The recent election of Danielle Smith as leader of the Wildrose Alliance reminded me that among the many things I love about the libertarian/right wing are the women.
Could be our slogan: Come for the culture war ... stay for the chicks.
Right-wing women rock.
Not for us the sturdy, honest calves of the New Democrat/Green Party female, honed on eco-tourist rainforest hikes.
Those legs are often on unfortunate display, extending from a knee-length tweed skirt as hairy as the legs themselves, and end in a pair of Birkenstocks.
I have yet to see a pair of Birkenstock women's shoes that didn't look like part of the required uniform for police SWAT teams. Sensible shoes are one thing ... quite another to don a pair that look like they're meant for rappelling down the sides of buildings with a Heckler & Koch sniper rifle slung over your shoulder.
The primary reason our womenfolk are at war with the looming spectre of the nanny state is because you can't buy Jimmy Choos in a socialist paradise.
The only sensible footwear you'll find in a right-wing woman's closet are the cross-trainers that go with her gym membership.
Everything else has a three-inch heel. Minimum.
Left-wing drabs recycle. Right-wing women shop -- and the government measures how much they shop every month to find out whether we're still in a recession. Basically, the world economy depends on right-wing women buying shoes.
You never hear a right-wing woman break out statistics pointing out that only 25% of elected offices in Canada are held by women, and then whining about it.
No. A right-wing woman wants to get elected, she runs for office.
If she wins, great. If she loses ... well, there's always more shoe shopping.
Left-wing women burn enormous quantities of fossil fuels to drive across the city to a farmer's market to purchase virtually the same carrot you can get at the neighbourhood Sobey's a couple of blocks from your house for half the price, all in the name of making the environment happy.
A right-wing woman hits the gym, swings past Sobey's and has dinner on the table by the time you get home ... while her left-wing counterpart is still stuck in traffic listening to Sarah McLachlan on her iPod and feeling morally superior about her carrot choices.
And when that plate of food is put in front of you by the right-wing hottie you had the good sense to marry, it will be 100% tofu-free. If you're lucky, she just remembered to buy steak and forgot about the carrot entirely.
Right-wing women have traditional families, so they want to raise them themselves ... or at the very least by a nanny they've vetted, rather than abdicating that responsibility to the state.
They know that the good life costs money ... so they're not sure why the average Canadian is handing -- on average! -- half their income to smarmy government apparatchiks who spend it mostly on stupid crap.
Our women are a genuine asset when they enter politics because they've spent their lives figuring out how to live within their family's means ... while still affording a couple of pairs of those Jimmy Choos.
Because most of them have careers and work hard, they understand the value of a dollar, allowing you a steak lifestyle on a hamburger income ... and they know they can spend their family's money more intelligently than some faceless bureaucrat with a passion for public art or totalitarian city planning.
Right-wing women are essentially libertarians ... they don't take well to being bossed around and they don't like bossing other people around unless it's to tell them they can't spend money.
If they can tell their kid he can't have the newest Xbox upgrade and make it stick ... if they can make a husband understand it makes more sense to put money in an RRSP than going to the Super Bowl with the guys every year ... if they can pull all that off, then fixing health care shouldn't be too big a stretch.
And in case you're not convinced, to indicate the utter superiority of the right-wing woman over the left-wing variant ... just turn on The View.
The left has Joy Behar and Whoopi Goldberg.
We've got Elisabeth Hasselbeck.
Checkmate.
