Wednesday 5...No Reason, No Motive. Just Curious.

1) What is one movie that made you laugh until you cried?

2) Would you rather be in big trouble with your partner, boss or mother?

3) If you're in denial about one thing, what is it?

4) Ernie or Bert?

5) What smell reminds you of childhood?



Mrs. G. is experiencing a small technical difficulty -- writer's block. It will pass. On a scale of 1 to 10, it feels like a 3, so she'll see you as soon a inspiration hits, probably a couple of days. Back in two shakes.




Full Confessional Friday! 2/14/2014

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.  


A Mrs. G. Social Inquiry...Let's Discuss

Photo by Star Foreman


Hi, Heather,
I found this article today, and thought it would be an interesting topic of conversation at the Manor:
Full disclosure, the woman is a colleague of mine, I've known her for a couple of years in that capacity. I did not know anything about her personal life.  She's a wonderful colleague, and I think she and her husband are brave to "out" themselves like this. I'm also proud that our common employer is supportive.
Plus, I think that their relationship as depicted in the article, is really sweet!
I think the Derf community could have a very rich and interesting discussion about this.
Mrs. G. is not allowed to reprint the article here, so you really do have to go and read it. She's been thinking about how she would deal with this for the last hour and she's curious what all of you have to say. She knows this group can be honest without insulting. Let's talk!




Wednesday 5...No Reason, No Motive. Just Curious

1) Chinese or Mexican food?

2) What is the name of the favorite street you have ever lived on?

3) What is one thing other drivers do that drive you nuts.

4) What is one good thing that has happened to you today?

5) Favorite soap to use in the shower/bath?


Wedding Eve

The week before their wedding, Mr. G. asked Mrs. G. if she would like to have a pasta feed/party the night before their wedding. Mrs. G. said, "No I definitely wouldn't," but she hadn't come to grips with the notion that when Mr. G. asked her opinion on something, it was often for rhetorical purposes only. So within four days, he had invited at least 40 people to come over to celebrate their impending nuptials, for which they had to awake and prepare for at 6:30 the next morning.

rhe·tor·i·cal  adjective \ri-ˈtȯr-i-kəl, -ˈtär-\

: of, relating to, or concerned with the art of speaking or writing formally and effectively especially as a way to persuade or influence people

of a question : asked in order to make a statement rather than to get an answer

Mrs. G. is not fond of large, loud parties and she was particularly nervous to meet so many of Mr. G's friends she had never met before, particularly a group of his college friends who had flown in from different states. She was anxious about being so much younger (with the exception of John Lennon, she hated the Beatles -- get over it, world), so much less educated and so much less able to hold her liquor. 

So she started drinking two hours before everyone started showing up. By the time people started arriving in droves (Droves!), Mrs. G. was so buzzed, she greeted everyone with great enthusiasm. She didn't even care that her father-in-law, stone sober, once again introduced her to several people as "Hester" or that a button had popped off her expensive blouse and she was occasionally exposing her boobs to the guests. Hey what's a few breasts among friends when you've had half-a-bottle of Pinot.

After the family and old people had visited, eaten and exited, the party really started. The corks popped and the wine started flowing. If Mrs. G. remembers correctly, she had abandoned her plastic cup and was just carrying a bottle around. There was dancing and snogging and smoke billowing up from the basement. It was the holy party trinity. 

Unless you were getting married in less than twelve hours.

The party was still in full tilt when Mrs. G. knew she had to go to bed. She literally crawled up the stairs and had to lie on the floor and rest for a bit when she got to the top. She vaguely remembers three people walking over her to get to the bathroom.

When she finally crawled commando style into the bedroom, she shut the door so she could curl up on the bed and fall asleep. Before she could get on the bed, she started hurling on the (Rental!) carpet and she couldn't stop. She was choking and was sure she was going to pull a Jim or Janice minus the talent and Rock & Roll stardom. She imagined people at her funeral saying, "She was a great grocery price checker. What a, um, waste."

Mrs. G. didn't want to die so she start screaming bloody murder in between throwing up. The music and noise of the party was so loud no one could hear her. So, she called her friend Karen and told her to call back to the house and to tell Nick the wedding might be off, because she was dying upstairs. The phone rang and rang and rang, so Mrs. G. picked it up. No one was answering the phone downstairs, so Karen tried to talk Mrs. G. down. Very few people can talk Mrs. G. down in a crisis situation so she started screaming, "I'M DYING UP HERE YOU MOTHERFUCKERS! I'M DYING UP HERE YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!" and banging her shoes on the bedroom floor in hopes that someone would hear her. "Calm down," Karen pleaded. "I'll call the house again and if nobody answers, I'm on my way over. Stay on your side so you don't choke on your vomit." Mrs. G. was six steps ahead of her. She was on all fours so she wouldn't choke on her vomit.

The phone rang again and whoever answered it brought Nick to the phone. "Where are you," he asked, three sheets to the wind himself. "I'M UPSTAIRS THROWING UP AND MAYBE DYING." "Upstairs in our house?" he clarified. "YES, YOU BASTARD, UPSTAIRS IN OUR HOUSE...DYING!" "I'm on my way!" he said.

Twenty minutes later, he busted in to the bedroom to find Mrs. G. had stopped vomiting and was now scrubbing the carpet so they could get their cleaning deposit back.

"Are you OK, babe?"

"Well I am alive if that's what you mean."

Mrs. G. forgave him as they were to be wed in less than nine hours and there was no getting any of the deposits back. The wedding cake already had their names on it.

He tucked her in and went back down to the party. Oh how he would suffer in the morning. Oh how everyone would suffer in the morning.

When the alarm went off, he asked if he could sleep another hour. "I hope that wasn't a rhetorical question," said Mrs. G. "Because we are hauling our asses out of this bed and getting hitched."

And they did.


the answer would be a gentle no, because mrs. g. does understand his appeal

Mrs. G. received four emails (Portland, Tulsa, Charlottesville and Knoxville) from Derfs over the weekend letting her know that they had made Mr. G's pasta sauce and it was indeed as delicious as she said. One sweetheart sent a photo of her bubbling sauce right after, as she said, the "chicken livers had landed." Mr. G. was flattered.

But Mrs. G. received a fifth email today that we are going to have to discuss because, well, because Mrs. G. thinks you will understand why.

Dear Mrs. G,

I just wanted to let you know how lucky you are to have a husband like Mr. G! I made his sauce on Saturday night and it was so good that I can't help but throw out the following proposal. You have mentioned that Mr. G. hasn't cleaned a bathroom in decades and doesn't really do household chores of any kind. I love cleaning bathrooms and I would be willing to assume all household chores if he would cook for me nightly. I know this would mean he has to move to the Northeast, but do you think you could spare him for this fellow Derf? Maybe even just every month? My love for Mr. G. is purely platonic and culinary inspired as I am in a a very serious imaginary relationship with Damian Lewis.

I look foward to hearing from you :) :) :)



Dear V,

I appreciate your straight-forward, forthright approach to possibly acquiring my husband. I'm going to have to decline your offer because I really like him, and, damn woman, I gave you the coveted recipe. Have Damian Lewis make it for you. I kid, because I think you are sweet even though you want to exploit my man in the kitchen. I'm not going to share this exchange with him because, though he loves me, the allure of no chores might cause him to slip out in the night with his chicken livers and never look back. Like I'm going to let that happen -- just to be safe I have tied a bell to our bedroom doorknob in case he gets any ideas. 

All My Best-ish,

Mrs. G.


a mrs. g. social inquiry: what is up with us?

Mrs. G. is working on a project that requires asking certain questions of women. On all but one question, they are quick to answer, downright chatty in fact. The one question that is, hands down, the most difficult for these women to answer is, "Tell me something you do really well?" Most of them suddenly scrunch up their faces and look stricken, they hem and haw and ask to pass on the question. Mrs. G. assures them the answer doesn't have to be deep, just one little thing they excel at. Finally, most of them come up with something.

So, today could you you do something for Mrs. G? Brag. She knows society deems it snotty and unladylike for us to highlight our strengths, but can we just take one day (a Sabbath of sorts) off from this ridiculousness?

Would you leave a comment bragging about something (or many things) you do particularly well? Lurkers, Mrs. G. is looking at you. No free lunch today. Mrs. G. is sending out her Bat Signal. And then could you all write down your comment(s) and stick it on a mirror or in your pocket, and should you be asked this question by stout blonde strangers or job interviewers or snooty in-laws, you will have your answer at the ready.

Would you do this for her? She needs it, so she can carry it foward to the next woman she asks.

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