One Week Later

Birth control pills were approved for contraceptive use in America when my mother was 14 years old. And Roe v. Wade legalized abortion in America in 1973. That same year, I turned 4 years old and  became part of the first generation of American girls raised having safe and accessible choices when it came to our reproductive destiny.

Flash forward 40 years.

It is 11:50pm on a hot Tuesday night in Austin, Texas. I am crowded into the rotunda of the state capitol building with thousands of other people who are all wearing orange shirts, scarves and hair ribbons and screaming at the top of their lungs. Around me are half a dozen friends my age, and we are screaming too while we sweat and check news feeds on our phones as the clock nears midnight. My ears are vibrating in pain at the sheer volume of the voices—so guttural and primal and sustained—raised in a deafening unison roar. Then the clock strikes twelve, and impossibly, the volume of the screaming grows even louder. I have no idea if we’ve been successful in killing #SB5, but it damn sure feels like we’ve done something important by coming together and raising our voices in this way. I go home exhausted but too energized to sleep. I am wide awake.

---

Flash forward one week.

I’m still hoarse. My hair continues to stand up when I see photos or videos or read well-written accounts of what happened on Tuesday,June 25th in the Texas state capitol building. They are calling it “The People’s Filibuster.” And having been part of it, is still very much with me and many, many others.

The whole thing—and all of the action that has followed—has made me do a lot of reflecting, and I found myself wondering: Why am I so damn passionate about the abortion issue? Why did I wear my headphones listening to Texas state senator Wendy Davis filibuster against anti-abortion legislation on the senate floor almost all day while I was at work?  Why did I rush down to the capitol that night when I saw the 3^rd point of order raised against Senator Davis—and the intense reaction to what was going on in the rotunda—live on the 10 o’clock news? Why did I stand there for hours and hours with thousands of orange-clad strangers who, like me, desperately wanted to be heard that night? Why did I go back to the capitol this week to stand with 6,000 others there to protest the blatantly anti-woman legislation that is back in front of the Texas legislature?

The answer to all these questions is simple: Because this issue—women’s accessibility to safe, affordable LEGAL gynecological services including pregnancy termination—is not only important to women, it says a great deal about how women are viewed in our society. 

A bit of background: When I became sexually active in my late teens, I had access to inexpensive birth control via the Planned Parenthood clinic in the town where I was attending college. I also got regular “well woman” check-ups at that same clinic (required in order to maintain my birth control prescription), and I was able to do all this without my parents’ or my partner’s permission or intervention. To me, taking care of my lady business was simply a part of becoming an independent young woman. It never occurred to me that what I was doing with regard to my reproductive health would (our could) ever be anyone else’s business. Because I had no memory of what life had been life prior to the pill or legalized abortion, I never considered what I was doing a fragile freedom that might be threatened or even disappear. In essence, I’d received all the spoils of a war that I knew little about. And, like many women my age, I became complacent and assumed my reproductive rights were protected. But clearly, I was wrong.

It didn’t happen overnight—the most insidious change rarely does. Over the past two decades, the lines between the church and the statehouse have become so blurred that the foundational principle of the separation of church and state has become little more than a hollow footnote in America. Simultaneously, politicians who run on platforms of “limited government” and “personal freedom” while also advocating for the increased government intrusion into women’s reproductive organs have continued to win local, statewide and national elections. The result of this perfect theocratic storm has been that, little by little, the rights that my grandmother’s and mother’s generation fought so hard to secure are being stripped away. Like many other women in America, I now live in a state where a very vocal, organized, fundamentalist religious minority has managed to bring us to the brink of passing some of the most restrictive anti-abortion legislation in the entire country. Meanwhile, our state leaders and GOP legislators have the gall to smile their lipless smiles and tell us that it’s all for own good. And this condescending “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it… we know what’s best for you” stance is insulting, infuriating bullshit.

Let me clarify that I am NOT “pro-abortion” as I’m sure some would be quick to label me. Come ON!! Who in their right minds would wish that they or someone they love would ever EVER have to undergo an abortion? No one, that’s who. That’s why the bogus-yet-frequently-repeated claim that those of us who are pro-choice are actually “pro-abortion” makes my blood boil. It’s just fucking stupid, and if you say it, I have no choice but to think that you’re an ill-informed, myopic idiot.

I have a young daughter, and the thought of her ever facing the agonizing choices that come with an unplanned or unsustainable pregnancy is enough to make my stomach turn and bring me to tears. As a parent, my ultimate goals are to protect her, guide her toward good choices in her life, and to do everything within my power to ensure she is safe, happy and healthy. And I hope beyond description that she will never undergo an abortion procedure. But as a realist who resides on planet Earth, I also understand and accept that no matter how much praying anyone does, unplanned and unsustainable pregnancies can–and do--happen to females of child-bearing age regardless of their race, address, financial situation, sexual history, religion, marital status, or political affiliation. And yes, that potentially includes my daughter. What I hope for her is to never have to consider having an abortion, but if she does, I want her to have options and access and not be shamed or criminalized for her choice. Period.

The people of my grandmothers’ and mothers’ generations fought hard to ensure that first, women were granted access to birth control and later, that the cloak of danger and criminality that surrounded abortion was lifted. And after years of admitedly taking these freedoms for granted, I now have all of their fight inside me.

Also inside me is the fight of that indignant 19 year old casually picking up her birth control pills at the women’s clinic who cannot fathom why my—or any other woman’s--reproductive choices should be anyone else’s damn business.

Now I have a daughter who is nearly 9 years old. She deserves the same reproductive freedoms that I and all of the other American women of my generation have been guaranteed as a legal right. And Hell yes, I’ve got her fight inside of me too.

So even if the Texas legislature wins this battle, they now have a full-fledged war on their hands. I'm ready for the fight, and I'm bringing lots of people with me.

The Long, Stupid Story of My Lost/Not Lost Wallet

Back in December, I'd gone grocery shopping one Saturday morning, and while at the store, picked up a few stocking stuffers for Christmas. When I got home, I hurried to my closet to squirrel away said stocking stuffers, away from the eyes of husbands and children, then I headed to the kitchen to unload the rest of my purchases.

It was a fine day, and I was looking forward to a massage and salt-glo body treatment I'd scheduled later that afternoon at a day spa near our house. Earlier that month, I'd unearthed a gift certificate to the spa given to me by my mother the previous Christmas, and needed to use it prior to the expiration date.

When I grabbed my purse to make sure I had some cash with which to tip the massage therapist, I discovered my small, adorable pink metallic wallet that I bought in Portland last summer was missing. I fuh-REEEKED out. I immediately got in my car and flew back to the grocery store, asking the cashier in the lane I'd gone through if she'd seen it (no), the Front End Manager if it had been turned in (no) and the store manager if it had been turned in (also, no). My freak out continued. I am generally good in a crisis, say, if you cut the tip of your finger off and need to get to the hospital or if I back in to a police car when leaving a parking space. Cool as a damn cucumber. However, when I lose stuff that's important to me...stuff that I need RIGHT THAT MINUTE, I lose. My. Shit. I literally had to pop a Xanax just to deal. I immediately called the spa and cancelled my appointment (how would I pay them? My gift certificate was only going to pay for a portion of my services), and that just bummed me out even more because my gift certificate was expiring the next day. Then I ran to the bank to cancel my debit card and get issued a new (temporary) one. Then I got online and on the phone and started canceling credit cards. Thankfully, I don't have but a couple, but it was still a pain in my ass. I looked at my calendar, trying to figure out when the hell I was going to have time to deal with getting a new driver's license--a fate almost as horrible as having to go to the Social Security office for...well, for anything. And the whole time I'm going through all of this, I'm thinking to myself, "Where the fuck IS that damn wallet?!" I don't like it when stuff doesn't make sense--you know, like algebra and when wallets seemingly disappear in thin air. I was in a shitty, shitty mood for the rest of the day.

The next day, I found my fucking wallet on the floor of my closet, right near where I'd hidden the stocking stuffers.

Sigh.

Fast forward to this past Sunday. The Geej and I go to The Lorax. During the movie, I hang my purse between our seats, on the arm rest. Shortly after getting home after the movie, I realize that, DAMNIT TO HELL, my wallet is not in my purse. Grrrr... So, I put The Geej back in the car, and we head back to the damn theater. When I got there, I checked with the ticket booth (nope, but here, fill out this tiny "Lost and Found" slip in case we find it), the snack bar (no) and then asked the pimply 15 year old working the ticket checkpoint if I can go in to the theater and look around where Geej and I had sat to watch the movie. His answer: No. The movie's just started, so come back in about an hour and a half, and you can go in when it's over.

Um, no, Junior. That's not going to work for me. That's my fucking wallet filled with all of my Important Stuff and the cash I'd gotten from our pre-movie trip through the ATM, so you're going to need a bit more accommodating or get me your goddamned manager because your policy? Is stupid.

After speaking with the manager, I was allowed to go in to the theater. The previews were still running. There was a man and his son sitting in the seats Geej and I had occupied. I explained to him what was up, and he got out his phone (for the flashlight effect) and helped me look under and around the seats. No luck.

Having learned my lesson with the whole December "lost" wallet situation, I held off cancelling everything, and instead waited until Monday, hoping that the last clean of the evening at the theater would yield my wallet or that some nice citizen would turn it in and I would get a call. But no.

So Monday, I took the day off to hang with The Geej who--have I mentioned?--is sick. She'd been running a fever off and on since Friday evening, and I wanted to get her in to see the doctor on Monday morning. A good chunk of Monday is spent dealing with her under-the-weatheredness (diagnosis: bad bronchitis) and also, the whole wallet debacle. I even dragged my poor child to the driver's licence office so she could experience the fun that is our Government At Work.

By the end of the day, everything was cancelled, new cards were ordered, and I had my new paper driver's license folded up in my too-big-to-EVER-lose-it-without-noticing-right-away wallet.

Yesterday, I stayed home again with The Geej who, although no longer feverish, was still coughing like Lucille Ball. During an afternoon call with my boss, my other line rang and I answered it. It was the movie theater: they had my wallet.

Well, great.

I headed to the theater to pick it up, expecting all of the cash, etc. to be missing, but sweetbabyjeebus, it was all there! In tact!! I couldn't believe it!

But I've decided that I'm still going to carry the Big Ass Wallet from now on because this cute little pink sucker is too easy to misplace.

In non-wallet related news, we've discovered Cam Wow, and omg The Geej and I laughed ourselves to tears playing around with it yesterday.

Hell, even Doug got in on the fun.

Alright, that's all for now. More soon, chickens!

I see what you're doing, Luby's, and I do NOT approve.

Much like my love for baby animals, my love of Luby's is well-known. Is the food great? No. Is the atmosphere special? No. Do I get some sort of special deal for publicizing my love of this Texas institution? No. And I've tried to explain my enduring devotion to Luby's to non-Texans, and it just does not compute. But what it boils down to is the comfort factor--I ate there a lot as a kid, and other than some cosmetic alterations, occasional fluctuations in quality and some annoying operational changes (I miss the damn tea cart, yo!), dining at Luby's has remained a fairly unchanged experience for over thirty years.

Until this past weekend.

Ask any Texan, "What's the one thing that Luby's is sort of famous for?" and you can almost bet money on the fact that they'll respond with: the fried fish. Oh. My. God, y'all. I love the SHIT out of this nutritionally devoid mystery fish. It's rectangular and fried and I smother it in fresh squeezed lemon juice and go to fried fish heaven. The sides change, but the entree is always ALWAYS the fried fish for this Pine Curtain Gal.

BEHOLD!

This glorious image, courtesy of The Gluttonous Chinaman.

So The Geej (who has inherited my love of Luby's in a BIG way) and I go to have some lunch while running errands this past weekend, and when I slide my tray to the entree section of the line and ask the server for the fried fish, I notice...it's different. My fried fish rectangle I've been eating FOR DECADES has shrunk by at least 1/3. I mean it went from being about the size of my hand to the size of just my palm. Not okay, Luby's!! Why you gotta go and mess with my fish? And yes, my ass is bigger than it should be, so I know this smaller portion is "better for me" and all that shit, but I never ordered the fried fish for health reasons. And I feel, I dunno, betrayed. And little pissed. You just HAD to go and fuck with THE ONE THING that hadn't changed since I was small enough to have to get help carrying my tray to the table.

Luby's has messed with their sacred cow, and this dude does not abide.

Damn Good Intentions

I really WANT to write a big ol' long post about the cool trip to Washington, D.C. I just took with a friend and all of the fun stuff we got to do and see and all of the WONDERFUL food we got to eat and how we saw real, honest-to-goodness rain while we were there and how traveling well together is an art form and how much the D.C. Metro system made me long for something useful and practical like that in Austin. But I can't. Not right now, anyway. Work has been steadily pissing me off and kicking my ass since I walked in the door yesterday, and there are no signs of it letting up any time soon.

Also, it's back in the 100-degree range here and there has still been no rain to speak of.

It's times like these that I'm damn glad I don't own a firearm.

Seriously America: You do NOT want to date this guy!

When I was in college, my best friend warned me not to hook up with this guy we'll call "Keith" because, as best as I can recall, I've never actually hooked up with anyone named Keith.

Anyhoo, I was sort of gah-gah about him becuase he was freakin' gorgeous and sexy and flirty. Dumb as a brick, but still... But my friend knew him from her hometown. She knew what a dick he was and how he treated girls like shit. She warned me and then warned me again, and then when I refused to heed her warnings, she was pretty much like, "Well, okay. Your funeral."

Fast forward to a few weeks post-hookup. I'm stalking this guy like a psycho. Why won't he call me back?! I booty call him and make a complete ass of myself. I run into him at a rock show, and he all but ignores me. But wait! A glimmer of hope!! He tells me to meet him at his house after the show. Hubba hubba!! Whatever you say, guy-who's-been-treating-me-like-shit-but-is-just-so-damn-HOT! I'll be there!

I show up and guess what: He doesn't. I just sit outside of his house for like an hour, waiting for him to get home and then leave, carrying an ass-ton of hurt pride and an endless loop of my friend's voice saying "I TOLD you so," going through my head.

Why am I telling you this? Because the way my friend must've felt when she was warning me against Keith? That's how I feel about warning America about THIS hypocritical douche bag:

Trust me, America. We Texans know him. We've dated him for over 10 years, and yes, even though he may be a flirt and may be "handsome" (as far as politicians go), he's an idiot. And I assure you, he doesn't give a SHIT about you. It's all about him and his enormous ego. America, he will fuck you up in ways you've only had nightmares about up to now, just like he's done to this beloved state of mine.

Remember when you had that horrible 8-year fling with that other daft Republican Governor of Texas? Remember how that whole thing worked out?! Why would you want to do that to yourself again, America? You're better than that! And besides, this dumbass makes George W. seem like the fucking chairman of Mensa.

So please America, do not date Rick Perry. Because if you do? It's your funeral.

WARNING: Very Whiny Post Ahead

Last Tuesday night, I started feeling yucky. I blamed it on what I'd eaten for dinner.

Felt better Wednesday morning, but by Wednesday afternoon, super yucky. Achy and queasy. I blamed it on what I'd eaten for lunch. Went to bed early.

Thursday morning, felt sort of normal again. Mid-morning, I started to feel like I was going to puke. Felt achy--like I was one gigantic bruise.Got on the interwebs and did a bit of research and diagnosed myself with shingles. But I didn't have a rash, so I really didn't take my diagnosis too seriously. All I knew was that something was seriously "off". Went to company Christmas party that evening, sang some karaoke and even had some wine. But then, overnight, felt bad again. Blamed it on the wine.

Friday, was awful. In addition to feeling achy and nauseated, I kept having this shooting pain that was originating in my lower right back, and shooting straight through my lower abdomen down to where my torso and right leg meet. I'd never felt anything like this before, and when it would hit me, I would just double over. THAT'S how intense it was. Again, went to bed early.

Saturday is when I first noticed the rash. It started on my right thigh and went down, curving around to the back of my right knee. It was also on my right butt cheek. It was red and painful. Went to an ornament exchange party and joked about how I thought I had shingles. Ha ha ha. What a punchline.

Sunday, the rash was worse and there was more of it, and I was running a fever. So I finally sucked it up and went to the urgent care center. (I went to the one at Slaughter/MoPac, and it was very nice, FYI.) And guess what, MOTHERFUCKING SHINGLES. Grrrr... The doctor told me to follow up with my primary care doctor, and I've been too lazy and pissed off to even call for an appointment.

So now, I'm taking a medicine that's supposed to surpress the virus that's causing the rash, but it is most effective if you start taking it w/in 24 hours of getting the symptoms. I was a bit outside that window so who knows how well it's working...or not. And I've also got a painkiller that I'm only taking at bed time b/c it knocks my ass out. And the location of this fucking rash makes it IMPOSSIBLE for me to wear real clothes, so I've been wearing sweats, and pajama bottoms for 3 days now. And I've been trying to work from home but I'm so uncomfortable and tired and generally miserable, that I've managed to accomplish very little.

Okay. I feel better having vented. I mean, I feel better psychologically, but the rest of me still feels achy and painful.

This shit better clear up by like tomorrow because I do not have the patience for it to linger.

Not So Charitable

Giving one's money--time or other wordly possesions--away is what most people refer to as "charity". I've always considered myself a rather charitable person. I volunteer and donate when I can. But I have a few rules when it comes to charitable solicitations. And if you break them, you don't get my time/money/stuff.

Here they are:

1. If you try to GUILT me in to giving by sending me address labels/Christmas cards/calendars/wrapping paper that I didn't request and will, most likely, never use: SCREW YOU. You're wasting your organization's limited funds and destroying trees with your plea. You are stupid, and I will not donate. (I'm looking at you Texas Exes, World Wildlife Federation, Animal Trustees of Austin, and Boys Town Christmas Appeal.)
2. If John Aielli is involved in your plea, I will not donate.
3. If you're panhandling, and you're smoking a cigarette, I will not donate.
4. If you solicit me by mail more than once a year, I will not donate.
5. If you're not creative enough to use your allowed once-a-year donation soliciation (see above) during some time OTHER than the holiday season, I will not donate.
6. If I've donated with you before, and now you want me to donate at a higher level, I (probably) will not donate (at that higher level).
7. If I donate to you, and then you sign me up for a gagillion OTHER "like-minded" charities who then start bombarding me with mail/phonecalls/emails, I will not only not donate to YOU anymore, but your like-minded organizations will also get blackballed.
8. Pledge premiums work if they're creative. But if they're too typical (a tote bag! a coffee mug!), no thanks.
9. Enlist businesses to match pledges. I used to work for a company that matched charitable contributions at 50%. It not only made me pledge my support more frequently, it made me PROUD to say that I worked for such an organization.

If you are a not-for-profit organization whose mission I believe in, I will support you if I can. I am smart and have access to the channels that will connect me with you. I promise. But other than that? You need to check yourself.

I shouldn't blog when I'm cranky.

But I'm going to. And you'd better not try to stop me. Damnit.

Oh, where to start, people...

I guess I'll start with the weather, because that's lame. But yes, it's already titty-sweat hot here in the Heart O' Texas. Yeah, I said it. I am sticky 90% of the day because of the 90% humidity. GRUMPY!!

Next, I got the city/county tax appraisal thing for my house, which went up the annual maximum despite the fact that the actual amount I'd be able to sell my house for is in the toilet thanks to the economy. Oh yeah, and I also need to immediately pay a $600 from my escrow account because they misunderestimated my taxes last year. Yes I know that's grammatically incorrect. Shut up. CRANKY!!

I have a theory about los ninos: Odd numbered years*: suck. Case in point: The Geej at age two? Such a joy. Easy. Happy. Totally blew that whole "Terrible Twos" myth out of the water. Age three:. She was 49% angel, 51% sassy-ass demon spawn. It wasn't fun. Four has been a hilarious, wonderful dream. But five is looming on the very near horizon, and girlfriend is showing signs of the Odd Year-ed Demon, and I'm not loving it. ANNOYING!!

*Age one doesn't count because even though they can be frustrating, they're one, and you get like a billion extra cuteness points when you're one. But nearly five? Notsomuch.

Will someone PLEASE tell me why, all of the sudden, after MONTHS of perfect litter box behavior, one of my damn cats has decided to just barely miss the litter box about 3/4 of the time. Seriously? You can't get your little cat ass all the way into the litter box to deposit your foul leavings within the confines of the damn box? Really? DEATH!!!

City elections. I went to vote on Saturday, and here was the scene at my polling place: Only one parking place (besides the one I took) had a car in it. Tumbleweeds were blowing around.** Walked in, and there were barely animated corpses working behind the registration tables and voting machine instruction stands. I'm serious!! ZOMBIES!! I voted (it took all of 1 minute for the whole thing to go down) and walked to my car. As I made my way across the empty parking lot, a lone coyote howled forlornly in the distance.***

**This is a slight exaggeration.
***Again, artistic license is at play here. PLEASE NOTE: There is no note about the ZOMBIES, and that's because, I'm fairly convinced that the individuals working there were, in fact, the Undead.

I finished a book last week that had taken me forever to read. I am not a slow reader, but usually my only time to read is right at bed time, so I get 5 - 7 pages done, and then I'm falling asleep. I don't care how great whatever I'm reading may be. So I finally finish this book I've been reading since February, and I go out to our rather eclectic book collection and grab something that I'd bought a while back and am psyched to read. I lie down, ready to get started on my new book and DAMNITTOHELL I realize I've already freakin' read it. DISAPPOINTING!!

Whew. Wow...okay. I think I'm better now. Thanks for letting me vent. I thought the top of my skull was gonna blow off there for a minute. Now for some stuff that's NOT making my stabby:

I love succulents. Cactus especially. So one of my favorite things about my workplace is the AMAZING collection of prickly pear cactus that grows on the "Plaza Level." This time of year, if the recent rains have been adequate, they go nuts with TONS of blooms. Here's a picture from the end of last week:

Today, they were even prettier (but I didn't have my camera with me)).

Went to another kid's b-day party this weekend. Thankfully, this one wasn't at a nightclub where the bathroom smelled like vomit. It was actually very fun, and the kiddos went nuts and bounced around in bouncy houses and ate cake and did all the stuff you're supposed to do at a b-day party for the wee ones. And would you please look at The Geej and Annie-O in this photo? All I had to do was say, "Girls...picture!" and it was like instant Phototech*.*If you know what I'm talking about, then you're my people.

And just in case you were wondering: Yes, Anderson still likes birthday cake.After the kiddo party, it was time for a birthday celebration for a grown up friend--my friend Erin. It was way fun and I got to chat and hang out with friends I don't get to see much anymore (unless it's on freakin' F*cebook). I have a few pictures, but the only one I'm really wondering about is this one:
This was a sculpture in the pool cabana where the party was sort of centered. It fills me with so many questions...

Finally, Mother's Day.

I gotta say, I am blessed to know some of the coolest, most skillful, wisest, loveliest, most amazing mothers ever. I learn from them each and every day, and I would sometimes be an utter and complete basket case without them. So even though it's a day late and a dollar short: Happy Mother's Day to you wonderful women. You know who you are.

My Mother's Day? I got to sleep in (until 9:30!), and then got taken to brunch here. I recommend it. My gifts were so awesome, that I hesitate to post photos, for fear your eyes may explode in your skull due to the pure coolness. But here you go:

From The Geej:
Paint-by-number-freakin'-kittens, people!! If you know me even a little bit, then you know how much I love this. She said that BH "helped her a little." All I know is that this is so great, I can't stand it.

From BH:

Whilst at the craft store, BH was inspired by a clock-making kit, and this is the result:
Can you even BELIEVE how awesomely horrible this thing is?! I nearly peed myself when he gave it to me. And if you've ever watched "The Tim & Eric Awesome Show: Great Job!," you'll understand why I think it's so funny. It's totally going to work with me and hanging in my modular work station.****

****cube

So that's it until tomorrow. By the way, tomorrow is officially the beginning of the FUNNEST WEEK EVER (r)!! Details to come.