So here we go, another celebrity who wants a baby, a family, a happily ever after. Shocking right? I know, I know, everyday we hear about another celeb making up, breaking up, adopting and conceiving.

But there’s one tween star who seems to have her sights set on living this dream life, wanting more than just success in the show business. She’s been through a lot, she’s promised to throw all judgment out the door, to keep an open mind when looking for her future husband. And she seems to have set a time-table for this too. Ten years, that’s what she’s giving herself.

So who is this mystery girl? Can you guess?  Click here to find out!

[Lead image via Hasloo Group Production Studio/Shutterstock]

“Can I share with you my worldview? All of humankind has one thing in common: the sandwich. I believe that all anyone really wants in this life is to sit in peace and eat a sandwich.” –  Liz Lemon, 30 Rock

And that is exactly what I plan to do on this day, National Sandwich Day. Sit in peace and eat my go-to sandwich: the T.B.M sandwich from Cosi. With only a mere three ingredients, this sandwich somehow speaks to my soul and brightens even the darkest of days (no thanks to you, Daylight Savings Time.) If this sandwich was a man, I’d be rolling around in bed with it right now. Hell, maybe I’ll do it anyway.

My love of sandwiches and my love of men run almost parallel to each other on the mathematical graph of my life, intersecting only at the moment someone lets me eat a sandwich and have sex at the same time. That’s the stuff dreams are made of. And until that time comes, I’ve thought up a few sandwich ideas that bring my two weaknesses together.

The “I Love You, Sandwich” Sandwich: A piece of Paul Rudd in between two slices of Jason Segel with a side of honey mustard. Paul is the tried-and-true turkey to Jason’s hesitant-at-first-but-turns-out-to-be-a-party-in-my-mouth avocado. Unstoppable.

Ocean’s 11-Grain Sandwich: George Clooney and Brad Pitt lying neatly between two pieces of multi-grain bread. Let’s face it. George is getting old, bound to be a little gritty. But Brad balances out the sandwich with his smooth and creamy loins texture. Add a little Matt Damon on top for a little extra pop of flavor.

The Knocked-Up Fat Cat: A large submarine sandwich filled with ingredients such as, but not limited to: French fries, mozzarella sticks, chicken fingers, jalapeño poppers, pizza bites, Seth Rogen and Jonah Hill. Because who doesn’t get the munchies from time to time? Maybe you can cut it with the Samurai sword you keep in your room.

The Guilty Pleasure Open-Face Melt: Because there’s nothing I like more than Chace Crawford, Ed Westwick and whole wheel of cheese.  As much as you would like to just say no in the face of temptation, I’d like to see anyone deny these Gossip Girl stars…. especially if they’re covered in gooey, melted, cheesy goodness.

The Sloppy Jack: Grade-A man meat Jack Black is a hot mess. But we love him anyway. It’s obviously going to splatter all over the crotch of your pants, but no one ever cries over spilt Jack Black. I want my Manwich, please!

So you bring home a (somewhat) nice guy one night and decide to get your freak on. Two horny willing participants? Check. Place to do the deed? Check. Condom? Check. Congratulations, you’ve done the responsible thing.

Things get heated up, and you’re too busy blissing out to notice anything, until your man-of-the-night pulls out and says “Um, I don’t know where the condom is…” (actual quote from a friend of mine). Yep, that thin latex bugger slipped off, exposing you to both his swimmers and any potential diseases he might have. Now what?

1) Breathe. Don’t panic. Accidents happen.

2) Find the damn thing. Check the bed, the sheets, the wall? If those locations turn up nothing, take a trip to the bathroom and check out yourself. Yes, there. Sounds gross, but chances are, that’s where it’s ended up.

3) Make sure you’re on the pill. While, of course, it’s not going to protect you 100% from getting knocked-up, it will help ease your nerves. Still freaking out? Continue to step 4…

4) Take a trip to your local pharmacy and pick up some handy-dandy Plan-B. It’s available over the counter in most places, so you should be able to pick it up at any Walgreens or CVS. Follow the directions (or ask a pharmacist) and you will be on your way to ensuring your belly stays baby free.

5) As most STIs don’t show symptoms for weeks, your only real option here is to wait it out. Of course, having the awkward “So.. have you been checked?” talk wouldn’t hurt. Best course of action is to go get yourself checked out, symptoms or not. It’s the best way to get some peace of mind.

6) Celebrate. Then pray that little guys stays put the next time around.

Dear PMS:

Why?
Just why?

Who do you think you are? I mean really. You come around once a month like that annoying friend you don’t really want to hear from, yet every month, without fail, she asks you for plans and you feel sort of obligated. So you give in, but then coffee turns into an all day shopping ordeal and by the end you want to tear your hair out because now not only did you learn that you can’t stand the person you are with, but  – bonus lesson! – you learned that eating cookies DOES in fact equal having to buy a size up in your jeans.

Well that’s how I feel with you. Only instead of a day, it’s 5 and the only person I can’t stand to be around is myself. (The part of the too-tight jeans rings true thanks to you making me feel the urge to eat a bag of something salty, which of course leads me to want something sweet, which then of course leads me to want a tuna sandwich. I know! I don’t get it either!)

You make me weepy. I cry at Disney commercials (true story) and when the cheesy music comes on as the lesson is learned at the end of Full House. Strike that – you make me actually want to watch Full House.

You make my boobs hurt so much that I have to wear two sports bras to workout…and one to sleep. I can’t even put a shirt on without wincing in pain; forget sleeping on my stomach. Or, I don’t know, letting a boy anywhere near them.

You make my skin revert back to its 13 year old ways. Do you remember what its like to be 13, PMS? Do you? I don’t think you do, because if you did then you would vividly remember the time that cute boy Josh Schwartz asked me why Mount Everest decide to relocate to my face because, in his opinion, Mt. Everest was doing just fine where it was and that I should be in an advertisement for Clearasil. That would be reason enough to never ever give me a pimple again. But noooo – even in my young adult life, every month you feel the need to sprout a pimple right in the center of my face. And not just any pimple – you prefer the special giant kind that starts from underneath and is more painful than any period cramp in the history of cramps.  (Don’t even get me started on those.)

You make me moody – probabaly because I look like sh*t and my pants don’t button – but either way I’m a total bitch to the rest of the world. And the worst part is: I realize I’m doing it. Inside my head I say, “Jill stop being such a moody bitch,” but then word vomit – the bitch version – takes over and everything mean and insensitive and downright bitchy just comes out.

I mean, I get it – they (my mother) say you are really a gift because not only do I know for sure that I’m not popping one out in 9 months, but you are also preparing me for childbirth. That the cramps are really a blessing because they are preparing me for contractions. That I should embrace mother nature and say “No means NO” to Advil and instead say “Hollerrrr!” to an amazing experience that will one day be a baby’s head coming out of my Vagina.

But I. don’t. care. I saw Knocked Up and I am already in therapy for it, so give me a freaking break. Much like the annoying drunk, the needy girl and the chick who always ditches her friends for her boyfriend, you are one friend I can definitely do without.

That is all.

No love,
Jill

Unfortunately the big O isn’t all sunshine and toe-curling euphoria that it may seem to be on the surface. Don’t let your libido fool you, orgasms can be dangerous too!

Guardian is reporting that your orgasm could increase your chance of being pregnant, knocked up, with child, up the creek without a condom… however you want to say it. Bottom line: orgasms give couples the best chance at producing a child.

Believe me, I learned my sex ed a long time ago.  Even before sex ed, I had that talk. You know how it goes, “When a man and a woman love each other very much…blah blah blah icky cringe.” That being said, I get that sex leads to babies – there was never any confusion there.

What I did not understand was that there are all sorts of muscle contractions and fertility pressures and magical testicle reserves that are tapped into upon orgasm.

The basic fertility rule here seems to be, the more orgasms women have during sex means not only more pleasure but enhanced fertility as well. Just in case you think biology is sexist and unfair, there’s an equation for men as well. The longer men last, the more healthy swimmers they will release.

Is anyone else wondering if men have known this all along, and have been finishing quickly and not making us orgasm for our own benefits? Maybe a one-minute man isn’t so bad afterall…

As if women didn’t have to bear enough of the birth control burden: paying for The Pill every month and remembering to take it every day (not to mention all those lovely hormonal side-effects). Now we have the option of purchasing yet another contraceptive and dealing with the discomforts of using it.

Super!

Because there are no other options, like, I don’t know, something men can use? Oh, right – like a condom. But those are annoying and expensive and they make sex feel weird (according to men). Why should guys have to suffer when a woman can just do it all? She’s the one who is gonna get pregnant, anyway; she should be the one taking care of all that business.

And this new female condom (cleverly called FC2: Female Condom 2) seems just so easy to use!

The product is a long, lubricated sheath, anchored at either end by a flexible ring. Upon insertion, the smaller ring surrounding the closed end of the sheath is positioned high in the vagina while the larger ring extends outside the canal and covers the labia.

I can imagine just how romantic it will be when everything has to stop so you can shove a giant Ziploc bag up there. That is if the sight of one of these things isn’t enough to kill the mood entirely. The only plus side to this condom is the fact that you eliminate user error on the part of men. You never can trust them to get those things on right (or at all…you saw Knocked Up!).

But that isn’t enough for me. I am sick of everyone putting the birth control responsibility on the woman. It takes two to tango, so it should take 2 to do so safely. If women are taking care of the pills, then men should be responsible for the rest.

It’s only fair.

Ask any self-respecting woman what she looks for in a man, and likely among her responses is “the ability to make me laugh.” Look no further than Paul Rudd, the thirtysomething hunk from such smash hits as Anchorman and Knocked Up. When I wasn’t peeing my pants in the theaters, I was drooling over ol’ Paulie. Personality AND looks? Check, check.

And it’s clear I’m not alone.

While he may be known best for his blockbuster roles in Judd Apatow films, he’s also been featured in such landmark comedies as Clueless (duh!) and on television’s Friends as Phoebe’s husband (she was always my favorite Friends chick…so jealous she snagged Paul before the rest of us!). As such, Paul’s effability has been shown to stand the test of time. What could be better than that? (Editor’s Note: effing him, that’s what.)

Mr. Rudd’s new film, Role Models (co-starring the also-scrumptious Sean William Scott) opens today and looks to be his most promising role yet, since there’s nothing more effable than a funny boy who also takes time to hang with kids. You can join me in the movie theater while I fan myself and laugh to death. Or you can stay home with The Great Gatsby and and your Paul Rudd fantasies.

Any takers?

What? You don't agree?

You may not have noticed him in Anchorman, or remember him being in The 40 Year Old Virgin, but, come on, you didn't wanna eff him in Knocked Up? Rogan is even starring in "Zack & Miri Make a Porno," which obviously means he is 100% effable.]

I have never told anyone this before, but after I saw Knocked Up with my (now ex) boyfriend, I was totally turned on. Weird, right? I mean, the thought of having a baby totally freaked me out, and seeing that baby come out of Katherine Heigl’s va-jay totally grossed me out, but I couldn’t keep my hands to myself the entire way home.

And then I realized why: I totally wanted to eff Seth Rogan.

He’s not the type of guy you’d drool over at the bar, (in fact he’s more the type of guy that smokes pot in the corner), nor is he the type your mom would necessarily love to have over for dinner. He was the dorky guy in high school who watched as all the taller, hotter dudes (without the Jew-Fro) got all the girls.

But that is why we love him. Well, that and the fact that he is just really effing hilarious.

Rogan is a comedy genius. You saw Superbad, didn’t you? And Da Ali G show? Yeah, he wrote those. Imagine how much more fun sex can be when you got a man this funny by your side (or on top/underneath/behind you). And he’s all cuddly and cute…and looks really hot in those glasses. I’m getting all hot and bothered just thinking about it.

Seriously, give this dude another look; you too will see why he’s a guy we wanna eff.

[I like to think of myself as a pretty easy going gal, and try not to sweat the small stuff. But sometimes (ok, maybe slightly more often) the general cluelessness, carelessness and overall stupididty of some things and or/people really gets to me. I find that venting is the most efficient way to rid myself of the stress that idiots, wrong meal orders, lack of cell phone ettiquette and cheese flavored products (that don’t even contain any freaking cheese!) induce. So, in an attempt to avoid an ulcer or an unfortuante road rage incident, I vent to you, dear reader. Please feel free to join in and comment about anything–really, anything–that pissed. you. off. this week. Let it all hang out. I feel you.]

Football game traffic.

Under no condition should any human be confined to a small metal box harnessed into their seats and surrounded by others doing the same thing. A sweet play list is only a small consolation for being stuck in bumper to bumper traffic as you jealously stare at drunken fans playing flip cup on their front lawns, hours ahead of your severely lacking tailgate level. The only thing worse than the knowledge of your slowly depleting gas tank is the realization that you are missing out on precious pregaming time.

Senseless Acts of Brutality.

I hope that the inclusion of the tragic events affecting Jennifer Hudson’s family on this list doesn’t seem insensitive, because I am pissed. The woman, apart from being beautiful and talented, seems like such a kind person that it’s hard to imagine how anyone could hurt her and her family. Additionally, the pain inflicted on their family is only deepened by the disappearance of Hudson’s 7-year-old nephew. However horribly inhumane it is to commit murder, to take a child from their home and place them in danger is unforgivable a thousand times over. I hope the guilty party is caught and subject to the same pain they put the Hudson family through.

Severe Under-appreciation for Kings of Leon.

This band kicks ass. Don’t believe me? Check them out. If you already know of them and their general awesome-ness, then you can back me up in saying “Why the F**K aren’t these guys owning MTV?” They’re huge everywhere else (they’ve sold twice as many albums in Britain than they have in the U.S.) so why haven’t we jumped on the band…um, wagon optional. Let’s hope that their tour de force of NYC builds a bigger fan base for these rock geniuses, because if I have to listen to Flo-Rida reiterating that this is his jam and demanding that I get my hands in the “ayer,” sh*t’s gonna get ugly.

Apatow Wannabe’s.

Seriously? I mean, the man has made some pretty hilarious films, but there has to be a point of saturation when it comes to comedies that revolve around pot, bromance and titties. Pineapple Express, Sarah Marshall, the upcoming Zack & Miri Make a Porno are all valiant attempts at comedy gold on par with Knocked Up, Superbad and 40 Year Old Virgin, but at some point plotlines surrounding slackers with hearts of gold and gratuitous nudity become a little much—never mind the fact that the same clique of guys stars in every.single.one. The Frat Pack has moved on, maybe it’s time you guys should too.

Survivor Style Jury Duty.

As if jury duty didn’t suck hard enough, the 12 jurors of Senator Ted Stevens’ corruption trial (who have been in session since September 22, BTdubs) are dropping like flies—or at least attempting to knock off their fellow flies. Thanks to one disturbed woman, who was “rude, disrespectful and unreasonable” aimed “violent outbursts” at other jury members, the foreman wrote the presiding judge a note, asking to vote her off the island coutroom. Uh, guys? It’s that senator sitting out there standing trial for tricking out his mansion with goodies given to him by the heads of Big Oil that you’re supposed to be deliberating over—not each other.

Ok, now that I’ve got my judgy rant out of the way I can take a bubble bath and center my chi. What pissed you off this week?

This past weekend at a celebrity memorabilia auction in Las Vegas, Larry Birkhead, opportunistic baby daddy extraordinaire, purchased some drawers once worn by the late hot mess Anna Nicole Smith in a Playboy spread.

Birkhead spent a reported $2800 on a pink bustier and white negligee with the intention of someday giving the items to he and Smith’s year-old daughter, Dannielynn. According to one report, Birkhead said he bought the items in the hope that they will someday help Dannielynn understand her mother’s life and that this was definitely NOT a stunt to ensure his F-List ass stays in the papers. For realzies, guys. Make sure you get my good side.

That poor, poor, poor, poor kid. First her mother and brother die, then she’s in the middle of the most sleazeball custody battle of the 21st century, now she’s gifted a piece of her mom’s history as a trashy soft-core porn star? If Dannielynn makes it to the age of fourteen without getting knocked up or becoming a crackhead, she deserves a Nobel Prize.

[Photo courtesy of OK! Magazine]