Entries in Mental (97)




Many years ago, Mrs. G. and her friend Ann signed up for an ethnocentric dance class at a small studio in Seattle. They had no dancing history together so agreeing to participate in this activity was near heroic in Mrs. G's mind. The last person who had seen her dance was Mr. G. -- 14 years earlier, both of them loose limbed from lust love and Tanqueray martinis. When it comes Mrs. G's dancing, Mr. G's fresh devotion undoubtedly blinded him to the spectacle. Unlike the suggestion of inspirational posters in every therapist's office in America, Mrs. G. wishes she could dance like nobody is watching. But people watch. They can't help it. Mrs. G's style is the whitest white bread with an unpredictable break in to the Swim. It's well intentioned but stilted and, honestly, distressing.  

So she was nervous when she picked up Ann to drive to class. Mrs. G. felt vulnerable but determined to shift their friendship to a deeper level -- the level of affirmed affection and lifelong loyalty known as potential humiliation. Ann, a good dancer (Mrs. G. had admired her several times from the edge of the dance floor), was cool, even. No sweat, Mrs. G. thought, no sweat

But sweating commenced when she and Ann walked into the class in jogging pants, ratty t-shirts and running shoes only to be faced with a somewhat threatening number of women in leotards and dainty little, Mrs. G. isn't sure what they're called, so she'll call them dancing skirts for small asses, the short flowy kind usually paired with ballet slippers and messy chignons. It looked like two northwestern hillbillies had crashed the Bolshoi. Both clearly nervous and avoiding direct eye contact with anyone, including each other, slipped off their shoes and took their place in one of the four long lines of lithe women. She can't speak for Ann, but Mrs. G. knew she was up a creek. No paddle.

Within seconds of the stretch warm-up, the pounding of bong drums heated up and the teacher began swinging her hips and waving her arms like this...

It only got worse from there. Mrs. G. and Ann were frantically running and jumping and twirling diagonally across the dance floor. Mrs. G. is reluctant to say this for obvious reasons, but Ann looked as stupid as she did. They stood out in the crowd, which isn't always the desired outcome when you are uncontrollably shaking your butt against your will.

When the class finally ended, she and Ann put their running shoes back on (again avoiding eye contact, even with each other) and headed out the door to a bakery a block down the street. They didn't say a word until they sat down at a table with their chocolate croissants and decaf. They were at a friendship standstill -- unsure if the other liked the class, not wanting to torpedo her joy or acknowledge that the relationship would have to end if she did because come on.

"Whew," said Mrs. G, "that was an interesting class."

"It was," said Amy. The benovolent standstill continued.

"I'm not really sure what to say," Mrs. G. said, inching closer toward the truth.

"Please don't make me ever come back," said Ann.

And with that, the friendship was cemented.



Leave It to a California Liberal to Try and Take the Cat Out of Christmas! 


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...

Click to read more ...


Mrs. G. Just Came Home From The Grocery Store And It Has To Be Said: She Hates Poinsettias

she really does.


I Love My Fat Ass (by Elizabeth Engle)


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.

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The Party of Nuh Uh (by Anonymous and Mrs. G.)


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.

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Oh, Dylan, Mrs. G. Tried So Hard But, Really, GFY

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.


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.



Good Shit... A Proper Medical Diagnosis


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. 

Warning: Language