As promised, Mrs. G. is sharing a post with evidence supporting many of the seemingly half-baked claims she has made on this blog over the last five years. There is no question that, like many story tellers, Mrs. G. knows how to make a good story better, how to crank a memory up a notch or two. But that said, she makes a genuine effort to tell a story, as best she can, right and true, which is mainly why she writes about herself and is almost always the butt of the joke.
Today will be no exception.
Here is some photographic proof that Mrs. G. is not thoroughly full of shit.
Proof, once more, that Mrs. G's mom truly was...
a red headed hottie with a nimble, saucy sense of style which seems to have skipped a generation and landed smack on the petite shoulders of Mrs. G's daughter, another red headed, bonny bloom.
Mrs. G's mom has told pretty much anyone with ears that Mrs. G. wasn't what you would call a pretty Gerber baby. Mrs. G. was bald her first year and insisted on ripping the Scotch-taped bows off her large, slightly buckled head. Mrs. G. didn't walk or talk early, she was kind of a serious child. Mrs. G. is willing to concede she wasn't the most beautiful baby on the block, but she takes issue with the implication she was a baby dud. Look at the picture of Mrs. G. in front of her first birthday cake. Do you notice how she is looking a bit uncertain and more than a little nervously at that candle, almost as if she's having a premonition about her future and should just start girding her little loins now? Hold that thought for a couple of minutes.
This photo proves that, yes, Mrs. G. was someone's silly kid sister for a while.
It is plain to see Mrs. G's struggle with technology kicked off at an early age and/or that no one showed her the most effective way to use binoculars. It could also be that she is using the binoculars' super powered optics to confirm that the dog before her is, in fact, her dog Whitlow...
and not the dog her family brought in as Whitlow's stunt double, Schnapps. As you can see, they look alarmingly alike.
Mrs. G. became obsessed with her hair at an early age. Her mom has reported that the metal comb you see in the picture (the one that could put an eye out back when putting an eye out it wasn't some social services knocking at your door, huge ass deal) was Mrs. G's favorite toy for an entire summer. Family legend has it Mrs. G. could tease a full head of hair by the age of three.
Barely two, and Mrs. G. was already into the hipster glasses. This was the last year she was able to comfortably wear a hat on her abnormally large head. This is the point in Mrs. G's life when her mother started referring to her as the most beautiful child who ever lived, which a couple of years later she changed to the most beautiful, intelligent and talented child who ever lived and never looked back.
Mrs. G. has taken a lot of grief for her supposed inability to cut hair, and she believes, if it is in fact true, she comes by the over amplified weakness naturally. You'll notice above Mrs. G. is looking at her Raggedy Ann doll. She is looking at her Raggedy Ann doll and saying, "They just stuck an unrinsed cereal bowl on my head and made four cuts. Where is the closest bridge to throw myself off of."
Nice bangs, huh? Case rested
OK, remember a few minutes ago when Mrs. G. asked you to examine the look in her eyes as she anxiously eye-balled her first birthday candle. It might have had something to do with the Halloween she was three and a neighbor boy decided to see if her Road Runner costume really was flame retardant and chased her around with the front yard with a lighter screaming BEEP BEEP.
Maybe she was a serious baby because she knew she needed to be to survive being burned alive on Halloween.
Clearly the seriousness carried over to all official duties. Always the flower girl, never the bride.
This is a photo of Mrs. G. just minutes before a Cockatoo at Busch Gardens snapped her finger in its beak and wouldn't let go.
Oh, Mrs. G's smiling at Disneyland years later. but if you really knew her, you would know that is a smile of terror. She does not like birds, real or costumed, within a 15 foot radius of her extremities.
This is pretty much Mrs. G's report card from first grade to now. Her social attitudes are satisfactory with the exception of her inability to practice self-control. Self-control can often lead to missing amazing experiences.
Perhaps the nuns at Blessed Sacrament questioned her ability to practice self-control because no one in her family told her the fried eggs on her favorite t-shirt in third grade were strategically placed over each of her nonexistent breasts because they actually represented existent breasts. Nice one, family...just send the lamb to slaughter. And serve with eggs.
Those of you who Mrs. G. has been trying to talk into going dancing with her during the road trip might not know she was professionally trained, but she was...for four months in the garage of a woman named Miss Beverly. Once a week, Mrs. G. step-ball-changed all over the concrete floor of Miss Beverly's garage studio. She quit after the first dance recital because she felt she'd reached her peak and had really only agreed to dance lessons because she wanted a flashy costume like her friend Connie. Mrs. G. lived in that costume once she got home from school and shucked off her uniform. She pretended the long fringe over her left shoulder was her hair and flipped it back often like her idol, Cher.
Mrs. G. is going to continue to lobby for some dancing. Not all her moves look like she might be suffering gastrointestinal distress.
Further evidence of Mrs. G's dancing prowess. Here she is dressed as a flapper at a punk rock dance. It made sense at the time.
And, finally, here is Mrs. G. running cross country in high school. She was not particularly good at running, partly because she's got a wonky sense of balance and is prone to falling and partly because her coach, Mrs. Varnadew, didn't really train so much as lean against her Datsun wearing a velour sweat suit and smoking Kools, occasionally flapping her hand in the direction she wanted the team to run. If it looks like Mrs. G. is close to death in this photo it is because she is. She was always one of the last runners in and, assholes all, the rest of the team would have emptied the Gatorade cooler by the time she tried to fill her Dixie cup and cool down.
So there you have it. A few glimpses verifying Mrs. G's many tales. Someone, Mrs. G. can't remember who, said truth is stranger than fiction because fiction has to make sense.
Maybe it's the lack of sense that keeps us upright while stumbling along, waiting to see how it's all going to turn out. That's what keeps Mrs. G. writing.