To Baby, or not to Baby, that is the Question:

Over the course of the last couple of years I've really been struggling with this theory of a biological clock.  I call it a theory because I don’t seem to have one.  I keep expecting to wake up one day and hear it ticking.  So far….nada. 

  

In all honesty, I can’t stand most kids.  My favorite is when they cry on planes or in a restaurant.  However, everyone assures me that I’ll love my own - I think I’d like that in writing please.

While all of my friends seem to be on a mission these days to pop out a couple of screaming, vomiting, needy bundles of joy, I can’t help but wonder if motherhood is something I’m destined for?

Most of the time I’m not even sure I can take care of myself let alone another person.  Is there anything at Taco Bell babies can eat?  I already don’t have time to cook, clean, or do laundry, and I can’t even tell you the last time I went grocery shopping.

 

The thought of breast feeding has always grossed me out.  The thought of using a breast pump doesn't sound much more appealing.  There’s nothing even remotely sexy about being hooked up to a machine like a cow.

   

I recently learned from an episode of Grey’s Anatomy that you poop on the table during child birth…ha ha this just keeps getting better.

Episiotomy…nuf said.

I like the idea of having someone that’s obligated to take care of me when I can no longer feed myself or start forgetting my own name, but let’s face it; sometimes kids can be ass holes.  As I've already assured my parents, “Nick (my brother) will be rich and will put you in a good home when you get too old.” 

In all fairness, my brother and I did give my parents an option.  We told them it would be a lot cheaper to send them off on an iceberg like the Eskimos.  I don’t think they liked our idea.  (Shhhh, we haven’t told them that’s still plan B).  

    

In any event, as my 33^rd birthday closes in, the reality of the situation becomes clearer…time is running out and I’m not getting any younger.  Pretty soon I’mgoing to have to decide if this baby thing is for me or not.

    

The way I see it, I’m already a few steps ahead of those idiots on 16 & Pregnant or Teen Mom.  How bad could I really screw it up?      

Frank Sinatra had it Half Way Right….

In last week’s post I mentioned that I had lived in New York City for a period of time last year.  I feel that this is the appropriate time to expand on that and tell you a bit more of the story.

I had moved there for love and the promise of a new exciting chapter in my life.  I was happy.  

Everything leading up to the move seemingly fell right into place.  I was able to rent out my house to an acquaintance with zero effort, my parents willingly offered to help with the move, and I didn't even have to look for a new job because my company was going to let me work from my apartment in NYC!!!  I was positive this was a sign of good things to come.

Sometimes good things happen to good people, and when they do, we are overcome with a sense of justification that our hard work and endured struggles have finally paid off.  The Universe is finally throwing us that home run pitch, and all we have to do is swing. 

This wasn't one of those times. 

New York City, otherwise known as the only place in the world where it’s completely acceptable to live with three other people in a 1,000 sq. ft. apartment when you’re 32 years old.  This was quite an adjustment from my 1,000 sq. ft. house that I own and have all to myself.  On top of that, our monthly rent was $2,800.  No joke.

The constant smell of garbage permeates the thick air EVERY day.  It begins to become amusing to sit outside on the apartment building steps every night and watch the rats scurry from one garbage pile to another for their daily meal. 

Nobody has central air because most of the buildings are too old and landlords are too cheap.

Don’t even get me started on the worst cable service in the world ~ yes, it’s worse than Comcast. 
  

Dogs poop on the sidewalk (because there isn't any grass).

The below ground subway platforms are hotter than Death Valley.  No air circulation, just dead…hot…stagnant…“air”.  But the rats like it down there so I can only assume it’s for their comfort.

The NYPD generally abide by a shoot first ask questions later philosophy.  On top of that, most are a pretty bad shot.

Let’s not forget, NYC is also home to the rudest, meanest, most self involved, completely oblivious people you’ll ever meet (actually not meet, but physically run into)…and the Yankees.  If they’re not any of those things, they’re generally just plain weird. 

Don’t get me wrong, there were good things.  Like 24 hour food delivery. 

And I must give the city props for having the least aggressive bums I've ever encountered.  For the most part they just sit there and keep to themselves.    

End rant.

What Does Happily Ever After Really Mean?

When I was 12 years old, I had a plan.  I was certain that by the time I was 25 I would be married to the love of my life, progeny number one would be on the way, and I would be on my way to the storybook ending I deserved.  That’s what I was taught to believe anyway, and my parents made it all look so easy.  What I know now that I didn’t know then, was that my parents (who are still disgustingly married after 34 years) got lucky!

Around age 27, after yet another heartbreak, a million bad first and sometimes second dates, more one night stands then I’d like to count, and a couple of attempts at serious relationships that in retrospect were probably doomed from the beginning…I woke up.  I woke up to the realization that I was going to have to come up with a plan B, because this one obviously-was stupid.  The elusive Prince Charming was NOT coming to rescue me anytime soon. 

I was on my own.

Let’s fast forward to present day (age 32 closing in on 33), where I have a decent job, I’m educated, I own a home, a couple of cats I’ve managed to keep alive, and I did it all on my own.  I’m relatively attractive by most standards, confident, witty, and smart with very little emotional baggage…so you might ask how is it that no man has managed to trick me into the sanctity of marriage?  That’s easy, because I have once again found myself in an “it’s complicated” relationship status.  Ridiculous.  I know.

So why do I put myself through this torture?  Maybe I’m just a glutton for punishment.

I’ve never been one to easily give up on anything, including relationships.  Call it a personality defect I guess.  So when my ex-boyfriend, we’ll call him D (who I moved all the way to NYC for last year…that’s another story) decided that he had made a huge mistake by ending our 9 month relationship and wanted to try and work things out, my first instinct was no F-ing way!  But in the back of my head there was this voice, which turned out to be my mother’s, saying “relationships take work” over and over again with an annoying persistence.  I started to wonder if maybe I should listen to what he had to say.  Had I given up too easily?    

Gradually, I started not being a bitch when D would text or call me, and eventually he persuaded me to give this relationship another shot.  After all, hating him had started to become exhausting.  But first, let’s add just a little more absurdity to the story shall we?  He recently moved from NYC to Houston, TX, I live approximately 1,300 miles away.  How is this ever going to work?  Can it work?  Should it work? 

The future of our relationship remains to be seen.