I live in a house. I am someone's wife. And occasionally, when Anthony works overnight, and the children are finally asleep, and the words begin to swim on the page, alerting me I may begin doing more harm than good, I sneak up to the guestroom and turn on Fiona or Tori or Tracy or Joni or Amy or Carly and end up looking something like this. I've never identified as a "housewife," but I'm thinking it's reasonable that these components [ house + wife + occasional throwback beauty habit ] fit me squarely in this demo, this demo that OUR White House's worst-ever tenant assumes supports his racist policy. But here's the thing, the "housewives" I know, you know, married women in houses who may also occasionally wear curlers -- this must be the definition, right? I'll ask Betty Friedan and Matthew Weiner later -- we are ambitious, critical-thinking, open-minded, big-hearted types with soft bellies and sharp talons. We read. We analyze. We feel. We DO. We contribute more value to the people in our care the first hour of any given morning than he has all term, and likely all his life. We don't like messes because we are the ones who do the picking up. What a monstrous deplorable mess this insecure toddler has made. I've always loved witches, in part because of their dope wheels (🧹), but now I'm thinking it's a powerful symbol witches and housewives share. I, generally and specifically, LOVE people and LOATHE politics. Because of this very dilemma, November can't come soon enough. Brooms up, ladies. 🧹🏛🧹
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