The Feminist and the Cowboy An Unlikely Love Story by Alisa Valdes

By Alisa Valdes

The bestselling writer of The soiled ladies Social membership returns with an engrossing memoir approximately how falling in love with a beautiful cowboy became her feminist ideals upside down.

Feminism was once a faith in Alisa Valdes’s early life domestic. Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem took where of Barbies and left Valdes inspired with a feminist ideology that guided a prolific writing career—at twenty-two Valdes used to be named one of many best feminist writers less than thirty through the editor of Ms Magazine.

Yet regardless of her expert luck, Valdes hit forty-two a unmarried mother and a serial dater of insufficient males in tweed jackets—until she met the Cowboy. A conservative rancher, the Cowboy held the conventional perspectives on gender roles that Valdes used to be raised to reject. but as she falls head-over-spurs for him and their courting unearths concord, she reveals the energy, peace, and happiness that comes from embracing her femininity.

From their first date the Cowboy makes her pulse race, and she or he discovers that “when males… act like males instead of like emasculated boys, you as a lady will locate not just nice excitement in filing to them but additionally nice development as a person.”  informed with lots of humor and candor, The Feminist and the Cowboy will pride the numerous readers who made The Pioneer Woman a bestseller—not to say each lady who desires of being swept away via a rugged cowboy.

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Additional info for The Feminist and the Cowboy An Unlikely Love Story

Sample text

I loved Barbies, secretly, desperately. Walking home from Chrissy’s house, I’d be consumed with guilt so intense I could hardly look at my parents when I got home. I knew I’d betrayed them. When I was in the second grade, my best friend, Stacy, joined the Girl Scouts and couldn’t stop raving about it. All those patches! All those songs! All that fun! And camp! I wanted to join too, but my parents refused, telling me over dinner that such institutions were designed to teach American girls to be docile patriotic slaves.

My mother had called her own mom to come and help her, and my father, unconscious more than hateful, simply carried on as though nothing were amiss. “He not only never did any housework,” she tells me now. “He didn’t even notice that it was ever being done. ” In retrospect, my mother being a housewife was very good for me in my formative years—​­there was always someone home, she walked me to school every day, she took me to my dance and music classes, dinner was hot and on the table every night, and she made my recital costumes by hand; I felt, as a result, very loved.

Indd 26 9/25/12 2:19 PM 21410 T H E F E M I N I S T A N D T H E COW BOY | 2 7 We lived in a modest adobe house filled with macramé, roach clips, red-­eyed graduate students, and the dusky smoke of incense. This same house was notable for its lack of boundaries, consequences, and sugary cereal—​­the latter being laden, my mother said, with carcinogenic additives. The house sat on a busy corner, at the northeastern periphery of the university where my dad taught. Sometimes our family walked across campus on warm summer evenings as cicadas droned in the poplar trees, to the student union building to watch Woody Allen movies that I didn’t understand and was sure I never would.

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