Entries in Family (276)


An Apology To The Moms At The Bar (by Elizabeth Engle)


Dear Moms at the Bar...

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Homemade Hot Tamales


It occurred to Mrs. G. as she was heading to bed tonight that her Aunt Jane's birthday was two weeks ago, so she decided to sit down and scribble a few words in her honor. Between lying on the couch with a blanket over her head and not changing her shirt for three days, Mrs. G. was incapable of 1) remembering her aunt's birthday and 2) mentally celebrating her aunt's time here on earth.

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Always Missing Her


Mrs. G. has written many times about her grandmother, a loving, funny, loyal, odd bird kind of broad, a second mother, really. She married Mrs G's grandfather on their first date and they were together for 56 years. When he pulled some bullshit way back in the day with another woman, Mrs. G's grandmother leased out their bedroom to a young newlywed couple and forced him to sleep in his car until the six month lease was up.

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September Update: Things Mrs. G. wants and doesn't want to admit

Things Mrs. G. Wants to Admit

~Mrs. G. is excited about revamping her blog. It is going to be reminiscent of the old Women's Colony but different in all befitting ways. Despite learning everything she knows about technology from the Amish, Mrs. G. is building this site from the bottom up. Let's hear it for new tricks, old dogs.

~Mr. & Mrs. G. are successfully taking advantage of the Empty Nest. They have been more spontaneous just for the hell of it -- dinners out, uninhibited screaming matches, weekend trips planned, cooking optional.



~Mrs. G. wakes up every morning and thanks God that she doesn't have to placate assholes fixated on organic rotisserie chickens.



~After a the Financially Strapped Summer of the Bambinos, Mrs. G. was able to go out tonight and buy new shirts for Mr. G. and undergarments for herself. And just to grandstand, she bought Klondike Ice Cream Sandwiches...not on sale.

~The three tomato plants Mr. G. planted have yielded, easily, 75 tomatoes. Tomorrow, Mrs. G. is attempting to make fresh marinara sauce.



~Mrs.G's daughter loves her new job (her first paycheck yielded her an awesome cut and color)...



 and Mrs. G's son has fallen for New York.



Things Mrs. G. Doesn't Want to Admit

~Despite Mrs. G's success with dealing with the empty nest, she frequently wakes up in her son's bed. Disturbing? Maybe. Weird? Probably. But it's the truth and she's dealing with it.

~It appears the Bigger Love movie isn't going to happen. Mrs. G. will give you the full story soon, but for now, give her a couple of weeks to feel sorry for herself. Mrs. G. said no three times when she was approached by the A&E Network to option her blog, mainly because she has been through YOU ARE SO AWESOME! projects falling through at the last minute. Last week, true to form, this project bit the dust. Mrs. G. is trying to be gracious, but it is slightly killing her that the network of Dance Moms and Supermarket Superstar has written her work off as pedestrian. Tears continue to sporadically fall, but now that Mrs. G. has new undergarments things should start looking up.

Actually, no new bras or underwear can ease this particular disappointment speedy quick, but Mrs. G. is putting on a brave face for you because she's not sure what else to do.


"Depp will help give life to Miguel de Cervantes's famed character Don Quixote in a modern-day film for Disney, Deadline.com reports. The actor is set to produce the movie about the hero of La Mancha, but no word yet on whether he'll be acting in the project. Hewitt will executive produce a Lifetime movie based on a post from Heather Gattuccio's blog Derfwad ManorDeadline.com reports. In the blog post, the happily married mother dreams of polygamy with A-list stars. The movie tells a new version of the story of a bored homemaker's fictional blog about her own polygamy but when she starts getting noticed for her online presence, she must keep up the charade." 

~Mrs. G's dog Gus won't shit outside if it's raining. You might recall Mrs. G. lives in Seattle, where rain falls, on average, 150 days per year. Please send advice or prayers.




~Mrs. G's dog Chewie is perfect, faultless, and Mrs. G. struggles not to favor him. That's a lie. There is no struggle, she favors him. Please send advice and prayers.


It's late and that about covers it. Feel free to share what you do or don't want to admit. No pressure. Mrs. G. has no shortage on her plate, but it's still cathartic to know she's not alone.



a few memories of mrs. g's son she will cherish forever, but especially until he comes home for christmas

Yes, Mrs. G. knows she has referenced her son's departure to college countless times the past several weeks, but this morning he left, with Mr. G. in tow to help him navigate the city and set up his dorm room. Mrs. G. has largely mentioned it repeatedly as a service to you,  to, uh, keep you apprised of what's happening in her life. She has smally mentioned it repeatedly as a service to herself, to subconsciously prepare herself for the inevitable and prevent her from spending the next three days sucking the thumb of one hand while clutching 25 ounces of wine in the other. 


The nest? It is empty.


Please excuse the cement block and plywood shelves. The G's were into dirt-cheap furniture sustainable materials long before it was considered environmentally responsible. Just focus on the adorable faces.

But all things considered, she is handling day one well. She's peaceful and sober.


It is one of life's lousy jokes that we spend so much of our lives preparing our children to leave us, but life? She is a relentless teacher, doling out the bitter and the sweet, often, confusingly, at the same time. Mrs. G. has written this blog for seven years without quoting her fellow Memphian, Elvis, but today, much like his waistline, that changes. Presley said, "I believe the key to happiness is: someone to love, something to do, and something to look forward to." It's a simple formula Mrs. G. hopes she has instilled in her kids as thoroughly as a high regard for all things Seinfeld. You can't imagine how much she looks forward to watching their lives unfold. It makes the sweet sweeter and this is what is sustaining her today. And tomorrow.


Up and away they go. 


Top notch memories of Mrs. G's son:

1) His ease and swiftness -- he entered the world quickly and without incident.

2) His sweetness and vulnerability -- he so admired his older sister's bad Catwoman self. He loved her unconditionally while she, with little or no remorse, often took advantage of his devotion and ripped Batman abs with unfair trade negotiations like: I'll trade you six skittles for your entire bag of Halloween candy. He fell for it every time. He would wander aimlessly though the house counting his skittles, knowing deep in his heart that something was not quite right until, seconds later, he admired his sister again.


3) His loyalty -- many unsolicited people told Mrs. G. she needed to toughen him up because he was in danger of becoming a "Mama's Boy." Mrs. G. ignored the shit out of them and savored this connection. Attached to her hip? Fine. Call at 10:00 to be picked up from a sleepover? O.K. Crawl into Mr. and Mrs. G's bed because _______(fill in the blank)? Sure. He successfully wandered into the wider world in his own time.

4) His refusal to lower his standards -- many, many years ago, during a particularly nasty Seattle traffic jam, Mrs. G’s son really needed to pee. He was uncomfortable to the point of tears, so Mrs. G. assured him that it was quite common for children in other countries to pee in Gatorade bottles when they couldn’t get to a bathroom. That it was done all the time. In Gatorade bottles just like the one laying right there on the back seat. He wouldn't have it. He stoically suffered in silence until Mrs. G. was able to exit the freeway and find a gas station.

5) His staunch sense of style -- from the ages of three to four, Mrs. G's son would not leave the house unless he was wearing a pair of purple patent leather loafers he stole from his sister's closet. They were at least three sizes too big, but he stumbled along in them until another pair caught his fancy. 

Not one word about his bangs and who might have cut them.


Purple shoes of '93 and '94

From the ages of six through seven-and-a-half, Mrs. G's son, obsessed with Lord of the Ring's Legolas, only wore black velvet leggings, a white t-shirt, a golden vest with brass buttons and leopard clogs. Questions were asked and comments were made regarding his daily outfit, but he didn't give a tinker's dam. He owned it. Miss G. insists there is going to be a chapter in her future memoir called The Hobbit Years.


This is Legolas.

6) His fearlessness -- he seamlessly transitioned from eight years of homeschooling to public high school. He auditioned for the spring musical his freshman year and landed a leading role.

Mrs. G's Son in 2011 Spring Production of "Chicago" from mrs. g. on Vimeo.

7) His easygoing nature -- Mrs. G. can not tell a lie. He inherited this from his father. Unlike Mrs. G, her son takes things in stride. When she is, say, freaking out because she can't find his social security card she put in a "special place" and which he needs this very day to be employed by Schmold Schmavy (a family tradition), he stays cool and orders a replacement online. "Not a big deal, Mom," he says patting her on the back. "I'll explain it to them. It will be fine." And it is.

8) His willingness to indulge his mother -- unlike most of the members of her family, Mrs. G. is big on hugs and kisses. Two months ago, Mrs. G. explained to her son she would be hugging and kissing him every day until he left for college. He has obliged without complaint.




These are just a few memories Mrs. G. will hold on to when she misses her son because he never calls or when she writes out his tuition checks.



Oh man, kid, you are loved.



Love someone, do something good and try your damnedest to look forward to life, however it rolls.


Happy Trails, chickadee! See you at Festivus!




Kathryn Fritz Special Collection Photo San Diego California

It's going to be even slimmer pickings around here until the middle of August. Mrs. G. is heading to California with her daughter, returning home to start a new job and sending her son off to New York. It will take her a few weeks to get into her groove and find a balance in her empty nest but rest assured, she will. She'll continue putting up the confessional, so everyone can stay in touch.

Mrs. G. will see you in a few weeks! Please stick around.


No, Just, No


Mrs. G. has mentioned before that her grandmother was not a proponent of what we now call Western Medicine. Mrs. G’s grandmother was not a proponent of what we now call Alternative Medicine. Mrs. G’s grandmother, a woman of modest means, was a proponent of what we now call Pipe Dream Medicine—the kind that did not cost more than a four ounce tub of Vicks Vaporub or a jar of yellow mustard.

She also believed she was licensed physician with a medical degree from the University of I Think Doctors Are Full Of Shit.

She was a confident woman and when she told you to do something, you let nothing but fear and common sense stop you from doing it. Fast.

Mrs. G’s grandmother believed in home remedies, and Mrs. G. was her last generation of guinea pig. So Mrs. G. endured the mustard plaster and the onion poultice. She endured arbitrary spoonfuls of cod-liver oil and Phillip’s Milk of the devil Magnesia. She endured…well, you get the idea, she just endured.  The first day of a sore throat demanded round-the-clock gargling with salt water. The second day of a sore throat demanded tonsils being painted with liquid mercury red Mercurochrome. The third day of a sore throat demanded swallowing a substantial dollop of Mentholatum. The fourth day of a sore throat demanded a mild cussing out, because, clearly, you, the afflicted, were at fault and not following her exclusive, unwavering and tirelessly recited Hippocratic Oath: MIND OVER MATTER!

Oh, and just so you know, menstrual cramps are nonexistent and for the birds.


Mrs. G. would persuasively cry and carry on during each of these ironhanded (but mainly innocuous) procedures for survival purposes only, because another of Mrs. G’s grandmother’s medical convictions was that the level of pain was directly proportional to the level of cure. If it didn't hurt, it didn't heal.  Hysterics were required.

Mrs. G. begged her mother for orange baby aspirin or grape Robitussun—for First-Do-No-Harm mercy, but Mrs. G’s mother just shrugged it off and told Mrs. G. to count her lucky stars that she had not been forced to endure her grandmother’s chief, front office miracle cure: the enema. Apparently, back in the early days of Mrs. G’s grandmother’s medical residency, also known as Mrs. G’s mother’s childhood, Mrs. G’s grandmother believed an enema was akin to the antibiotic in its curative properties, and she administered them liberally. Mrs. G’s aunt has confirmed the horror.

“What’s an enema?” asked Mrs. G, who had occasionally pondered the pink bladder bag that hung on the back of her grandmother’s bathroom door but had assumed was some sort new fangled hot water bottle…with puzzling tubage.


Once informed, Mrs. G. never complained about a home remedy again. She performed the necessary apoplexy to minimize the suffering, but it ended there— not one tick further.  At the age of eleven, Mrs. G. had made a life decision:



Just no.

So, fast-forward thirteen years, to the peaches and cream pastel-ed hospital room where Mrs. G. writhed through the steady contractions of early labor.

Pity the labor and delivery nurse who suggested Mrs. G. might want an enema before the hard (hard!?) labor began.

“l’ll pass,” Mrs. G. said through gritted teeth.

Pity the labor and delivery nurse who went on to explain why it might be a good idea.

“I’m good,” Mrs. G. said once more, with feeling.

Pity Mr. G, who, aware of Mrs. G’s life decision, had sworn eternal solidarity in the face of its challenge, was bound by marital law to boldly stand up and firmly suggest that the labor and delivery nurse drop the subject. 

He’d taken a similar childhood stand against yogurt, the most disgusting thing he had ever put in his mouth. He understood the import of a nonnegotiable resolution.

“We’ll take our chances,” he said as he quickly ushered the labor and delivery nurse to the door.

Bullet dodged.

Covenant maintained.

The man literally saved Mrs. G’s ass.


Originally published August, 2010


just one of many reasons mrs. g's vigilante ass is driving to to los angeles with her daughter


In a few weeks, Miss G. is relocating her life to Los Angeles. She is doing as much apartment hunting as she can from Seattle...with Mrs. G. hovering over her shoulder.

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