SOME PROFANITY! Mrs. G. came home to this message on her Facebook page yesterday -- not that it matters, but she was out buying Bearpaw boots because her furnace gave up the ghost yesterday and her feet were cold. So let's set the scene: cold, hungry, sad to enter her tundra of a home and out of Diet Dr. Pepper...only to come home to this...
Entries in Mental (97)
I am fat. I am aware of this. I’m not a “person of size.” I’m not pleasantly plump. I’m not a Big Beautiful Woman and I don’t want the weirdness that goes with the BBW label. I don’t need to be told I’m just big boned, or I have a pretty face, or good hair, or whatever. I’m fat. It’s okay to say it. It’s not a bad word. It’s a fact. I wear plus size clothes and I have rolls and bulges and a double chin. My thighs rub together, my arms are flappity and my feet are wide. I’ve got a lot of body and I don’t hate myself. I’m fat and I’m happy.
This is a bleeding heart liberal political rant, so if you aren't in the mood, just come back tomorrow or, better yet, scroll down and read Elizabeth's hysterical piece on her former judgement of moms in bars. As far as this post goes, we can debate and disagree but let's avoid insults and name calling.
Tonight Mrs. G. was cruising through Facebook and saw that two of her old high school friends had reunited after twenty-two years and were now engaged. Both were dear to Mrs. G. during their four years of asymmetrical haircuts, scrunchies, clove cigarettes, Ghostbusters and Bartles and Jaymes, and she naturally felt compelled to comment on their celebratory status with a sentimental, articulate comment: Awwwwww! O.M.G., she can not tell a lie...the internet has all but gutted Mrs. G's capacity to communicate eloquently -- her silver-tongue? Tarnished.
She continues, however, to refuse to come on board with emoticons. If you ever see a smiley face attached to any of her correspondence, swear (right this second) to email Mr. G. and insist he take her to a neurologist, STAT, because something has gone terribly, terribly wrong.
Speaking of internet stalking (Were we? See? Even her her transitions are open to question.), observing her high school friends' romantic announcement led Mrs. G. down the Farcebook path of destruction. She poured herself a pint of Chardonnay and methodically casually located Dylan ______, the boy who made walking down the hallways of Tigard High akin to walking off a plank into a shiver of Great Whites. Along with mocking her deep and bottomless investment in Student Council, he also called her "Owl Eyes" (glasses) and "Mushroom Head" (a cruel critique of her abnormally large head, a family trait -- as if they could help it).
Mrs. G. found him.
You'll probably be glad to know Dylan -- fit and with all his hair -- has a family now and lives in a colorful Victorian home in San Francisco, because you are mature and sensible people who can let bygones be bygones.
But it was too soon for Mrs. G.
She googled "Arson" and "Incinerating Victorians."
Oh, oh, oh, how she wishes that she could deliver a more dramatic ending, but she thinks we can all agree that while, at best, she might be convicted of manslaughter, FFS, she and her hair wouldn't last a day in prison.
Then, (IHHO) her higher self returned, so she and her big head logged off the computer and went to empty the dishwasher.
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 Manor, Deadline.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.
For as long as as she can remember, Mrs. G. has been urged by friends (and strangers) to "smile!" But Mrs. G. is a professional daydreamer. If she isn't actively engaged in a conversation, she's likely scowling or looking off in an unidentified direction, detached. She's not being rude but rather carried along by far-reaching thoughts like If not Hilary, who? or Suppose one girl really did get pregnant from eating a watermelon seed, then what? or Should she finally learn to use the scroll saw Mr. G. bought himself her for Mother's Day ten years ago to either encourage Mrs. G, who had never operated a power tool, to make festive, wooden Christmas ornaments or merrily lop off a few of her fingertips, depending on whose story you believe.
Thanks to derf Naomi B. sending along this heartfelt PSA, Mrs. G. and her face no longer have to suffer in silence.
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:
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.
The man literally saved Mrs. G’s ass.
Originally published August, 2010
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