This Blog Isn't All Hyperbole: The Full Meal Deal
Tuesday, June 5, 2012 at 12:45AM Mrs. G. 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.
Back in the Day, Blogging, Family
Reader Comments (44)
The hotness most definitely did *not* skip a generation. Look at you, all hotted up as a flapper!
Always a flower girl....good choice!
I love your baby pictures!
The tree pic is awesome, minus the unfortunate decor on your t-shirt.
And I can assure you, at the time you were looking the hottie part at a punk rock concert, I was looking rather dorky. (Post the year and I'll find a picture to prove my point.)
But of course, I never doubted your stories. Truth is indeed stranger than fiction.
Flapper Heather = Hawt Heather.....me thinks you could do that look again...no problem.
i love looking at the ones of your mom....actually...i love ALL these....but, the hat and killer glasses one? oh yeah...can most definitely see Miss G in that little girly.
fried eggs....that kills me!!
Oh, yea, such fun and the things you can see in picture.
The eggs- your family did have a sense of humor otherwise I would call child abuse.
Love the one of you and your brother, better times.
More, there must be more.
The weiner dog/yellow pants/binoculars/pigtails with bows!!! One of the best photos of anything...ever. I'm going back to look at it again.
I am new to your blog but I want to thank you for the many laughs with my cup of coffee this morning. I hope you keep writing! Practicing self control is a mixed bag. I speak from experience. Thanks again Mrs. G.
I have never seen a happy flower girl. The look on your face kills me. Great post and the pix make for some real fun!
Mark Twain said it! No wonder I don't like fiction anymore. And I admire anyone who even had the nerve to JOIN any sort of athletic team in high school. I never had it in me.
Oh, and welcome to Derfwad Manor, Ruth!
I really do like those hipster glasses resting on your cute button nose. What an awesome fun post!
I may never look at fried eggs the same way again.
Love!
OH HOW awesome :)
I can't wait to give you a hug in person. I'm going to bring you a big ass Gatorade. Priceless pictures!
My dad always found it hilarious to refer to developing breasts on his five daughters as fried eggs. Hilarious, I tell you.
Oh that t-shirt is a crime.
Lady, you inspire me. I love you a little more today, if that's possible.
This made my morning.
Another bird nonlover here. That cockatoo story is going to give me nightmares (shudder!).
Oh how old photos make us cringe and laugh. Loved these. Thanks for loving your past and sharing it.
I agree that the binoculars looking at the dog photo is one of the best photos I've ever seen. These are great!
Mrs G, your family and mine have a penchant for scary pictures. On my wedding day, I came around a corner to find my father had covered a 4 x 8 sheet of plywood in all manner of pictures of me growing up. ON MY WEDDING DAY, the good, the bad and the fried egg kind... I wanted to find a corner and hide. I am glad you are sharing, it makes me feel better.
Mrs. G, what a treasure trove these have proven to be. I am loving this traipse down memory lane. Keep it up.
You were an adorably serious baby AND a seriously adorable baby Mrs. G! I love seeing all your historical pics; please keep sharing. Also, I'm so impressed that you remember people's names from your past, like your dance teacher and your cross country coach????? Did you keep a journal from the day you learned how to write? You have an amazing memory, I am really impressed. I supposed it's a skill that lends itself to storytelling, which you are awesome at, obviously.
I love these pix. I can definitely see you in all of them, even the smallest baby pic. You're gorgeous!!
Love you, Mrs. G. Just love you.
OMG I love the binoculars picture! That is so great! And I agree the eggs picture shows great composition, once/if you can get past the eggs, that is.
my family would have allowed me to wear the egg shirt too. thank god one never came my way at that age. i did have a totally kick ass purple polyester pantsuit that i thought was the last word in fashion...
love all the pics.
The t-shirt made me do a little snort/laugh! These photos are great! And I too, share your bird phobia, but get this- we have a pet parakeet, Re-Pete, and I love that dumb bird! I can even put my finger up to his cage and he gives 'kisses'. We'll leave him off the introductions list when you come to KC!
I love your pictures and the stories that go with them.
Holy cats, that picture of you by the pumpkin... exact. same. smile! It's nice to see the warm, welcoming grin hasn't changed at all, Mrs. G.
Great pictures, and I never doubted your stories for a minute anyway - real life is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense.
(BTW, I know places to get nice hats for larger noggins should you ever be in the market, being of the melon-headed variety myself.)
What a fabulous post! Hard to choose a favorite photo, but I still think it's the gastrointestinal distress one.
Mrs. G., you are my a kickass dame to share all of these with us. Your spirit comes through the faded kodachrome. I love them all. Except the fried eggs. I'm having a lot of trouble with that one. IBTP. I will just keep going back to the binoculars until I feel better.
I adore your flapper picture. you positively sparkle.
Great pictures, and the links to older entries had me snorting. I'm not afraid of birds, but I do watch out for ones above that might, possibly, be sick. Birds drove me from church. When eight I had on my favorite sailor style outfit, - gold buttons, navy with the white ribbon going round the collar, a little skirt - and was heading into church when something hit my backside. Either an eagle or a pigeon with serious diarrhea was overhead. The whole back of the outfit was coated with . . . well, what do you think coated it? I began wailing, my siblings laughed and laughed. My parents did not but they had pained, red faces. My mom got to take me home (which suited her fine too). The outfit could never be worn again because the back had been bleached white by . . . well, what'd you think before? We're down to one pigeon feeder in the neighborhood now, and when we visit, she has to come here.
I have met some people whose families seem normal, but a part of me thinks they're hiding something. that other naomi
And you and your mom were hot!
Very fun!
Love your pictures. Ditto with the birds. Hate them all.
Can't wait to see you in KC!
What fun! But oh, dear, the egg shirt....
Loved the whole series of photos and associated memories!
Was it Mrs. G.'s mom who captured all this? So she's talented and sexy!
Loved tripping down memory lane with you. That fried egg shirt is a classic and I have some similar pictures of me at the same age dressed as a wood nymph or some such thing. Your fringed costume was much cooler. I'll dig out some pictures of my annual summer "pixie" haircut to share when you make the California leg of your trip..
You are gorgeous - always have been. And your stories are lovely.
I love you. And I really love that egg t-shirt. OMG. Like, I really, really do.
These are wonderful, Mrs. G. You have such a gift for making your childhood tales come to life and you've managed to keep your sense of humor even in not so great situations.
I've always felt the same way about running, but just recently I've finally started to feel like I'm not going to pass out cold on the side of the road whenever I go for a run. I can't say I actually enjoy it yet, but I feel like it's the fastest way to workout, (no pun intended.) As in, I get the most bang for my buck, or I get the misery of working out over with more quickly. If anyone knows of a better way to burn calories than running, please let me know. (don't say swimming, cause I'm not a big fan of that either. Old ladies are faster than me at the pool, and half way through a lap--inevitably when I'm at the deep end of the pool-- I start to panic and feel like I'm going to drown.)
The picture of you and Whitlow is a scene a parent dreams of. What sweet pigtails!