I am childless by choice and even I am a little surprised that there are still articles written about society’s reactions to us CBC folk and explanations from CBC folk. I realize that in my writing about why people are still writing about the topic, that I am being a wee hypocritical.
Why do the Childless by Choice still feel the need to defend their decisions? Why is this still relevant? With all that’s going on in the world; Isis, Ebola, climate change, George Clooney’s wedding, why does anyone give a shit about the ten things not to say to a CBC person?
I will never understand why what I do, and don’t do, with my uterus, matters to anyone else but me and my Gynecologist.
Maybe those people that offer up unsolicited opinions and recriminations are bored. Maybe it’s a ‘misery loves company’ scenario, when complete strangers try to convince you to have kids.
Do us all a favor and read a book, go to the movies, or join the army. Whatever you do, keep your eyes on your own paper and stay out of my bed-womb.
I guess it’s helpful for some to hear that celebrities like Aniston, Diaz and Deschanel, wax poetic about not having kids. Maybe some people need this validation. Personally, when it comes to such a highly intimate choice, I’m not looking to see what my friends are doing. That’s just me.
And for people to equate giving birth to a baby, as the only measure of a woman’s worth, value or feminism, is a joke and insulting.
My short film, had a gestation period of six years, and in that time, I nurtured it, cared for it and endured many months of labor pains, until I popped that sucker out. I would’ve breastfed it if I thought it would have gotten it into the Sundance Film Festival.
I’ve mothered many things, and many people, they just never needed a diaper change. Although the way my ex behaved at times, you’d think that he was sitting in a poopie diaper in need of a change.
Can we all move on from this topic and come together on the issues that truly matter and impact all of our lives; the Middle East conflict, world hunger and George Clooney’s wedding? Thank you.
Since I’m already being hypocritical, here’s one of those lists.
No, I don’t hate kids. I do, however, prefer them precocious, cute, and wearing glasses.
Yes, there are certain kids that I stay away from. Don’t you?
No, I don’t regret my decision.
Yes, sometimes I fantasize about having kids.
No, I don’t have cats.
Yes, I cry when I see sick children.
No, my heart is not made of ice water.
Yes, I enjoy my freedom.
No, I am not on permanent vacation.
Yes, I get uninterrupted sleep.
No, I am not automatically available to babysit.
Yes, I have thought about what I would name a child if I had one.
No, I would not name it after Cher.
Yes, I gave my decision a lot of thought.
No, I am not repulsed by men with children. (See this blog)
Yes, I am selfish.
No, I don’t believe that having children guarantees that I’ll be taken care of when I’m old and decrepit. Of course I’m never getting old and my body is Pilates protected, so this is mute.
Yes, I can walk around the house naked all of the time, any time, night or day.
No, I don’t walk around the house naked all of the time, any time, night or day.
Yes, I have financial freedom.
No, I don’t know what it feels like to be called mommy.
Yes, I’d like someone to call me mommy, and not just during sex.
In a past post I said that I thought that I had seen it all, after I watched a man wear three different colored live rats around his neck, as he walked on the bike path along the Westside Highway. It would seem that I lied.
Walking home from work the other day I literally had the physical urge to throw up my hands and exclaim, Okay, I’m done! Now I’ve seen it all!
Let me paint the picture for you.
I was heading down 54th street, lost in thought, like usual, working out some problem in my head, focused, and determined, when something in the distance got my attention.
I saw a man, with his back up against the front of a black car. He was wearing a tattered Fedora hat, pulled down over his face, so I could only see his mouth. And it was moving. He was either talking to someone through an earpiece, or he was talking to himself. In New York it’s hard to tell the difference.
Before I could assess the situation, it was too late. I saw too much and now I couldn’t un-see it. The image was seared into my brain.
As I got closer, I saw that the man’s Khaki pants were down around his thighs, and not in the way that the kids think its cool to wear them, thinking that they’re making some kind of street statement. This wasn’t that. Thank that sweet toddler Jesus that his shirt was long enough to cover his junk.
Is he actually urinating? No, no, it can’t be. This is out of control and out in the open. This cannot be happening. I kept walking, but it felt as if I were moving in slow motion, probably because I was in utter disbelief.
I realize that public urination isn’t all that rare (unfortunately) but it’s not something that I will ever get used to.
I did think that, if I slowed down, or actually stopped, there was a good chance that I will see this stranger’s junk, and I simply did not want to. I just wasn’t in the mood.
I was in shock at the balls (pun intended) that this man had to drop trou and urinate in public; in the day light, on 54th and 10th, against a black Rolls Royce.
The man’s mumbling continued, as did his steady stream, against the luxury vehicle. My active imagination decided that there had been a verbal fight; a misunderstanding, perhaps some fisticuffs, over something innocuous like the driver of the Rolls nearly hit the man as he pulled into the parking spot, and this was a classic case of urination retaliation. Urination Retaliation: Coming soon to Broadway!
I stared. It was the proverbial train wreck that we all say when we can’t not look at something. Even for the big apple, this was brazen.
As I passed the Whizzer, I came upon the driver of the Rolls, who was sitting behind the wheel. We locked eyes for a split second, and I tried to gage his reaction to what was happening on his front fender. He shook his head.
As I passed, he put the car in reverse and slowly backed away from the Whizzer, failing to notice the parked car behind him, and rammed into that car’s front fender.
I continued down 54th street, shaking my head, mumbling to myself, but I waited until I got home to go to the bathroom. You know how intense the power of suggestion can be.
Interesting thought eh?
I was on vacation, so this is all I got. More on Friday.
I got a haircut the other day at a real chi-chi salon that was recommended to me by a great chi- chi lady. I don’t know exactly why, but finding a place to get my hair done remains to be the bane of my existence. One of.
I had to find a new hair salon, as driving down to New Jersey (where I used to live) to see doctors, get my teeth cleaned, and cut my hair, was no longer an option.
This is the thing about a personal break up, that also involves a geographical break up. It’s not only about finding a new place to live, and moving all of your belongings, but, as in my case, there was also a professional, personal, and medical network shake-up. My beauty parlor, as my grandmothers used to call them, was the last hold out.
My new hairstylist was 35 minutes late due to the rain. Okay, lady, I thought, you best be better than good for making me sit on my ass far longer than necessary.
When she arrived, we talked about what needed to be done, (a lot) and she got down to business. The clientele in this establishment ran the gamut from fashion model to Palm Beach octogenarian. Oh, yeah, and Susan Sarandon.
I recognized her voice before I even saw her. And yes, she’s a beautiful woman. She brought her tiny dog with her, that laid on her lap while she got her hair washed. I have never understood the allure of carrying your pet around in your purse.
Moments later, she was gone. She must have been whisked away to the celebrity room. I’m guessing. I don’t know if such a room exists.
It reminded me of when I was studying at the Kabbalah Center in Los Angeles and Madonna (Esther) would attend Friday night services. She sat on the side of the stage behind a curtain. What? Kabbalah is about removing the veils (or curtains) of uncertainly and doubt and letting the light in. What the hell was Madge doing?
When my color was done, I was escorted to the person who was going to cut my hair. We chatted briefly and he got down to business.
He asked me to stand and face away from him, so he could cut the length in the back, as he was quite tall, and it was easier this way. When he was done, he asked me to turn around and face him. I’m 5’3, he was at least six feet. This meant that I was staring at his hairy chest, courtesy of his unbuttoned, button down shirt.
My eyes darted left and right. I didn’t know where to look and I felt self conscious. And then— he took a piece of hair from either side of my head in his hands and brought the pieces together in front, just below my chin, measuring the evenness.
He did this several times; each time brushing against my bosom. I wasn’t sure if it was intentional or professional, either way I didn’t say a word.
My hairdresser’s assistant walked over just in the nick of time; what else was going to brush against my bosom? She was telling the woman seated next to me that she was moving back home. I asked the assistant where home was. Yes, I was eavesdropping.
The assistant said that she was going back to Sri Lanka. “Oh,” I said, “that’s nice.” And then I remembered another one of my adorable tales.
I asked Hair Shirt if he’d like to hear my Sri Lanka story. I told him it was short. He said sure. I began to speak, and noticed that I had the ears of the woman next to me, and the assistant.
“I was on a date once with this guy and I asked him where he was from. He said, Sri Lanka, to which I replied, cool, my best friend is from India. He stared at me. I continued. “Yeah, her family’s from Madras.”
Everyone laughed at my geographically challenged remark. I brought the story to a close with a succinct,“I don’t know why he never called me again.”
I’m at the movies the other day, standing in line, minding my own business, waiting for the only theater employee working the register to call next, when this woman, all 5 feet of her, who was in line behind me, slowly inches her way beside me.
She was getting dangerously close to my personal space. Was she trying to get in front of me or was she being innocently overzealous? It was as if she saw the line moving but I didn’t, so it was now her job to hurry me along.
The line wasn’t moving, therefore, I wasn’t moving. But as she inched closer, I felt compelled to move, even just a little, because she was getting all up in my grill and it was uncomfortable.
Shorty was now officially in my personal space. Personal space is sacred, not only to me, and I’m going to go out on a limb here and say, for the entire island of Manhattan. Maybe because we’re packed in like friggin’ sardines.
I was getting agitated. I hadn’t seen a movie in a while and I was excited to pay my fifteen dollar ticket, and buy a small bag of popcorn and a small, yet ginormous Diet Coke, for twelve dollars. It was the perfect inclement weather activity. Now take a giant step back Shorty.
I had to do something. She was suffocating me like my high school boyfriend. It was a conscious move and I went for it. I stopped and planted my feet solidly on the ground, like I was a statue. She was going to have to barrel into me if she wanted to continue on her personal space infringement crusade.
Shorty again inched forward and oblivious to my inaction, she stubbed her exposed toe, in her open toe sandal, on my firm sneaker. Side note: It’s after Labor Day, put the Birkenstock’s away.
I apologized, as she groaned and grimaced, even though, technically, I didn’t do anything wrong. She gave me a look like I had slowly and methodically pulled out each one of her toe nails and then stabbed her in her heel just for fun.
Here’s a little piece of free advice. The next time you’re in line at the grocery store, movie theater or any place that has more than three people around you, and you don’t want someone breathing down your neck, do what they do in crowded exercise classes.
Hold your arms out to your sides and lift them up to shoulder height. If you don’t smack anyone in the face, this is your safe place, and it should keep the Shorty’s of the world away.
Sometimes you have to take a stand and take your space.