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.


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.


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.


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. 


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.


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.


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. 


mrs. g. is experiencing writer's block, but she can always whip up a little Mancake. Back tomorrow with the stepfather who dressed as a boll weevil. Truly!

This is where you come when you want a slice of Mancake with your coffee...

Mrs. G. has always carried a wee torch for Don Cheadle. She says wee torch because in the past, she considered him dashing, snazzy...a cute guy you know would show you a good time and not reach for his wallet in vain. No, Don Cheadle would pay the check and not expect a thing in return. He might kiss your cheek if you turned it just the right way. How does Mrs. G. know all this. She doesn't, but this is what she does all day while the rest of you do something productive with your lives, earn a paycheck and all that.


And then Mrs. G. watched him last season in HBO's House of Lies and her wee torched blazed, radiated enough high holy hotness to scorch Siberia. Don Cheadle is dashing and snazzy but this became crystal clear to Mrs. G: the man is sexy as hay-ell. It doesn't hurt the show's popularity that Mrs. G. carries a wee torch for Kristen Bell. She reminds Mrs. G. of Meg Ryan before the syringe and scalpel. 

It also doesn't hurt the show's popularity that Cheadle drops trou and often.

Mom, if you're reading this, "drop trou" is a gardening term. No need to google it. Really.


The Hollywood Foreign Press agreed with Mrs. G. this year. They sent Don home with a Golden Globe for his performance as Marty Kaan in House of Lies. Look at his smile. Is it starting to come together for you?

Donald Frank Cheadle was born in Kansas City, MO in 1964. He ardently campaigns for the end of genocide in Darfur, Sudan and, along with George Clooney, Brad Pitt and Matt Damon, co-founded Not On Our Watch, an organization focusing on preventing mass atrocities. Not to be glib, but how does one go about serving on that board.


Actor, humanitarian, philanthropist, Cheadle is also a serious poker player.


Cheadle's been with the same woman for over twenty years and we all know that only glitters up an already sparkly package. You know, that's it! Don Cheadle glows; he shines.

The man is bright.