The world is convinced I have, or am about to have, babies. Maybe hundreds of them.

I assure you. I have NO BABIES, fully formed or otherwise.

But the world is sending me a creepy message in the form of junk mail and savings. The friendly people (computers?) who run the personalized “Just For U” coupon service at Vons have been kind enough to pre-load about $75 worth of diaper and formula discounts onto my club card. Every time I open the App on my phone to check on how many “Buy One Get One” cheese deals I have going for me, I’m bombarded with photos of Huggies-clad infants, declaring “No More Leaks!” There is no “IRRELEVANT” button on the program, so there is no way to tell Vons that these are not the coupons for me.

The other people who seem to think I am a mommy are the people who hawk Gerber Life Insurance. I am certain that there would be no more horrifying way to find out you were pregnant than via a form letter on purple letterhead with a cartoon giraffe on it. (Although they do offer a free gift, so if you’re into growth charts, score for you, I suppose.) In the past six months, I have received about 14 letters from them, all of which contain greetings like, “Dear Liz Cole, Caring mothers like you know how important it is to prepare for your child’s future.” WRONG. I do not know that. How did you get my address? Perhaps it was my subscription to Cosmopolitan Magazine. They’re always trying to get you to “please your man.” Maybe Gerber just mines that mailing list, figuring a pregnancy is the obvious result of reading Cosmo. (That’s actually pretty sound logic, GerberFolk.)

Why, Universe, do you want me to mate so badly? Is it because I am 28 and female? That’s a poorly written algorithm. Lemme break it down. I currently have very little money, no job and an apartment with two bedrooms, the second of which is still stuffed to the gills with things I pulled out of the trunk of the LAST car I owned. Also, a few months ago, there was a rat in my home and I found its “evidence” on the floor and I couldn’t walk around in the apartment without surgical booties for like three days. (Side note: Most of its poop, oddly, was on the stairs, as though the effort of hauling its giant rat body up each step caused a little pellet to shoot out.) So, tell me, how am I supposed to change the diaper of a human being?

All I’m asking is that you think things through a little better, Universe.

Thanks.

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