When I’m not swatting adorable bluebirds out of my eyes or forcing deer to pose with garden implements, I’m partying with these bad boys. Mephitis mephitis striped skunk (short-striped version), Blanco County, TX, December 2008.
Will I ever blame the patriarchy again? Sure! In fact, at this very moment, brewing in the stinkpot down at Spinster HQ, is a post about the cold, clammy fist of antifeminism and how it’s socking it to my favorite rural pastime, which is horses.
Domestic horses, as you know, are the product of eons of patriarchy, and horse culture — by which I mean the human culture that focuses itself on horses — whether it’s racing, roping, jumping, dressage, driving, or any of the numerous other wacky equestrian subcultures, is possibly one of the most fucked up cultures there is. Which sorely chaps the Twisty hide, because dang it, horses are fucking cool.
But I will dissect the whole horse dealio at a later date; pressing spinster auntly business will force me to delay that gripping essay until I sober up. I am pleased to report that my ex-sidekick Stingray will saunter through the Rancho Deluxe gate tomorrow, fresh from her educational stint as a pump-over* artist in some Napa winery. It is likely that we will be flitting about the countryside, reveling and lounging in coffee shops, for a couple of weeks or so, and that blog posting may be even more erratic than usual.
In the interim, I leave you with this crappy skunk photo. Damn the cheap-ass camera in that iPhone. To hell.
* I don’t know what a pump-over is, but apparently (a) they are gruelling, and therefore butch, and (b) you can’t make wine without doing them about eight-five times a day. Supposedly Stingray now has biceps the size of crocodiles.