This week, Ashley and I talked about:
Sunday marked the 39th anniversary of Roe versus Wade, the Supreme Court decision that legalized abortion. If you’re one of my eight regular readers, you know that I am adamantly against abortion. I’m also pro-choice (the decision happens at the sex part, not the pregnancy part), pro-birth control, and pro-women.
My heart breaks for women that have had an abortion, and now have to carry around the weight of what they’ve done their entire lives. I wish I could take that pain away. Since my M.O. when I can’t think of something eloquent and perfect to say is to shove scripture at you (God always says it better than me anyway), I’ll just tell you what Psalm 103:12 says:
As far as the east is from the west,
so far does he remove our transgressions from us.
God loves you. And I love you too. And I have the deepest gratitude for the ladies that have come forward and shared their stories about how ending their pregnancies brought them anything but peace and freedom.
A good friend of mine, who has asked to remain anonymous, wrote the following. She is one of the loveliest women I know; strong, smart, capable, compassionate, a wonderfully devoted wife and mother … the list could go on. I cannot imagine her as this scared girl with how I know her today.
I hope that her story can change one mind about carrying to term. I hope that it brings hope to another post-abortive mama, that she is not alone in her sorrow. I hope that it brings perspective to anyone that condemns the mother instead of the culture in this pro-abortion era we’re living in.
Thank you for writing this, my beautiful friend.
I was 23. I’d just gotten out of my first serious relationship, which lasted 5 years and was very physically abusive by the end. Anyone who’s been through that will understand how I was left in a very emotionally weak and confused state.
I started a relationship way too fast with a really great guy who had baggage of his own. I was enjoying my freedom and finally sowing my wild oats. We were both responsible employees who worked really hard at our jobs, and we were playing hard on nights and weekends. Too hard. Less than 3 months into the relationship I was pregnant.
Maybe it’s a coping mechanism. Maybe I really have changed. Maybe it’s both. I can’t wrap my brain around who I was and what I did then. Not because it was so evil, but because it was so weak. Almost immediately, and without really considering any other choices, my boyfriend and I decided I would have an abortion.
The reasons seemed simple and valid on the surface, but I now see they were complicated and based in distortion. The reasons I listed to the few people I told (who happened to all be people I knew would tell me I was doing the right thing) were that I was worried the baby was already messed up from the partying I was doing before I knew I was pregnant (if I’d stopped then the baby would have been fine) and that I couldn’t take the time off work. I didn’t know how I would support the child.
I didn’t want to hurt my mom more than I already had. That turns my stomach now, and it’s why I remain silent. Not because she would judge me, but because she would love and forgive me, grieve for her lost grandchild and be mortified at the notion I did this for her. No, this secret will at least go to her grave.
Nevertheless, the reason I had an abortion has nothing to do with my uterus, my blood-alcohol level, my bank balance, my age or my boyfriend’s character. The reason I had an abortion is that I didn’t feel I was worthy or capable of motherhood.
I saw myself as trash, so I trashed my baby.
The truth is it would have been hard, but we would have been ok. I wouldn’t have lost my job, my family would have rallied around me and my first child would be where she belongs… with me. And if I didn’t have that support system she could at least be with a family worthy of her and I wouldn’t be haunted by the ghost within me. I would be MORE free, and I would be MORE empowered had I chosen life. I know this.
But that’s not what happened. What happened was one cold, dark January morning I prayed for the first time in a long time. I asked God to intervene if this wasn’t His will (what an absurd statement). Then I heard the familiar clunk of my boyfriend’s boots coming up the stairs to my apartment, followed by his knock. Those sounds usually brought a smile to my face, but they never would again.
We had to travel to another town. When we stopped for gas halfway his truck died. He had jumper cables, but the person we asked to help flat out refused . No one does that. No one does that unless you prayed for sign from God to not have an abortion.
They really are mills. There was a security guard at the front door where we signed in and showed id. It must have been a very important tooth I was having pulled. Then the regular clipboard paperwork. The waiting room was packed. Only one other woman had a male accompanying her. After a while I was called back for a blood draw, then sent back to the waiting room until the next thing and the next thing. I can’t remember the whole pre-op process, but mark my words — we were cattle.
I eventually got the “counseling” I had promised. I was handed pill after pill interrupted by a stack of waivers to sign. The administrator asked if I was sure I wanted to do this. I said, “I guess.”
I was sent to the waiting room one more time until the drugs kicked in. You’ll forgive me and probably be relieved I’m not going to go into too much detail here. A man I refuse to refer to as a doctor proceeded to suck my child and a piece of my soul out of my body with the shop-vac from Hell, then left. A nurse stayed. I think they gave me some more drugs and about a half hour later we were ushered out the back door.
I went home and watched Stella Got Her Groove Back. The next morning I woke up and returned to my life as if nothing had happened just like the pretty pamphlet said I would.
It worked for a while, but a couple of years later I just started unraveling. Reality hit me. What I’d done. What I’d lost. What was permanent. I was drinking way too much, and I sabotaged my relationship. At this point I had come to the realization that I had indeed killed my own child and would have to live with it for eternity.
Those who “supported” my choice were scarce and uninterested in what I was going through now. No baby, no loss. However, if I’d miscarried at the same stage of pregnancy the loss would have been valid. This is where post-abortion syndrome is born.
A post-abortive woman has the burden or karma of having to grieve for their child, but they often do it alone. On top of that they have to process their hand in it. These feelings are often attributed to the guilt the pro-life movement puts on post-abortive women, but when this started I was pro-choice and remained so for a long time. This is a real loss. If you care about women, if you trust women as George Tiller claimed to you won’t minimize it.
The last shreds of denial and escape were aborted when I married my husband and had my first child. Thank God something compelled me to share my experience with him early in our relationship. There are so many women carrying this around and NO ONE in their life knows. He educated himself on what I was going through and is still loving me through it today.
I finally found an online message board where I practically lived for over a year. I went through the grieving process just as if I’d lost one of my living children today. I will never go to a place that dark again, and yes, I considered suicide. I’ve now healed and forgiven myself as much as I ever will. I wish I could go back, but I can’t. There’s no place to go but forward, so I’ve done my best. I’m also loathe to give that darkness one more iota of time or energy.
The pro-life community provided hope and love and dried my tears, while the pro-choice community told me I was imagining things. Thanks for nothing, sisters.
Nowadays, I’m not so much concerned with winning the argument over when life begins and whether abortion should be legal or not, as I am that women are making serious, permanent decisions without knowing what they’re in for, be it physically, emotionally and/or spiritually.
Just a heads up for them. I’d give anything to go back and get one for myself.
This week, Ashley and I talked about:
This week, Ashley and I talked about:
Yesterday Governor Romney said that he likes being able to fire people. And of course, that sound bite will be saved and played over and over by the entitlement crowd in negative attack ads.
As much as it irritates me to have to defend Romney, I gotta say that he’s right. He did not say that he enjoys firing people; he said that he enjoyed the ability to do so. He enjoys freedom. He doesn’t care for bad service.
What is wrong with that?
Last Saturday I fired a restaurant.
No really, I did. I will never be going back to this particular establishment, because the service was abominable. I will no longer give them money to provide me with delicious melted cheese and singed knuckle hair (that will make sense later, I promise).
You’re fired.
It was my birthday on Saturday, and I had an actual birthday party for the first time since I turned 21, but that one kinda sucked because I had to cut the night short to go home and nurse my 10-week-old infant because she wouldn’t take a bottle (she’s still just as stubborn eight years later, by the way).
This year I wanted a party. That’s it. I wanted to go out to a restaurant with my friends, order four cocktails, and generally be the center of attention for a night before going back to my glamorous life of wiping noses and working from my couch in velour pajama pants and chipped nail polish. A girl’s gotta live a little, after all.
My awesome and amazing hubby Leif done good this year. He planned a party for me, invited my friends to my first 29th birthday celebration, and even flew Ashley Sewell out from Texas to celebrate with me. It was supposed to be a surprise, but I totally figured it out. But it was fun to tell everyone that Leif got me an Ashley for my birthday.
We met up with everyone downtown and proceeded to make merriment. Our waitress seemed a little strange at first, but I blew it off because it was my birthday and besides, maybe she was having an off day. We’ve all had those.
The first *real* issue came when my friend Michelle ordered a cocktail with a sugared rim. Ok, so there’s this cocktail (at another restaurant) I love called a vanilla lemon lust, and Michelle fell in love with it too when we went there, so every time we’ve gone out together since, she asks me to order for her.
“She’d like a lemon drop made with vanilla vodka, and served in a cocktail glass with a sugared rim and a twist.”
That’s easy, right? Well this waitress asked me three times what a cocktail glass was before I finally gave in and called it a martini glass. Then she got it, and made some strange comment about why didn’t I just call it that. Uh, because a martini is made with gin and vermouth and served in a cocktail glass.
By the time she came back, so much of the drink had spilled over the edge that the sugared rim was virtually nonexistent. Michelle asked if I would send it back, and I said yes, because the sugared rim is the best part. She was kind of shy about it, which I understand because I usually am too, but it was my birthday, and I’m always better at taking care of my friends than taking care of myself (I think most chicks are like this) so I got the waitress’s attention.
“Excuse me, but is it possible to get this drink re-poured into a glass with a sugared rim?”
She stared at me and said, “It is sugared.”
Michelle pointed to the one spot of sugar and said as politely as possible, “Only in this one spot … it’s just that the sugared rim is the best part…”
The waitress came over and examined the glass, and again insisted that it was sugared. She said, “That’s the best I can do, because the sugar dissolves when the alcohol sloshes on it.”
Yes, she just admitted that she doesn’t know how to carry drinks.
“Could you please bring us another glass with a sugar rim, and we can just pour it ourselves?” My friend was going to get her sugar, gosh darn it!
At that point, Miss Sunshine rolled her eyes, grabbed the glass, and announced snidely, “I’ll take care of it. It’s just going to be a shorter pour.”
A shorter pour? Eye-rolling? Uh… yeah, that just happened.
When it came time to choose our main courses, she insisted that we choose a certain style of cooking. We even asked about the other methods, and she told us that they weren’t important because they weren’t as good as what she was recommending. Ok fine, whatever. Later that evening when we got the bill, we found out that the methods she recommended cost extra. Of course.
Throughout the evening, whenever we could get her to wait on us, she acted like she was doing us a favor. The eye-rolls and generally bitchiness probably did quite a bit to prepare me for when the girls are teenagers, but for my birthday party, it was no bueno. There were multiple empty glasses left on the table, we couldn’t get extra sauces, and she almost lit Leif’s hair on fire.
Yeah, you heard me.
We were just starting on second dessert (more on this in a minute), when our waitress lit a shot of alcohol on fire and poured it over our chocolate fondue. She held it too close to Leif’s hair, and the entire table gasped. Did she apologize? Act horrified at her ineptitude? Nope. She just said out loud, “I haven’t had knuckle hair in years! I can’t even have acrylics anymore, because they kept melting off.”
Appetizing.
Several of us speared some marshmallows and tried to toast them over the fire on the chocolate, and the lady pushed past us to stir the alcohol (along with the fire) into the chocolate. No toasted marshmallows for us, no apology or explanation from Suzie Sunshine.
So let me get back to the second dessert part of the evening. Remember all of those empty glasses on the table? As dessert was being set up, our waitress had to clear some of those away. She lifted one carelessly and abruptly, which resulted in a hard impact with the hanging pendant light.
Glass went everywhere. All over the table. All over our dishes. In my cleavage.
At least she apologized for that one. She started clearing the plates of dippers for the fondue, and wasn’t going to replace all of the dishes. Everyone at the table was frustrated at this point. We’d stopped ordering drinks because we didn’t want to give the restaurant any more of our business. In between picking bit of glass off of laps, out of hair, and from in between boobs, we insisted that everything be replaced.
After that came the fire and knuckle hair comment.
Finally got to the end of our evening and got the (ginormous) bill, where we learned that our specialty cooking styles had cost extra. We also discovered that we had been overcharged for a few drinks. Our waitress had ended her shift at that point, and the new guy taking care of us took the extra drink charges off, but said he couldn’t do anything about the cooking charges.
That’s when I said something I’ve never ever said before.
I’d like to speak with the manager.
He seemed the decent sort of guy, and apologized several times to everyone as we all regaled him with the story I just told you. I told him that normally I’d let it go, everyone has bad days, but the service was atrocious, and it being my birthday and all, I just couldn’t. He took the extra charges off our bill, gave us a 10% discount, and told us that he would have a talk with Miss Grouchy Pants.
Now Mr. Manager couldn’t see because his back was to the door, but our waitress (who we thought had left for the evening) poked her head in the room THREE times to angrily glare at us. We were just the teensiest bit skeered of her. Chick obviously has issues and is definitely in the wrong line of work.
So yeah, I agree with Mitt Romney (ack! Never thought I’d be typing that…) on the issue of firing people. I’m glad that I have the ability to fire people. It’s not fun. I wish everyone could just be awesome and not suck at his or her job. The world would be a better place, and all birthday parties would be splendiferous. But that’s not how the world works.
That restaurant is so totally fired.
Stacy McCain Flanked By Cute Chicks (What a Smile!)
My 27th Birthday started with a bang, in a hotel room in Redondo Beach, with the guys from Big Government, Stacy McCain, and my good friend Brittany Cohan all singing me Happy Birthday as the clock struck midnight. Then we watched Red Eye, where we all witnessed the hideous gloriousness of the Shake Weight commercial for the first time.
Happy birthday to me.
Now that I’ve set that all up, I know you want to hear the story.
Back before Brittany became a RINO DC-insider working for the man RNC, she lived an hour up the road from me in Irvine. Our birthdays are two weeks apart, so for mine I was driving to her and she was taking me out, and for hers, we switched. I had plans to go up to Irvine on January 6th, the day before my actual birthday.
That morning, Brittany called me and asked if I wanted to go to LA with her instead of just Irvine. That’s twice as long, Chica, what could possibly be in LA worth driving to?
“The guys from Big Government are going to be there. I got an invite. Andrew Breitbart might show up.”
Done and gone.
I was blogging away about politics at that point, but back then it was still a hobby and not a career. So this was a freaking big deal to me. I knew I had to make connections with people to get them to notice my stuff, and I just hoped that it was good enough to muster up.
You know my philosophy: Do good work and put it where people can see it.
Brittany and I went out to dinner in Irvine before heading up to Redondo, and I don’t remember what I had, except that it was delicious and I’m pretty sure it involved polenta. And wine. (I am who I am)
We headed up the 405, and met up with Stacy and a handful of others at some kitschy chain diner place. We sat and chatted with everyone, did the nice-to-meet-yous and the what-do-you-dos. Then we got kicked out of the restaurant because for some reason the employees wanted to go home after something called ‘closing time.’
So we hightailed it back to the hotel where this crowd was staying, and proceeded to occupy the bar. This is where Stacy made this embarrassingly awesome video of me saying, “Roll Tide!” which I’m fairly certain has something to do with college football. I mean, they were all there for the Rose Bowl. Did the Roll Tide team play in 2010? How many people reading this right now are rubbing their temples? Sorry people, I wear many hats, but sports enthusiast ain’t one of them.
Andrew never showed up, but I was having so much fun with these people that it didn’t matter too much. At one point, I was having this great conversation with some dude; I don’t remember what we were talking about, but he was wicked smart, funny as heck, and he laughed at my dumb jokes like he meant it.
“So how do you fit in with this group?” I asked him.
“Oh, I’m the Editor-in-Chief of Big Government.” He said like it was no big deal.
Ack! Be smart! Be cute! Be clever! Oh eff it, he seems like a nice guy and I’m having a blast.
For some insane reason, the hotel bar closed before midnight, but that doesn’t stop can-do individuals. We just moved the whole party to one of their hotel rooms and broke out the whiskey. And turned Fox News on in the background. That’s how conservatives party.
When Red Eye switched on, someone said, “Hey, is it midnight? It’s Jenny’s birthday! Let’s sing!” At that point everyone was singing, including the freaking editor-in-chief of Big Government (one of my favorite websites), someone was pouring me another drink, Brittany and I were having a ball, and I was generally feeling pretty fantastic about life.
And then.
The Shake Weight commercial came on, and I don’t know if it was the first time it ever ran, or it was just the first time any of us had seen it, but it was the big giant bow on top of my birthday present.
It was an awesome night.
This week, Ashley and I talked about:
I got to attend a real live Iowa caucus tonight, thanks to the fact that I decided to jump into the car with the Breitbart.tv posse, who were headed out to Ames to cover the event. Having never witnessed an electoral caucus, I was strangely fascinated by the whole thing, so I went to check it out.
Since I’m me, I ended up live-tweeting the whole thing. So, I thought I’d come here and post my tweets from the caucus. If you’re unfamiliar with Twitter, hopefully this will give you a taste of it.
Oh, and I have it on good authority that Roger Hedgecock even read a few of my tweets on air. See? Twitter is totally relevant and important. You can get your tweets read out loud on nationally syndicated radio shows!
And that, as they say, is that. More in-depth analysis tomorrow. 
I was on The Mark Davis Show on WBAP this morning, and it was fabulous. Mark and I got connected a few weeks ago on Twitter through his producer Susan and my bff Ashley who are friends. Since we’re both in Iowa right now, Mark graciously invited me on his show, live in (a makeshift) studio.
We talked about how I got started in blogging and the beauty of the free market on the internet, moms in politics, and guns.
And since I’ve been asked a zillion times, yes, Mark Davis is one of Rush’s Marks.
Also I have the same birthday as Rush – January 7.
That should count for something.
I’m not sure what though.
Happy listening!
I’m currently freezing my hiney off in Des Moines, chasing down candidates and talking to Iowans about the balmy weather, which candidate they’ll vote for tomorrow night, and life in general. Despite the cold, I’ve got to say that my biggest impression of Iowa so far is the people.
Simply put, the people I’ve met here are some of the nicest, most genuine people I’ve met in my entire life. I’m so fortunate to get to travel semi-regularly for my job, so I’ve been to a lot of places over the past couple of years. Every city has its perks, and it’s the friendly people that win Des Moines over for me.
Silly example, but it paints a picture: I went to Target this morning to pick up a new pair of shades, and when I checked out, the salesgirl took out a small pair of scissors and handed them to me to cut the tag off. I didn’t even have to ask! What a sweetheart.
Later I was out at a Michele Bachmann meet-and-greet, and got to chat with some of the locals. I asked them how they felt about the hullaballoo surrounding the caucuses, and they all said that they loved it. The excitement, the boon to the economy, the opportunity to be first in the nation … the reasons varied from person to person, but they were all happy to have the candidates, the media and (in my case) media wannabes there.
Even the Democrats are sweet. On the plane on the way in, I got to chatting with a sweet lady probably old enough to be my grandmother. She mentioned that she was hosting a caucus, and I asked her where abouts. “Oh, it will just be a small one; it’s for the Democrats,” she told me.
“Oh yeah, definitely a quiet year for that … I’m on the other side of the aisle, myself,” I (awkwardly) responded. She just patted my hand and said, “That’s ok, Dear.”
Perhaps the best story of all comes from my friends Larry and Meredith, who were driving from Chicago to Des Moines on Saturday when they stopped for gas in Davenport, which I assume is somewhere between Point A and Point B, but I was never very good at geography. Somehow, Meredith’s suitcase got left at the gas station, and it wasn’t missed until they made it all the way to Des Moines.
They called the local police, and they actually sent a car out to look for it. On New Year’s Eve. Super nice, but unfortunately the bag wasn’t there. However, someone had picked it up, and called the number on the tag. They made arrangements to make arrangements the next day to go get the bag (several hours away), but one of the security guys working the convention center overheard their plight.
It turns out that wonderful Jim, security guy extraordinaire and knight with a shiny badge, had a daughter visiting her boyfriend in Davenport that was driving home the next day, and did they want her to pick up the bag and bring it home with her? It is now Sunday evening, and I’m happy to report that Meredith and her luggage have been reunited thanks to the kindness of Iowans.
Iowa, you may be colder than a penguin’s toes, but your warm-hearted people more than make up for it.
