Pet Peeves about People: What pisses me off Part #1

I feel that I open my mouth too much. The issue isn’t that I talk a lot, which I do, but the issue is I say what’s on my mind at that moment…or I say something totally inappropriate, forgetting that most people don’t think like I do. For example, I hit my local Starbucks, and say hello to the girl ringing me up, someone who has never had the distinct pleasure of ringing me up before. I say to her, “Oh, I’ve never had you before.”

I then realize it sounds as if I have “had” other people at the Starbucks in a sexual manner. I then say, “Oh geez, that sounded terrible. I don’t mean sexually, I just mean you never rang me up before.”

Thankfully she laughed, but as I walked away with my tea in hand, I realized that maybe she didn’t hear that first comment as sexual. I then reevaluate that I may indeed be a perv.

I confirm my status as local pervert when a young man of about 18 or 20 years of age tells me his hand hurts, to which I say, “You’re a teenage boy…that’s to be expected.”

After I said that I realize, maybe this kid didn’t want to be called out for his masturbation habits. 

What I’m trying to say is I say things without always realizing how it might sound. For someone who can be great with words, I sure screw it up just as often. When it comes to funerals or weddings etc, I know what to say, but sometimes I have to wonder about myself. I decided to write this blog so I can vent about some of the things that truly annoy me about people (Part I), without getting caught in the act of revealing this with my big mouth. I feel this will enable me to go out into the world and function as a better citizen, or maybe, it just shows more signs that I am a self-indulgent neurotic.

1- Call the vagina, a vagina, and a penis, a penis.

I know many people have “pet” names that they teach their child rather than penis or vagina, and that’s okay, but don’t call my kid’s vagina a “bippy” or “hoo-hoo” or “waa-waa.” It’s a goddamned vagina. It’s the technical and biological term. I don’t want her to think her body is disgusting. Do you call you arm a “ahh-ahh” or your head a “haa-haa.” I am sure many people will argue with me on this, but as long as it’s your kid, say whatever you wan–that’s cool, but my kid is the proud owner of a VAGINA. Not a bippity, boppedy, boo.

2-Know the names of your childcare providers.

I had the unfortunate privilege of hearing both a mother and father say they did not know the name of their child’s daycare teacher. They said,”Oh she only goes one day a week for a few hours.”

Really? I just drop my kid off with anyone, and don’t remember the person’s name. Oh hey person down the street of whom I’ve never met before. Watch my kid. Yeah. Oh, “What’s your name?” These teachers are in charge of your child. They wipe your kid’s ass. They might even feed your kid lunch. Have some decency and respect to remember the first name of just one of those teachers. Sure, some people are bad at names, but come on how many of you moms don’t know the name of your child’s teacher?? I doubt many of you! That nameless teacher might have to perform life-saving CPR on your kid. Remember her name damnit.

3-Big muscle head guy smile for once.

There is this one dude at the gym who is very buff. He’s not my bag of treats, but apparently he feels that any woman who looks in his direction must be interested. He has this stone face grimace. I see him at least three times a week. Smile you grouchy fuck! I am not interested in you, but I just hate looking at such a crabby face. Stop kissing your biceps, and smile for once.

4- More gym ettiquette, part two:

Don’t lift your shirt to stare at your abs unless the gym in involved in a group orgy. In that case, take everything off.

Thank you.

And my final pet peeve of the day..

5-Indirectly asking for money

If you need money, ask the person directly. Do not hint about it or side-step the issue, and then get pissed because I didn’t offer my wallet. Also, see rule #235 on borrowing shit: don’t contact people only to ask for stuff. Learn to get stuff on your own. I am okay with helping out those who are my friends and an active part of my life, but I am not a store or a warm body with arms to do shit.

Thank you.

I leave you all with one of my favorite personal blunders:

When I met the rapper Eve, I was getting my makeup done in the chair next to hers for my television show. I started singing her song in front of her. It just slipped; it had been in my head, and I wasn’t thinking, because I was daydreaming, as the usual.

Thankfully she laughed and I didn’t sound so terrible.

Here;’s to inserting one’s foot in mouth: may the foot be clean, and a little tasty!


Crushes, pookies, and penises: early thoughts about men and sex.

I grew up in a house of predominately women. Including myself, there were 5 females, and one male. Somehow, the animals also managed to be predominately female, with five female animals ( 4 cats, 1 dog) and one male cat. I was inundated with breasts, tampons, menstrual cramps, moodiness, makeup, bras, and bad hair days. I never had a sibling beat me up, unless you count some hair pulling and smacking, and I also never had someone tease me relentlessly the way a brother could. The teasing of a sister is such a different experience, and so interacting with boys while growing up was a real eye-opener for me.

What was up with these XY’s anyway?

I couldn’t quite understand the funny things men did. From their voices, farts, facial hair, body posture, interests, clothes, and jokes, I was enraptured, charmed, confused, and repulsed.

My oldest sister is ten years older than I am, so I remember when she brought one of her first high school boyfriends over. I was about four years old, and he was approximately 17. I found it hysterical to reach up and grab the inner thigh fat, right underneath the genitals, and say “Pookies!” 

In my family, that’s what we called them: pookies. 
By the grace of all things good, this man did not freak out that a four-year-old girl had just grazed his balls, but instead, smiled and laughed. I certainly didn’t even think about his penis at that point, but I found it funny to tease him. I was innocent, yet being flirtatious in a child-like way.

There were a few boys I came to know through my sisters’ social lives. My one sister had a best friend who I loved as a surrogate father. I drew him comic books and sat in his lap while doing Pee-Wee Herman impersonations.  He was more attentive than my father, and easier on me than my sisters’ were. He ate anything you put in front of him, and he was never moody. I did not grab his pookies. I had learned my lesson the first time.

His presence alone was enough to turn the estrogen narrative just enough that you knew it wasn’t just me in the house who was mystified by Penis-bearing People: we all were.

My first male crushes were incredibly effeminate. This might be a testament to my fairly fluid sexuality, but I feel it was because these men were safe and familiar. One of my first heartthrobs was Ralph Macchio, the Karate Kid. When I look back I wonder how I could have been attracted to such a wuss. He wasn’t chiseled or sexy really, but he was sweet, doe-eyed, and darker-skinned. His voice was bordering NY squeakiness and a bit raspy. Growing up in a house full of Brooklynese– I never heard my mom pronounce the letter R when it comes at the end of words–he was comforting and ethnic somewhat, unlike the midwestern actors of that time.  He wasn’t very manly, but I think that was the point. He was non-threatening. Even years later once I approached puberty, my main squeeze for awhile was the Dead Jim Morrison. Lanky with a head full of shaggy brown soft curls, he wasn’t a powerhouse of masculinity, yet he was the first (and only) guy without a shirt to stick to the walls of my room.  I couldn’t imagine Jim Morrison as a “throw me on the bed and screw me good” kind of guy, because that wasn’t where I was at mentally. Pretty and striking, he was a man I could like and feel comfortable with viewing. He was right up there with Michael Hutchence, another Dead guy (Freud would say I have commitment issues), but an even more masculine version,and even prettier. Michael had a similar hair and in some cases, look to Jim, but he was the better of the two.

I grew up surrounded by men who wore makeup. Not literally, as I never saw my Dad wear any eyeliner but I sure as hell saw him buy plenty of moisturizer. I loved each member of Duran Duran, and never found it weird that Morrissey of the Smiths was celibate. I figured that just meant he would be more of a challenge. 

The most jarring event for me involving my understanding of men would be seeing a penis for the first time. I admit that I truly was freaked out,and slightly revulsed. Hmm,maybe another sign of sexual fluidity? I’m not sure, but  the veins were too much. The first one I saw was large, and the size, shape, hair, and veins just stood me on edge. I didn’t hate it, but I was a bit frightened by this mystical penis. Once I saw it, I had a pretty good idea that there was going to be some large amount of pain involved with sex. 

The first two things I thought to myself (and I will never forget it) upon seeing a penis were:

That’s what’s supposed to turn me on?

It’s gonna hurt.

These were probably vividly clear images that should have notified me that I was not ready to venture down the road that I was about to walk down. It was nicer when boys were sweet, NY nasal, or curly haired demi-gods on my wall. It was safer.



Not of this World: getting Boobies.

There have been a few times in my life in which I felt strange. Not weird, because I am always weird according to other people, but strange as in, not normal for myself and/ or different from others. Some of these times have been self-imposed; maybe I was just very depressed and this depression allowed me to isolate and choose to feel different from others. In a few cases, I truly felt unlike the person I was before.

The first time I felt this was during puberty. I was always very small for my age, and so people mistook me for being a lot younger than I was. I was often called, “Little Laura,” which was fine by me, but I mention it as it defines how I was visually perceived.

This was an endearing perception for me because I liked being loved and knew the term was used affectionately. I didn’t feel self-conscious or upset for being small, until I hit puberty.

Puberty is nature’s bitch of an awakening call. It painfully changes us in either fast or such doggedly slow ways, in which others can physically note and watch as we transform. We don’t have the beauty of doing this in a cocoon or during winter hibernation, nor can we camouflage ourselves.

Getting breasts was the pinnacle of anxiety and thrill for me.

Growing up with four adult females, three of whom were entering puberty or close to it by the time I was three, I really wanted to be a woman. I wanted breasts, bras, tampons, boys, and the whole nine. When you are raised around a whole bunch of excitement that you can’t possibly partake in, you long to be part of things. Maybe if I had had a sibling near my age, these adult things wouldn’t have seemed quite as fascinating to me, but such is life.

I remember my first training bra vividly: White triple AAA bra with a tiny white and green flower stationed in between the two nipples that really needed intense military bootcamp if they ever were to grow. That and some serious doses of estrogen.

Two years after I met that enchantingly sweet bra on the lingerie floor or either JcPenneys or Macy’s, my mom and I were traversing the wide world of bras beyond the D’s. I remember buying a bikini in January of my eighth grade year: the bottom was an XS and the top, an XL. In June, I was way too big for that top.

While I wanted to be excited about my boobs because Samantha Fox, Belinda Carlisle, Gold-nippled Madonna, and ever hair metal and rock band told me that boobs were indeed, better than a money tree, I couldn’t be because my classmates tortured and ridiculed me. Plus, there was that discomfort between my old definition and the new definition of Laura: the feeling of strange.

I couldn’t be Little Laura anymore because Little Laura had adult sized hooters. I couldn’t be cute and sweet exactly, because now I was the awkward half-woman, half-baby. I had hips the size of a 12 year-old boys (still do) and the naiveté of youth. I simply had a structural adult addition tacked on to this child’s frame, and I wasn’t prepared for the way it would change both my own and other people’s perceptions of me,

A few incredibly obnoxious twits dug this lie into my classmates’ minds that I had stuffed my bra. So many other woman can attest to experiencing this situation. I wore a coat in 99 degree weather. I felt conflicted over what being a woman was going to be like, and the stakes rapidly increased when I started hanging out with boys, and in more than a few circumstances, men who were way too old to be hanging out with a 14/15 year old girl.

I had watched too many movies and television shows, and had this fantasy image of what love and adult relationships looked like, and I was given a huge dose of reality that was nothing like the movies I watched.

I remember meeting a man who I had hoped would look like Jim Morrison, and yet he turned out to look like Meatloaf.

These very early and painful memories of becoming a tiny sex object really made me feel like an alien, or unlike other people. I have struggled with being close to people and relating to others as I have internalized these experiences as some sort of mark of my difference, or flaws.

I often discuss the impact of media and social expectations of females because I was at once a confident and outgoing girl who became an insecure and people-pleasing teenager. I couldn’t be cute and little anymore, but being a sex object was a sudden and drastic perception that I had no idea how to manage. How I once biked down a street unnoticed, I was  now honked at.

How I once was the source for jokes, I was now the butt of them.

I could once write stories with interesting characters, and I was now the topic of stories.

It was jarring. All the excitement and wonderment I had felt as a young kid when looking to the world of womanhood, had been knocked and subverted on its head. I wanted to be the object of the beholder’s eye, yet I did not want to just be the image. I fought with this for years, this idea of being sexualized yet not wanting to be just sex. I learned the lesson too young, and I am afraid to say that it is something that runs like a black-and white movie on the projector of my life–a narrative that has bled into my adult stories and life.

There are a few other times in which I have felt strange–pregnancy, child loss, and stardom of sorts, and I will address them at an other time as they deserve their own blogs, but at the heart of my book is the true conflict of what it means to be female, to be a sexual person. To be victim or the survivor, or maybe both.

My Daugher is not a Diva

I know many people will call their kids “divas” with no bad intentions, just simply to be cute. I have no problem with folks doing that…

To me,it’s not the word that I have an issue with so much, as it is the connotations that go with that phrase.

In my opinion, we are raising girls with the wrong message. Most of you will think I am a femi-nazi, or an extreme feminist, but I think what I’m saying has real validity and implications for our girls. As a mother of a daughter, I take this to heart.

Some friends and I were talking about how clothes for girls are often inappropriate. Words and slogans on the ass of a child’s pants are extremely adult for say, an eight-year old. Camis and padded tanks are almost a given at many children’s stores. I myself am a very small size, and so I have to shop with Tweens or pay 100 bucks a pop to get jeans that fit. When I went in for shorts last summer, I was wondering if the pairs they had on display would show my vaginal lips. I mean, come on!

It’s not just fashion design, but it’s the message and media that is out there for our kids.

While I too love singing a little “Bippity, boppity, boo,” now and again, every single item for girls seems geared for princesses–or princess themes. I recognize that sure, girls inherently (or boys) may like princess themed items without any influence from society, but already people are lining up to get my daughter Barbies…and she’s not even two. People buy princesses chairs, and tell her she is pretty all the time. Now no doubt, my kid is pretty to me and I want her to know that and hear that too, but I would rather someone look her in the face and tell her, “You’re really smart.”

Looks fade. I grew up surrounded by the idea that being perfect was the only real viable way to look, and thanks to that, I have battled with my self-esteem for a very long time. I was very tempted to go under the knife and fix my nose (I didn’t do it), but after the consultation, I chickened out. I wasn’t sure if I could handle my post-surgery response. Some days I wish I did it and consider the option, and other days I think I’m a total idiot for thinking like that and if someone thinks I’m ugly because of my nose then they’re a big fat idiot.

Have you ever taken a quick look at books marketed for young girls?

Pinkalicious? Fancy Nancy? Now I have never read Pinkalicous, so I cannot attest to it, but after reading a few Fancy Nancy books, I was bored to tears. All the girl does is care about fashion and magazines. Now, if she were an awesome designer, that might be cool. If my daughter wanted to design clothes, I would be more than supportive. I love clothes just as much as the next person, but I feel like there are just so few other messages girls get about what they could be, other than the sparkly pretty save-able lovable dramatic female.

Save me! I need to be saved! I am going to be eaten alive by vampires (Isn’t that the whole Twilight thing–Edward saving Bella? I have no idea as I have never read the books or seen the movies.) I am a helpless woman! I can do nothing.

You think this stuff doesn’t exist anymore? I dare you to watch female-dominated TV and tween movies for a month. Come back to me and tell me what you find.

I am a sparkly (sometimes) lovable dramatic female who ashamedly cannot change a tire, but I am also an intellectual and a thinker. A writer. I just wish there was more of a tangible visible presence for girls that went beyond the tank top and nail polish she is wearing.

And back to the word Diva. Most friends call their girls divas because they’re fussy or headstrong…or like nice clothes. I have no problems with that at all. My problem lies that we have this notion in our society thanks to the Real Emptyheaded Housewives, the Kardashians, beauty culture, culture of me, me, me with a skewed narrative about being female.

The narrative:

I’m a female who is full of sex appeal, but I have no idea how to own my own sex appeal; instead, I will just be an item for people to look at, because my looks are my best weapon of course. I’m a “DIVA” because I get my way and don’t let anyone stop me. I’m an entitled bitch. Things should come easy to me, and if they don’t, I want nothing to do with it. I don’t have to talk to you if you don’t dress well. I don’t think about much around in the world, because I have frivolous television and interests to occupy me. I’m all about knowing how to get a guy off and what not to say during sex.

This may sound delusional or judgmental of me, but hey, it’s my five cents, and I think the attitude is prevalent. My friends, of course, are not like this, but I have interacted with this type quite a few times.

And you may ask, “What’s wrong with wanting to please a man?”

Nothing. Nothing at all, but how many women can please themselves and really ask for what they need. Let me differentiate between bitch and diva. A bitch is a phrase most often used for women who go for what they want in the world/workplace, and are resented by men for doing so. In my article, I am saying that a true Diva (not a little girl who dresses sparkly and is sassy, that’s all good and dandy) in today’s day and age is a spoiled, frivolous, and empty woman.

While there have been many words feminists have tried to take and appropriate into a more powerful and less sexist form, like cunt and bitch for example, we should leave Diva at the door.

A girl can be pink and sparkly, or boyish and yellow. A girl can be quiet and logical, or emotional and loud. There is nothing wrong with this…a little Snow White isn’t going to kill the woman inside of the girl, but we need to carefully assess what stories, clothes, songs, and movies are showing our young girls. We need to be sure of the message and the intent these kids are getting.

I know the effects of these messages as I have dealt with them as a teenager. I remember refusing to kiss a boy at twelve thinking, “Why is it so hard to say no?”

Now maybe other women didn’t experience this, but I paid clear and close attention to the female images around me. MTV sold sex, and hey, everyone was buying it. I remember going from being a AAAA nothing to a DD, and feeling like an object overnight. It rocked my world in a way that I am sure no one expected it would. When I see teenage girls today, my first thought is, “If my mother thought I dressed inappropriately, I cannot imagine what she would think of this.”

I fear that my daughter and yours reader, will stop dreaming, and start placating to men and the culture around us.  I long for a visible strong and diverse female representation that my daughter can look to and be proud.

All I can ask is that my daughter grows up to be a giving person, who doesn’t give so much that she ends up empty-handed. I ask that she is a woman confident in her own sexuality and in complete ownership without falling prey to what men would like her to be. I ask that she works for what she wants, and gives on the way up, rather than stepping on every heal and head she passes.

My daughter is not a Diva and I can only hope that one day, she will be a Bitch, in the way we feminists appropriated it for ourselves to be: a confident, go-getting, but classy woman who is self-aware and respectful. That is the woman I aim for her to be. If she wants tutus and rainbows, I will go along for the ride just as well as if she wants jeans and sweatshirts.

She is part of my DNA, but she is not me. She is her own unique bit of wonderfulness.

Ashamed! A few embarrassing songs that I absolutely love! Part 1

Pre-MTV days, I reviewed bands for college radio and zines. I checked out tons of shows, and was often found jamming out in tiny clubs with a pad and pen in hand.

There’s a love for music that always seems to come through in my memoir. Somehow, I’m always thinking of how a song played out into a scene. I figured I might share a few of my dirty musical secrets.

#1 “Disco Inferno,” by the Trammps

Seriously bitches. Grab your polyester and boogie down. Jimmy Ellis had a very soulful voice–full of a lot of that flavor found from the Godfather himself, “James Brown.” In general, most people I know don’t go blasting disco music, but I had this real disco revival back when I was 19, or 20. Polyester shirts. Bell bottoms. Saturday Night Fever. There’s nothing like blasting a little “Disco Inferno” while dancing in your house…or from your car, singing it loudly so people just stare at you because you’re a total freak, because you are!

#2 Debbie Gibson–“Out of the Blue” album.

I ‘ahem’ really dread sharing this horrific fact.  I will make it look better by telling you all that I don’t LOVE this album, but there are a few good pop bubblegum songs on that record that I loved as a kid…and 3 of them made it into my Itunes library. Egads! That’s like the literary equivalent of reading Twilight.

I digress.

Debbie Gibson actually did write a good portion of her music, unlike many pop tweens of today. How do I know that? Her old manager signed me on to a shitty record deal, that’s how. So not only could she play piano and sing, she did write lyrics.

Okay, I will now spank myself for this awful aberration.

#3 Good song,  but  stupid when I hear it.

Jay-Z’s “Can I get a..?”Okay, anytime I hear this song or any song on XM radio’s Backspin– NWA anyone?–I instantly start rapping. I am the last person anyone wants to see rapping at any point in one’s life. I once rapped in a fire-safety PSA. It was dreadful, but a good paycheck, and hey, I helped save kids from fire hopefully.

I absolutely love some hip-hop, but I sure look painful rocking out to it. Maybe there’s some Af-Am roots in my family…that would be awesome, but I doubt it. Hmm, calling


#4 Speaking of really white guys…

Rick Astley’s “She Wants to Dance with Me”

This dude was so white! You could see all of his major organs through his suit and tie! I loved this song, and still have it in my itunes. It was released around 1987-1989. He hasn’t been heard from since approximately 1991, and if he has been, no one gives a shit.


This is the end of Part 1 of embarrassing songs I like!

Check out my embarrassing fire safety video on You Tube:

Cheesy “Be cool with fire safety” Video (Part 1)

by  Segadude3000






It’s Busy in here (and that’s just my brain).

I have to admit something.

Actually, I admit a lot of things because I am self-indulgent and enjoy analyzing myself. Why? Maybe because I’m the youngest child, or maybe because I’m wrapped up in myself, or maybe because…I’m bored.

I know that sounds impossible because I have an almost two-year old daughter who is incredibly opinionated, yet sweet, and tons of fun. How could I be bored? She exhausts me.

I guess my mind just doesn’t stop. Ever. I sleep thankfully, maybe because I tire myself out enough during the day, but I find other people to be too slow. When I watch my husband I sometimes wonder,”How does he get anything done?” I find myself shaking my leg while waiting for him to get going sometimes.

I don’t have ADHD–and I am not manic. Those are two things I can guarantee (definitely not manic and way too focused/able to carry out long tasks to be hyperactive, and yes, I can have a professional vouch for me), but I wonder why I am so wired for speed, so to speak. I don’t even drink coffee. 

My wise friend Liz suggested that I might be one of those intelligent people who just gets bored easily. Even when my daughter was a newborn, (about past week 6) I started getting up and out of the house with her even when I wasn’t working. It’s like I feel as if I need to be somewhere, doing something.

There are a few times in my life when my need to go, go, go were squelched:


As a student, tutor, and teacher, I didn’t have time to busy myself. Hmm. I was too busy. I was going all the time, and so I didn’t have time to be bored.

Newborn-6 weeks

I couldn’t be bored because I was tired and trying to not get my nipples mauled off in those early stages of nursing. By the way, my nipples are just fine, thanks. When I wasn’t tired, I was eating like a football player. I ate like a quarterback for the first year of my daughter’s life, thanks to nursing and hell, I didn’t gain weight (kill me. I might not be pretty, but I’m skinny).


I was too sick to be bored because I felt like death. Early pregnancy=felt like death.


That’s a pathetic three times in my life in which I can remember not being stir-crazy. People suggest yoga to mellow me out (but I found it to be, gasp, too slow). I have tried acupuncture–which helped relieve worry, but didn’t slow me down. I don’t think I’m wired to be mellow.

My father is of a ripe good age, ( I won’t say old because he would disown me and I need someone to be responsible for my neuroses) and that man cannot sit still either. I can read a book of course and write, but unless I am active or exhausted, I am going.

I wonder what it is in our brain chemistry that has us wired so rapidly. I feel I have no choice but to go with it. I’m energetic. High-strung. Fun. Intelligent. Crazy. Whatever works for you.

So for 2013 I have decided to feed my brain. It is hungry. Write. Perform. Work. Parent. Hobbies. Expand.

My one fear is that my energy level might overwhelm my kid. I guess anyone can speculate that his or her energy level might affect his/her kid. A lethargic person might create a slowpoke. A morose lad might make a wee sad toddler. A hyperactive person might make his kid crazy.

My daughter doesn’t seem nuts yet, so I couldn’t have done too much damage. She’s happy, fairly mellow albeit in a bossy stage, and energetic–not like me exactly although it’s too early to tell, but spirited. Hopefully I will inspire her to go for what she wants and not hold back, rather than exhaust her myself.

I wonder if other people worry that their flaws or traits will impact their children? 

I know I drive my husband a bit nuts. I tell him I should have a few husbands, just to keep myself busy. Somehow, he doesn’t find this acceptable. I am not sure why…it would relieve him of me for awhile, but I digress. I know he sometimes finds watching me rather tiring. You could say he’s a bit sluggish at times.

I’ve had resolutions to calm or mellow out, and it never works. I’m not a spazz–I can follow a long conversation and even read a 19th century Russian novel without twitching like a meth addict, but I just find being too mellow for too long, dull. That’s why I have mellow friends, so they can act as a homeopathic drug of sorts. There’s nothing better than the soothing voice of a..
Oh, what was I saying? I’m doing something else while we speak… 


I  “Image

Enough about my uterus! Shut up.

Why are people so invested in my uterus? In anyone’s uterus?

Why does Joe Blow from Indianapolis or Marty Moe from Florida, or Annie from Dallas, Texas care about what other women do with their uterus’s?? 

Why do my neighbors, fellow gym rats, etc give a crap about me and my little old uterus?

Is it really that sexy? I mean, I think I am pretty sexy, but I have never had a great look at my uterus! Maybe it’s fantastic!

It’s not just the annoying barrage of “End Roe vs. Wade!” people that bug me and believe me they truly do, but the people that constantly ask me if I am going to have another child.

Why don’t these people worry about their children? Their lives? To everyone spouting off about what “other women” should do, I suggest this: become a better parent or person.

You want to keep people from having an unwanted child?

Try volunteering with teenagers. Try advocating condoms because Lord knows abstinence talks rarely work..

And before vilifying women, try talking to women who have had abortions. Ask them why. Ask them if they did it carelessly or for a reason. I’ve spoken to quite a few women who have had abortions, and it was never because they were bored that day!

And people don’t just talk about uteruses or uteri’s?/– (what is the plural of uterus anyway?) to discuss abortions, but they talk about reproduction…how many kids one will have or not have, etc.

It’s common talk in our society to “assume” that people will have children. The second someone walks down the aisle we all want to know, “When will they procreate?”

Is this just an American thing? 

I’ve never had so many people ask me when I am having another child as much as I have in the past three weeks. I am almost expecting someone to do an exam of my cervix. I might as well walk around with a magnifying mirror and stirrups.

I just wish people would leave me alone already. Let me use my uterus and vagina for whatever I decide to use it for. Let other women use their bodies as they so choose. They are the ones who will have to live with whatever choice they make, not you.

You want to be helpful instead of annoying??
Don’t ask women without children when it will happen or why don’t they want kids? Instead, ask them about their lives–gasp! They have lives without children?! Yes, they sure do! Ask couples who just got married what they’re most looking forward to, what goals they’re looking to achieve. If they want to travel.
I know people ask the “When are you having (another) a baby?” question very innocently. I know many people don’t mean any harm. I have asked the question before, although I don’t like to anymore as I have learned it’s a bad idea. I just think we need to question this cultural norm. It’s nosy. Invasive. Does anyone ask a man, when are you getting a vasectomy? Have you made any unwanted babies? What are you doing with your penis?
The same goes for people with many children. Stop commenting. You are not special. No one cares what you think. While I agree it seems socially irresponsible to have nineteen kids like that one lady, it’s not my place to comment even if I feel she is risking her life and creating way too many mouths to feed in a day and age when our resources are numbered.
Fact is, my opinion means nothing to those people, and nor should it.
Some days, I wish I had a penis. Not only would it be easier to pee and I could look at it all day and play with it ( I totally would), but then no one would ask me when I was having a baby or tell me what to do with myself.

I could just be a person with some privacy, and um, no government regulation.