You won’t hear Jack Baruth — or, for that matter, me — singing that. But the fact is, things have changed, and I’m not prepared to say that it’s for the better:
I grew up in an era and environment where moms spent their lives raising children and dads bought them cars to make that task easier. We didn’t know that we were racist and sexist and evil tools of the patriarchy. Our moms looked after us and our dads sat in the recliner in the evenings after earning the daily bread. Everybody was pretty happy, as far as I could tell. Most of my friends who grew up in this antiquated, hateful state of affairs grew up to be attorneys and doctors and successful businessmen.
Since then, however, I’ve been properly re-educated to understand how hellish and repressive the suburbs truly are. I’ve learned that women are only happy when they focus on their careers until the atomic clock of their fertility reaches two minutes to midnight, at which point they stop the game of musical chairs, marry the guy who happens to be sitting in said chair, and immediately pay a fertility specialist $250,000 to get one designer baby named Kayden with strong signs of autism-spectrum disorders and a light case of measles from lack of vaccination. How this is better than being one of the pretty 27-year-old mommies of my youth in Columbia, Maryland, I don’t know, but my opinion on the matter is no more valid than, say, that of the GEICO caveman, and for pretty much the same reasons.
The truly hard-core, of course, would prefer it if that chair were occupied by someone who isn’t a guy. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
And the hellishness and repression of the suburbs will be deemed Properly Corrected at the moment the residents therein stop voting for Republicans, and not one second sooner. Feminism isn’t about women anymore; it’s about being the largest Democrat voting bloc. Despite wearing the sacred D (as distinguished from others) for four and a half decades, I’m considered obsolete, passé, my eyes incorrectly sparkled.