Naming It 'Satchmo Beckham Gurdon' Would Be a Nice Tribute
Well, it seems that Tbogg, our bloggy Godfather, is celebrating its third anniversary. We offer Mr Tbogg our sincerest congratulations, and wish him many more years of blow jobs.
In his honor, let's review what America's Worst Mother™ (registered trademark of TBoggCo) has been doing ever since James Lileks and Peggy Noonan ganged up to sabotage her talent number, thus getting her voted off of Wingnut Island. So, here's a recap of her columns for the past couple of months.
Meghan is pregnant, and testing indicates that it will be another girl. While Meghan is, of course, bitterly disappointed, she figures she can always leave in it the supermarket or something.
And inspired by TBogg, Meghan holds her own "Name the New Gurdling" contest. The kids suggest really stupid names, such as "Marcia," and are ridiculed for their low-brow tastes. Meghan wants a classical name (you know, like "Paris"). Our suggestion is "Helen of Troy McClure Gurdon."
Meghan, who is pregnant, goes on a family vacation to Maine. And it seems that her family is, um, closer than most.
My father, his wife, and I slide into our seats, and our combined six children (it's a long story) race happily down to the beach to footle about until the food comes.
Personally, I don't think that having combined children with your father and his wife represents the kind of social conservatism that the NRO stands for, but hey, if it's okay with Kate O'Beirne, it's okay with me.
Anyway, while Dad, wife, Megan, and the combined children are eating at a public restaurant, somebody makes the mistake of criticizing Meghan for letting her kids go barefoot. Then, things get nasty.
Mummy," Molly says in a frightened whisper, "she just called us animals."I squeeze Molly's arm reassuringly, but my blood is surging. Normally, in a fair fight, I wouldn't hesitate to take on a dame like this one and trounce her. But we've driven for two days to get to Maine, another hour to get to this picturesque spot, it's still a lovely evening, our food is cooling — and six pairs of young eyes are on me.
Yes, the dame is just lucky that Meghan's chick ... I mean, kids were there!
"She called us animals," Molly says, still horrified. "I bet if Daddy had been there she wouldn't have called us that."She is right.
Because if Daddy had been there, he would have KILLED the woman for making a crack about the kids, and their lack of footwear. But, alas, he was in the city, doing important editor stuff with his secretary. At least, that's his story, and he and Miss VaVoom are sticking with it.
The family is back from Maine, and all they have to eat is withered grapes. And that's also all the kids have to play with, for some reason.
Meghan, who is pregnant, by the way, takes a nap, but is awoken by the sound of kids selling grapes.
I heave myself up out of bed, and walk groggily towards the window. And there they are, standing in the drizzle: Violet in a leotard, Phoebe in scarves and boa, and Paris in adventure gear. They have brought out wooden trays and are trying to sell their withered-grape-and-toothpick sculptures to passersby.
It's sounds like something from a third-world country, doesn't it? Kids trying to sell crappy souvenirs to tourists in order to earn a few pennies so they can buy some food. But Meghan, who notes that the foreigners from the embassy next door refused to buy anything, puts a stop to the children's endeavors.
This is one of the most beastly jobs in parenting, isn’t it? Conveying the dangerous complexity of the world, without scaring the life — and joy — out of your children? “There are bad people who might want to steal children,” I tell him flatly. “As you know. “
Hey, but at least the bad people might feed them something besides grapes.
The pregnant Meghan feels that she can now relate to the old and decrepit.
For really, we late-term gestators resemble geriatrics to an alarming degree. We nap. We cannot hold liquor (indeed, like our much-medicated elders, we dare not).[...]Then there is the mental fogginess:
Which has nothing to do with liquor, of course, since Meghan is HARDLY DRINKING AT ALL, now that she's pregnant.
Anyway, Meghan endeavors to prove her point about how the very pregnant are like the mentally deficient elderly by sharing an amusing anecdote about how she was supposed to meet her husband at a cafe, but ended up at the wrong one.
"Are you sure you're on the southeast corner of 19th and L?" He spoke kindly, with only a hint of condescension, as one accustomed to dealing with a cantankerous grandparent.
Since we suspect that Meghan's husband was trying to Gaslight her, the story isn't as charming as what Meghan seems to believe.
Meghan is close to having a baby. But she lives by the principle of nobless oblige, and makes her kids give their few remaining possessions to help the poor.
"Darn,” Molly says, “We already gave away most of our toys to the flood refugees.”[...]
“Rats. I already gave my boots to the children in Afghanistan. And those sweaters.”[...] I am struck by how genuinely depleted our supplies actually are. A large bag of stuffed animals just traveled clandestinely to Guatemala (I performed triage on them while the children were at the park with my husband). A heap of dolls and books went via school yesterday to the DC Armory, where several hundred escapees from New Orleans are taking refuge, and a huge box of winter things left by mail for Kabul a week ago.
Yeah, her family is way better than yours. (But you will note that nothing of Meghan's is being given away ...)
But Meghan, who is pregnant, is sorely affected by the knowledge that Osama is still on the loose (as little Diamante's cameo reveals). And Meghan is even more upset at how unAmerican the people in New Orleans acted. It all enough to make her cry.
September 11th ripped away any shreds of childlike belief that our government — our Government — made us safe from foreign baddies. Worse, for me, is what this last week has shown: That Americans really are not different from other peoples; that we are not protected from the Hobbesian beast within; that in the worst circumstances, we would, many of us, be spoon-stealers.
American's AREN'T inherently better than other people??? Blasphemy!
In wartime accounts, one reads of parents hiding their daughters, but surely not here — yet if barbarism can erupt in one American city, can it erupt in others?
Well, probably not in white cities.
However, it seems that Meghan is right about how, under the right circumstances, even Americans might steal stuff, because it seems that somebody took the old shoes that she left out for the charity.
Alas, it is too late. Looters have already got the goods.
Yup, time to lock up the daughters! Hell in a hand basket, my friends!
And I think sociologists will date the commencement of the deterioration in morals to that incidence where Meghan's kids were allowed to go barefoot in a public place.
*****
And that's basically all that's new with Meghan. We're guessing that the next column will report on the birth of little Snowflake Aphrodite Gurdon (because Meghan can't continue to milk this pregnancy thing much longer). And you know what would be cool? If Meghan arranged for the kid to be born on TBoggDay. That seems only right, after all he's done for her.
4:23:21 AM
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