August 22, 2005

Well Good Grief, I'm Mother of the Year! Not.

First off, let me just say trust Paglia to bring out the controversy/commentary. And also, kudos to the participants for managing not to devolve into a feces-flinging flamewar. That's a badly mixed metaphor, but that's all I've got today. Sorry.

My final take on the Paglia thing--in other words, my personal experience with which I will now bludgeon you--is this:

I've hung around the ivory tower, I've done the community theatre thing (alas, Guffman never did show up), and I've done the church thing. Ironically, the idea that I was part of a specially annointed and pretty dang smug about it clique was much more prevalent in academia and the arts than in the "faith-based community," or in my bucolic blue-collar neighborhood. So there you go. And that's why Paglia's article resonated. Ta-Da. Although I must say, if the best you can do as an artist is produce a jar full of urine with a plastic holy relic in it, well, maybe a little castigation is in order. Seriously, dude. It's called art class. Look into it.

Now on to more important things; namely, my utter failing as a mother.

We managed to get The Boy up and out of bed at a decent time this past Sunday, and I was pleased that he didn't reject my choice of attire--a white polo shirt and some cute navy and white houndstooth-patterned shorts. No ironing necessary! Cinnamon buns for everyone! Huzzah!

We made it to church in time for the sermon--lately this is quite the accomplishment for a number of reasons, most of them so snarky that my keyboard will burst into flames if I type them--and The Boy whispered to me:

"Mommy, these pants have funny underwear."

So I looked. Oh, dear. The cute little checked pants had little mesh briefs sewn into them. And a drawstring.

Then I noticed that whenever The Boy stood up straight his super cute white polo shirt rode up above his belly.

I had sent my child to church in swim trunks and a belly shirt.

Well. There goes any sartorial superiority about "proper church attire." Because unless you show up for worship in a tube top and speedos, The Boy's got you beat on the dressing down front.

I'm available to accept my Mother of the Year Award whenever you're ready.

Posted by Big Arm Woman at August 22, 2005 03:29 PM

1) That's not a badly mixed metaphor; that's serious alliteration.
2) He wasn't naked or screaming, so don't worry.

Posted by: Michael at August 22, 2005 10:18 PM

I would like to recommend the Episcopal church. We might be able to help you with this problem. . In mean your kid will still be in swim trunks and a belly shirt but we do have a general confession each week. You can be absolved assuming you get there in time for that.

Posted by: jim at August 23, 2005 06:43 PM

They probably just figured The Boy is in that "I'll dress MYSELF" phase, or is obsessively attached to those particular garments. And who are you to disabuse them of those notions? ;-)

Posted by: perletwo at August 23, 2005 06:58 PM

Apropos of the small imbroglio anent the "what's wrong with the arts/the academy" post of the 19th, I bring you the response of Stephen Vincent's wife to Professor Juan Cole.


Quote: "You strike me as a typical professor - self-opinionated, arrogant, so sure of the rightness of your position that you won't even begin to consider someone else's. I would suggest that you ought to be ashamed of yourself for your breathtaking presumption in eviscerating Steven in death and disparaging Nour in life, but, like any typical professor, I have no doubt that you are utterly shameless."

The graph above concludes her comprehensive rebuttal to Cole's gratuitious claim that her husband and his interpreter were shacking up and hence inspired an "honor killing" for their sleazy behavior.

Posted by: Carbonel at August 24, 2005 01:14 AM