At A Loss For Words

One of the problems that I’ve been dealing with has been a difficulty coming up with the right word when talking. Typing still flowed pretty quickly but even there I found myself searching for words that used to come easily. I had already developed the bad habit of letting other people finish my sentences, but as time wore on the motivation behind that habit went from “You know what I mean” to “Oh god, I can’t remember what I was going to say.”

The other day, I was trying to write a description for a website. I turned to Moose and said “What’s the word for something that’s old but not, like, antique?” He looked at me, puzzled for a moment, and then said “Vintage?”

And that was it for me. That was my wall. I couldn’t remember the word vintage. I’ve spent most of my life working with words, and the loss of such an obvious one was hard to take. Whatever was going wrong inside my head, whether it be insomnia, depression, or just being out of the writing habit, needed fixing. I was losing my words. Losing my stories. Losing the one knack that I have had since I was old enough to put my pencil to paper. It felt like I was losing the thing that defined me.

In part, that feeling was caused by the emotional stress of exhaustion. Though writing is a big part of my life, there is no one single thing that defines me. We are all much too complicated creatures for that sort of thing. Yet I think that if there ever comes a day when my joints fail me, a day when I can no longer dance, no longer sew, no longer do all of the things that help keep the traitor voice at bay, I will still have this.

So long as I have my words, I can carry on. Losing individual words is not such a loss. That is what dictionaries and thesauri are for. So long as I can string together the pearls of a sentence, I can come back later and place the jewel I am seeking in the blank. So long as I can make the little words go together, I have faith that I will always be able to find the big ones. So long as I keep writing, I will never truly be at a loss for words.

Empty Statements of Faith

So, there’s this thing that goes around Facebook every now and then:

I am out to prove that 80% of my friends will repost, I hope I am right! Let’s lift up His name and make a statement! Sadly 97% of Facebook Users will not repost this… when Jesus died on the cross he was thinking of you. If you are one of the few 3%, repost this message. Praise God He died for me and you!! Phil. 4:13 [1]

What I find really interesting about this is not just what it says, but what it implies, and what it conveniently ignores.  Namely that if you don’t repost it, then you must not be willing to “make a statement.”  What that statement might be isn’t quite clear.  That the poster is Christian?  Alrightly.  That the poster is somehow a better Christian than everyone who didn’t post?  Or maybe, that they aren’t afraid to declare themselves to be Christian?  That they somehow need the strength of their savior to get up the courage to say “I’m Christian, damnit, and you can’t do anything about it!”

This may come as a shock to some people [2], but 78% of Americans identify as some form of Christian [3].  Chances are good that unless you are a member of a social group that is openly accepting of non-Christian faiths (or non-faiths, as the case may be), your personal circle of friends is more than 80% Christian.  The cashier who didn’t wish you Merry Christmas?  The one who wished you Happy Holidays instead?  Very likely also Christian.  Even the ones who did wish you Merry Christmas aren’t guaranteed to be Christian.  Many people of other beliefs say it because it’s a social norm, much like saying “bless you” when someone sneezes.  It’s simply easier than dealing with what might happen if they didn’t.

There seems to be a growing belief among Christians that they are somehow becoming an oppressed minority.  Not all Christians believe this, I know.  In fact, those who hold this belief are a very small minority amongst that majority faith.  But they are a very vocal and very insistent group who honestly and deeply hold this belief.  They don’t look at the statistics that 78% of Americans are Christian and think “Hey, I’m in the majority!”  They instead look at the 22% who aren’t Christian and think “We’re losing ground!”  I’m not saying that the people who repost things like the example above are in this group.  They are, however, displaying one of their typical behaviors.  That of declaring their faith loudly, as though it is somehow daring, reckless, and possibly dangerous.  And by extension, that those who do not join in on their declarations are somehow less for not doing so, regardless of why.

The difference between this minority and the actual religious minorities in this country is that we are reminded every day that we are truly a minority.  If you sit next to a random stranger on the bus, chances are good that they are the same faith as you.  If we do, chances are good that the random stranger will not only be of a different faith, but will also try to convince us to convert to their faith.  If you choose to keep your faith personal and not discuss it at work, changes are good that if it slips out, no one will think it’s that big of a deal.  If we choose to keep our faith personal, chances are good that if it slips out, people will think it is weird and wonder why we were so secretive about it.  We may even be fired, though of course no one will come out and *say* that it’s because of our faith.  If you don’t wear any specific signal of your faith, people will assume you are Christian and they will be right.  If we wear a specific signal of our faith, people may use it as a starting point to start a conversation about why we should embrace Christ as our Lord and Savior.  Worse, they may harass, threaten, or otherwise attempt to intimidate us.  We may even be subject to violence, depending on what we wear, where we wear it, and the political or social influences of the time.

I am not out to prove anything, but I am here to make a statement.  That 97% of social network users won’t repost this sort of thing because they don’t repost memes, because they don’t care, or simply because they don’t see it.  That this sort of copycat religiosity does nothing to prove the strength of your faith. That your faith should be deep, personal, and more than just a flag to wave on a social networking site. The only thing that can be proven by these empty statements of faith is that you know how to use copy and paste.

If you want to prove to people that you have courage and strength in your faith, you have to do more than just make it a meme. You have to actually get out there and demonstrate the tenants of that faith, like charity towards those who have less than you and good will towards your fellow human beings, regardless of whether or not they are the same faith as you.  And if you honestly want to know how much strength it takes to proclaim your faith, try declaring yourself as something other than Christian sometime.

——

[1] Philippians 4:13 – I can do all this through him who gives me strength.
[2] Probably not my regular readers, but you never know where these sorts of things wind up.
[3] Christianity Remains Dominant Religion in the United States

One Night At a Time

Yesterday, I had an appointment with my doctor to talk about the sleep problems. I told him everything. From my irritability, to my trouble finishing sentences, to my intense dreams and nightmares. Before I went, I had gone over my various journals and social networking sites to see if I could pinpoint when certain problems got worse and possibly find a source. So I was able to outline for him how each symptom followed from the others.

The diagnosis was not surprising. Considering my history it’s either insomnia causing depression, or depression causing insomnia. He gave me the choice of which to try and treat first. I was surprised to find that even for all my honesty here about the traitor voice, I was still reluctant to discuss depression as a possible underlying cause.

So we are treating for insomnia. For the next week, I get to be one of those people who needs a little white pill to get to sleep. Two, actually. One to get me to sleep, and one to help me stay asleep. The theory goes that if I can break my body of the habit of waking up at 2:30 am, then maybe it will kick back into a regular sleep cycle. After a week I will only take the prescription pill if I have an early morning waking. In three weeks, I get to go back and talk to him about how I’m progressing.

The doctor and the pharmacist were both very particular in explaining that the sleeping pill is not like sleeping pills of the past. The pharmacist took great pains to explain to me how the pills works, including how it metabolizes in the body. It helped to calm my fears about taking a sleeping pill, though the amount of additional paperwork for picking them up was a bit scary. Moose’s pain syrup for his surgery required less paperwork. I suppose because a little white pill is easier for an abuser to sell than a giant red bottle of liquid.

Last night, Moose and I went through our usual bedtime routine. Just before we went to cuddle up together, I took two little pills. He cuddled up to me because I wasn’t sure how quickly the first pill I would work. I was worried about not being awake enough to roll to my side of the bed before I became uncomfortable. I know that he didn’t stay on my over heated side of the bed for very long and that just before I fell asleep we hooked our ankles together. Beyond that, I don’t remember much until I had my first early morning waking.

At 5:25 a.m.

It’s only been one night. I am still very tired and getting up to be on this elliptical doesn’t help. A single night of sleep will not make up for over 4 months of restless nights. But it was one night that was mostly free of dreams and completely free of nightmares. Not even Ninja’s antics or Moose’s snoring woke me up.

It’s only been one night. But it’s the kind of night I haven’t had in over four months. I’ll take what I can get, one night at a time.

Banned Book Review: Pillars of the Earth

91. Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett

Reason: sex scenes (Also, rape, murder, cussing, a woman peeing on a bible, and a few pretty graphically described battles)

I still remember the day the my middle sister handed me this book. We were going to visit our great-aunt in Dallas, and Mom had taken us to the bookstore to pick up some books to keep us occupied during our stay. My sister handed me the huge book, and said “It’s about a man who wants to build a cathedral.” I was doubtful, but figured it couldn’t hurt to try it. A few nights later, I was sitting next to my sister in my aunt’s guest bed, totally engrossed.

Pillars of the Earth is about a man who wants to build a cathedral.  It’s also about a family trying to survive in 12th century England, a monastic community trying to prevail against a corrupt aristocracy, a pair of orphaned children trying to regain their birthright, and a monarchy in doubt.  It’s a densely packed story of mostly accurate history, told in a much easier to read modern style.  Over the years I have given away or lost at least four copies, and currently have a copy on the bookshelf reserved for books that will never, ever get brought in for trade.

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Movie Review: Chronicle

Chronicle is the story of three high school boys who find a glowing asteroid in the woods which gives them telekinetic powers, but this is only the plot of the movie. There is a great deal of subtext to the way the story is told and the details of the life of the main character.

Chronicle is told through the lens of a camera much in the same way as The Blair Witch Project and Cloverfield. Chronicle succeeds where the others have failed by showing the life behind the camera. Andrew doesn’t set out to record anything in particular, just his life. The movie doesn’t start off with a grand camping adventure or some fancy party. It’s just took Andrew’s life and his life is hard.

Andrew is your typical high school outcast. His father is an abusive alcoholic and his mother has some condition which leaves her mostly bedridden. Most of his classmates either don’t know his name or pick on him. His only friend is his cousin Matt and even Matt seems uncomfortable in the role as Andrew’s friend. The only reason that the popular Steve becomes Andrew’s friend is because they share the secret of their powers.

Though the story tells of the development of superpowers for three young men, it is still at its core the story of great power being put in the hands of the immature. Most of the audience seemed to relate to the pranks that the young men pulled with their powers. This is for the first time the real story of what modern young people would do if suddenly granted superpowers. With great power comes great opportunity for lulz. And for Andrew, the chance to fix the parts of his life which were imperfect.

Cameras are used in the movie both as the eye of the audience and as a shield for Andrew. At one point early in the movie, one of the other characters asks Andrew if he feels like the camera puts a wall between him and everyone else. Andrew replies that maybe he wants a wall between him and others. As the story progresses and Andrew’s powers develop, he begins to use his power to float the camera away from him. The audience both sees more of Andrew and get a visual measure of how far Andrew has come out of his shell.

There is also a message to be found near the end in how pervasive cameras are in our lives. In the final battle, the view switches from cameras in buildings, in phones, and in police cruisers. For part of the battle, Andrew pulls the phones and cameras from the viewers in a building. He floats them around himself, literally surrounding himself in cameras. The move may only have been an attempt by the director to get a better view of the conversation between Andrew and his cousin, but it does make for an interesting metaphor.

Chronicle is not an action packed movie.  It starts off slow, gradually building up to the explosions and tossed cars.  There are quite a few plot threads left unaddressed, such as the origins of the object which gave the main characters their powers.  And those looking for a neat ending wrapped in a bow may find themselves a bit disappointed.  It is still a better superhero origin story than many, and likely one which the audience will relate to more deeply.  It’s not a magic ring which makes them a member of an intergalactic space force, it’s not a playboy alcoholic using fancy computers to build a suit, it’s not an alien from outer space.  It’s just three kids, who stumbled into something they couldn’t understand and weren’t quite mature enough to handle.  Something I think that most of us can relate to, even if it didn’t involve superpowers.

A Letter To Students Regarding The Banned Book Reviews

Dear Students,

I know that school can be tough at times.  Sometimes, you get asked to do assignments that really suck, like having to read and review a banned book.  So you go looking on Google, and right there, on the first page, is this chick who reviewed a whole bunch of banned books.  Score!

I can usually tell when some teacher somewhere has assigned a particular book for review.  Within a few days, I’ll get a slew of incoming hits from people searching Google for “$name_of_book banned” [1]. Usually it will be the exact same book with slightly different search terms.  I don’t mind people using the Banned Book Reviews to help with their school work.  After all, it’s not like I wrote them to hide them from the world.  I do wish more people would leave comments letting me know what they think of the reviews and what they’re using them for, but that’s mostly because I’m curious about those sorts of things.

Here’s the thing: Your teachers, no matter what else you may think of them, are not stupid.  And I say that as someone who has had some remarkably idiotic teachers in my lifetime.  Someday, I’ll have to write up the story about one of my 9th grade science teachers.  Idiotic, however, does not automatically equal stupid.  Most teachers know that if they give an assignment, the first thing today’s students are going to do is hit Google or Wikipedia for the answer.  And if you think your teacher wasn’t cruising the Banned Book Reviews weeks before you were, I’ve got a bridge to sell you.

Research is hard.  Doing research on the Banned Book Reviews was particularly hard, especially the further down the list I got.  Finding this blog is not hard.  I understand that it’s tempting to just grab someone’s work and call it your own.  It’s still plagiarism, even if it’s just the ramblings of some chick you found on the internet.  Research sucks.  Getting a zero because your teacher is better at research than you are sucks even more.

Lurv,
Squirrel

[1] It’s a programming joke, look it up.

I Wanna Hold Your Hand

Moose is a cuddler.  If he had his way, we would fall asleep every night spooned together, tucked up in each other in the puzzle of limbs and torsos in the ways we have found where we fit together best.  If he had his way, we would watch TV together with me snug against his side, his arm around my shoulders and my head on his chest.  If he had his way, we would spend every dinner out shoulder to shoulder in the same booth seat, regardless of how small or large it is. Moose Is a pretty big guy, so you can imagine how this makes eating difficult.

Me, I’m a toucher. I prefer to lay my hand on his knee, reach out and touch his back in the night, or rub my hand over his head. We both like to hold hands, but our methods are very different. He likes to twine his fingers into mine, locking my hand to his and holding it tight. His hands are considerably larger than mine, though, and his fingers force mine apart, straining the joints.  This is not not bad on days when I feel fine.  On days when my hands hurt, I insist we hold hands my way, slipping my hand into his and cupping then together. Regardless of how, we both squeeze messages to each other, silently saying “Look over there,” “Watch out for that car,” and “Thank you.”

Over time, he has gotten to know the feel of my hands on bad days.  On these days, we hold hands lightly, my hand fitted loosely into his larger one.  His training as a massage therapist frequently leads him to rub my hands gently.  I’ll place a hand or foot within his reach, and before long he’ll pick it up and start massaging.  He doesn’t like massaging me all that much, especially my back.  Massage always hurts me quite a bit and he hates causing me pain. So I take advantage of his unconscious habit whenever I can.

At night, we compromise. We’ll cuddle up for a while, usually until he falls asleep.  Then I’ll turn over to my side of the bed.  But in the middle of the night, when the nightmares are close or my mind is much too awake, I’ll slip my hand over to his side of the bed, seeking him out.  Sometimes if I am truly lucky he’ll be on his back too.  Then I will slip my hand into his, cupping them together palm to palm, and fall asleep knowing that all I have to do is squeeze to say “I had a bad dream,” “I’m glad you’re here,” and most importantly of all, “I love you.”

My Funny Valentine: Home Made Conversation Hearts

Lots of little candies! There were quite a lot fewer by the time they were done drying.

Moose loves Valentine’s Day.  Not Valentine’s Day in and of itself, just the proliferation of Valentine’s Day candy.  He’s especially a sucker for conversation hearts.  So while searching for custom candy hearts, I ran across a website on how to make your own. And I was completely sold on the idea.

Moose is a hard man to shop for, so it takes months of creative thinking and plotting to come up with something that will tickle his fancy.  It doesn’t help that we share a bank account, so I have to be sneaky about any purchases I make.  Keeping this particular surprise a secret was destined to fail, though. I had to ask him what flavors he wanted and I would have to kick him out of the house for several hours to get the time that I needed. I gave up on the idea of secrecy when some friends of ours invited us to come visit for the weekend.

The box from Adams extracts arrived smelling of black pepper.  Not the scent I expected, but the bottles inside were the right flavors.  Vanilla for me (because I was damned if I was going to make these without a flavor I liked), strawberry and banana for him.  As much as I prefer to use all natural flavors, being able to make banana flavored candy despite my allergy was pretty cool.  I also used my Wilton Pastel Gel food coloring, because it’s what I had, so the banana flavored candies wound up being peach.  If I do decide to make these again, I’m going to see about hunting up the natural food colors I used to have, because I find the flavor of the dye unpleasant.  I recognize this as something that most people won’t even notice, so take that as you will.

I packed a bag with everything I needed, but as is often the way of recipes, I didn’t have everything I really needed so had to borrow from my friend. All told, the whole process took about three hours of actual labor. I think if I’d had a bigger cutter or a better designed cutter it would have gone quicker. The tiny metal cutter was hard on my hands after a while, and not all the red on my hands was from the pink coloring.  That plus the constant kneading resulted in waking up the next morning in a lot of pain.  Moose has promised to help if I ever decide to make these again and suggested that we try using my mixer next time for most of the kneading.  Knowing Moose, he will have engineered the optimal cookie cutter by then.

Ingredients

1 packet (1/4 oz or 2 tsp) unflavored gelatin
1/2 cup water
2 tsp corn syrup
2 lbs powdered sugar, plus additional 2 lbs for dusting and molding
Flavoring extracts
Food coloring
Food coloring markers

Materials

Small microwave safe bowl
Whisk
Stand mixer or large bowl and hand mixer
Cup measures
Teaspoon measure
Spatulas
Large cutting board or very clean counter top
Rolling pin
Plastic gloves
Heart shaped cookie cutters
Wax or parchment paper
Large baking sheet or plate

Giant ball of candy

1. Add the gelatin and water to a small microwave safe bowl. Whisk thoroughly until mostly blended. Microwave for 30 seconds, then whisk in corn syrup. [1] Whisk until gelatin dissolves.

2. Pour the mix into the larger bowl. Add the sugar a cup at a time, blending on low. Make sure to scrape the sides of the bowl with a spatula between cups and completely incorporate each cup before adding another. For the last two or three cups, fold the sugar in by hand before turning on the mixer to avoid spraying sugar everywhere.

The unflavored, uncolored dough all rolled out. In the back, the other dough balls with their assigned colors and flavors.

3. Once you’ve incorporated a full 2 lbs, dust the large cutting board or counter top with a handful of sugar. Scrape your dough out onto the surface and dust the whole ball generously. [2] Knead the dough like bread, adding sugar as necessary until the dough is no longer sticky but still malleable. [3]

4. Divide you dough into the number of flavors/colors you intend to make. Round off dough balls and set aside all but one. Put on your plastic gloves. Add flavor and color to a single ball. [4] Knead the dough until the color is completely blended. You may need to use additional sugar to compensate for liquid flavors and colors.

Strawberry candy all blended together. On the right, the banana flavor soaking into the ball.

5. Roll the dough out to you preferred thickness, 1/4″ for smaller candies,1/8″ for larger. Use additional sugar to make sure both sides of the dough aren’t sticky. Use the heart shaped cutter to cut out your candies, and lay them on a sheet of parchment paper on a large baking sheet or plate. [5]

6. Fold scraps into a ball, add a drop or two of water to moisten the dough and knead until silky again. You may need to redust the ball if you add too much water. Keep rolling, cutting, and refolding the dough until you’ve used it all.

Cutting the candy. That's a rather wee cutter for that much candy.

7. Repeat steps 4-6 for additional flavors and colors. The dough will dry fairly quickly, just add a couple of drops of water if the flavoring and coloring aren’t enough. Be careful about adding too much water, otherwise you’ll have to add more sugar and get stuck in the “Too Wet, Too Dry” dough loop.

8. Allow finished candies to dry for at least 24 hours before attempting to write or draw on them. If you can’t find food coloring markers, you can use a very small paintbrush and gel food dye. Store in an air tight container at room temperature. Assuming the candies last long enough to go into storage.

—–

[1] I rub a drop of olive oil onto my teaspoon so that the corn syrup slides off cleanly.  This trick works really well for anything really syrupy or viscous.
[2] I kept a cup of sugar near my work station for dusting and to maintain texture. I also kept another cup of water with a 1/8 teaspoon measure for when the dough became too dry.
[3] Between this process, dusting, and maintaining the proper texture of the dough over the course of creation, I used a little over a pound of additional sugar.
[4] I made four “colors” and used about a teaspoon of flavor per ball. Excepting the vanilla, the flavor came through strong enough to be noticeable, but wasn’t too overwhelming.
[5] I cut a whole bunch at once, and then used a spatula to scrape up any candies which didn’t come up with the cutter.  Dusting the surface better would have solved that problem, but I have a bad habit of kneading first and dusting later.

Bringing Home the Bacon

Friday’s post stirred a lot of interesting discussion. It also caused some very odd reactions. But I think what really caused the biggest discussion was the analogy I posted on Tumblr and Facebook.

Kosher Jews don’t eat pork, right? A Kosher Jewish employer can’t say to a Jewish employee “We’re kosher, so you can’t eat bacon” because that’s between the employee and their faith. A Jewish employer can’t say to a non-Jewish employees “I’m kosher so you can’t eat bacon” because they can’t force their employee to live by their employer’s faith. And they sure as hell can’t tell an employee “I’m kosher, so you can’t use your paycheck to buy bacon.” Even if the employer is a kosher deli, and the employee a member of the staff.

I had several people tell me that this analogy was false because Catholic employers were being forced to pay for birth control. This is hardly the case. Religious employers, just like any other employer, are being required to pay for health insurance. Just as they are required to provide a paycheck. What is the employee does with that health insurance or that paycheck is none of the employer’s business. If the employee chooses to buy bacon for themselves, that’s their business. If the employee chooses to use their health insurance to get Viagara so they can cheat on their wife, that is none of the employer’s business. And if a woman chooses to use her health insurance to get birth control (for whatever reason), that is still none of the employer’s business.

Regardless of how you feel about Obama’s compromise, the reaction of the religious right have been very telling. Before content of the compromise was officially announced, the religious right was celebrating the announcement as if they had managed to win a concession on the issue of birth control. When is the actual compromise was described, the celebration turned to condemnation. Now suddenly the talk is no longer about religious institutions being “forced” to pay for birth control. Now instead we have the concept of the “conscience clause” being introduced in regards to insurance. Any employer could then deny to their employees any insurance coverage which could be considered against their personal religious beliefs.

If ever you still believed that this was somehow still about abortions, it is time to deeply reconsider that belief. We have come so far from abortion that the real intent of this sort of legislation becomes very clear. It is not and has never been about saving babies. It is about forcing the religious beliefs of one group upon another. If this were a Jewish or Muslim religious belief being forced on employees, conservatives would be lining up to condemn it. But as a Christian belief, it is somehow more worthy of defending.

Atheists often say that freedom of religion includes freedom from religion. That includes being free from the religion of the person or entity that signs of our paychecks.

My Pill, My Choice

The latest conservative controversy is the requirement that health insurance plans must provide no cost birth control to women, even those plans providing coverage to Catholic universities and hospitals.

I remember when the controversy was that health insurance plans that would cover a man’s Viagra but wouldn’t cover a woman’s birth control. People worked work to change these policies and point out that it is cheaper to provide women with birth control than to pay for prenatal care and the resulting dependent. Now most health insurance plans provide birth control to their payees. Whether or not it’s low cost is a completely different matter.

Several years ago, my pharmacy messed up my insurance coverage and wanted me to pay $80 for my pills. I remember being stunned, looking at the guy and saying “But it’s birth control. Basic birth control. Basic generic birth control.” As it turns out, they hadn’t applied my health insurance properly so they thought that my birth control wasn’t covered. One mistake by the pharmacy and I suddenly had a better understanding of just how much my birth control really cost. Basic generic low hormone birth control was $80 a pack.  Eighty.  Dollars.

For most companies, this policy changes very little. Instead of women having a $5 or $10 copay, now they have no copay. Make no mistake. This is not free birth control. These are women who pay for health insurance through their employer. It is not Joe Smith in Mississippi paying for Jane Sleeparound in California’s anti-knock up pills. It’s me and my employer paying money to my insurance company so that I don’t have to pay anything when I go pick up my pills.

I have no problem admitting that when I was single, I used birth control to keep me from getting pregnant. When I was in college, I learned that just because you think you are going to marry a guy, doesn’t mean that you will actually get down the aisle with him. 14 years later, I still take the pill every day. I may be married, but my husband and I have set a time line for when we are ready to start trying to have children. That’s our decision and not one my employer gets to make for us. If I had been hired at a Catholic university instead of a state one, it wouldn’t be any of my employer’s business when I choose to have children. If I were a Catholic, it still wouldn’t be any of my employers business.

It’s a great big scandal about absolutely nothing. No one is forcing Catholic women to take birth control. No one is forcing Catholic men to give their wives birth control. No one is asking employers to spike the coffee with birth control. It is still a choice between a woman and her doctor. Just the way it should be.

People used to accuse the pro-choice side of hyperbole when they claimed that someday the pro-birth side would come after birth control. Today we have candidates  for the office of president who openly admit that they don’t want women using birth control. The fact that they object on the grounds that they believe it is a kind of abortion goes to show that they only have a passing familiarity with basic science. Regardless of why these politicians believe that a woman shouldn’t use birth control, it is still not up to them to make that choice for other women. The catch phrase “My Body, my choice” doesn’t just apply to abortion. Planned Parenthood doesn’t just let a woman choose when not to have a baby. The pill is not just about not getting knocked up.

It is my body. And I will damn well choose when I want to grow a child in it.