his father in a professional capacity maybe seven or eight months before that. Maybe more. I don't really know. His secretaries stopped calling me after five or six tries to reschedule some appointment made a very long time ago. His office had this great deal for people who are denticiously uninsured-- $95 a year for two cleanings-- and, while I could just go to another dentist, well, it's expensive when you don't have dental insurance.

Our society makes it seem like you cannot survive without certain things: reality television is one. A cellphone with a QWERTY keyboard is another (I admit that I feel like a WWI veteran without one) and a dentist is another. In Israel, back when my father was a child, nobody went to the dentist, at least, according to him nobody did.

"Mummy-- they are all fucking Russian cheats and liars there!" he said to me, laughing, his false bridge jiggling merrily inside his mouth.

Another thing that you supposedly cannot survive without in this world is a best friend. Look at all the buddy movies and television shows. Wouldn't Laverne turn into a pillar of salt without Shirley? Hardy would be just another fat bastard with a Hitler moustache without Laurel. Even partners who routinely locked horns feel lost when bereft of their other fifty percent. In 1901, when the world lost a musical genius, W. S. Gilbert lost the right arm he had so often taken for granted.

"A Gilbert is of no use without a Sullivan," he brooded. And he was right.

My best friend is gone because I questioned the trustworthiness of his girlfriend, and I questioned whether or not she was worthy of him. Big mistake. I think about this mistake every time I run my tongue along my swollen upper gum. And every time I don't, too.

"He got married last week, you know," my wife said to me yesterday morning while I was washing dishes, "I saw it on Facebook."

"Couldn't care less," I replied, placing a dish in the drying rack.

I don't really know if that's true or not. I am still filled with incalculable rage and disappointment-- some of it directed at him, some of it directed at me. Truthfully, I am tired of being angry and sad, and I am exhausted from emotionally beating myself up for opening my impossibly cavernous mouth. I have infinite respect for people who are able to censor themselves and see disaster waiting in the wings, and meticulously avert it with skillful maneuvering.

I was never one of those people. When my father was a soldier in the Israeli army, he and his idiot, testosterone-jacked hairy comrades drove a tank through somebody's house. That's kind of how I feel sometimes-- like the house is life and my mouth is the tank. I am reckless and dangerous, nearly always sharp-tongued and sometimes very dull-witted. My judgment takes no prisoners, and I am almost always the one who ends up suffering before I am even done speaking my peace.

I sometimes wonder when I am going to grow up. I am tired of waiting. I have hair on my shoulders-- clearly, I am ready.

Aren't I?

Obviously not, if I can't pick up the phone, make an appointment, face my former best friend's father, look him in the eye, open up, and say, "Ah."

Obviously, we have a very, very long way to go.