The world's loss is my gain.
After six weeks with the Prig of Paxil, aka my husband Thomas Friedman, I felt like I was zipping down the exit ramp to Edge of Sanity Blvd. with him.
You know how he's the urban blight of the op-ed pages, how he drags down everyone around him?
Well Thomas Friedman in person isn't all that different from Thomas Friedman in print.
And you know how you feel like from Wednesday to Friday, you can't get a handle on his writing? That's exactly like Thomas Friedman the man.
He's bi-polar, which most people would probably figure out rather quickly, and nothing helps.
He's supposed to take his Paxil. But he's rationing them out to one a week because he frets over his co-pay. Which, with his plan, is kind of like Lovey and the Millionaire debating a half hour on whether or not to biggie size an order of fries.
He's convinced it's all "one big scam." And that instead of monthly refills, he can make a bottle last for a full year.
Which explains why, last Wednesday, he can sound like Hillary Clinton not sure what to say on the war so instead using rhetoric about our duties and then, on Friday, sound like the internationalist version of Trent Lott as he mocks "turbans" (among other things.)
As if the caterpillar he has sprouting beneath his nose strikes anyone as "fashionable."
Thomas Friedman is struggling to scale Mount Humanity while lacking all the basic equipment and skills. Once you understand that, you understand the Prig of Paxil.
The six weeks is over, the enforced vacation, and I really hate that he returned in time to spoil the world's holiday. But when I think of the number of people whose Wednesday he ruined last week or the number of people whose Friday he ruined, I think of how, day after day, 'til the clouds roll by, he ruined six weeks of my life that I'll never get back. Balancing Thomas Friedman inflicting his ill will, Arab stereotypes and bad tidings on the world, as opposed to just hurling them in my face, I find that, selfish or not, I prefer it that way.
He came upon a midnight clear and stunk up the whole world. If there's to be any hope in 2006, it depends upon the fence sitters like Thomas Friedman waking up to the reality that is Iraq. Don't place any bets.
the new york times
the common ills
thomas friedman is a great man
the third estate sunday review