I had the good fortune of knowing I was going to be an awesome dad years before I inseminated my wife. I was director of a day camp for 10 years, the kids loved me, and I even look like Steve from “Blue’s Clues.” “You’re going to be an awesome dad,” the parents would tell me daily, and not just the single moms trying to get a piece of this. And by “this,” I of course mean free daycare. So inseminating my wife was a mere formality in collecting my prize as the World’s Most Awesome Dad. Read More →
University of Baltimore MFA student Ian Anderson remembers his teenage summers at the beach with friends who were like brothers until they couldn’t be any longer.
I was sitting on the step in the garage of Greene’s Bike Rental with my summer friends, Dominic and Marty. Dominic was a year younger than me, wearing a long, white t-shirt and gym shorts—his uniform. Marty was a year older than me, but the shortest and with the kindest face. We were waiting for the cops to show up. Mr. Greene assured us the cops were coming, and our parents. I was 14 years old, an age when angry parents are infinitely worse than anything the judicial system can offer. Mr. Greene kept walking around the garage, cursing, coming back to us, saying, “you little shits,” and then walking around again. I was scared. I think Marty and Dominic were, too, but they didn’t show it, so I didn’t either. The garage door was open, framing a blue sky with cotton candy clouds, the kind you see on postcards. The wind was coming in off the sea, cooling the streets of Wildwood, where my family rented an apartment above my grandmother’s beach house every summer. It was a beautiful day outside, but we were in the garage. Read More →
Right now I’m on a plane. It’s a Friday afternoon and I’m flying across the country from my home in Baltimore; when I get off this plane I will be greeted by my ex-girlfriend. It’s been 25 years since I’ve seen her.
We’ve both just turned 50 and found each other via Facebook. And we’re both single again. I learned that she was still living in California, where she’d moved shortly after we broke up. What would it be like to see her again? I wondered enough to make the leap. In minutes I will find out. I have no idea what this reunion will hold — even though I’ve dreamed about it half my life. Read More →
Betsy Boyd – Baltimore Fishbowl senior ed. – discovers that fertility shots really make you want…your mommy. This essay was originally published at Medium.com. It is part of an ongoing series.
“You can’t reap your harvest without first planting seeds, right?”
My Chilean fertility doctor thinks farming metaphors can help someone woefully unscientific like me understand the intricacies of ART—assisted reproductive technology, for the uninitiated. Read More →
Recently in a conversation with my mother about how special I was as a kid, she said, and I quote: “I wasn’t going to allow you to be the nasty little wretched sonofabitch you wanted to be.” Damn, Mom! She really lit in on me with that one, but she’s right. I was a little bad-ass growing up. Read More →
As writer Martha Frankel narrated family photos for her partially blind mother, she saw more through her mom’s eyes.
In every family photo taken of me before I’m 15, someone is holding my arms behind my back, as if I might bolt, as if I might float off into the ether if they weren’t tethering me to the earth. Usually it was my mother, but in a few of the photos it was my sister Helene, and in one, my father. Read More →
My friends were mixing cheap liquor with Mountain Dew and playing beer pong in Jeremy Sullivan’s basement. I was trapped at Bed, Bath & Beyond, ringing up the one person in Baltimore who felt the need to exchange a cartload of bathroom accessories for a $200 duvet cover at 9:59 on a Friday night. Read More →
Overwhelmed by the rampant materialism and cheap sentimentality of the holiday season, I find it difficult to make it through New Year’s without succumbing to self-medication and retreat. Multiple viewings of the horror classic Black Christmas and the “cha-cha heels” scene from John Waters’ Female Trouble help, but are not enough to quell my disgust when holiday music infiltrates every public venue and commercials, even muted, blare loudly with garish colors about outrageous deals on useless crap.
Yes, I am a Grinch. Read More →
Part 1: In which Baltimore Fishbowl Senior Editor Betsy Boyd and her husband select their sperm donor.
In the last year, over the course of four IUIs (intrauterine inseminations) and one IVF (in-vitro fertilization) procedure, I have purchased millions of sperm “donated” by men whose names, ages, and places of birth remain unknown to me. Read More →
Baltimore writer and 2013 UB grad Nathan Dennies mourns the passing of his and his fiancée’s falling-apart first bed, as broken down as it was (on a nightly basis).
I salvaged the components of my old bed from the Copycat Building loading dock. I lived in that dilapidated, lead-paint filled warehouse for six months and saw the loading dock as a treasure trove. It was the area right by the dumpster where every starry-eyed hipster leaves behind what they can’t fit in the back of their Subaru. If you could handle the smell of stale beer, the loading dock provided nearly endless rummaging possibilities. I found all the art history textbooks I could ever need and began a VHS collection despite not owning a VCR or television. I even found a Burberry umbrella that I totally thought was real until a friend pointed out that Burberry isn’t spelled with two U’s. It was there amongst the crushed beer cans and trampled fabric that I found the pieces of my bed. Read More →
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