Wednesday
Jul022014

The Women's Colony

It has come to Mrs. G's attention that many new readers (this was published nearly seven years ago) have not read this post. Mrs. G. felt compelled to repeat it because you can't truly understand her (or this blog and much of its lingo) without knowing about the Colony, a concept that when exercised daily is likely as effective as any antidepressant on the market. Mrs. G. texted her son a few days ago asking him to bring home some milk, toilet paper and Fanta. Autocorrect morphed Fanta into fantasy. Mrs. G's son called her and said, "Mom, I can buy you a lot of things, but fantasies aren't one of them. QFC doesn't sell the Women's Colony." He brought home grape Fanta, which on the right day can fulfill a fantasy, but it just doesn't have the staying power. Mrs. G. has a dream...and this is it.

P.S. Mrs. G. is currently writing a novel with this plot so if you steal the idea, she will hunt you down and kill you. It just so happens she knows a few women who would help her move and hide the body. You've been warned.

 

The Women's Colony

Many years ago, Mrs. G. and her beloved friend Faye showed up at the same mom's group. They connected instantly, and it didn't take them long to ditch the group (as Mrs. G. recalls many in the group were overly invested in and vocal about just how important they were prior to having children) in favor of a more intimate connection. Mrs. G's three-year-old-daughter adored Faye's three-year-old son, and Mrs. G. grooved on Faye -- the years they spent together are some of Mrs. G's most cherished. While Mrs. G. is lucky to have made many dear friends since she and Faye moved to opposite ends of the country, there has never been another friend who Mrs. G. has truly felt got her the way Faye did. And even though Mrs. G. hasn't seen Faye in ten years, she holds Faye in the nook of her heart that she reserves for those rare people who offer unconditional friendship, unconditional love. In other words, if Faye ever flipped her lid and accidentally committed a premeditated murder, Mrs. G. would not only help her move the body, but store it in her freezer until the coast was clear.

During their many days and months of hard core mothering, birthing of additional babies, sapped marriages and overall weariness, they would frequently talk about the Women's Colony they would retire to when the kids were grown, and the husbands were gone. Just exactly how the husbands would be gone wasn't examined at any length. The fantasy was more about the sanctity of a female refuge for older, tired women who needed some sort of estrogen infused utopia. When times were tough, they would simply utter Women's Colony and nerves would ebb, hope would rally, dinner would make it to the table, children would be bathed, bedtime stories would be read, and, finally, wine bottles would be drained.

The Women's Colony would be in some out of the way place, some little slice of paradise that was off the grid and extremely difficult to access. Men would find it particularly difficult to locate because, without a doubt, they would be required to stop and ask for directions. Like that's going to happen.

 

 

It would be a place where women could come to spend their post mothering/wifing/working woman years to live completely as themselves. The selfish pursuit of individual desire and authenticity would be encouraged and allowed -- guilt free and without any emotional cost. No scales, no mirrors, fat asses, cellulite, age spots, chin hairs, crows feet and bras optional. For those reluctant to cut all ties with their heterosexual needs, husbands and boy toys gentleman friends could be bussed in on Thursdays and Sundays for conversation and such. Appreciative children, grandchildren and emotionally stable relatives could come to visit every other Saturday and all major holidays.
 

This Women's Colony would not be any sort of Hee-Haw existence. No one would have to live on a school bus or make hemp hammocks to support her diet of quinoa and tempeh.

 

Each woman would have an entire floor of a house like this...

 

or this...

 

or this.

 

Faye and Mrs. G. felt strongly that there should be a row of connected rocking chairs on the front porches of the various houses, and each evening, it would be one woman's responsibility to do the rocking. The rest of the women would just sit there and sip cosmos chill.


There would need to be a butler to overlook the running of the house and the division of labor that would not involve any of the women.

 

After years of full calendars and the juggling the lives of others, every woman's to do list would basically be nothing, nothing and nothing. For those with a need to be productive, they would be free do whatever the hell they wanted. There would be no pairing of socks or locating anything for anybody.
 
 

 

In the Women's Colony, bathrooms would be sanctuaries of solace and joy. No bathtub or toilet scrubbing or dealing with hairs whose origins are too disturbing to contemplate.

 

There would be creative spaces for each woman: writing and pottery studios and crafting spaces and dark rooms.

 

Communal dinners would be optional.

But this guy would be the Colony's personal chef. We'll get to the maid and dishwasher momentarily. Bourdain doesn't do dishes.

Fresh organic vegetables,fruits and herbs would be grown right on the property

 

And, of course, a full-time gardener would be on site.

 

Oh, and there would be flowers...fields and fields of flowers.

 

Despite the Colony not having an in-ground pool, a pool boy would be available for serving cocktails, rubbing in sunscreen and gratuitous eye candy.

 

There would be no no pool, because the ocean would be just a stone's throw away from everyone's houses.

 

As mentioned earlier, members of the Women's Colony would have no mandatory chores. Those would be completed by the Colony's full-time maid.

 

Yes, another pristine girl's bathroom. Mrs. G. is willing to admit that the concept of a man-free bathroom was the cornerstone of her Women's Colony fantasy.

 

Despite the Colony's rural setting, regular house calls would be made by a prominent physician.

 

And this would be Susan Carlin's personal art studio. Mrs. G. will be disappointed if Susan, her daughter, Professor J, and their dogs don't plan on becoming charter members.

There would be a music room with a roaring fireplace.

 

And a yoga/meditation space amongst the luscious trees.

 

And, of course, a library overflowing with books and flanked by overstuffed chairs.

 

Please forgive Mrs. G's obsessive need to keep returning to the clean bathroom.

 

In recognition that men need to pee too, an outhouse would be provided. Toilet paper at no extra charge.

All animals welcome.

 

No shortage of spaces to be alone and spy on the gardener read a good book.

 

Mrs. G. would assume the responsibility of taking care of the laundry, so it wouldn't take too long before clothing became optional.

 

Rocking chairs, gardens, beach front property, no chores, clean bathrooms, gourmet food, conjugal visits, hot servants...paradise, people. Female paradise. And in the meantime, when the boss is bitching, the kids are mouthy, the spouse is cranky, the relatives keep reminding you of all the things you could do better, take a deep breath and exhale Women's Colony...Women's Colony.


But with better hair. Who's in?

 

Tuesday
Jul012014

Things Mrs. G. Has Been Doing Since She Temporarily Abandoned Her Creative Self

1. All good men must come to the aid of their country. All good men must come to the aid of their country. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. Mrs. G. has been typing these two sentences over and over again in an attempt to jumpstart and oil the wheels in her brain. All good men must come to the aid of their country. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. Frankly, these sentences haven't jump started anything except shameful memories of Mrs. G's smug ass sitting in high school typing class sure she wouldn't have to do anything as mundane as typing in her future. Queens of small countries don't type. Well, Mrs. Scrandall, you have the last laugh on this one. Really, Mrs. Scrandall, sit down and laugh it up, because typing has been crucial to Mrs. G's life, much more so than reigning over the country that never materialized, unless you want to count Mrs. G's laundry room, which she does sometimes when she wants to feel more imposing and stately while separating the darks from the lights.

2) Enjoying the company of two sweet, strapping young men in her home (plus Mr. G -- a sweet, strapping seasoned man). Mrs. G's son is home for the summer and his friend who is like a second son is bunking here as well. Mrs. G, we all know not a domestic woman by nature, can't explain the odd pleasure she feels baking a loaf of banana blueberry bread and seeing it inhaled before it cools. It has taken Mrs. G. several years to establish the symmetry of being needed and not needed, but, for now, she has and it feels strangely satisfying and liberating.

3) Buying a treadmill with all the bells and whistles. Now she can jog and fall down in the privacy of her own home. She named it Doug, because she dated a dickweed in high school named Doug who took her out on two dates and "forgot" his wallet both times. Now Mrs. G. can climb on the treadmill mornings she doesn't feel like it and say, "Oh Fuck you, Doug," with some authority.

4) Working her way through two seasons of the West Wing. A reader recently sent an email suggesting Rob Lowe was long overdue for Mancake status. Mrs. G. agrees and has began the extensive googling research needed to properly showcase his, well, talent.

5) Leaving next week for Los Angeles to help her daughter move into a charming studio with great light and hardwood floors. Mrs. G. had hoped to escape the actual moving part of the moving and show up for the fixing the place up part of moving, but when you get emails from your kid saying things like, "Please, God, please. Mom I need you," you book a ticket and feel thrilled when you get another email saying, "Yay! Thank you Lord!" Again, the symmetry of being needed and not needed. It's tricky if you don't pay attention and read your email.

For once, Mrs. G. is staying in L.A. for a decent amount of time. She will be there the 10th through the 19th. She will be in Santa Monica without a car Monday through Thursday while her daughter works, so if you want to get together for lunch or dinner, please send her an email and let's make it happen.

More tomorrow friends. The wheels are officially greased. Thanks for waiting.

Saturday
Jun212014

Nothing Much

Good morning! It's 4:25am and the birds are singing aggressively. That's right, aggressively. Birds. The birds are SINGING and the sun is on the horizon. Mrs. G. isn't going to lie. Sometimes she hates birds with all their forced cheerfulness. She wants to scream at them to give it a rest. But then she remembers how they charmingly bookend her days and nights and she feels guilty like the Catholic she used to be. Catholicism. It's for the birds. Oh don't go there. Mrs. G. is earnestly kidding.

And the neighbors. Their suspicions would be confirmed if they heard her bawling out the birds.

Mrs. G. woke up too early because last night she tucked into the gin, and she hasn't tucked into the gin in many, many months. It's been many hours since her last drink but when she drinks, Mrs. G. wants to talk. She wants to talk about everything and Mr. G. takes it for as long as he can take it and then he goes to bed. Where are all of you when she needs you? Oh that's right, you're tucked in bed with clean cotton sheets and a fluffy pillow, sleeping. Mrs. G. is right behind you.

Things Mrs. G. considered writing about:

The one year she was a cheerleader because her school, Blessed Sacrament, put out an open call to every girl. All you had to do to join the team was buy the uniform and knee-hi socks. It was great! 

That's all she can think of because she's sleep deprived. And scared of revealing stories like the one where she is wearing the underwear in her rotation that is two sizes too small. Underwear of hope and desperation she might call it if she were writing about it. Why yes. Today is laundry day. 

That's all that she's got. She knows it's not much.

She was lying in bed last night wondering where all of you are from. You lurkers that is. Everyone actually. So where are you from? It only seems right and just to give up this information. Will you share it? Mrs. G. shared her underwear of hope and desperation. Give it up. Where are you from?

Night all.

Friday
Jun202014

Full Confessional Friday! 6/20/2014

Mrs G. was gone so long she's surprised the lights are still on around here. She wasn't off doing anything spectacular, but she'll fill you in next week, when things will get back to normal in this little pocket of the universe. Happy weekend!


Be it Venial or Mortal (there's no escaping Original), we've all got secrets -- light, dark, funny, sad -- worth bringing to light. The act of confession can be liberating, mollifying and entertaining. Contrition? Repentance? A shot of Tequila? That's your call, sister.

Friday
Jun132014

Full Confessional Friday!

Be it Venial or Mortal (there's no escaping Original), we've all got secrets -- light, dark, funny, sad -- worth bringing to light. The act of confession can be liberating, mollifying and entertaining. Contrition? Repentance? A shot of Tequila? That's your call, sister. 

Sunday
Jun082014

Let's Finish This Up And Then Start For Real  

 

It's time check in as to whether you achieved your goals and/or face your fear?  I, for instance, got my yearly physical and mammogram. I even had a teeth cleaning because I was on a roll. I've been feeling some fairly strong momentum.

So in order to keep this momentum going, I would like a solely focus on my heath for several months, and I need solidarity and accountability. Are any of you interested in getting onboard the health train if I fix up a private blog--we need the privacy so we can be vulnerable and honest and release some of the things that might be holding us back. We need to post pictures of our good and bad days. We can support each other, applaud each other, cry with each other and, most important, laugh with each other in a safe space.

We can all do our own program but use this spot to connect with a friend rather than a coconut cream pie

If you're interested, leave a comment and I will send you and an invitation to join. I will need your email address.  This doesn't effect Derfwad Manor, it will go on. But don't join if you don't have weight to lose or we'll have to eat you.

Wanna play?  I do. I need to lose sixty pounds. My current weight is 211. I need to take some steps to ease joint pain and keep diabetes at  bay.  Nobody else is going to do it for me.

Thursday
Jun052014

Objects of Affection

Mrs. G. received the following untraceable email from someonehadtosayit on Saturday night at 3:19am:

Dear Mrs. G,
 
I notice that you have referred to yourself as a feminist in many of your blog entries. You are not a feminist. You are a sexist! You objectify men in the same offensive way men objectify women. I'm sure I am the only person willing to tell you what many of your readers think. You should be ashamed of yourself. I am.

Make no mistake, reader, Mrs. G. takes her Derfwad Manor mail very seriously. So her first thought upon reading this was: very seriously, you are so not invited to join the Women's Colony.

Her second thought was that perhaps one of her four male readers might be chafed that as civilian men they would only be allowed on the Colony's property on Thursdays and Sundays, riled that they wouldn't be permitted to use the indoor bathrooms, indignant at the notion that they might need to ask for directions. 

Her third thought was wringing-wet with sadness that a regular reader might think that she was an objectifying sexist when she has spent so many months baring her soul, conscientiously cultivating her internet reputation as a middle aged perv with a theatrical vision. It's not as easy as it looks, someonehadtosayit, to do the physical and emotional legwork of fulfilling so many women's Secret Boyfriend needs. Mrs. G. is not paid for her Internet surfing social services. It's just something she offers up to the universe...sort of a female-friendly, grassroots version of the good kind of global warming.

So Mrs. G. asked Mr. G. if he thought she objectified men, and he said:

No, you do not objectify men; you only objectify parts of them.

And as Mrs. G. sighed with relief, he hugged her, kissed her on the head and asked her who he had to talk to about applying for the handyman's position at the Women's Colony.

She told him there would have to be a vote. An objective vote.

He didn't seem worried.

Tuesday
Jun032014

Full Confessional Tuesday!

Be it Venial or Mortal (there's no escaping Original), we've all got secrets -- light, dark, funny, sad -- worth bringing to light. The act of confession can be liberating, mollifying and entertaining. Contrition? Repentance? A shot of Tequila? That's your call, sister.