Entries in Family (276)


Before Sleep 3


Before Sleep

Floral Henna Tattoo Love

Photo by Pink Sherbert Photography 

It's 7:50pm and Mrs. G. is soon headed for her bed. She's sitting by the fire wondering what she should write, just a little something, a little something that feels right before sleep. She's feeling sentimental and grateful.

This community gives Mrs. G. so much, scattered voices all. She wishes she could rub each of your backs and ask about your day, maybe bring you a cup of tea and a handful of almond thins. She'd like to massage that web of flesh between your thumb and forefinger while you tell her what's on your mind.

Mrs. G. knows that in blogging and, actually, all social networking there are often boundaries not to be crossed or well meaning but empty words of love and light. From day one, Mrs. G. was less interested in shaking hands than giving bear hugs. She was a little clumsy with the lines of demarcation and this hasn't changed. But she would appreciate it if you wouldn't call her late at night and damn her to hell. Unless you really need to, then go right ahead. For you, she'll let it slide. Just say Job is calling and she'll wake up.

One of the best things we can all do for our health is reach out and connect with others, even when we are tired and up to here with the talking and the doing. We need fellowship, we need to feel valued and we need to love and be loved. We need to be brave and ask for what we need. Need to talk? Call Mrs. G. Need to borrow a stretched out $5.99 Old Navy turtleneck? It's yours. Clogs? You don't even need to ask.

It's scary to need and be needed, but not here. The success rate at this joint is in the positive numbers.

Besides Mr. G. and her kids, Mrs. G's biological family is down to two. Thank you for including her in yours. She welcomes all of you into hers. 

She promises to pluck your chin hairs if your pluck hers. Pinky swear.

These things matter.

Nighty night pals.


A Derf Public Service Announcement...Eventually

Photo by Melanie Folwell

Mid December, Mrs. G. went shopping for the makings of furikake mix, a sweet, savory snack a friend told her about last year. She wanted to make a big batch to give to friends and neighbors for Christmas. Mrs. G. loves the stuff, but she started to feel apprehensive about others loving it when her daughter took a bite, spit it out and said it tasted like rotten fish. Mrs. G. got downright touchy when her husband and son would walk by the two enormous pans she baked and ask, "What is that smell." "It's Asian Fusion Chex Mix," Mrs. G. said defensively. "It's classy!" she screamed.

Mrs. G. should have just knitted her shitty, uneven scarves and spared everyone the seaweed laced Corn Chex.

Yesterday's post about Mrs. G's dream about Brad Pitt and, more importantly, the realization that she should not talk so much was evident to her and others as she delivered her furikake mix in cute little gift bags tied with gingham ribbon. Even after six years of narcissistic, self "referential" blogging, Mrs. G. is not great at selling herself or her skills. So, when she went next door to give her neighbors their gift, rather than saying Here you go, Merry Christmas! Mrs. G, fraught with good intentions and their arch enemy, doubt, nearly hyperventilated as she stammered I made this for you and your family. I hope you like it. My daughter says it tastes like dead fish, so you might warn your young ones so they aren't shocked but I really hope you like it. Bye! The neighbors have never mentioned the furikake mix so next year they get shitty scarves.

Nearing a Yuletide come apart about what she was going to do with the eight pounds of furikake mix in her kitchen (she could only eat three), Mrs. G. put the word out on Facebook to see if there were any takers. There were, mainly Mrs. G's friends who are Japanese or felt sorry for her.  Apparently furikake mix is an acquired taste.

But speaking of talking too much, this is not a story about furikake mix.

When Mrs. G. went to go shopping for the furikake mix ingredients, she decided to stop at the beauty shop by the grocery store and have her eyebrows waxed. She has never been successful with tweezers -- her long abandoned, flawed system involved removing tiny chunks of skin along with each hair. Anyway, the waxer was busy and there was going to be a long wait, so the proprietor of the shop suggested Mrs. G. try something called threading, which is an Eastern ancient hair removal process where a special cotton thread is doubled and rolled over unwanted hair, plucking it out at the follicles. Mrs. G. decided to give it a try because she was in a hurry to make furakaki mix no one was going to eat and threading costs about the same price as waxing.

Mrs. G. sat down in the chair and a nice East Indian woman came over, pulled the cotton thread out of her pocket and began torturing Mrs. G. and her face. Imagine feeling each individual eyebrow hair ripped from your head and then imagine the practitioner asking you to hold up your eyelid while this is happening. Mrs. G. was scrunched up in the chair trying to dodge the thread and she couldn't hold up her eyelid because it was pouring tears and twitching from the burning pain. Burning pain, sisters, burning pain. The nice East Indian woman was politely reminding Mrs. G. to hold up her eyelids and Mrs. G. tried, she really tried, and then she told the woman to stop. "Is something wrong," she asked. "Yes, it hurts! It's killing me!" "We can't refund your money," the woman said slowly, as if she were talking to a featherweight not capable of bearing the physiological cost of beauty. "Fine," said Mrs. G, "just get me out of this chair."

Short story long: Eyebrow threading. Don't do it.


a proud mother moment...likely the last available for public viewing (he's a senior)

Mrs. G's son won 2nd place at his high school's talent show. Indulge her, will you? He's heading to college in the fall. He's the dandy in the striped tie.

Introducing Big Twinkie...


Mood Ring and Farrah Hair


So many of you bravely coughed up your shameful involvement in eighties fads yesterday, Mrs. G. decided to repost this equally embarrassing mini memoir of her own ad-driven enslavement.

Click to read more ...


five things that are true that might make you question your affection for mrs. g.

1) Mrs. G. frequently doesn't replace the empty toilet paper roll, because Mr. G, when he has forgotten to replace the empty roll, says it's an individual's responsibility to enter the bathroom fully prepared, so sometimes, to keep things lively and compelling, Mrs. G. likes to fuck with him.


2) Mrs. G, though she has copped to this before, occasionally lies about her cooking and by lying about   cooking, she means she lies about actually cooking it. Two nights ago, Whole Foods she made Mulligatawny soup for dinner. It was delicious and Mr. G. and Mrs. G's son raved about it. Typically, Mrs. G. couldn't let a deceptive sleeping dog lie, she went on and on about how she minced the red peppers and puréed the potatoes and garbanzo beans to thicken the base. For approximately four hours, she was a culinary hero. Then, when her son took out the recycling, the bottom of the bag broke and the three Mulligatawny soup containers fell out on the floor. Mr. G. yelled, "BUSTED!" and hasn't passed her the entire day without muttering Mulligatawny.


3) Mrs. G. refuses to wash wine glasses because her bear-like paws often break them during the process. She also refuses to wash large kitchen knives because she has an irrational fear she will drop one and stab herself in the top of her foot. This has never happened in her 46 years, but nothing you can say will change her mind.


4) You might want to pour yourself a drink and sit down for this one. Mrs. G. will wait. In fact, she's going to go pour herself a drink so hold up a sec. You back? Take a deep breath, sister. Mrs. G. is over Downton Abbey. If she has to hear the Crawley family, particularly Lady Mary, fret and carp about downsizing from a walloping castle to a whopping mansion for one minute longer, she's going to have to snuffle some vapors. Please send all hate mail to www.teaparty.org...they're big fans of PBS.


5) The Christmas tree is still up. On the bright side, in a couple of weeks it can be a Valentine's tree. 


Any lurid truths on your end today?




Thank You

Mrs. G. apologizes in advance for misspelling the names of a few fine folk and the captions whizzing by. Both are driving her to distraction and she is sitting on her hands trying not to go in and remake the video but she has company coming and, and, and...she's shutting up now. Enjoy.

Happynewyear from Heather Copeland Gattuccio on Vimeo.



eight mistakes mrs. and miss g. will not repeat in 2013

big teeth squirrels

Nope. Not again.

Click to read more ...