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.