It seems unbelievable, but the Bush Administration is quietly trying to redefine “abortion” to include birth control. The Houston Chronicle says this could wipe out dozens of state laws that protect women’s reproductive freedom and protect rape victims.[1] Access to basic health care for millions of women would be jeopardized. And it’s being pushed as a “rule change”—meaning, it doesn’t need congressional approval.

Can you sign an emergency message to Health and Human Services Secretary Mike Leavitt, whose department is considering this rule change right now? Tell him: “Contraception is NOT abortion. The Bush Administration’s proposal to change the definition of abortion and reduce women’s access to birth control must be stopped.”

The best way to beat back this proposal is to show Secretary Leavitt massive public outrage—that’s why today we’re launching this petition jointly with Planned Parenthood Action Fund. Together, we’ll deliver every signature to Leavitt. You can help add to our momentum by forwarding this message to friends.

Here’s what some others are saying about this proposal:
The draft regulation would define birth control as abortion…it could deny access to critical family planning for women across the country.—Letter signed by Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton, and 26 other senators.[2]

The draft rule could void laws in 27 states that require insurance companies to provide birth control coverage for women requesting it [and] laws in 14 states requiring that rape victims receive counseling and access to emergency, day-after contraceptives.—Houston Chronicle editorial[3]

The administration needs to stop playing word games with women’s health and state clearly they will reject any regulations that will undermine women’s access to basic health care.—Cecile Richards, president of Planned Parenthood Federation of America.[4]

[It's] a spectacular act of complicity with the religious right… —RH Reality Check, Information and Analysis for Reproductive Health[5]

The birth control pill, the IUD, and emergency contraception might all become unavailable—illegal—as a result.—Brigid Riley, executive director of a Minnesota teen pregnancy prevention organization[6]

Can you help send a loud message to Secretary Leavitt that birth control is NOT abortion?

Thanks for all you do.

–Nita, Laura, Patrick S., Adam G., and the rest of the team

Sources:

1. “Redefining abortion; Federal officials considering a rule allowing health care workers to refuse to provide contraceptives,” Houston Chronicle, August 10, 2008
http://www.chron.com/disp/story.mpl/editorial/5935532.html

2. Letter to Secretary Mike Leavitt from Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton, and 26 other senators, July 23, 2008
http://www.moveon.org/r?r=4042&id=13468-2980773-SO9Qp5x&t=6

3. “Redefining abortion; Federal officials considering a rule allowing health care workers to refuse to provide contraceptives,” Houston Chronicle editorial, August 10, 2008
http://www.chron.com/disp/story.mpl/editorial/5935532.html

4. “Birth control: is administration backing down—or not?” Los Angeles Times blog, August 8, 2008
http://www.moveon.org/r?r=4043&id=13468-2980773-SO9Qp5x&t=7

5. “HHS Moves to Define Contraception as Abortion,” RH Reality Check, July 15, 2008
http://www.moveon.org/r?r=4041&id=13468-2980773-SO9Qp5x&t=8

6. “White House Considering Contraception Restrictions,” Public News Service, August 11, 2008
http://www.moveon.org/r?r=4040&id=13468-2980773-SO9Qp5x&t=9

Email 2:
Wow. In less than 24 hours, over 200,000 people have signed a message to the Bush Administration saying contraception is NOT abortion. Every signature will be delivered next week to Health and Human Services Secretary Mike Leavitt, and the media will be notified of our final signature count.

The more folks who sign, the stronger our impact together will be—can you help us break a quarter-million signatures? To do that, just think of 10 friends who care about reproductive rights and forward them the message below.

Thanks for all you do.

–Nita

First I went online to the State’s “cyberdrive” site, looking for the fee associated with the transaction. I knew there would be one, but no matter where I looked I couldn’t find any dollar amount regarding vehicle tax or transfer fee – not an example, not even a ballpark figure.

So I called the information line, and was connected to a human voice in a remarkably short amount of time. This helpful lady told me that the transfer fee would be $80. I wasn’t thrilled with that figure, since I’d just renewed the freaking plates late and paid $98 dollars for the privilege, but, having no choice in the matter, accepted this inevitability with what grace I could muster and headed off to the ATM.

A bit about the car:

This particular vehicle is a manual-transmission1989 VW Fox, nothing fancy, fuel efficient, with plenty of grocery space (and paid for in cash, which is always a nice little thrill to be able to do). Its major flaw is the lack of emergency brake.

I never realized how much I relied on that hand-brake until I didn’t have one.

First stop: the bank by the DMV, not the branch I normally use. I pulled up to the machine, to find that there was a definite “hump” in the pavement, so as soon as I took my foot off the brake the car started rolling. So instead I parked the car and headed inside. I had my hand in my bag on my wallet, ready to whip out my card and get my cash, as I looked around for an ATM, I noticed a burly security guard getting ready to perform a 20-foot flying tackle, so I decided instead to give up the search, fill out a form, and withdraw cash via a teller.

All went well until she informed me that I’d filled out a slip for Savings instead of Checking, that they do not have Checking withdrawal slips, and if I don’t have a check with me she could sell me a temporary one for fifty cents.

I declined playing extra to get my own money and asked about an ATM inside. She directed me to the one outside. I informed her I was on foot, since most drive-up machine owners would rather not have pedestrians being struck by vehicles at their ATMs. She assured me it was no problem – well of course not, not for her, I’m the one standing out there praying some soccer mom in her SUV on the phone doesn’t grind me into the asphalt.

I withdraw $100, figuring that having a little extra cash on hand won’t hurt, then get back in the car and drive to the DMV. As I cross the lot, I see a bag – smallish duffel-type bag, black-and-grey camouflage pattern – sitting in the lot between me and my destination. I also see the DMV security guard warily approaching the bag from the other way: it’s clear he doesn’t want to have to touch it, but unlike the rest of us he can’t leave it for some one else to deal with.

He picks it up carefully, and, of course, takes it into the DMV right ahead of me. Turns out it was just a diaper bag, but still. One dirty bomb can be as ugly as another.

The DMV here in town I have little problem with overall; there are rarely long lines or surly bureaucrats to deal with, the place is clean, and the AC was on. I got my forms quickly and started to fill them out.

The first, for the title transfer, included a table for figuring the tax owed. Since my car is more than 11 years old, the fee is flat and nominal. $25.

Five dollars more than I have on me.

Crud. (Why oh why hadn’t the lady from Driver Services Information Line mentioned that? Well, because I didn’t ask, of course.)

Sigh. Well, it could be worse. I look at the other form, to transfer the plates, and realize I have to go back out to the car anyway: I don’t have my plate number memorized, and I need my insurance card for the policy number.

As I cross the parking lot I note the Off-Track Betting (OTB) establishment on the other side of the lot. Certainly they’ll have an ATM: it’s a gambling parlor. You don’t want your losing-but-surely-about-to-win pigeons wandering out for more cash, they might not come back.

Having completely forgotten the burly guard at the bank, I repeat my entrance, hand in bag, scoping the joint out. Fortunately there are no heroes there, only half-drunk geezers perking up hopefully at the sight of me. I spot the cashier in his cage and know that’s where the ATM will be, and sure enough it is. And of course I know there will be a transaction fee on top of the “foreign ATM” fee charged by my bank, but when I see these highwaymen want $3, I cancel the transaction and figure I’d rather spend that money on gas and wear & tear on the car.

So I go back to the bank, withdraw another $40, go back to the DMV, finish up my paperwork, get a number, and wait in line for an auditor. While I’m waiting, a lady has left her keys on the front desk, oddly enough also a Volkswagen key prominent. They are reunited quickly enough, and then my number is called, and I go to the auditor ad hand over my papers.

She zips through them and we make a bit of small talk, then she tells me she just needs the $25 vehicle tax, which is payable with check or money order.

Wait. What?

We don’t accept cash for the vehicle tax, she informs me. Only money orders or checks.

“Headdesk,” I say in answer.

Wait. What?

Head-desk, I explain. You know, when you slam your head down onto your desk because you just can’t take anymore.

Oh, she sympathizes. She then clues me in that the Super Wal-Mart (SWM) across the street sells money orders for a quarter, and also has a bank inside that sells them for a dollar. There is a customer entrance, she tells me, directly opposite the DMV exit door, so all I have to do is exit the DMV, cross the street, pass the auto service bays, and go into the SWM.

This is what I do. And, in doing so, learn what Wal-Mart means by “Super.”

While your car is getting serviced, you can find lumber, seedlings, underwear, groceries, furniture, weapons – I found lots of stuff, at low, low prices.

What I could not find was the front of the freaking store.

By this time I was rather peeved, and made no effort to stifle my displeasure. Mothers nervously herded their children away and a guy on his cell lowered his phone to gape after me as I ranted about my predicament. Finally I located the customer service counter.

As I approached the clerk she asked if I needed a money order for the DMV. I agreed I did, and asked if the forms had given me away. She said they had, and that they got people coming over for money orders all day long. She even knew how much I needed it for, and we agreed they could just print up a stack of them to have ready, since the DMV seems to enjoy this little power-play.

So back I went, armed with my completed forms, my money order, my cash, and an utter lack of good humor for this opera of shenanigans. I got another number (69 this time, so it was almost worth it), headed back to “my” auditor, and got the title tran
sfer taken care of at last. Then I go – almost skipping with relief – to the cashier to get the plates taken care of. With the skill and ease of long practice, she reaches without looking behind her for a set of plates, scans their barcode, and asks me for $143.

Now wait, I tell her. This is supposed to be a transfer, not buying new plates.

Oh, she answers, looking at my form again. See, here, they filled out the form wrong. They marked this box instead of that one. As she cancels out that transaction and starts the correct one, I say nothing – *I* filled out the form wrong, but after everything else that afternoon, damn if I was going to admit it.

Finally done, I exit the DMV, start walking to my car, and –

I can’t find my keys.

I empty my bag onto the car hood, check all my pockets (not that with the jeans I was wearing they could hide in a pocket) twice, and no keys.

So once again I stomp into the DMV, rudely cut in line, and ask the clerk if anyone has turned in a set of keys, VW car key on it, with a yellow kinda-smiley-but-not-guy fob.

He checks all the places they stash stuff lost or left behind (like the diaper bag). No kinda-smiley-but-not-guy keys.

Well, shitbitchdamnhellfuck.

All I can figure is I dropped them in the SWM: a horrifying prospect, as I’d been wandering lost, and would therefore have little hope of faithfully retracing my steps. I’d have to wait there for hours until some one turned them in.

I stomp outside, go to where I’d waited to cross the street before, glance down: and there are my keys, in the grass beside the curb, the fob giving me its slightly disapproving look.

Reunited, I go to my now-legalled-up car, thankful my misadventure has ended and I didn’t have to hurt anyone.

But the two burning questions remain: why does the Secretary of State’s website not include plate transfers in its “Basic Fees” section, and wtf won’t they disclose beforehand that, unlike every other institution in the known universe, they won’t accept the currency issued by the federal government for paying vehicle taxes? It says right on it “legal tender for ALL DEBTS, PUBLIC and private.”

If there is a debt more public than State vehicle tax, I can’t think of it.