Just watched Caitlin Flanagan on The Colbert Report, and one thing's for sure: there's nothing quite like a smug, self-important, facile little tripe spewer to make me want to start tossing Molotovs, be they of any political persuasion, abstraction or distraction.
One is led to believe that Flanagan is glib enough to cause one to enter some sort of mental fugue state over women's roles in society. That's funny. From where I sit, she deserves to be dismissed out of hand and never again heard from. In the first place, she's a fraud.
Still, the peeks into Flanagan's home are worse. "Paloma, Patrick is throwing up!" Flanagan used to tell her son's nanny. "She would literally run to his room, clean the sheets, change the pajamas, spread a clean towel on his pillow," Flanagan recalls. "I would stand in the doorway, concerned, making funny faces at Patrick to cheer him up." I put my kids in day care and I can't iron. But I've never stood in a doorway when my child was puking, and I resent being lectured to by someone who has.That's Entertainment Weekly's Jennifer Reese (if this was Ben Domenech's blog, that wouldn't have been disclosed!), and she's making a whole lot of sense to me. See, I can tell you first hand what it's like to be raised by a stay-at-home mom, and Flanagan sounds like stay-at-home SUCK to me too.
But beyond that, Flanagan's fraudulence can be seen as smoothly blended with stupidity. When Colbert quipped about her being like a "wayback machine" to the 1950s, Flanagan gaily quipped that "at [her] house, it's the today machine."
Ahh, yes. Namechecking the 50s. That old canard. I don't know what it was like to live in the 50s--but I have a feeling that Craig Finn's dad once told him: "The 50s nearly killed me, let's not recall them quite so fondly."
But as little as I know about life in the fitties, Flanagan knows even less. It's pretty clear that she's uniquely positioned in the American caste system to rock it like the millieu de siecle style. Don't believe me? Uhm...cf. Paloma--the dutiful puke cleaner who came vacuum sealed inside Flanagan's little world.
But that's not the point. This is: Caitlinn, sweetie, the 1950s are never coming back. I mean never. I think we can all admit that all those neat little nukeyewlar families with their single wage-earner dads were totally pretty. But that shizz has gone the way of the dinosaur. Whaa happen? Well, sure, everyone basically agreed that times were ripe in the post-war period to enjoy the sweet life and give birth to the most self-indulgent generation of Americans ever. But a funny thing happened: while the top one percent of the nation's wealthiest looked upon their work and deemed it good, they nevertheless decided that they wanted to keep right on stackin' that cheddar. And so they went right along, upturning our friends and families, shaking every little piece of loose change outta their pockets. Welcome to 2006, Caitie. America can't afford your world anymore.
See, darling, you got played, probably by the very people you hold up as paragons. Nowadays, for normal Americans to even survive, you have to come to an understanding, similar to the one we have at my house: I gots to get paid AND Wife of DCeiver gots to get paid. And even then, I gots to clean up my own puke. If your household could get the switch on, Freaky Friday steez, you'd be documenting more corrections than Johnny Franzen. Despite what you've heard, it's actually REALLY EASY OUT THERE for pimps like you.
Aww. Don't feel bad, Caitlinn. It's just that I'm smarter and I'm better at this than you. There, there. Now, why don't you shut up and go bake me some cookies.