You’ve Reached a Coon Hat Wearin, Childfree Zone

Now that I’ve reached my sexual prowess (AKA turned 30) it’s only natural that people ask me when I’m going to breed. And it’s only natural that I express my frustration in the best form that I know: words. This doesn’t go for my family or close friends. They know my belief system and I’m not shy about telling them if they ask.

“Mom, I can’t hold a baby. I barely have enough time to hold the remote control in one hand and a PBR in the other. Never mind the horse head.”

This goes for acquaintances, strangers, and those hobos at the park who just goddamn won’t let me check the mail in peace.

“Guys, seriously?”

If we’re first time meeters and you casually ask, “Do you have children?” I’ll relax my grip on your throat. I’ll allow this question. It’s an expected curiosity. However, if you ask, “When are you going to have children?” well get ready for a ripe retort. Because that’s what you get for being a complete doucher.

First, this question is insulting. Not only is it none of your business, but what if I can’t have children? What if I’m a hermaphrodite? What if I’m still waiting for a marriage proposal from Rob Lowe, you guys?

I don’t even get the courtesy, “Are you planning to have children?” question. It’s the straight assumption that it’s an inevitable fact, which really stings like those Indian burns you used to give your little sister.

You can’t see the fear in her eyes.

Second, you make me the awkward one for struggling for a response. And more often than not, if I’m honest with strangers, “I don’t want children yet,” then I get the rebuttal, “Well, just wait for it. You will,” or some equally eye-roll-worthy coddling response that they probably deem is suitable for a Hallmark Card.

So I feel it’s only fair to reply with some sort of statement that will make you blink. For instance, I once had a 32 year-old male co-worker say, “When are you gonna pop out a kid?”

I had set my pen down and my bottle of ether and said, “I can’t have children. My insides are so rotted no life can live down there.”

What?

He asked.

After a slack-jawed gape, he promptly shut up and performed his sullen computer programming duties.

That’s right fucker. You’re here to work. Not ask me about my ovaries.

One night I decided to make a list of all the responses a childfree woman or man could give when barraged with this tiring question.

Here are just a few responses to The Question When Are You Having Children?

• In 1999, the US Army declared me a childfree zone
• I just waxed…so…
• I saw Rosemary’s Baby and it just took all the fun out of it.
• Full House scarred me for life.
• My license to breed has been revoked. Voluntarily.
• I can’t handle anything with bowel movements bigger than mine.

And in the heat of the writing-moment, I also broke down and made a video. I wore a coon cap because it’s my Superman cape, okay, you guys?

I hope you watch this with a thousand yard stare.

Enjoy the jump cuts, bitches.

Bloopers, Flash & Videotape

I have a piece up at Connotation Press (Thanks to the uber-fab Meg Tuite!) for this month of May. It’s actually a video reading of my flash fiction “An Ordinary Broken Heart”. Or if you like to do things the 1930s way, feel free to read it instead.

What no one tells you about video readings is that they are tricky bastards. 

Now I’m not shy. The camera is my friend. I like to ham it up on occasion. 

Yet having to read anything more than 200+ words and make it all the way through without so much as a stutter is challenging. I won’t pretend it isn’t.

Over two days, I went through numerous clothing changes, switched positions, changed inflection, to get it just right. Basically, I fumbled my way through it like a drunk freshmen on prom night, slurring my words and grasping for bra straps. The worst part of all of it is nearly making it all the way through the reading and then it all goes FUBAR with one misread.

So many takes. So many tries. Much cursing ensued.  And because of all these video-reading shenanigans I thought a blooper reel was in order. 

Enjoy it here: 

And again, big, for-real-real thanks to Connotation Press and Meg Tuite for not forcing me to wear a paper bag over my head as I read. Thank you!