The Knocked Up Plan(9)

Cal scoffs, shaking his head. “Dear Lord, no. That was based on a bet. McConaughey was trying to win an advertising account and if he could make any woman fall for him in ten days, he’d land the deal. This isn’t about that sort of romantic swagger. This is a roadmap to the possibility of true, authentic love. The point of this assignment is to provide the recipe to help men along in their romantic quests. I want you to outline the dates, the topics of conversation, the stages of getting to know each other, and the expectations.”

“A dating guide?” I say, since this is a little different than some of my most popular columns in the last year, like “Ten Post-Sex Pitfalls to Avoid.” It’s a little squishier than “Five Positions Guaranteed to Bring Your Woman Toe-Curling Pleasure.” It’s a little tougher than “How to Spice Up Your Sex Life with a Long-Term Lover.”

Cal nods enthusiastically, his face now oblong. “I want this to be the definitive handbook on where to take her, how to romance her, and how to win a woman’s heart.”

And once you do, she’ll stick her fist into your chest, hunt around for that damn organ, and rip it out, holding it like a bloodied trophy above her head in the arena.

“That sounds simply fantastic,” I say with a grin so roomy you could pack a bunk bed in it. “So you want me to write about how to woo a woman in ten dates?”

This is like being given the directive to build a bomb.

He nods.

“And talk about it on air?”

Another nod.

“And outline ideas for dates to take her on?”

He strokes his chin, taking a beat. “Ideally, I’d love for you to actually go on some of these dates.”

“With the goal of getting a woman to fall in love with me?” I ask.

He laughs. “Well, we can’t really guarantee that’ll happen. Love is a fickle and precious thing. But it would be helpful if you can find a woman willing to, say, take a trapeze lesson with you. Think of it as field reporting. You’re actually going to roll up your sleeves, get out there on the ground, and let us know what works.”

And when the green wire touches the red wire, the bomb explodes in your face, kids.

Cal rises and slaps me on the back. He walks me to the door, stops, and wraps his hand on the knob. “And if you don’t turn this ship around, your show is canceled.”

That just makes this bomb-making assignment a real winner, now doesn’t it?





Five





Nicole

“Ooh, look! A new one just was added to the database,” Penny coos in excitement as she points to the screen.

We’re gathered around my iPad at Speakeasy, our favorite Midtown haunt, perusing the latest offerings on a bank I’ve been in touch with in Manhattan.

“He’s five-foot-nine. College educated. Plays the violin. And he has red hair,” Delaney reads, then runs her fingers over the ends of my hair. “Do you want little redheaded babies?”

I laugh. “I think I’d like the choice whether they should have red hair or not, and clearly I’m only bringing recessive genes to the equation.”

Penny swipes left dramatically as if the new donor is a Tinder no. “Anyone else? And are we ever going to see what they look like besides when they were five years old?”

I shake my head. “In most cases, only childhood photos of donors are posted. Every now and then you hear of a woman who’s seen adult photos of her donor, but that’s highly unusual, and only allowed at a few, select banks. It’s actually quite rare to even see high school or college photos, since a lot of donors only do it because it’s anonymous.”

Penny points to the screen, reading another donor’s profile in frustration. “Look. This guy is six feet, has blue eyes, played hockey in high school, went to UCLA, and works in tech. But what does he look like?”

“Unfortunately, we’re just going to have to imagine,” Delaney says, with a heavy sigh.

Penny reaches for her red wine. “That makes me so sad I need a drink.”

“And let’s be honest, looks do matter,” Delaney adds.

I nod vigorously. “They do. That doesn’t make me vain, right?”

My girls shake their heads in unison, defending my stance. “We all want a cute elephant baby for our matriarchy,” Penny says, patting my hand.

I laugh. “But seriously. You think it’s reasonable to want a handsome donor, right? In addition to all the other things that are obviously critical. Not a serial killer. No criminal record. College degree. Height, etcetera, etcetera.”

“Absolutely,” Penny says, setting her wineglass down with a resounding smack. “How are you possibly supposed to say a green-eyed, five-foot-ten, college-educated man with no murder convictions is enough?”

“It’s like online shopping without seeing what you’re buying,” Delaney adds. “Who buys anything on the Internet without seeing a photo? You don’t shop for shoes just by the size, color, and style. You need to see them. Try them on.”

“I don’t think trying on is an option.” I wink.

Delaney sticks out her tongue. “But you need to see the goods. You can’t fly blind.”

I reach for my water. No more chardonnay or mojitos for this mama-to-be. I’ve had all my health screenings, too, and my doctor sees no reason why I can’t get pregnant. All I need is the other half. “I just wish I knew more about these men.”