A guy-friend later told me it “sounded like a bit of a humble-brag” to him, and as soon as he said that—of course it did. But that’s not at all what I meant.

I don’t mow the lawn in a bikini. I’m usually in my workout clothes, post-WOD, because what the hell, I’m already stinky—let’s do this thing. So I’m out there, dripping sweat, hair disheveled, wrestling with my gas-powered cheapo. It’s not sexy. It’s not attractive. It’s not graceful, or even out of the ordinary (this is 2013, right?—women do all kinds of crazy things, like work outside the home and stuff, right?). What I’m saying is I can’t imagine it’s nice or interesting in any way to watch.

And yet.

They hang their heads out their windows. They slow down. They stare. I’m some kind of zoo animal.

Yesterday a dude stopped his car and gawked at me.

I gave him my best stankface, and he shlooped his head back into his car and drove away. But part of me wanted to turn off the mower and pretend to fling poo at him.

Of course, all it took was trying on two sports bras to crush my soul.

You take the good, you take the bad, I guess.

Three years ago, I learned when puberty begins.

Two years ago, I altered my to-do list, and good things happened. Well, one good thing happened.

Last year this time, I learned whether my dogs were good guard dogs.

What you may have missed on Fat CrossFitter: I did the Filthy Fifty for the third time, and I’m genuinely scared/have a very first-world problem.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Some of them I’d never heard of, like Alexander Skarsgard who I had to Google—meow!—and Lance Guest who they clarified with a parenthetical “Last Starfighter”. I’m assuming that’s a recent starring vehicle of his, but I didn’t bother to search the internet for him because Lance Guest is a dumb name and “Last Starfighter” sounds like a rip-off of Star Trek on the CW network. You know, where it’s all sculpted 20-somethings playing angsty teens and doing a lot of chin-acting. While fighting stars. And I couldn’t tolerate having a kid who looks like anyone whose parents named him Lance and who has made such poor hypothetical career choices.

Several had “(young)” next to their names:

Alec Baldwin (young)
Al Pacino (young)

Just, I guess, so you wouldn’t think you were getting the bloated/wizened versions that show up on your TV or movie screen these days.

A couple had the name, and then the name again with “(young)” next to it:

Chuck Norris
Chuck Norris (young)

I mean, the cut-off age for donors is 39, so are they saying that have a donor who looks like a Chuck Norris in his prime and another less-than-40-year-old who looks 73?

Well, I guess it doesn’t matter. It’s Chuck Norris.

Unless he shaves his beard.

Then it matters.

If I were to choose the Chuck Norris look-alike, that baby’d better emerge from my womb fully bearded or I’d demand a refund.

They specified that it was the thin Seth Rogen and the Anthony Edwards from Top Gun. Whew.

They had a few I was drawn to—Andy Samberg, Jason Segel, Ricky Gervais—until I remembered these were look-alikes, not funny-alikes. I don’t want somebody who looks like Andy Samberg unless he can also generate some “Threw It on the Ground” action.

Same with John Krasinski. What if my baby’s a dead ringer for Jim Halpert but can’t do a perfect deadpan-followed-by-minute-eyebrow-raise? I’d be so disappointed.

Before I saw No Country for Old Men, I would’ve picked a Javier Bardem doppelgänger in a hot second, but his portrayal of Anton Chigurh insured that that’ll never happen. Also that I’ll never sleep a perfect night’s sleep again.

And then there was Bronson Pinchot. I… I don’t think looking like Bronson Pinchot is a selling point. I think, just as a business decision, the sperm bank might want to keep that to themselves.

You have hush, as in “quiet”, as in “calm”, as in “mama singing you to sleep”. And then you have puppies, and who doesn’t love puppies?! OMG puppiiiiiiiiiiieees!

Speaking of which, I got to hold this chihuahua-pug puppy on Friday! He was 8 weeks old and so scrambly and smoochy. He wouldn’t stop smooching me on the face! I hated it. Hahahahahahaha.

Seriously, look at how cute he was! He was the size of that pint! And he got passed around the table, and he scrambled and smooched everyone so hard, until he fell asleep in a little ball in my friend’s arms—waaaaaaaaaaaaaah I want him.

OK, I got derailed.

Yes, hushpuppies. What an innocuous name for something that hurts my very soul. But also/mainly my stomach because they’re full of gluten and sweet, sweet crack cocaine so I can’t stop eating them.

Last night I walked out of Squid’s, unzipped my pants, and drove home with my angry gut spilling out over my lap.

And at The Q Shack, where they have that honey butter Country Crock business that you dip ‘em in—nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.

Let me paraphrase Louis C.K. here and say, I’m not done with hushpuppies when I’m full. I’m done with hushpuppies when I hate myself.

They’re probably one of those foods that I should just make off-limits.

But who am I kidding? I could never live like that because what’s life without the delicious fried goodness of bloatdragons every now and again?

Also, I QUIT MATCH.COM. Wahooooooooooooooooo!

I’ll have to find my man some other way. Thinking I might build a trap.

With all my dating woes, people frequently ask what I’m looking for in a man, and remarkably (considering how generally wordy I am), I’ve never been able to put it into words, you know? I mean, I want funny, but funny’s not enough, as evidenced by a recent two-date sequence. He has to be physically attractive too, but my taste in what’s physically attractive is (1) not all that conventional (I ain’t got no problem with bald, and sometimes a big nose just works) and (2) varies widely (lithe rock climber, sure; Viking with a mead gut, also good). He should be smart but not an übernerd. Kind but not a pansy. I don’t know. I DON’T KNOW.

But then yesterday, I was stopped at a stoplight, and I saw this.

Pretty sure I could be down with any man who says, “Amy, you and your parts come first.”

Thanks, Sport Durst.

**********

Three years ago, I discovered that I was NCGS. That’s like NCIS but infinitely less badass.

Two years ago, I was unsure of everything. Man, things don’t change much.

Any dude who wants to get with me must be definitively pro-gay, as I learned a year ago.

Some of the things you may have missed on Fat CrossFitter: I was OK with scaling. Then I wasn’t.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

In the meantime, remember you can check out my other blog, the Fat CrossFitter. I’m equally ridiculous over there, just with a lot of numbers and stupid vocabulary like “metcon” and “snatch-grip deadlift”. What even.

And I installed a comments plug-in, but then I didn’t know how to see the comments?, but then I totally figured out how to do that too so we can chit-chat! I’m pretty much a computer programmer now. Larry, Sergey, don’t let the-boon-that-is-me slip through your fingers.

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Main reason: standardized testing. It’s The Worrrrrrrrrrst. Bad for kids, sure, but as I tell the kids: “At least you get to DO something. I just have to SIT THERE.” In fact, read I Got Middle Schooled for a little taste of what teachers and proctors go through. It’s horrifying and hilarious.

***********

Three years ago, I shared my experiences with anti-depressants. The magic bullet I mentioned was amino acids—a monster truck load of them per day—which I took for several years, and they definitely helped. But they were super-duper-expensive and not-at-all covered by my super-duper-crappy health insurance. I weaned myself off them within the last six months, and I think I’m doing OK. I have my moments, but between CrossFit, food choices, and workin on mah shit, I’m maintaining a pretty healthy level of sanity.

Two years ago, I found the All-Time Worst Prospect on OKCupid. Seriously though.

A year ago, a shocking news story broke.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Remarkably, the profile doesn’t work. I go on lots of dates but do not find the father of my future children.

And a year later, at the beginning of 2013, when—if I stand on my tiptoes—I can see my 38th birthday on the horizon, I get extra-specially concerned about the window that’s closing on my ability to have a child. It occurs to me, however, that that window does not exist for finding a partner. (Ostensibly.)

I think, I could do this on my own, right? Have a kid now; find love later. I could.

So should I? Thus begins an epic game of should-I-or-shouldn’t-I.

Yes, yes, I should.

I weigh my options. I decide I’d rather know my donor than go to a sperm bank, so I sit a friend down—a smart, funny, relatively attractive friend—and say, “I’m considering single parenthood.”

Before I can even ask the question, he says, “Oh, I’ll give you my sperm. That kid’ll probably be a superhero.”

It’s pretty fucking great, so generous of him, and I sob into his collar bone when we hug goodbye.

I make an appointment with a lawyer. I ask him, “Can you write me and the donor-guy a contract that says I won’t ask you for any monies to raise this young’n and you won’t at any time pull a Rumpelstiltskin on me?” The lawyer says yes, he can write that contract, and then explains why it wouldn’t actually mean anything in a court of law and the myriad ways shit could go legally pear-shaped.

I change my mind. I shouldn’t.

But my urge to nurture is strong. As evidenced by my apparent compulsion to take in foster dogs.

I change my mind back. I should.

I go to Duke Fertility and an 80-year-old doctor from Eastern Europe who bears a striking resemblance to Droopy Dog tells me how much insemination costs and the probability of success with each attempt. I say, “That’s a lot of dough for some pretty weak odds.”

He replies, “Human reproduction is remarkably inefficient.”

I’m not willing to take those odds. I shouldn’t.

Of course, then I hang out with my nieces and nephews, five incredible tiny humans spawned by my beloved siblings.

The 11-year-old, polite and whip-smart, writes poetry and makes duct-tape crafts.

The 8-year-old is a reckless cacophony of snaggle-toothed cuteness who rains Lego pieces everywhere he goes.

The 4-year-old and I entertain ourselves for 45 minutes by playing Toss the Sock Baby (wherein I throw her a pair of rolled up socks and she throws it… sort of in my general direction… unless it goes behind her). She cackles. “I love that game,” she says.

The 3-year-old is sassy and mercurial and wants what she wants. That is, she’s me.

And the 1-year old. Every time my brother says, “Come here, my guy,” and scoops the 1-year-old into his arms, I can’t swallow for a minute.

I’m willing to take some risks for that kind of love.

I should.

I can’t afford the clinic though. No problem, we can do this DIY. I’ll buy a sterile cup. Donor-man can bring his favorite magazine, close himself in my bathroom, and then head out for cheese fries while I prop my pelvis up and take care of business with a turkey baster.

I ask him to get checked for All The Cooties. He says sure, and then work gets crazy, so there’s a delay. And during that delay, all my doubts about single parenthood creep in. Money. Sleep. Emotional stamina. And I freak out.

I shouldn’t. I tell my friend to hold off.

Then I see a slideshow on HuffPost called “Questionable Parenting”. Now I’ll grant that my kid might push the limits of my patience, but I doubt I’d ever use a stun gun on him because he didn’t ask permission to play basketball. And I may go into debt trying to raise a kid, but I don’t think I’d ever try to sell it on Craig’s List.

I’d be a fine parent! I should!

I tell my friend it’s a go. His tests come back clean. …And I start to see couples everywhere, and I get caught up again in the idea of finding someone, not just for raising my kid but for me. I want a companion. I want sex. I want romantic love. I want a partner.

I shouldn’t. Not by myself.

Then I go to the Full Frame Documentary Film Festival and see First Comes Love, a film about a woman in exactly my position—single, pushing the limits of fertility—who just does it. She has a baby boy. By herself. And it’s hard and exhausting and frustrating, but it’s also magical and wonderful and fulfilling. I cry through the whole thing. Then I cry into my tacos at Chubby’s. Then I cry all the way home. And finally, I sit down and listen to my heart.

And my heart says: the fact is, you can find love, or you can make it. You’re not very good at finding it, so I guess you better make it. You should.

I should.

I definitely, definitely should.

I can.

I will.

I email donor-man: “Let’s try in June. If it doesn’t work, July.” He gets back to me. His father has reminded him of a close relative who is mentally retarded. Turns out he has a micro-deletion on his 15th chromosome. Other associated conditions with the micro-deletion are autism, learning difficulties, emotion regulation problems, and bipolar disorder.

Genetic tests are possible. They cost “a couple hundred to several hundred”, according to the woman I speak to at a genetics clinic.

If my donor were my partner, I would have us both tested and then roll the dice. But what if I shell out all that money and it’s a no-go? Or the test results say we’re OK, but then we’re not?

I know that anything can happen with any sperm. Anything can happen with anything.

But.

By myself? A kid who has a good chance of having some kind of developmental or emotional disorder?

I shouldn’t.

I really don’t want to go to a sperm bank; I can’t think of anyone else to donate; and I still can’t find a stupid, stupid boyfriend.

I can’t.

Game over.

I feel like a loser in so many ways.