usually—but not always—won.
Leo called these days the Golden Age. “This is the Golden Age,” he'd say, head resting on his tanned arms. He would usually begin this train of thought when I mentioned expensive sushi lunches, someone's brand-new VW Bug with the flower holder, or my desire for a shoe shopping spree. “Everybody's feeling flush, starting to forget that times like these don't go on forever.” He'd turn to me and smile. “Gotta enjoy the hell out of these days,” he would say, “because they won't last.” I knew he was thinking of the dinosaurs, his students’ favorite subject. The dinosaurs hadn't known what was about to hit them. (My husband believed it was an asteroid.)
We had been trying to get pregnant for some time. San Francisco had sun. It had the ocean. It had parks through which we could push a stroller, holding hands or holding lattes. That was enough. We were ready.
Some people in our office had kids. Jesus had a little boy named Kenneth Hendrix. Jesus said his son could use Kenneth for now, Hendrix for when he was ready to get chicks. Ben the Tech Guy had a daughter named Rocket.
Some people were pregnant. There was Trudy the Temp, whose Italian-American husband wouldn't let her eat salt or drive anywhere herself lest she harm Antonio (or Antonia) Junior. And there was Glenda, who hadn't known she was pregnant until she was five months along. In fact, I had been drinking vodka cranberries with her the night before she went to the doctor. She thought she was just getting fat.
Glenda could eat salt. In fact, she and her husband, a roasting technician at Starbucks, thought that smoking pot in moderation could actually help things in the uterine area.
After the first year or so of gleeful fucking had not resulted in a baby, my husband and I started to get serious. We got poked and prodded and tested, but the doctor said there were no problems. It was something magic, I guess, and it wasn't working for us. Each month I got my period, and it had started to make me teary.
Everyone at Shakespeare.com had opinions. They had opinions on music (pro—Santana), opinions on food (pro-tofu), opinions on what was cool and what was not. In essence, whatever sucked was something you could be proud of liking, because you were saying that you knew it was lame-o and you thought that was funny. You could like Hello Kitty, and you could like gas station hot dogs, but talking about liking your husband was queer. (Having a husband was sort of queer. It was better to be queer.) Real emotion was out. Roller skates were in. Bowling was in, as well.
Linda the yoga queen had told me about Dr. Zhong. Everyone in her Ashtanga class started going to him when they couldn't get pregnant because they didn't have enough body fat. He was an acupuncturist, and the story was, it worked.
I went to Dr. Zhong. His office was feng-shuied out. It was on Clement, and when you walked in, some gong job sounded. There were plants situated in various corners, and a fish tank by the door, which was to invite the money chi inside. A woman with an unstable look in her eyes took my name and told me to sit on a red pillow in the corner. I was not sure if I was in the love corner or the success corner. Either way.
One of the guys on the Hamlet team at work told me that Dr. Zhong had changed his life. He had unblocked his entire stomach with Dr. Zhong. Well, not his stomach, he said, but the stomach energy flow. Energy was called Qi in acupuncture, he told me earnestly. Whatever: I wanted a baby.
I had always imagined a little boy. Not that I would have minded a daughter, but I relished the thought of a boy who would go with me to the library, who wouldn't mind the stink of the sea lions on Pier 39—or if he did, that was okay, we could skip it—who would kiss me on the cheek and linger, whispering, “Mama.”
And I married the right man. It took me a while to find him, and to understand that kindness was what mattered. A man who
Leo called these days the Golden Age. “This is the Golden Age,” he'd say, head resting on his tanned arms. He would usually begin this train of thought when I mentioned expensive sushi lunches, someone's brand-new VW Bug with the flower holder, or my desire for a shoe shopping spree. “Everybody's feeling flush, starting to forget that times like these don't go on forever.” He'd turn to me and smile. “Gotta enjoy the hell out of these days,” he would say, “because they won't last.” I knew he was thinking of the dinosaurs, his students’ favorite subject. The dinosaurs hadn't known what was about to hit them. (My husband believed it was an asteroid.)
We had been trying to get pregnant for some time. San Francisco had sun. It had the ocean. It had parks through which we could push a stroller, holding hands or holding lattes. That was enough. We were ready.
Some people in our office had kids. Jesus had a little boy named Kenneth Hendrix. Jesus said his son could use Kenneth for now, Hendrix for when he was ready to get chicks. Ben the Tech Guy had a daughter named Rocket.
Some people were pregnant. There was Trudy the Temp, whose Italian-American husband wouldn't let her eat salt or drive anywhere herself lest she harm Antonio (or Antonia) Junior. And there was Glenda, who hadn't known she was pregnant until she was five months along. In fact, I had been drinking vodka cranberries with her the night before she went to the doctor. She thought she was just getting fat.
Glenda could eat salt. In fact, she and her husband, a roasting technician at Starbucks, thought that smoking pot in moderation could actually help things in the uterine area.
After the first year or so of gleeful fucking had not resulted in a baby, my husband and I started to get serious. We got poked and prodded and tested, but the doctor said there were no problems. It was something magic, I guess, and it wasn't working for us. Each month I got my period, and it had started to make me teary.
Everyone at Shakespeare.com had opinions. They had opinions on music (pro—Santana), opinions on food (pro-tofu), opinions on what was cool and what was not. In essence, whatever sucked was something you could be proud of liking, because you were saying that you knew it was lame-o and you thought that was funny. You could like Hello Kitty, and you could like gas station hot dogs, but talking about liking your husband was queer. (Having a husband was sort of queer. It was better to be queer.) Real emotion was out. Roller skates were in. Bowling was in, as well.
Linda the yoga queen had told me about Dr. Zhong. Everyone in her Ashtanga class started going to him when they couldn't get pregnant because they didn't have enough body fat. He was an acupuncturist, and the story was, it worked.
I went to Dr. Zhong. His office was feng-shuied out. It was on Clement, and when you walked in, some gong job sounded. There were plants situated in various corners, and a fish tank by the door, which was to invite the money chi inside. A woman with an unstable look in her eyes took my name and told me to sit on a red pillow in the corner. I was not sure if I was in the love corner or the success corner. Either way.
One of the guys on the Hamlet team at work told me that Dr. Zhong had changed his life. He had unblocked his entire stomach with Dr. Zhong. Well, not his stomach, he said, but the stomach energy flow. Energy was called Qi in acupuncture, he told me earnestly. Whatever: I wanted a baby.
I had always imagined a little boy. Not that I would have minded a daughter, but I relished the thought of a boy who would go with me to the library, who wouldn't mind the stink of the sea lions on Pier 39—or if he did, that was okay, we could skip it—who would kiss me on the cheek and linger, whispering, “Mama.”
And I married the right man. It took me a while to find him, and to understand that kindness was what mattered. A man who
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