Skip to main content

The Shame of Crones

Honestly, there are times when a mother’s job is done and she should step back and let her grown sons go about their own business. 

Did anyone else notice that if Catelyn Tully Stark had stayed home weaving those wreaths she made out of vines, twigs, and feathers and defended Winterfell, instead of traipsing all over the Seven Kingdoms and acting like the self-proclaimed Hand of the King to her son Robb, Season Three of Game of Thrones would have ended on a much happier note?

Once widowed, she and Jon Snow could have easily protected their castle against the traitor and womanizer Theon, but she lets her husband’s bastard son go off to The Wall and she follows Robb, leaving her little sons in charge of a castle - defenseless.  Just what was she thinking?  

Bran and Rickon were left homeless, Arya  ping ponged all over the north struggling to find her mommy and big brother, and Sensa (the weeniest Stark of all) was foisted from one Lannister to another at King’s Landing (though Tyrion is a huge improvement over Joffrey).

Catelyn is no better than her sister Lady Arryn who doesn’t know when to stop breastfeeding a child. A grown man, a KING, does not need his Mama calling the shots. Catey should have taken parenting lessons from Cersi.   
  
It is because of Catelyn’s meddling that caused Robb’s death.  So what if he didn’t marry the ugly, unmarriageable Frey daughter. (He’s a medieval king.  He can do whatever he wants.) Her anger at him for not honoring the betrothal promise was nothing compared to the act of treason she committed when she released Robb’s prize prisoner.  Knowing that her son will not execute her did not make up for the loss of respect and trust she caused from his followers. When she urged Robb to attend the Red Wedding, beg forgiveness from Lord Frey, and allow himself to be ridiculed (ahem, he is a KING), it left him vulnerable to further disrespect. It was no surprise that Lord Frey thought nothing about murdering a King in cold blood while he munched on a drumstick.
   
Meanwhile, back at King’s Landing with the MVP of all mothers:

Cersi’s hold over Joffrey diminished with each episode.  He did not consult Mommy when he broke his betrothal to spineless and flat-chested Sensa and got engaged to the sexy and voluptuous Margaery.  He knows his kingly rights and has no patience with those who betray or sass him, ergo Cersi knows when to speak and when to keep quiet. She prefers her head on her shoulders and not decorating the castle keep. 

It worked for her.  In the end, she is still alive and well, so is her family, her home, and her kingdom, whereas kudos for Catelyn who singlehandedly destroyed everything good and noble around her.  
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Happy Breastday to Me!

I gave myself a very special birthday present this year – I had surgery. Before you think it was to increase, decrease, or “lift” something, let me tell you it was not cosmetic (though I could probably use a few nips and tucks at my age; the infinite number of creams I buy OTC are not working their promised magic). About four or five months ago, I discovered a hard lump about the size of a large marble in my left armpit.  I had been feeling small pangs of pain in my left chest for several months, but I figured it was just my turn to dance with heart disease.  Everyone in my immediate family is diabetic and suffers from strokes or heart attacks, so I thought – here we go; my turn. I was going to tell my internist about the pangs during my next visit, so imagine my surprise when I discovered the lump. The Drama Queen in me immediately manifested herself – cancer, I thought.  I have cancer. I searched some more and found that the texture on the left side of my left breast felt diffe
9 comments
Read more

Dating Challenged

I stink at dating – always have.   I sputter.   I hyperventilate.   I fail miserably every time. I blame a pathetically underdeveloped gene that got little use before I married in my early twenties, then atrophied, gathering dust and rust, until I became single again in my fifties.   I decided to use this defect to my advantage when I needed to do some investigative reporting a few years back.   While on a newspaper writing assignment on Boomer-aged dating, I sacrificed my dignity and my vanity for the sake of the story (and I got several). Thank goodness, HoneyBunch saved me from all this when we married.  (He comes up with the best dates.) I’ve decided I will “show you mine if you show me yours.”   I will swap dating horror stories with you, but you have to promise to play along. The trick here is to tell about your worst date in 25 words or less.   You must keep it clean and you cannot name names. Our little contest will run only this week and before my next blogger posting.   Me
8 comments
Read more

The Girl Who Eats Canned Spinach

I went to a Catholic elementary school run by strict Belgian nuns, and we could not leave the cafeteria until we ate everything served on our food tray. Once a week, they served warmed, canned spinach with our meal. The spinach tasted nothing like the way my grandmother made it, but I ate it. I gulped it down in three or four bites and it amazed my table mates. I told them we ate it at home so I was used to the taste. Now, my real problem began the day I ate the spinach off my friends’ trays so we could go play outside. As soon as the nun monitoring the cafeteria turned her back, my friends ate something off my tray I didn’t want, and I ate their serving of spinach. I only did it for two of my table mates, but the word spread.   On the next Spinach Day, kids followed me to my table.   I was suddenly very popular, and as soon as the nun marched off to the other end of the cafeteria, my friends and an army of others who only knew me as The Girl Who Eats Spinach, begged me to take
8 comments
Read more