Journal

There are two things we can count on in this world: death and taxes, and while death still appears to be an absolute, Garfield County property taxes are somewhat negotiable until June 8^th. The thing is, the county reassessed property values at the height of the roller coaster that is the housing market (especially in our little kingdom), and while the price of homes may come back down, we all know the taxes won’t. I wonder about the origin of tax collection… was it a group decision made while sitting around the campfire one night, or some old king hanging out in his drafty castle, thinking, ‘Boy, this place could really use some improvements. I should head down to the hardware marketplace and pick up a few things, but how will I pay for it…’ What’s amazing to me, to this day we pay. We are all born on this planet, and one could argue that provides the right to water and shelter, but the trick is in the random lot to which we were born.

If we stick to the facts, over four billion years ago our little planet was formed. It happened. Get over it. And now life on Earth, as we perceive it, has transpired due to a long progression of small, not necessarily coordinated, everyday triumphs: amino acids in meteors, the end of The Age of Fishes, H2O, penicillin, coffee, etc. Humans are a wonderfully creative and productive species, although we do have the tendency to be conceited and gullible— two traits that do not complement each other very well, or at all actually. Also, if you’re not into bureaucratic processes, this probably isn’t your favorite planet. Everything we do is by trial and error, and sometimes we must do it over and over again before we even understand that there was an error.

As far as tax (money) is concerned, we’ve set up a system that’s rigged to flip. This is a rafting term that means all our stuff is securely tied down on the boat, so that if it flips over in the river, we won’t have to watch all the food and beer turn to flotsam— or jetsam. (River rats are a wonderfully helpful, loyal tribe, but if they find your beer downriver, they probably won’t go out of their way to get it back to you. After all, all is fair in love and rapids.)

Ever since the put-in, it would seem we have had the haves and the have nots, i.e., those who can afford straps to tie their gear down, and those who cannot. If we take an alien’s-eye view, I worry that human intentions and actions may seem terribly archaic and primitive (but that’s probably just because we are.) I mean, humans are very excited and busy with each new day; some of us drive around in our gas-guzzling SUVs and have meetings with each other to discuss how to get more money, and some of us get up early every day and spend our time acquiring food and water and shelter. What may surprise the aliens is that the ones who spend their lives working for food and shelter to share with their family are considered the world’s poorest inhabitants and the ones who have to sit through mind-and-ass-numbing meetings while someone else brings up their children are considered the wealthy. Crazy!

In general, I am a rule-follower, and I can usually follow my heart through life without coloring too far outside the societal lines, but when the lines are arbitrarily drawn by a bored king-child and they conflict with common sense and the common man, then I have to say something. Just like free piles and vehicles put out to pasture signal the absence of an HOA, tax hikes are a sure sign of gentrification, and they go hand-in-hand with expensive hardware stores and empty lawns. A significant increase in property tax will flip a quirky neighborhood faster than you can yell, “Highside!” That’s why I am encouraging my neighbors to appeal the county assessor’s evaluation and while they’re at it, park an old boat out in front of the house.

https://www.garfield-county.com/assessor/appeals/

I was driving through a blizzard the other day because, well, springtime in Colorado, when I heard some news on the radio that caused a ray of sunshine to come shining through. Through my mood anyway, it seems as though nothing can actually bring the sun out this year…

Robert F. Kennedy Jr. announced his candidacy for president. Such great news! I know, I know, you’re going to say, “but Jeannie, he’s a white male who’s almost 70.” The thing is, the Kennedys are more like the rest of us than the oligarchs who want them dead.

I was in the same room as RFK Jr. once. In fact, I asked him a question. Years ago, Natural Resources Defense Council invited its members to the Wheeler Opera House to hear him speak. He was advocating cleaning up our rivers, specifically concerning the mercury levels in fish. He talked about his family a bit, even referring to his cousin who had been elected as The Governator of California.

After he spoke, he stayed on stage for a brief Q&A session. A couple of people bemoaned the state of the planet, and he did his best to honestly appease them. I remember I was sitting between my husband and my uncle, when suddenly my hand went up. I was just as surprised as they were, as though someone else had pulled my arm up into the air. RFK Jr. called on me and magically a question came to my mind (most likely a gift from a dead ancestor who was wittier on the spot than I usually am.)

“Is your cousin a member of NRDC?” I asked. There was a smattering of chuckles in the crowd, and he gave me a look as if to say, ‘Cheeky.’ What he said out loud was, ‘I’ll ask him.” But I think we both knew Arnold was not a member of the progressive organization.

I came away feeling like RFK Jr. was the real deal and in the last –almost– two decades I haven’t seen or heard anything to change my first impression. (I cannot say the same for his out-law cousin; out-law as in former in-law because he is no longer married to Maria Shriver.) I will vote for RFK Jr. because we align on many issues, but mainly because he can and will stand up to the money. The single biggest issue facing our country right now, besides global humiliation from the likes of Lauren Boebert and Marjorie Taylor Greene, is the revolving door of incestual greed happening between corporate stockholders and both political parties. It’s beyond shameful and it has been going on for so long we hardly even care anymore, but a Kennedy is uniquely equipped to hold his own at the trough.

The thing about some of the members of that family is, as blue as their blood may be, they don’t shy away from anything blue collar. They work hard and they play hard, and they seem to understand that in life, once we’ve secured our own footing, it’s time to look around and see who else could use a hand. I don’t know if it’s the Pappy was a bootlegger rumor, the wolf in black sheep’s clothing reputation, or simply believing their own Camelot legend. Even for a large wealthy Catholic family, they have seen more than their fair share of tragedy, yet here RFK Jr. is, coming back to court.

JFK was committed to pulling troops out of Vietnam, despite the war profiteers all around him, and it cost him his life, probably RFK’s life too. By all accounts Robert F. Kennedy was planning to carry on with his brother’s agenda and that did not include transporting heroin from Laos– or maybe it did, but not at the cost of so many young men from working class families. This is the difference between the Kennedys and the wannabes. They have the money and the pedigree, but they don’t act like they don’t like to get dirty while playing in the dirt. Their reputation of non-discriminate beguiling brings a little frankness to the party, a little class, a little ray of sunshine to our long winter of political discontent.

It may surprise you to know how the date for Easter is decided each year. It sure as hell surprised me. Well no, actually ‘surprised’ may not be the right word to describe such feelings of shock and disdain for the counterfeit; like the way I felt when I learned that four out of our last five Commanders-in-chief were all draft dodgers.* Not really surprise, so much as serial disappointment in this systemic charade of patriotic piety.

The date for Easter is based on an older-than-old Pagan-esque formula. The first Sunday after the first full moon after the spring equinox is always Easter Sunday, though the Vatican would have us believe they have to consult the talking mirror in the basement and light a candle to read the Holy Spirit’s wishes in the smoke to determine the date (all the while wearing a dress, I might add.) But Easter Sunday is, in fact, determined by a simple order of natural events as old as the stars.

I have always loved Easter. Ever since we ordered our clothes out of the Sears catalogue and went to pick up the packages in one of the few buildings in Aspen that still looks like it did when I was a kid— for now, at least. Aspen still houses many of my happy childhood memories, despite the developers who are eager to destroy any/all remnants of Aspen-past, in order to pad their own Easter baskets (and if the Almighty is going to judge us by our bank accounts, then I really will be surprised.)

I think there’s more to life than a fat bank account, and I like to spend my money on things I know will last— like memories and calories. Some of my earliest Easter memories are waking up in my matching cat pajamas (from Sears) and spotting a small pile of jellybeans matching (not really) the color of their surroundings; like five bright green jellybeans in the middle cushion of our jade green Bethune & Moore couch. Or counting the backs of heads at church (what else are we supposed to do between songs?) before the egg-and-money hunt back at the ranch. My grandfather always hid money on Easter and boy, did that bring the whole family together! Now that I think about it, I don’t ever remember finding any eggs…

Since we all follow the money anyway, I think it would be a good idea to label products as to where our money actually goes. This way we would know the real time ramifications of our spending sprees. For instance, if I buy a Pepsi product, I can find the nutritional (or lack thereof) information right on the label, so why not add a few categories: environmental impact, diversity advocacy, CEO salary cap— just kidding! Sky’s the limit, right boys? But how about a CEO-to-average-worker-salary-ratio. This way we can all shop to our conscience’s delight and the companies that attract the majority will thrive. Isn’t that the ultimate business model we’ve embraced in our very important and civilized society?

And while we’re on the subject of corporate capitalism, I have another bone to pick with the Christian church. I recently learned that abortion is permitted in Islam and Judaism— in fact, it is mandatory for Jewish women when their life is in danger from a pregnancy. I’m also pretty sure the Pagans had a medicinal herb for such situations, but the Vatican doesn’t allow abortion under any circumstance. This is in direct conflict with the belief that life is sacred, not to mention smelling more like some backwoods, medieval buju than one of the Top Three Best Selling Dogmas.

As we all hunt for eggs (or money) this Easter, I would just like to point out that throughout history women have been loved, revered, and trusted with the tribe’s food, health, shelter, and eggs. We are an integral part of this den of conformity and chaos, but according to Christianity, we do not possess the autonomy to decide what is best for our very own bodies. Crazy. Call me hell bound, but until Christians can practice what they preach, I’ll stick to my own method of interpreting the heavens.*https://www.armytimes.com/opinion/commentary/2021/01/21/dodging-and-deferring-trump-wasnt-the-only-potus-to-avoid-the-draft/

Well, here we are, three years since the start of the pandemic to beat all pandemics (at least in our lifetime.) What a ride it has been!

We did it. We survived our first rodeo. I don’t know about you, but I embraced the hermit cycle: get up, go to the dog park, go to work in my uncle’s garage, go home and go to bed. No need to get dressed up— or even wear real pants. It felt like that movie Groundhog Day with Bill Murray, and it hardly mattered what I wore as the days blurred together into weeks, months, years… Forget about the days when we dressed to fly, now we don’t even change out of our pajamas to board the plane.

Trying to stay engaged and lighthearted in these viral times was challenging. I believe we are generally a happy species with an inclination to help each other, even we middle-agers who can barely understand the virtual social language at this point. We gave it our best shot during covid with apps like House Party; pretty much like a real house party in that you can see your friends, you can sometimes even hear them over the background noise, and you can lock the room if you don’t want Chachi’s girlfriend to barge in on you (when we went to actual house parties Joanie still loved Chachi.)

“Is this what the future looks like?” We wondered, enjoying our cocktails while hanging out with video versions of our friends, all without actually leaving the house. The best part was when we were ready to leave the party, we just said goodbye; no waiting for an uber on the street, or taking a late-night bus ride, because we were already home. Of course, the most often-heard phrase on House Party from the 45-55 age bracket was, “how do you end this thing?”

Virtual house parties weren’t the only advantages to humans staying indoors. Pollution was less and wildlife free to roam the empty parks. Water was cleaner and clearer, and people were spending less of their quality time in their cars. Hey, if this is what it takes to stop mass shootings, maybe we’d better give permanent stay-at-home orders some consideration, amiright? But we are seeing real social consequences of not bumping into each other for all that time.

Without physical interaction, it seems we lost the ability to put ourselves in another’s boots. We are hugging on the sidewalk less and fighting at the dog park more. The dog park on a crowded afternoon is to dogs what happy hour was to us pre-pandemic. Remember when everyone was so excited to see each other that we never wanted to leave? And getting the gang together on zoom is not the same. The energy can’t move and shift through the screen, plus there is no way to sense (smell) the mood in the air. Maybe we should take a cue from our canine friends and realize that we too need actual interaction to stay connected.

I think we humans get carried away sometimes, and with the best of intentions we alienate ourselves and each other. By crossing the street to give everyone six feet of personal space and masking up in public, we’ve created a lot of isolation and fear, and often now our conversations begin with anger and distrust.

“Do you think it’s the hat? …A lot of people hate this hat. It angers a lot of people, just the sight of it.” -Uncle Buck.

So, what can we take from this viral lesson? We’ve been there, done that, survived the worst. Now what? As I look around at our post-pandemic world, I see Hunger Games in Congress, and war balloons for profit, billionaires with no more imagination than club level seats and an obvious lack of empathy. We’ve returned to our regularly scheduled program of road rage, school lock downs, and prescription drug (vaccination) commercials for days. Our immune systems are inundated, our stresses trigger-happy, we’re booted and spurred and ready to kick some ass at the dog park— even though our dogs get along. Surely there is more to this human story. Stay tuned…

Here’s what I know for sure: water is life, life is fragile, and we are lucky ducks to live on this little frickin miracle of existence— the SS Earth.

I had a dream recently where I was traveling across the ocean on a steamer when I realized that I was tied to a horse who was about to fall off the ship. As the horse’s footing failed, he jumped into the cold water and I was yanked through the air, yelling, “Cut the line! Cut the line!” to anyone and no one in particular. I was dragged through the dark, choppy water, trying to get my head up for a breath of air, until we finally landed on the shore.

“Phew.” I thought, as I lay on the packed sand, waterlogged and coughing. Then I realized the horse was about to start running and I would be dragged on the ground, which would be way worse than through the water. I started yelling again, “Cut the line! Cut the line!” Then I woke up.

I chalk up dreams like this to the family in which I was born. Samuel Perry, by all accounts, was a very capable man who did not suffer fools, and he would not have had much patience with a great-great granddaughter who almost drowned while tied to a horse in the Atlantic. Sam was likely the kind of guy who could climb the rope underwater and ride the horse onto shore like The Man from Snowy River.

Sam Perry moved to Denver in 1887 and became heavily involved in railroads and the mining industry. He was an avid horseman and hunter, but I don’t know if he ever experienced the magic that this planet hosts. He was a land penetrating bear hunter, so who knows if he had a mystical belief in his bones… Generational karma is absolutely a thing, and while I appreciate coming from such sturdy stock, I’m more of a tread-lightly-so-that-others-may-tread-at-all type. I still rescue bugs from the empty fate of the bathtub, for Pete’s sake, and every time I find myself in a cosmic jam, I sarcastically thank Sam for leaving his karmic tab unpaid. Personally, I would rather pay it forward. I honestly believe we can still pull it together, and eliminate our greedy corruption, so that there’s enough food, water, and shelter for all— including the animals.

I became a vegetarian in college because of my Philosophy 101 professor who simply asked, what is the philosophical difference between man and animal? An added bonus was the shock value this created with my cattle-ranching grandparents, because as a teenager it is your job to disrupt familial norms. My vegetarianism morphed over the decades of my life and became more about the treatment of the animal I was to eat. The best example of this shift in my perception was at my sister’s wedding in Senegal. I worked for the airline then, so I flew non-rev to represent the family, and while staying with her future in-laws, I would go up to the roof for smoke breaks. There was a goat tied up there and we bonded over a few sunsets and too many Camel lights. When I realized he was the main course on the Big Day, I felt saddened at first but then appreciative of the ultimate sacrifice for my sister’s future health and prosperity.

It’s not that we humans shouldn’t eat meat, it’s the way we do it that is causing real damage— both to ourselves and our planet. We’ve lost our cosmic map to navigate this world. We don’t grow/raise our food sustainably or seasonally, and we don’t appreciate the food as nourishment, hence we don’t feel full or connected to any other thing, including the source. We just eat our fast food while driving as fast as we can to the next stop. We are oh-so busy and yet, instead of investing in our own home, we treat the Earth like an Airbnb, and our animal neighbors are paying the price. As we all travel through this crazy crowded world, let’s stay connected and pay it forward for those who are still hoping to catch a ride.

On Christmas day, my brother-in-law saw the Grinch getting arrested. He lives in a city much bigger than our Whoville-sized Carbondale, and he said a crowd watched as the police handcuffed and loaded the Grinch into a patrol car.

“And you didn’t get a picture?!” I exclaimed when I heard about such holiday shenanigans. “What a great Christmas card that would make…”

Incidentally, guess how old the Grinch was when he stole Christmas? Fifty-three. Yep, I’d say fifty-three years is just about how long it takes for the sparkle of the season to start to tarnish. I’ll be fifty-three this year and I am working harder than ever to stay positive and see the good in people. I am also fighting like mad to stop my body from taking on the actual shape of the Grinch’s: spindly arms and legs with sloped shoulders and a bulging belly. Super attractive— all I need now is some Manic Panic Electric Lizard hair dye.

This year we went to dinner with friends on December 25^th and as we sat around the table with everyone answering the questions from our wee crackers— fun holiday party favors that pop when you open them to reveal a paper crown and a random question, the best present was spending time with friends, laughing out loud. When asked what we would do, if we could do anything risk free, the answers were varied and highly entertaining: rob a bank, free solo climb, go into space, mess around with Jim… the sky was the limit because dangerous consequences were not a factor— kind of like that mob at the capitol a couple of years ago.

No, we are not going to let it slide, because lack of accountability is a slippery slope, ending at the bottom of one of those Dr. Seuss-sized mountains. The Grinch may steal our presents, our ribbons and bows, even our roast beast, but there is one thing we can’t let him take— okay, two things: our joy sure, but also our rule of law. The rest of the stuff can be replaced (if it was even necessary in the first place) but without integrity, this country will not be the same. Even the Grinch can find his way back, by remembering that integrity doesn’t mean always being right, it means righting our wrongs once we realize what we’ve done.

I have this wonderful fantasy that Trump has done everything he can think of to bring the GOP to its knees; that his whole presidency was a farce, and his true intention is to bring about “Big Changes, the Best Changes.” I picture him sitting at Mar-a-Lago, wearing a Santa hat and no pants, exasperated by the responses to his attempted treason, and thinking to himself, “What will it take for these guys to cut me loose?!” Whether intentional or not, Trump has changed the Republican party irreversibly and if they don’t make a sharp turn, they will find themselves going over the edge of the snow-covered cliff.

In these first fresh days of the year, I am focused on remembering to step out of the curmudgeonly routine and daydream about trying something new. Instead of resolutions, I am looking for meaningful motivations to bring me back to my inner child; singing and dancing around Woody Creek in the 1970s (talk about growing up in Whoville.)

So far, I think I’m doing pretty well with my Life Goals List. I have already found true love, been skydiving, and swum with a penguin. I haven’t been to Antarctica or seen the Northern Lights, but just entering my fifties, it feels like I still have some time. A bucket list full of joy and adventure is the perfect way to start this January, and whether it’s jumping out of a plane or jumping out of a cake to serve someone a subpoena (I really hope this is how they’ll get him), the beauty is in the imagination. For my grand finale goal of 2023, I will find a Grinch costume that fits a 6’3” man and convince my brother-in-law to jaywalk in front of a cop— watch for the consequences on next year’s Christmas card!

This December I want to give a little appreciation for our local flare here in Carbondalay, Bonedale, C-town (just kidding, no one calls it that— yet!) As the holidays approach, it’s a good time to take stock of all that we have and look for ways to share with our neighbors. Personally, I feel extremely lucky to live here, surrounded by cowboys and artists, in a house we moved from the Ranch to the unorganized territory of Satank, and I’m grateful for my little candid opinion column in this, our own town’s weekly newspaper. So, here to the theme of The Twelve Days of Christmas, are some local spots to show a little love this holiday.

On the twelfth day of C- wait, the twelfth day? Is that as in twelve days counting down to Christmas? Or are we celebrating Christmas for twelve whole days like the pagans did… and is it backwards? Oh well, whatever. Here we go.

On the twelfth day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building. We are lucky to have the Habitat for Humanity ReStore chock full of billionaires’ hand-me-downs, and while Pitkin County landfill will be full in a few years, we can still focus our talents on reducing, reusing, and recycling our building materials.

On the eleventh day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters potting (okay, throwing, actually.) The Carbondale Clay Center celebrates twenty-five years of clay this year.

On the tenth day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking at the Legion. You guessed it, I’m one of those hundredaires who shows up regularly once Shake-A-Day climbs above four digit$.

On the ninth day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking, nine writers writing. Let’s hear it for the Sopris Sun’s success with informing, inspiring, and building (up!) this community.

On the eighth day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking, nine writers writing, eight artists creating. Carbondale Arts supports a full spectrum of artists who color in our beautiful valley.

On the seventh day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking, nine writers writing, eight artists creating, seven skiers skiing at Spring Gulch. We have world-class bluebird-sky cross-country skiing right in our backyard, thanks to the Mount Sopris Nordic Council.

On the sixth day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking, nine writers writing, eight artists creating, seven skiers skiing, six geese a-laying— what’s better than fresh eggs from happy dames? Shop at Mana.

On the fifth day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: Five grass-fed burgers. One of the best things about this town is that wherever you order it, chances are you are eating delicious locally raised beef.

On the fourth day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking, nine writers writing, eight artists creating, seven skiers skiing, six geese a-laying, five grass-fed burgers. Four spinning DJs; KDNK plays all my favorite country punk songs.

On the third day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking, nine writers writing, eight artists creating, seven skiers skiing, six geese a-laying, five grass-fed burgers. Four spinning DJs, three canned goods for Lift-Up. “When we have more than we need, we build a longer table.” – Jesus.

On the second day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking, nine writers writing, eight artists creating, seven skiers skiing, six geese a-laying, five grass-fed burgers. Four spinning DJs, three canned goods, two feature films. Crystal theatre gift cards make the best stocking stuffers!

On the first day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking, nine writers writing, eight artists creating, seven skiers skiing, six geese a-laying, five grass-fed burgers. Four spinning DJs, three canned goods, two feature films, and a happy, healthy 2023.

This November, as I cast my ballot, I can’t help but think of the women who came before me and how hard they fought to be regarded as equal: equal in the eyes of men, equal under the law, an equal part of society… While progress has been made, women still sit shotgun in a lot of ways. We are not promoted or paid equally in most fields, and we all face harassment at some point in our lives. Why? Because of a little thing (not so little) called the clit. Yep, I said it. Born with a clit, in today’s world, makes you a second-class citizen from the start.

Did you know they still don’t really study the clitoris in medical school?

“Even in fields like urology, where male sexual pleasure and orgasm are considered integral, women’s sexual health “is seen as hysteria, Pandora’s box, all psychosocial, not real medicine,” Dr. Rachel Rubin.*

Pardon my French, but how do we have the cojones to claim we are a civilized, developed culture when we don’t even understand the sexual anatomy of half our population? What a ridiculous lack of professionalism.

Which reminds me, I’m actually kind of thankful for the Trump Years. Looking back on our history, I think we will see him as the ultimate mess that warranted such a deep-cleaning shop vac for the carpet of our country. He brought a lot of filth and negativity to the surface, forcing us to face our bias blind spots, and when he goes to white-collar prison, he will be setting the crucial example that no one is above the law. (Trump may want back in the white house, but the only place he’s going is the big house.)

This November is a great time to start cleaning our House. We can scrub the old stains with Woolite all day long and we still won’t have the pristine past we like to tell ourselves, but we can change the way we do things now, so eventually we will live a cleaner, clearer future. And while we’re at it, we can start educating urologists about the other half of us.

“Still, it will take more than passionate “penis doctors,” Rubin said, to give the vulva its due; there must be a concerted movement, one that transcends medicine’s traditionally siloed specialties, to understand and map this anatomy. And for that to happen, other fields need to recognize female sexual pleasure as essential and worth preserving.

“I truly believe we are just several decades behind on the female side,” Rubin said. “But we have to do the work. And we have to have people interested in doing the work.”

Luckily, we are a capitalistic culture, and the one thing that transcends our misogyny is our longing for a magic pill. All we need to do is convince the pharmaceutical companies that there is an untapped market for female orgasm, and they shouldn’t be so scared of the research. Women may be mysterious, but c’mon guys— it’s not rocket surgery. Just undiscovered anatomy. It really does make me wonder, after all these years of medical advancement, why was the clit ignored? Fear of Virginia Woolf? A climactic oversight? Or was it simply because the boys don’t have one.

When I was a kid on the ranch, (In our family ‘the ranch’ was always my grandparents’ place, just south of Carbondale. Even though everyone else also lived on a ranch, whenever we referred to ‘the ranch’ it meant Bob and Ditty’s cattle ranch.) supper meant beef, potatoes, and the girl cousins were expected to serve/clear the table, while our boy cousins just sat there. This not only felt seriously unfair, but it did not teach us that men were smarter, or better, or more entitled to have someone wait on them. If anything, it backfired, and my female cousins are some of the strongest and least subservient people I know.

Which is why we will not be voting (against our own betterment) in support of an old, tired patriarchy that does not value its constituents equally. This November we will cast a vote for the world we want to live in. A vote for the clits.

*https://www.yahoo.com/news/half-world-clitoris-why-dont-182449061.html