Over the weekend, I had dinner with my friend Molls. Molls, who has been around since the all ages clubbing days, who wore the uniform with me -- black and white Units made into skirts and belts, black tights and granny boots, slicked back hair and red, red lipstick -- while dancing on platforms to house music, who flashed gold cards to get in the door to Medusa's and Limelight and those other clubs and then congregated in the parking lot to talk to boys and play cool like only 16-year olds can.
Molls, who I first shared wine coolers with on the back deck of a party where our other friends were tucked away, smoking pot and snorting coke and getting laid. Molls, who was my roommate in Wrigleyville after college and who I shared many secrets, lipsticks, bills, beers and outfits with in our little attic apartment.
Molls, who was my partner in crime in hosting the best party our friends have ever gone to, a Bastille Day bash that required attendees to bring something red, white, blue or French, and which ended with all fifty of us on the street with buckets of Red Stripe during one of Chicago's biggest power outages in over 100-degree weather. Molls, who laughed with me as our food went bad in the fridge and our neighbors passed out on the porch while the streets were pitch black and Wrigley Field's lights blazed brightly like the moon in the middle of our neighborhood that night.
Molls, who was one of two friends from Chicago to visit me after I packed up and moved to Oregon for four years. Molls, who stood up beside me in my wedding and who knows me inside and out.
Even now, even though our lives are linked but different. Similar but not at all the same.
We had a three-hour dinner and the conversation eased into talk about marriage and babies and all the good and challenging emotions that brings up for both of us. Molls would like to be married, wants to have children. And the conversation and plans have begun with her beloved. It seems to me that soon she will have a wedding and hopefully soon after, babies.
We are 35 and so some of my friends are feeling like the timeline is pressing down. And I think Molls is one of those friends.
She told me she doesn't want it to be too late and I closed my eyes for the briefest of seconds.
I tried my best to get out my concerns, my worries, my sadness that she felt like she needed to run to take her place on the timeline. I explained that fertility is so out of control, that of course she is worrying but that she will very likely be fine, that I do believe that stress and psychology do impact bodies, even if not entirely or not primarily being responsible for how or when or if we are able to make a baby.
But it all just came out and my intention was slurred and sloppy. And if that wasn't enough to distance myself from my friend, I said something that must have sounded bristly and not at all as compassionate as I wanted it to be.
I said, "I get the worry. I sometimes worry that we will never be able to have another child and that scares me so much."
I was trying to connect. I was trying to say that she is not alone in her concerns about her body's responses to the sequence of events that have led her to being ready now. I was trying to say that fertility is fragile, no matter how many children you have or want, no matter what age you are or hope to be when you are ready or ready again.
Molls stopped me there.
"Jessica, one child is a lot more than none."
The words hung defiantly in the space between us.
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is a single mama in the city, super-savvy editor, writer, video host and shameless shoe whore.
Thursday, August 30, 2007 
We're en route to a memorial service in Colorado Springs. It will be a bittersweet gathering at the Air Force Academy to honor the life of Bruce's uncle who died earlier this summer, releasing him from the pain and complications of a defiant brain tumor. His uncle was cantankerous and funny and a smart ass. He was smart and a hugger and a man of many opinions. It is sad to say good-bye but it was sadder to see his body deteriorate. 
