no more questions, your honor!

i’m discovering forty is a magical age…

…when i was twenty-whatever people asked me about kids. i said, “that’s the plan”. when i got into my thirties, i said, “that’s the plan”. at thirty-five i started to say, “yeah, um, that might be the plan…”.

now, at forty, i just say “nope”…and nobody questions it.

i know if you’re a girl and you want to get “fixed”, in the dog & cat vernacular of the word, they ask you a bunch of questions…do you have kids? how many? how old are you? and if you don’t answer these questions properly they fucking REFUSE to do it…’cause if you’re not willing to be a human fetus pez dispenser up to a certain age they have some kind of “moral issue” with things.

i would normally say “fuck all that shit – i’m paying you, mother-FUCK your morals!!!”. but you know what? we have artists that work for us that won’t tattoo your neck or your hands or whatever unless you’re inked all to hell (i.e. more than me or shane) OR unless you’re over a certain age (like older than me or shane) and i agree with their decision. curtis, who used to work for us and is now tattooing on the island of maui (so if you get the itch on vacation go see him!) used to call such ink “the everlasting job-stopper” in a bastardized willie wonka phrase. i can see that.

but if you’re in your twenties and “know” (read: “THINK”) you don’t want kids, i guess i see it. but over thirty? fuck all that! and at my age? DEFINITELY fuck all that! if i had insurance i’d get it done Y E S T E R D A Y. i’ve had four piercings down there…a surgeon with tools is (no offense, bear) not even remotely scary to me “down there”. and i got a reassurance of my decision today via marshall’s – i went to buy something, and i end up in line with two women that, between them, had NINE children with them. NINE. as in the fucking number JUST south of ten.

honey, it’s a vagina…not a clown car at ringling brothers!

and what made matters worse – part of the purchase was for one of the younger girls. it was a suitcase…’cause she’s going on a trip to see grandma, who always bakes her cookies, in mississippi. how do i know all this? because they waited for the little girl to explain the story to the girl trying to ring up their nineteen-hundred items, of which a “dora the explorer” suitcase was amongst the massive list.

but it didn’t have a price tag.

so, somebody ran and got another…but it wasn’t an exact match. it had dora on both the lid (as the one they had picked out did) AND on the sides. so now a decision had to be made – go with what they had, or go with the new found item. but it wasn’t the ADULT’S suitcase, so they thought the little girl needed to tell them which SHE liked better.

and in typical little girl fashion the answer, “i don’t know…” was the response, complete with the grinding of the ball of the foot into the ground, in an, “aw, shucks…” type of motion. on film, or in a facebook pic by your friend’s kid, this is precious. when you’re in line behind it? it is BEYOND fucking annoying.

so she was asked again…”i don’t know….” was the echoed response, complete with same foot gesture. same thing on the third of fourth try.

“what i DO know is they need a second FUCKING cashier up here…”, i apparently uttered a bit audibly as the evil stares from ma & ma brady would attest…but like magic POOF! another cashier appeared to ring the person in front of me, the person behind them, and me up…all done while lil’ miss annoyance made her mind up on which suitcase grandma would like her to take best.

and now you have yet another reason why it’s probably all for the best i DON’T have kids…