prematurely grey

Sometimes, to take a break from all my intellectual gyrations over the Mommy Wars, I like to spend a little time on Gawker. If you’re not familiar with Gawker, well, it’s the one of the ways I pretend to be cool. I can keep up on the latest NYC gossipnews by without having to read between the lines. Plus, it annotates all the celebrity tabloid covers so I can concentrate on the latest in alien invasions when I’m in line at HEB.

As you might imagine, I was extremely agitated when the Mommy Wars reared its ugly head on my little guilty pleasure last Friday. While trolling for nuggets about Katie Couric’s contract renogotiations, I ended up engrossed by this:
Caitlin Flanagan: Finally Someone Makes Margaret Atwood’s Fiction Seem Plausible – Gawker

Here’s a little sample that might explain why I couldn’t not obsess on this woman:

Flanagan, who got her job at The Atlantic the old-fashioned way (she was seated next to an editor of the magazine at a dinner party) has some, shall we say, retrograde notions about a woman’s place (it’s in the home, damn it!).

One of my recurring obsessions is that I would be successful if only I lived in New York because the web of my hypothtical life there is actually connected to people who have the power to hire or say yes or assign articles. In other words, if only I attended dinner parties, I might have a life that looked better in say, a blog, than the one I actually have.

You may be wondering why I’m writing about this the following Thursday. This Gawker post is old news. We’ve had many other conundra to contemplate since last Thursday (including the return of leggings and Whitney Houston’s latest crackapades). But I made the mistake of opening the link to the Elle article to which Gawker’s post was alerting all us bored, unemployed mommys. Be forewarned: the following link pretty much turned me into the white Whitney.

WHO’S THE FAIREST WIFE OF ALL?

I dare you to read this article and not become deeply disturbed.