PussycatMagazine

Why I had an abortion

A true story by Guata Girl

I was 26, living in Seattle with a musician. Sounds like fun, right? Like a little indie-girl dream. And it was, in a way-- complete with tiny, funky apartment downtown, near all the too-cool-for-you bars where the bartenders knew us by name. I would read in the bedroom while he gave classical-guitar lessons in the "living" room (really, it was just the "other" room). We smoked loads of pot and watched amazing films from the '70s like The Deer Hunter and The Shining. He was smart and pretentious and my friends hated him, so I saw less and less of them. We fought constantly --he was a double Scorpio, after all, and I'm a triple Aquarius-- and, therefore, had lots and lots and LOTS of exciting makeup sex.

Without a condom.

What? We pulled out. It was all good. It was, really. Until he didn't make it out in time-- but he was pretty sure he had. I'd been using the pull-out method for years, so I let it go. And go it did. That little swimmer went and went, all the way to the Mothership Connection and then one day, Aunt Flo --who'd made a faithful, punctual house call every twenty-eight days without fail since I was nine-- didn't show. I knew immediately.

I was poor. So was he. He was mercurial, diffident, prone to delusions of grandeur, and frequently downright mean to me (I apparently smacked him in the eye in my sleep once, which I don't remember but for which he never forgave me). I didn't want to have his baby, but I wanted to be loved. I figured we'd work it out together, make our decision as a couple...whatever happened, I felt certain my new vulnerability would bring out the best in him. I thought, "If nothing else, he'll hold me in his arms and tell me he'll love and support me no matter what I decide." (Never mind that we had yet to even utter the "L" word.)

We watched the little strip turn blue, and after a moment's silence, he said, "So I'll help you get rid of it.

"There wasn't any question on his part, for one second, about what I might want, and that sealed the deal. I decided to go home to California, to the loving arms of my mom, for the procedure: I figured, if I was going to do something so potentially traumatic, I'd rather be where I knew I was unconditionally loved. Where it was at least sunny, and I could go to the beach for self-therapy. I invited him to come along; he refused, citing work conflicts (he was self-employed). Rather, to my utter shock and consternation, he actually took this decision of mine as a personal affront! You see, by leaving, I was depriving him of the opportunity to "be there for me" while I enacted one of the most painful, confusing decisions a young woman can make. His unbelievable self-centeredness overwhelmed me, engulfed me like a wave, and I rode it all the way home to Cali.

By then I was several weeks along, and I looked beautiful-- my skin glowed and hair shone, and incredibly, in spite of the emotional turmoil I was experiencing, I felt great. Pregnancy agreed with me. When my mom saw my swollen breasts, magnified nipples and thickening waistline, she started to cry-- but stopped herself. She hated him, too.

After falsifying a local address in order to qualify for MediCal, I went to the nicest Planned Parenthood in our area. They lubed up something that looked like big white plastic dildo and stuck it deep inside,taking an ultrasound to determine the --gulp!-- age of the fetus. They wanted me to look at the screen but I refused to look. Based on the size of the speck, they told me I was five weeks along... too early for either a medical or surgical abortion. I would have to wait another week --let it grow some more!-- before anything could be done with guaranteed results.

I was horrified at the prospect of letting something grow so that I could kill it easier. Like I said, I was finding the physical experience of pregnancy quite enjoyable (to the extent that I could allow myself to experience it as such, anyway), and the thought of prolonging the experience made me wonder if I would lose out to biology and be compelled by Mother Nature to change my mind.

Meanwhile, as I sat at home mulling these things over, I called the voicemail I shared with the musician to, well, check my messages. I was (and am) an actor by trade, and these were the days before we all had cell phones. I hadn't told my agent I would be out-of-town, much less why, and I feared the worst: an audition.

Once again, I was shocked by my insignificant other's actions: he had changed the password so that I would be unable to check messages.

His logic was staggering: he felt "violated" (we lived together!), his privacy compromised. Dumbfounded, I considered the incredible, perverse irony of my situation: I was given one course of acceptable action by the babydaddy, with no other alternatives even open to discussion, and when I made the choice to exercise this option, albeit elsewhere (where I would receive the best care)-- I was punished for not "including" him! Him! My mind reeled; all he could think about, as I was being probed with space-age dildoes while a collection of cells rapidly becoming a love child multiplied within me and my ex-Catholic self waited for a lightning bolt to strike, was himself. My mother paced the hallway, drinking white wine and calling him every nasty word in Spanish ever invented.

And then, in that moment, the lightning struck-- my abdomen. I doubled over in the worst monstrous incarnation of a menstrual cramp imaginable. I was miscarrying. My mom began to cry, and this time she didn't stop herself. I did, too... tears of gratitude. The decision had been made for me. I went back to PP just to make sure, and they confirmed it: spontaneous abortion (which I've since thought would make a good name for a particularly hard-core and un-PC ladies punk band). They seemed unsurprised at the clinic; and even rather pleased for me, which made me secretly wonder if they hadn't mercifully done something to induce it. (I baked and sent them cookies just in case.)

I bled profusely and cramped horribly for two more days, durinng which my body miraculously returned to its pre-preggers condition. My mom and I stared in wonder at the mirror, unable to believe the speed with which my body had restored itself. We then did what any two women would have done in our situation: hit the thrift stores!

I didn't tell the musician right away; I told him the day after it began. By then, he had restored my voicemail access in an act of contrition. When I got back to Seattle, and packed my things to move into my own studio across town, he told me of a dream he'd had, a dream from which he'd awoken with tears on his pillow: he had found an infant girl by a riverbank, a newborn with black hair and eyes, like mine. I still don't know how I feel about that.

I'm 33 now, and actually had a medical abortion a year after that happened (that time I got pregnant using BOTH a condom and a diaphragm with spermicide). Somehow, the experience I detailed above, of that reprieve my 26th summer, stands out much more strongly in my heart and mind than the "real thing" I was to experience a year later. •

The joy of growing food

By Ms. Ann Leisure

Maybe you rolled your eyes when you read the headline for this post. Grow your own food? What are you my grandma? OK, well, yes. I admit that growing your own sprawling garden of zucchinis and tomatoes seems a bit old fashioned.

My own grandparents dedicated the better part of their backyard to two very popular Depression-era pursuits: air-drying laundry and growing vegetables. And yes, for my grandparents, who were children during the Depression and teenagers during World War II, turning away any chance to save money or build up a surplus of food to feed your family was unheard of. Even though I, at 34, have never known true want like they did, there is real satisfaction in growing food.

If you're already shaking your head saying, "Uh, I'm too busy to bother." or "I don't have the room," pishaw.You don't need any more room than a sunny windowsill, and you don't need any more time than 3 minutes every three days to water your plants. And, you don't need a lot of money to get started. All you need is a plant or seed, dirt, a pot, and water. No need for fancy green houses or other contraptions that claim to help you grow things. Mother Earth has been doing just fine for millions of years without all of that.

It's just a question of motivation.

When I had a small apartment, I'd grow dill and basil. When I lived in a duplex with a flower bed, I planted a handful of other herbs amidst the flowers. And when I bought a house, I turned the flower patch into a tomato patch. I've never had the sprawling garden my grandparents had, but I've found that there is still a lot of money to be saved and joy to be had in growing just a handful of things.

At first, as a young college student living off the tips I made at a coffee shop lean on customers, the herbs I grew in my windowsill saved me a lot of money while allowing me to spruce up the boring yet budget-friendly beans and rice dishes I ate every day.

I don't know when you went grocery shopping last, but if you cruise by the herbs, you'll notice that even small packages are outrageously priced. I know that with a $5 investment in seeds and pots and a little bit of sunshine, I can grow my own and have a virtually limitless, fresh, delicious supply year-round without forking over big bucks. It was and is one of the best little luxuries I could give myself.

Then, as a homeowner, the possibilities really opened up. I could plant in real dirt, outside. It wasn't really about money then, choosing what and when to plant was merely one of the cool things about owning a piece of land. I grew tomatoes and green peppers. I made the mistake of planting one zucchini that took over, spitting out a foot-long fruit every day for two months.

If you have never grow anything before, you have to try it. There is something deeply profound when the tiny green seedling emerges. It's life-affirming in a caveman kind of way. You've turned a seed, a pile of dirt, and plain old water into a living creature that will thank you by either flowering or making food that you can eat. I find that even on my saddest, hardest days, a peak at my seedlings cheers me up and gives me something to look forward to.

Hopefully by now I have convinced you to give it a try. You can save money, make your food more gourmet, and, if you are an eco-geek, reduce your food miles and grow something that you know for sure is pesticide free. It's spring, so it's easy to get your hands on seeds either by taking a trip to the hardare store or ordering online from Johnny's or Burpee. Just remember to use seed starting mix, not potting soil, to start your seeds. The few minutes a day you invest in your own smal garden will pay off in delicious dividends in no time. That's more than you can say for the stock market right now. 

Retro decorating Thursday: mid-century, with rubber plant

Ignore all of the wonderful things in this room: the Case Study sofa, the Armstrong tile floors, the Bertoia chair. No no. Never mind all of those. The focus of this book is that tried and true rubber plant by the fireplace. Huh? Well, what do you expect from the Better Homes & Gardens "Houseplants" book circa 1959?

The caption on this one reads:

India rubber plant grows well in home environment. Most common of rubber plants in the home, Ficus Elastica withstands poor conditions of light, temperature, moisture. But it grows best in bright light or shade-- not sun. A husky plant like this one needs a sturdy base. Set it in a tub or jardiniere that suits the decorating scheme.

Tough times for indie business

By Ms. Denise T.

We all know times are tough and the economy is pretty bleak. All of us are affected. Already, a handful of my friends have lost their jobs. Those are the direct effects of the most serious recession since, gulp, the Great Depression.

But we could-- and probably will-- lose so much more. When the economy tanks, it takes more than just our jobs and savings with it. We lose alternative voices, small businesses and many of the small leisure pursuits we enjoy. Here are only a few examples:

• Bitch Magazine, the feminist indie magazine that has been publishing for 12 years may go out of business. Not because of lack of dedication on the part of its 47,000 subscribers, but because the sad fact in publishing is that advertisers pay the bills. Ads pay for printing, distribution and staff salaries. What we actually pay to buy a magazine isn't a real reflection of the actual costs to produce it. If you don't believe me, just think of Domino. That magazine had almost 1 million subscribers, but it couldn't survive. Bitch said in September it needed to raise $40,000 to publish its October issue. No small task in these trying times.
• Alternative magazines have been closing left and right. Punk Planet, Kitchen Sink, and Clamor all have closed up shop. Craft, one of my new favorite magazines in recent years, has already suspended the print edition and moved to online only.
• Small businesses, including those cool mom-and-pop hipster retail shops, are suffering as well. This New York Times article about hip shops in Eagle Rock, California , illustrates some of the challenges. While the article does address neighborhood transformation, the underlying economic pressures are hitting all small business owners, coast to coast. Yes, more people--even hipsters-- are shopping at discount chains like Wal-Mart now that the economy has soured. We need stores that aren't chains.

Which brings me to the real issue. In these times,more than ever, we in the indie women's Internet community have to think about how and where we spend out money, what businesses we support and what kind of  world we want to work for. Think of this as election season. Every dollar you spend is a vote on what businesses and entities survive this recession. Do you want to wake up five years from now and find that only Wal-Mart survived? Or do you want a more diverse, interesting business landscape? If the answer is yes, use your money wisely. Every dollar counts. Every dollar is a vote. Who are you voting for?