It's In The Stars. Buffy Andrews

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      “So today it said someone close would seek my advice and I should be honest.”

      “That’s kind of creepy,” Jen said. “Do you think it’s because it’s at the top of your mind so you’re making a correlation that’s not necessarily there?”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Remember the time I thought I was pregnant and everywhere I looked there were babies? I’d open up a magazine and see a diaper ad or watch TV and a talking baby commercial would come on. I don’t think there were suddenly more babies around. I just think it was at the top of my mind and so I noticed them more.”

      “In other words, you don’t want me to put too much trust in my horoscope,” I said. “It’s purely coincidental that my best friend called me for advice on the very same day my horoscope predicted someone close to me would. Maybe you’re right, but what the hell. I don’t have anything to lose.”

      “True,” Jen said. “You don’t. So what’s up with the Hottie Advertising Guy?”

      “Nothing! Zilch! Zero!”

      “Hang in there, Syd. The right guy will come along.”

      “You know, I’m beginning to not care any more. I mean, no guy is better than some guy. I’m beginning to think guys are just too much work.”

      “You’ve got a serious case of relationship blahs.”

      “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just coming to terms with the idea that my happiness shouldn’t be contingent on what a guy will or won’t provide. Single isn’t synonymous with desperate. I have my standards and I have to believe when the time is right, it’ll happen.”

      “I wish I had a tape recorder,” Jen said.

      “Why?”

      “So I could record what you just said and play it when you’re back to totally crushing on Hottie Advertising Guy – which, if history repeats itself, will be by this time tomorrow.”

      “You’re impossible!”

      Jen laughed. “But I’m usually right.”

      Ten minutes after I got off the phone with Jen, Jada called.

      “Sydney, I need some advice.”

      “I feel like Lucy but no one’s paying me.”

      “Who’s Lucy?”

      “You know. Lucy in the Charlie Brown comic strip. She sets up an advice booth. You’re the second friend who’s called for advice tonight. Anyway, what’s up?”

      “My eggs. They’re getting old.”

      “So throw them out, go to the store and buy new ones.”

      “Not those eggs, dummy. My eggs. The ones in my body, the ones I was born with, the ones waiting to be fertilized by the perfect male specimen.”

      “Whoa. Slow down. What in the hell are you talking about?”

      “Okay. So you know I’m seeing two guys, Michael and Mitch. Two M’s, I know. Very confusing. Sometimes I find myself calling Mitch, Michael and Michael, Mitch. Anyway. I’m seeing both of them. Not sleeping with either. They both would make great dads, but they both have pluses and minuses.

      I started unloading my dishwasher. “No one’s perfect.”

      “True, but just listen. Michael is ready to take the relationship to the next level. He’s wants an exclusive relationship. Mitch is more willing to continue the dating game but seems to want kids more than Michael. Meanwhile, my eggs are getting older and time is running out.”

      I stood on my tiptoes to put the cereal bowls on the top shelf. “What’s more important, Jada? Having a baby or finding the love of your life?”

      (Insert pregnant, no pun intended, pause here.)

      “My advice is to date a lot. Don’t let your eggs dictate your relationship. Take the time to find the right guy. Besides, I just read somewhere more and more professional women are freezing their eggs when they’re young so they have them later in life when they’re ready to have a child.”

      “You’re not helping, Sydney,” Jada said. “What’s all that noise anyhow?”

      “I’m unloading the dishwasher.”

      “Oops! Gotta go,” Jada said. “Mitch, I mean Michael, is at my door.”

      I finished putting the dishes away and was just about to jump into the shower when Victoria called.

      “Jesus. Do I have counselor stamped on my forehead or what?”

      “What?” Victoria asked.

      “Never mind. What’s up?”

      “I just came from White-Button-Down-Shirt’s apartment,” Victoria explained. “Guess what I found in his couch cushion?”

      “Twenty bucks?”

      “I wish. I found a used condom. And I’m on the pill so it wasn’t from us.”

      “Oh, Victoria. Please. That’s so gross!”

      “I know, but I can tell you gross stuff and you’re one of my few friends who will actually listen.”

      “Thanks, I guess. So what did he say?”

      “He said it’s old.”

      “Oh, God, Victoria. That’s even grosser. TMI! TMI!”

      “Sorry, but I just had to tell someone and like I said, you’re the only person I know who won’t hang up on me.”

      “Look Victoria, you need to protect yourself. Period. You don’t know him well enough to go raw dog.”

      “Raw dog?”

      “Yeah. It means…”

      “I can figure out what it means. Just never heard anyone describe not using a condom as raw dog.”

      “Well, now you have. And for your own piece of mind I’d get tested. Have him get tested, too.”

      “And how do I even bring something like that up?”

      “You just do.”

      “You’re such a germophobe, Sydney.”

      “I’m not a germophobe, just smart. And there’s no way I’m going raw dog unless I know for damn sure it’s been well cared for.”

      “But I really like him,” Victoria said.

      “And if he really likes you, he won’t have a problem with the request.”

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