TICK MOTHER#%@*ING TOCK

Last week on the news, I saw a story about a Mexican woman who found an abandoned baby at a gas station. My first thought was, "That is the luckiest Mexican woman ever." My second thought was, "I wish I found a baby at a gas station. I'm sure Kenny (my roommate) wouldn't let me keep it, but I think I could make a convincing power-point presentation."

Yes, I know. I'm thinking the same thing you are. I'm not proud. I don't understand how I got here, either. The biological clock is not a joke. It strikes when you least expect it, and once it does, there's no going back.

If you are a man and you're reading this and you are about to throw your computer and run as fast as you can in the opposite direction because you think I spend my free time poking holes in condoms, just hold on a second. I'd like to defend my ovaries. First of all, I am in no way ready to be a mother. There are so many things I need to do before that happens. At the top of the list is "Take Over the World," followed by, "Try to Have a Serious, Committed Relationship with a Man That Lasts Longer Than 3 Months and Isn't Long-Distance." I don't have a savings account, I don't have health insurance, and I live in a household with no band-aids. (I learned that the hard way when I sliced my finger cooking the other day and I had to tape a paper towel around my finger.) That is enough to have someone call Child Protective Services on me. Second, I didn't ask for this and I certainly didn't welcome it. I resisted giving in to liking children with willpower I don't even possess towards cupcakes. But once you catch one of these tiny adorable creatures flashing you a smile in the grocery store, it's hard not to follow them throughout the store. Sometimes they can smell the creep on you and run away. I can't say that I blame them for that.

It's a weird feeling when you start to realize that this clock is ticking and you see things differently. I've never really had a "type" when it comes to men, but I've noticed I've developed something I like to call a "Baby-Daddy Type." These are the unusually attractive guys that I've never usually been attracted to. (I'm more of a personality girl.)  But now when I see a tall, dark, and handsome man with light eyes, I think, "that man is going to produce some ridiculously good-looking offspring and I need to find a way to acquire his sperm for reproductive purposes." Ideally, I would like to produce an interracial baby or two, and then adopt the remaining participating races needed for a United Colors of Benetton ad. That's best-case scenario.

I've got my future all figured out. Until then, you can find me terrorizing my friends' children with affection.

Let's Hear It For the Boys

Sometimes when you break up with someone, you only remember the good things/times and not the reasons why you broke up. Sometimes you are single for so long that you don't remember the good guys.

I belong in the second category.

Although I have run out of fingers and toes on which to count how many times I've been burned by the opposite sex, I also often forget about the ones who made a positive impact. I've had a lot of amazing dates with really great guys and also with some not really great guys. Doors opened, dinners made, flowers given, romantic dinners and walks though Central Park (Yes, I date bicoastally), flights changed to spend extra time with me, and sugar-free vanilla soy lattes on my nightstand when I woke up (most impressive gesture to date.) All of the little things that put a smile of my face.

But the guys who I will NEVER forget, even if they hurt me, are the ones who were honest with me. I don't know what it is about guys that makes them so scared to tell us the truth and be upfront with us. Here's a little secret for the guys: WE CAN HANDLE IT! We're the ones who were engineered to push the babies out, remember?

The most respectful thing you can do is be honest with us. It even if you're telling us you are dating someone else or you don't want a relationship with us or you don't feel the same way about us. Does that suck? You bet. I've been though all of those scenarios and more. Guess which guys I  didn't buy and name Voodoo Dolls after? The ones who had enough respect for me to talk to me instead of stop calling me or make excuses.

In the words of the great Britney Spears, "Don't Let Me Be the Last to Know."