Tuesday, November 02, 2004

Ovaries win by a landslide

Out of the blue, Jazz turned to me tonight while watching Fox for the poll results and said, “My eggs are too old to donate.”

“I beg your pardon?” Did she just say her eggs? Brit just said something crucial about Ohio, but I didn’t catch it.

“My eggs. They don’t want them because I’m 30 now.”

Is it unreasonable to think she should have known what I was about to ask and spared me the syllable? “Who??

“The egg donor people.”

I swear to you she said that with sarcasm, as if I should have known. Did I miss a commercial? As far as I knew Susan Estrich had been giving her opinion to Brit for the better part of 10 minutes already. And who the fuck is she trying to fool with that brand new 40 year old face? Like she wasn’t pushing 60 just a few weeks ago. When women feel compelled to go under the knife, is that our fault (men) for demanding they look younger? Then again, men do it, too. Have you seen Burt Reynolds lately? What the fuck happened there? He looks like somebody grabbed the back of his scalp and yanked until his lips touched his earlobes. That doctor should have been strung up by his –

“Are you listening to me?”

Now there's a bitch of a question. Like I really have options on the answer. “Yes, your eggs. They don’t want them.”

She rolled her eyes. Bad sign.

“I said I saw an ad in the paper that said ‘Egg Donors Wanted 18-29.’”

“That sucks.”

Her jaw dropped. Well, shit. Is there a fucking code book for "Male Response Etiquette" somewhere? Somebody look up "old eggs" in the index and tell me what I should have said.

For the next five minutes I was informed of all sorts of things I cared not to know. Besides the fact that I’m unconcerned about her “ticking time-bomb ovaries” and the “delicate nature of the female reproductive organs” and I’m entirely insensitive to the fact that she’s now “reproductively antiquated,” I’m also too self-involved to understand my own “insurmountable shortcomings” in regards to it all.

About forty seconds of silence passed between us as I resisted the urge to shift my eyes Chucky style to the left and catch a glimpse of the current electoral vote tally on the TV. Ah, hell. What is it with women having emotional breakdowns when something life altering is on TV, like the Presidential election, the Super Bowl or American Chopper?

“Jazz, honey, your eggs are not for sale.”

“Well not now that I’m so old! Nobody wants them!”

Jesus Christ. Women.

I abandoned my cozy recliner and wobbled over on my knees to where she sat on the sofa. She was actually pouting. “I want them.”

I got a begrudging smile and a “Boyfriend of the Week” trophy kiss and hug. Crisis averted. Now... "Sweetie?"

"Yes?"

“Can you take the TV off mute, please?”